That's How God Works -- Easter Meditation

This meditation was given on Easter Sunday, April 20, 2014 at Central Congregational Church, based on John 20:1-18

This is how God works.
In the dark.
The darkness of creation.
The darkness of the tomb.
The darkness of our hearts.
Can’t you see it?
Well, actually, you can’t
Because it’s dark.

What we know
Is that
This is how God works.
When we are in the dark
outside a tomb
behind locked doors
Collapsed on the side of the road
Not able to take
One more step
God finds us.
We feel a presence
And turn around.
And in the darkness of our hearts
In a place beyond words
Beyond sound
We hear our name.

This is how God works.
Stones are rolled away
Doors open
And we must choose
Whether to cross the threshold
Before us
Into new life.

Sometimes
It happens all at once
And in a blinding flash
We get it.
Sometimes
It takes more than one visit
To the empty tomb.
Sometimes
It takes being willing to weep,
To let the tears flow
to open us up
so that living water
can clear away the debris
That blocks our vision.

Sometimes
It takes a few good questions
“Where have they taken him?”
“Why are you weeping?”
“Who are you looking for?”
That never really get answered.
Because questions open us up
In a way answers don’t.

Mary thought she had the answers.
She analyzed the available data:
Open tomb
Missing body
Area known for grave robbers.
And she knew that
Dead is dead
and
Just when you think things can’t get any worse
They do.
Her conclusion is perfectly logical:
Someone has taken Jesus’ body.
She didn’t assume divine intervention,
Nor did Simon Peter or the beloved disciple,
Who tradition names as John,
So today, will we too.
They all
Came to the perfectly logical conclusions
From the available evidence,
And yet – Easter.

Here’s where we sometimes get into trouble.
Easter is not a missing body,
Or a rolled stone or an empty tomb.
If we could somehow get a time machine
And go back
And see a couple of guys
Pushing aside the stone,
Carrying the body away,
Dropping the funeral wrappings
On the floor,
It would change nothing.
Whatever happened in that closed tomb
Was between Jesus and God.
And God often uses human hands
To accomplish divine ends.
But whatever actually happened
To Jesus’ body
Happened at night –
Had already happened
By the time Mary and the others
Got to the tomb in the morning darkness.
That’s not Easter.

Easter happened
Not when the stone was rolled away
From the tomb of Jesus
But when the stone was rolled away
From the tomb around Mary’s heart.
Easter happened
When in the dark
Mary felt a presence with her
And encountered the living Lord.
Easter happened
Not just because Jesus crossed
The threshold between life and death
But because Mary did too.
It was in that moment when she recognized Jesus
Held him close
That Easter happened,
And kept on happening.
Mary experienced resurrection,
Then she carried the news to others.
And more thresholds were crossed,
As Jesus appeared in more dark places,
Behind more sealed tombs and locked doors.

It’s only then,
After experiencing the risen Christ for themselves
That the open tomb
Could become a symbol of hope.
Hope that we are not alone.
Hope that death is not the last word.
Hope that when we find ourselves
In the dark, God will find us too,
Roll back the stones entombing
our hearts, our lives
So that we can experience
Resurrection too.
That’s the promise of Easter.
That’s the Easter hope.

It can’t be weighed or measured.
It can’t be proven using mathematical formulae.
It won’t show up on an MRI.
But it’s real.
And we can measure it’s effects,
In lives changed
In heartaches eased
In story after story
Of the real experiences
Of real people.
Some of those stories
Are recorded in scripture,
But others happen,
Every day.

“I was at the end,
crying on the bathroom floor
planning how to die.
I couldn’t go on.
But then I felt something,
I don’t know what,
But I knew it would be ok.
I could get up,
Open the door,
Go down stairs,
And keep going.
I knew I wasn’t alone.”

Or,
“I can’t explain it,
but when I – you can fill in the blanks –
started coming to church
started praying regularly
started working at a homeless shelter –
my life began to turn around.
It didn’t happen all at once,
But looking back,
I can see that’s when it started.”

Powerful. Life changing.
Encounters with the Living Lord.
Resurrection.
Easter.

Easter happened,
and keeps on happening.
If it didn’t
The empty tomb, would be just an empty tomb.
A curiosity. A who-done-it.
Jesus didn’t ask Mary, or anyone else
To believe in an empty tomb,
But in their own experience of him.
That’s Easter.

But Jesus asked something else of Mary,
He asked her to go and tell,
Tell the disciples what you’ve seen,
What you’ve experienced.
Oh, they wouldn’t really believe her,
Not until they had experienced it
For themselves,
But her story could give them hope,
Hope to hold onto
Until they were ready to cross
The threshold Jesus offers,
And let their live’s be changed.
Ready to let God color
Outside the carefully drawn lines
That describe their reality,
So they can see something,
Experience something,
That can’t be seen from within those lines,
Something
That can’t be weighed or measured
But is just as, or perhaps even more, real:
love, peace that passes understanding,
resurrection.

And when Mary ran to tell them,
She still didn’t have all the answers,
Maybe had even more questions,
Than she had before.
Before, all she needed to know
Was where the body had been taken.
But Mary could testify
To what had happened to her,
She could say,
“I have seen the Lord.”

So Jesus asks all of us
who have had
Such an experience
to share that with others,
Share the good news
Not to convert others
Or to shame them,
And not because we have answers,
Maybe it’s better that we don’t,
But by sharing we just might
crack open a door
Give a glimpse of something more
Offer hope, when hope seems in vain.
That’s what the Gospels do for us.
That’s why we read and tell
the stories of Easter.

John Lennox,
a professor in Great Britain,
Tells the story of being on a train
Sitting next to a man reading
A paper on metallurgy.
That day, John was reading a copy
Of the New Testament.
John said to the man, “I see you’re a scientist.”
“Yes,” said the man, “and what do you do?”
“I’m a mathematician,” John replied,
and went back to reading his Bible.
As they sat there,
John could feel the other man’s curiosity was aroused.
And after a few minutes,
The man said, “I see that’s a New Testament
You are reading.”
“Yes,” said John, and went on reading.
After another few minutes,
The man said again,
“That’s a New Testament you are reading.”
“That’s right,” said John, and went on reading.
Finally, the man said,
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to disturb you,
but you’re a mathematician and you’re reading
the New Testament.”
“That’s right,” John said, and went on reading.
By this time, the man was getting a little desperate,
And exclaimed,
“But look, how can you be an intellectual
and believe the New Testament?”
And John said, “Tell me, what hope have you got?”
The man went white and he began to shake.
“Well,” the man said,
“I guess I hope the human race will muddle through.”
John said, “You know I didn’t mean that.
What hope have you personally got?”
And the man said, “None whatsoever.”
They talked for a little while,
And John didn’t give him answers,
Just a copy of the New Testament.

We don’t know how
The story continued for that man,
But I think
He had an encounter
With the living Lord,
That day.
A stone was rolled away,
A locked door cracked open.
Then it was up to him,
Whether to cross the threshold
To new life.
Maybe it took a while,
Even years,
But looking back,
He will see that this is where it started,
Resurrection.
Because that’s how God works.
That’s when Easter happens.

Christ has risen.
Christ has risen indeed!

True Black -- Holy Saturday thoughts

     There’s a commercial that’s run on the radio for years for a chair that comes in many colors including, we are specifically told “true black.” That phrase has always caught my attention. Why, I’ve often thought, does that merit special attention? How is “true black” different from other black?
     It’s a phrase that comes to mind when I think of Holy Saturday. It’s the darkest day of the liturgical year. It’s the day of unrelenting grief and loss. It’s the day we sit in the darkness of the tomb. And wait.
     Yet even that word, “wait,” isn’t quite correct. We can only wait if we think there is something to wait for – and from the perspective of Good Friday, there isn’t. Dead is dead. That’s just the way it is. And I think as we journey through Holy Week, it’s important to look at it this way – and remember. Remember that on Saturday there was no hope – or so it seemed. While Jesus lay, and his followers lay with him in spirit, in the darkness of the tomb, God was working towards something amazing – but they didn’t know it yet. So for those early followers, there was nothing to wait for, no hope. We don’t have any stories about this – about the disciples huddled together, what they talked about, what they did. It’s a like a void in the story. As if nothing at all happened on that day, as if the whole world paused in it’s grief.
     The darkness of Holy Saturday isn’t the darkness of the night, when you can look up and see the stars. It isn’t even the darkness of a room with all the curtains drawn, but a little light just seeps around the windows – so over time your eyes adjust and you can begin to see.  Holy Saturday is true black.
     I’ve always been drawn to darkness myself. I’ve always found it comforting. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in South Florida where the sun at times can be so bright it hurts your eyes, and shade is not just a blessing, it is a necessity. So, I was immediately drawn to Barbara Brown Taylor’s new book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, where she explores the different blessings that darkness has to offer.
     And she tells a story about going for the first time into a “wild cave” with some experienced cavers. Several times, as they go deeper and deeper into the cave system, the three would pick a spot and turn off their lamps, and sit in the darkness. Feel it wrap around them. She describes how as she sat she began to hear the sound of her own life – the blood pumping through her; her nervous system firing. Maybe she couldn’t see – but there were other ways to tell that life with all its wonder and mystery was there in that darkness.
     The other thing that struck me about that story was as dark as things were deep in that cave, with no visible source of light, light still existed. Barbara and her friends brought it with them – the small beams of their headlamps. I do think that we carry God’s light within us, even into the darkest of caves in our lives. And God is working in the dark within us to teach us or help us to remember how to flip the switch so we can see the light, that was really always there, and let it guide us out.
     So all we can do, this Holy Saturday, is to let the true black of this darkness hold us, listen to the sounds of life within us, giving us the message that true black is not true death – because God, the source of all life, is here. And so there is hope -- even if we don't know what we are waiting for . . .

Jesus Remember Me - Thought for Good Friday

    We had our Good Friday service last night. We begin with an agape dinner and worship for Maundy Thursday, but as the sun begins to set we process into the Sanctuary and observe Good Friday.
     The sanctuary is darkened and filled with candles. We went through a meditative stations of the cross, with the Taize chant “Jesus Remember Me” sung repeatedly between the stations, as one by one we extinguished the candles. Lovely. I love Lent, particularly Good Friday. It feeds the contemplative in me.
     This year was particularly special, because of a quartet of children worshipping right down front. They picked up the words to the chant right away, and sung it for all it was worth. What a wonderful gift! In the darkened room, their voices were sweet and unafraid. A couple of times they were fooled, when we sang the chant fewer times as we got closer and closer to the cross – so all that came out in the silence was “Jesus.” It was beautiful.
     I also heard a gasp when they saw the picture of the nails through Jesus’ hands as he was hung on the cross. Totally appropriate. The rest of us don’t gasp, we know it’s coming, we know the story – and over the years we’ve become somewhat numb to the tragedy of the day. After all, we know Easter is coming.
     But the children last night were a reminder to us all of some of the lessons of Good Friday. Good Friday is hard; it’s painful, shocking. But also, by observing it in Tenebrae-style worship, we also learn that we don’t have to be afraid of the dark. We can be held there, experience it in that sacred space, and find a way to sing in the dark. And when we do, the most important thing we can sing is “Jesus.”

It's All About Love -- Maundy Thursday thoughts

John 13:1-8, 12-15, 34-35: Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” . . . After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. . . .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.”


    It’s about love.  It’s all about love. Not surprising, really, since “maundy” and in “Maundy Thursday” means “commandment,” referring to Jesus’ commandment: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” But as I was preparing for today, Maundy Thursday, it was what is commonly called Jesus’ “Great Commandment” that kept coming to me, and particularly the last part:  “love your neighbor as yourself.” And I thought about how that may be the hardest part of the commandment to do – to love ourselves. And yet if we don’t love ourselves, as Jesus commands us, are we really then able to love others – love our neighbor?
     Researcher and writer Brene Brown has said that if we cannot accept help from someone else without judgment, then we cannot give help to others without judgment. This makes sense when you think about it – but it really floored me when I first heard it. Often underlying our unwillingness to let others help us is a self-judgment that this means we are deficient in some way if we need help. That means we attach judgment to the act of helping. So if we help someone else, at some level we are judging them deficient because they need our help.
     Maybe this insight says something about Jesus’ act of washing his disciples’ feet. Peter won’t let Jesus wash his feet. But Jesus tells him, “’Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.’” By washing their feet, Jesus was showing love to them, and showing them how much he loved them, as well as modeling what they should do for each other. But what if Peter took it the other way – as a sign that he was deficient. Maybe Peter was one of those, like so many of us, who can give help, but cannot accept it from others. But, says Jesus, if you cannot let me help you in this way, then you cannot help others – because instead of an act of love, giving help will become an act of judgment. And that is not the way of Jesus.
     In order to be the disciples we are born to be, we have to come to really believe that we are beloved, imperfect children of God. So we can accept the help that comes our way, by those who are the hands of Christ to us, washing our feet, feeding us bread for our hunger and wine for our thirst – with gratitude. Then we can love our neighbor, love one another, as Jesus loves us.
     It’s all about love.

Wednesday's Gifts -- thoughts for Holy Wednesday

John 12:1-11:  Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 
     But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected. “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” He did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it. 
     “Leave her alone,” Jesus replied. “It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
     Meanwhile a large crowd of Jews found out that Jesus was there and came, not only because of him but also to see Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. So the chief priests made plans to kill Lazarus as well, for on account of him many of the Jews were going over to Jesus and believing in him.


     This story, often retold in Holy Week, comes soon after Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb. There is, perhaps, no greater image of turning around, of embracing new life, of change than this – a dead man, choosing to come out of the darkness of the cave when called by Jesus, shedding the trapping of death and emerging into the light.
     And it changes not only Lazarus himself, but his family, his sisters who experience the wondrous change of having their dead brother returned to them – their mourning turned to dancing, their grief to joy.
     But it changes things for others as well – it scares the Pharisees and priests to death. In the Fourth Gospel, this is the reason they begin to plot against Jesus. All the other stuff Jesus has been up to was a nuisance, but this miracle is a whole order of magnitude from what he was done before. Raising someone from the dead – that is truly god-like. Now Jesus is a serious threat to their authority and order.
     So for a time, Jesus withdraws from the public eye. His days are numbered, and he knows that. But then comes the time of the Jewish Passover celebrations, and Jesus turns towards Jerusalem for the last time.
     This is the backdrop for our story for today, when Jesus stops again before going to Jerusalem at the home of this family he loves; this family whose life he has changed in so many ways – by his teaching, his presence, and by being the instrument of bring new life and light when they were in the midst of darkness and death.
     And as we are offered another glimpse into the home of this family, we see people whose lives have been changed, offering themselves each according to their own gifts. Martha, we are told, “served.” Sometimes, she has learned it is time to sit and learn at the feet of Jesus. But now was the time to act. To serve and nourish Jesus and those who follow him. Her brother Lazarus, just by being at the table, stood as witness to wondrous life-giving power of Jesus. And his very presence at the dinner table went against social and religious norms – as he would likely have been considered unclean. So his gift was public witness to the change in his life, and Jesus’ welcome of him at the table was also an act of extravagant welcome.
     And then there is Mary, who is often conflated in our minds with Mary Magdalene, though likely a different person altogether. Mary responded in her own, unique way. She entered the room with her hair unbound and took a bottle of perfume worth a full year’s wages for most laborers, knelt down by where Jesus reclined at the table, and poured it over his feet. Then carefully, lovingly, wiped it in with her hair. And the scent of the perfume filled the whole house, driving away any lingering stink of death – joining everyone as participants in this act through that powerful sense of smell. A smell that will linger, long after Jesus is gone.
     It’s an act of extravagant love. It isn’t practical. It isn’t sober, or responsible, or maybe even tasteful. It certainly didn’t follow the social or religious norms of the day. Women of the day didn’t touch men except their husband or children, and then only in private, not in front of others. Women didn’t allow those outside of the family to see their hair, let alone touch them with it.
She anoints him on the feet – not on the head as one would anoint a king or priest, but on the extremities, as one would anoint a body for burial. After Jesus’ death, his body will be anointed in secret, in the dark, by men afraid to make public their faith. But this night, Mary does it right in front of everybody in an act both intimate and tender.
     We don’t know why she did it. The narrator gives his opinion on Judas’ comments, but not on Mary. Perhaps having been touched so recently by death, and hearing as she must the murmuring in the street as the Pharisees sought Jesus to arrest him, perhaps she too sensed that Jesus’ time was limited, and so did what we so often wish we had done – she didn’t wait for Jesus to die to acknowledge how precious he was to her, the gift he had given her, by giving something very costly back to him – pouring it right out for him as his blood would pour out for us – both acts of love that transcend death.
And it’s worth noting that on Maundy Thursday Jesus will take Mary’s act as an example, by himself kneeling at his disciples’ feet and washing them. So Mary’s act of extravagant love changed Jesus in a way, too – as she is the first to live out Jesus’ commandment to love each other, by showing that love to him.
     Extravagant acts of love are often seen as crazy, or rude, or improper – and at least one person was offended here – Judas. And this story sets us up for what will happen tomorrow when Judas betrays Jesus.
     Judas here asks the infamous question – why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? And Jesus’ answer is so often misunderstood, used as an excuse not to act:  “You always have the poor with you, you do not always have me.” But there is ample evidence in all the gospels that Jesus doesn’t think poverty is just the natural order of things, that he supports the status quo, that he doesn’t think it’s worth bothering to take care of the poor or others in need. But it’s convenient to read this sentence, out of context, this way – to excuse our own inaction, to excuse the power structures that keep the poor poor.
     But scholars have long pointed out that Jesus, the rabbi, the Jewish teacher, was quoting from Deuteronomy where we are commanded to take care of the poor:  “Give generously to [the needy among you] and do so without a grudging heart; then because of this the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in everything you put your hand to. There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to be openhanded toward your fellow Israelites who are poor and needy in your land.” (Deut. 15:10-11).
     Judas tries to set up an either/or situation – either give to the poor by giving them practical assistance with money or do acts of extravagant, impractical, but soul touching love. But Jesus says it’s not either/or – it’s not one or the other – it’s both/and. You must help the poor, but you can also do this. Food for the body is important, but so is food for the soul.
     And all these ways of giving in return for the gifts given and lives changed by God in and through Jesus Christ – giving gifts of our time and talents to make practical offerings like cooking or serving food for others; using our treasure to take care of the poor and those in need; speaking out and giving public witness to the ways Jesus has touched and changed our lives; and also using our gifts to do things that lift spirits and show love in beautiful, but impractical ways – all are needed to help change the world. And each of us, according to our own gifts, are empowered in some way to do just that – change the world. Not save the world – that’s Jesus’ job. But change it, or at least our corner of it.
     When are lives are touched by God, we become agents for change in the world – each in our own way. We are given the gift of change – of new life, of hope – and can give our gifts to change the world for others. Maybe only for a moment, maybe for a lifetime. Someone once said that “change comes bearing gifts” – and those gifts can be us.

This meditation was adapted from a sermon given by Rev. Christine Ng at Central Congregational Church on April 6, 2014.

Three More -- thoughts this Holy Tuesday

Matthew 23:12-15:  “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to. 
     “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when you have succeeded, you make them twice as much a child of hell as you are.”

     These words of Jesus in his last week in Jerusalem echo through this Holy Week centuries later.
     Last Sunday, a man opened fire at a Jewish Community Center in Overland Park, Kansas. The suspect was well known for his participation in racist, anti-Semitic hate groups. And last Sunday that hate apparently boiled over and left 3 dead – not the Jews he was aiming for, but 3 Christians – all apparently devoted to their families, to their churches and to serving their communities.

     The were trying to help. They were living out their faith. A family doctor taking his teenage grandson to try out for a play – who had prepared to sing the song “You’re Goning to Miss Me When I’m Gone” for his audition. He sang it to his motion just before he left in his grandfather’s truck.
     A occupational therapist for children with visual impairments visiting her mother in the assisted living facility there -- a place called "Village Shalom" -- Village of Peace. They were living their lives in ways that made people’s lives a little better. In the words of their faith, they were making the kingdom of heaven visible on earth – each in their own way.
      Then a man filled with hate shot them down, shut the door to the kingdom of heaven in their faces. Was it revenge, was it a statement, did he think this act would persuade others to convert to his cause, did he think he had something to prove to others like him who live in a hell of hate, not a kingdom of love? Did he think he was doing it in the name of God? We may never know.
      But whatever his motivation, the effect was likely much different – not because it was Christians, not Jews, who were killed – but because his actions served not to divide (one of the goals of hate), not to show that “they” were to blame, that “they” were not as worthy as “us.”  Instead, all it showed was that we are all connected. That there is no “us” and “them.”  We are all connected. Aim the hate, shoot the gun, at one of us and we all bleed.
      The lives and deaths of William “Popeye” Corporon, Reat Corporon, and Terri LaManno touched their communities, and our nation. Three more. Three more who must not be forgotten. This has got to stop. And are we not the hypocrites Jesus flails with tongue, if we do nothing to keep it from happening again?
      Three more. Think of them when you see the three crosses of Calvary this week.

For more on these three victims, here is a link to a New York Times article on them:  here

Turning Tables -- Holy Monday thoughts

See more work by the artist Balage Balogh here

Matthew 21:12-17:  Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. "It is written," he said to them, 'My house well be called a house of prayer,' but you are making it a 'den of robbers.'"
     The blind and the lame came to him at the temple, and he healed them. But when the chief priests and the teachers of the law saw the wonderful things he did and the children shouting in the temple courts, "Hosanna to the Son of David," they were indignant. "Do you hear what these children are saying?" they asked him. "Yes," replied Jesus, "have you never read, ‘From the lips of children and infants you, Lord, have called forth your praise’?”

     I love Holy Week – conceptually it encapsulates the journey of life and faith so we can experience the full range of emotions each year – and learn from that practice in a way that can help give us perspective on our own journey. The exultation and joy of Palm Sunday are important – they give us something to hold onto as times become more difficult as the week progresses.
     And as we move now to Holy Monday, things begin to get dicey. Jesus is causing trouble – it’s something he does very well. That is an aspect of Jesus we often forget – or want to forget. The peaceful, almost serene Jesus depicted so often is nowhere in evidence here. This is Jesus the rebel, full of passion and righteous anger. Why?
     I remember learning about this story in Sunday school as being about what should or shouldn’t be done in church:  Prayer, yes – selling animals or conducting business, no. It was about propriety, decorum. I always thought that was odd – because in making that point Jesus was overturning tables and causing a general mess – like a bull in the proverbial china shop. It was only much later that I learned that the money changers and sellers of livestock for sacrifice preyed on the poor. They were robbing those who came to worship God. This story isn’t about what is or isn’t appropriate for a house of worship, it isn’t about decorum, it’s about justice. And the propriety of righteous anger, and even disorderly conduct, on behalf of the poor and oppressed – even in a house of worship.
     So now, I think of this story whenever someone complains when social justice issues are raised in church – as though that wasn’t an appropriate topic to be discussed in worship. Sometimes, we need to overturn the carefully constructed tables in our churches – in our lives – to reveal what is going on beneath the surface – the things we may not want to think about, may not want to see. And express our own righteous anger, even if the religious authorities don’t like it.
     And yet – Jesus’ actions that day didn’t stop these practices at the temple. I’m sure that after his death they went on, just the same. It may even have been business as usual the very next day. So what did Jesus accomplish – except giving the authorities one more reason to fear him and kill him? So this is also, I think, a cautionary tale. Sometimes direction action like this is the only way to get the point heard, to begin the process of change. But such action can also put people so much on the defensive that it makes meaningful change almost impossible. Sometimes to get around a roadblock you have to go around – not straight ahead. And it takes prayer and discernment to figure out the past way through.
     What issues are you passionate about? What can you do to help work for meaningful change?

What Must be Done -- Palm Sunday Meditation

Meditation based on Mark 11:1-11
(and inspired by Jan Richardson)
given at Central Congregational Church on Palm Sunday 2012

After the donkey and her colt,
After the procession,
After the waving branches and the road covered with coats,
After the hosannas and the Hallelujas and the cheering, noisy crowd,
After Jesus entered through the gates of Jerusalem,
After all of this, only Mark, in a few bare words, tells of how Jesus went into the temple, looked around, spent so much time that when he was done it was already late, so he left.
Just left.
     He didn’t teach. He didn’t preach. He didn’t heal, or confront, or challenge. He didn’t mix it up with the priests and the scribes. Jesus simply looked around, and left.
Went back out of Jerusalem, back to Bethany where he started the day, and where he seemed to be staying.
And at the end of this day, the crowds seem to have disappeared – leaving Jesus to walk back to Bethany with only the twelve by his side.
It’s an oddly quiet, and anti-climactic ending to the story. What began like a procession and a celebration, became more like a pilgrimage.
And in between the fierce energy of the first part of the story with the preparations and the process, and the quiet, subdued quality of the end is the temple of Jerusalem – the holiest of places for the Jewish people, central to their religious practice and identity.
It’s a place that must have also held a lot of memories for Jesus. The gospels differ in their account of how much time Jesus spent in the temple in Jerusalem. More than likely he made the Passover pilgrimage to the temple every year with his family, so perhaps he had sweet memories of attending those celebrations with his family.  And it is to this place that Jesus returns on this day when he is greeted at the gates of Jerusalem like a king.
       When Jesus walked around the grounds of the temple, I wonder what he saw? Did he see himself as a boy, running up the steps with Mary and Joseph? Did he see, as the Gospel of John says, himself at age 12, deep in conversation with the teachers? Was he remembering, as the Gospel of Matthew tells it, Satan taking him up to the top of the temple and urging him to jump so that angels could catch him?
       We’ll never know, of course, but Mark, I believe, gives us a clue in the verses that come next. Mark tells how, the very next day, Jesus leaves Bethany again, in quite a mood. He curses a fig tree that had no fruit to feed him, storms up to the temple, overturning the tables and chairs of the merchants and money-changers as he went, indicting those who turned what should be “a house of prayer for all the nations” into a den of robbers and thieves. And the crowd, according to Mark, watched him, spellbound.
      And, according to Mark, this was the last straw. In Mark it was this act at the temple that made the chief priests and the scribes afraid of him, had them looking for a way to kill him.
      I think we can guess what Jesus saw that Palm Sunday at the temple by what he did the next day. Jesus looked around at a place that should have been a place of worship and prayer, a place where God’s love and compassion for the people shone, a place where he would feel at home, and close to God. But what he saw was corruption: common people, the poor, overcharged and swindled of their money to feed a temple structure that gave them little or nothing in return.
       And I imagine Jesus looking around, seeing all this, and knowing, in his heart, what must be done – what he needed to do. The temple system was corrupt, infected, sick – and it needed a different type of healing. No gentle treatment would do – what was needed was something more radical – like debriding a wound – clearing away the dead tissue, draining infection – to expose healthy tissue underneath so it could heal.
       But such healing is painful – and looking around the temple, knowing what must be done, I think Jesus knew what the reaction of the temple authorities would be, I think he knew the cost – and that he would be the one to pay it.
       And so, it was a somber Jesus who walked back to Bethany that evening with the twelve. I imagine the scene around the dinner table that night. The disciples around him, clueless as usual, excitedly recalling the events of the day – the faces of the crowd, the celebration. Planning for the future. They were finally in Jerusalem, now something’s really going to happen. I mean – what a welcome!
       But Jesus, unusually quiet, smiling a little, perhaps, at their enthusiasm, but not participating. Eating his meal. Planning his next move. Seeing where it would lead. Praying in his heart that God would give him the courage and the strength to do what must be done – to see this job through to the end. It’s a time in between – a liminal space – between the celebration and the betrayal, between the journey to Jerusalem and the journey to the cross and beyond. And Jesus would have prepared for it as carefully as he prepared for his entry into Jerusalem – riding on a donkey’s colt.
      The tone at the end of this story in the gospel of Mark is bittersweet. The crowd shouted, “Hosanna” – “Save us” – but they didn’t know what they were asking for. Tomorrow he would begin to show them, begin to teach them, and as the week progresses – they would see the cost. Tomorrow he would travel again the physical path, cross the threshold into Jerusalem, but it would be much different because this time he would be crossing the threshold that would lead him to the cross.
       But that night, in the time in between, after the branches had been put down, and the shouts of “Hosanna” and “Halleluja” had long since vanished into the air, Jesus took a different journey, a pilgrimage through an inner landscape, a sacred path of prayer and preparation, so that when the sun rose on the new day, he would be ready to set his feet on the next path God had set before him, no matter how hard it would be. So he would be ready to do what must be done – tomorrow.