Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YC, April 19, 2019

Tags

broken, community, cross, darkness, disciple, find, God, Good Friday, humanity, identity, incomplete, Jesus, lost, passion, prayer, Sermon, sin

When I was in college, I would occasionally find myself sitting in the back of the enormous Chapel.  Sometimes I do not even remember actively choosing to go inside the Chapel.  Somehow my body seemed to know I needed something before my brain did.  The cavernous, quiet building rarely had large crowds.  Or maybe my late-night study sessions meant I was there after everyone had left.  Regardless, I would find myself on a hard, wooden pew, just sitting there.  I am not sure I was there praying necessarily.  At least not in the traditional sense.  More often I was sitting there in desperation.  Sometimes I was at the end of a semester, completely overwhelmed and feeling incapable.  Other times, I was feeling a deep sense of loneliness, despite being surround by tons of friends and classmates.  Other times, I simply felt lost, not sure about my purpose or what in the world God was doing with my life – if God was even there at all.  But mostly, when I sat on those pews, surrounded by magnificent beauty and architecture, I felt a profound hole in my heart.  That Chapel was sometimes the only place I could go and be honest about my profoundly weak humanity.

I think worshiping on Good Friday is a little bit like that.  Unlike other times of worship, we do not usually come to this service looking for praise and joyful singing.  Instead, this day is a day where we willingly come to acknowledge and honor those parts of our lives where we feel a profound sense of brokenness, sinfulness, and incompleteness.  We read Scripture that speaks to our deepest pain and suffering.  We say prayers that address the fullness of need for ourselves and the world.  And we venerate the cross – staring at the object that brings into sharp focus our weakness and humanity, and our need for something bigger than ourselves.

On a day like today, I am grateful for John’s Passion Narrative.  All the Passion Narratives from the gospels tell a similar story – the last moments of Jesus’ time with the disciples, his trial and crucifixion, and his death.  And despite the fact that the story in all four gospels is heart-wrenching, something about John’s version digs deeper – shines a light into those dark places we prefer to keep hidden from the light of day.  But in John’s gospel, there is nowhere to hide.  We experience a deep sense of being bereft of our own sinfulness as the sins of those in our narrative mirror our own.  These are not just the common, everyday sins of life.  The sins of the characters today are the sins of denying our very own identity.

Often when we talk about Judas, we think of his failure as a thing he did to Jesus.  But Judas’ sin goes deeper than betrayal of Jesus.  Judas denies his very discipleship.  After all those years of following Jesus, trusting the salvific work of the Christ, believing and proclaiming Jesus’ Messiahship, Judas denies his discipleship by no longer following and instead trying to control the work of God.  You see, Judas follows Jesus because he believes Jesus is starting a political revolution – is becoming the conquering Messiah.  Jesus is not living into that identity as much as Judas wants, so Judas gives Jesus a push.[i]  But when Judas brings all of those soldiers to the intimate place where he discovered his identity as a disciple, we see how deep Judas’ sinfulness goes.  The garden had been a home for the disciples – where they had gathered regularly, in intimate community.  To bring those soldiers there – to the place that defined his own discipleship – is the marker not of an indiscretion, but of a complete denial of who he is.  In John’s gospel, the last appearance of Judas is not of remorse, or suicide, or judgment of Judas.  John simply says, Judas stands “with them.”  With them is not just a physical location; with them is a theological one.  By seeking to control Jesus, by walking away from relationship with Christ, and by standing against Jesus in the very place of intimate identity-making, Judas takes a new identity.  He denies his discipleship, and instead stands with them.[ii]  And as much as we might want to judge Judas, we all know that there have been times when we were fed up with God, and decided to take matters into our own hands.  The more we think we know better, the further we step away from following Christ, denying our own identity in Christ.  The more we seek control, the further we step away from our intimate relationship with Jesus, and instead stand with someone or something else.

Peter denies his identity in a slightly different way.  When we read John’s gospel, we can easily conflate John’s version with the versions from Matthew, Mark, and Luke.  In those gospels, Peter is asked whether he knows Jesus.  His response is he does not know the man.  But in John’s gospel, the question to Peter is different.  He is not asked if he knows Jesus, but whether he is Jesus’ disciple.  To say, “I am not,” is not just a denial of knowledge.  Peter is denying his very identity.  As Karoline Lewis asserts, “In the Gospel of John…Peter’s denial is not of Jesus but of his own discipleship.  …To deny discipleship is to deny one’s relationship with Jesus and the intimacy that makes Jesus and his followers virtually inseparable.  Peter does not deny Jesus, but denies being a disciple.”[iii]  Because we live in a time when we are rarely asked about our identity as people of God, we think of ourselves as immune to Peter’s temptation or somehow incapable of such identity denial.  And in some ways, we may be right:  our denial of identity is not usually as straightforward as Peter’s.  But that doesn’t mean we do not regularly reject our identity.  In small, everyday ways, we find ourselves making accommodations that fracture our intimacy with Christ – decisions that we can rationalize at the time, but when we look back realize have become of slow pattern of denying whose we really are.  And before long, we get so far from discipleship that no one even knows we are Christ’s disciple.

But the denials of identity are not just limited to Christ’s disciples.  Even the religious authorities lose themselves in their attempt to squash the Jesus movement.  The leaders of the faith community are so convinced that Jesus is wrong, they negotiate with a secular leader to get what they want.  And when Pilate, who knows what they want is wrong, pushes them to recognize they are wrong, the religious authorities say something that seems innocuous enough.  But saying, “We have no king but the emperor,” is the ultimate denial of their identity as a people of God.  The people of faith, who were once freed from a king over them, who journeyed forty years, claiming God as their king, who have an everlasting covenant with God, deny the covenant to get what they want.  By claiming the emperor, they deny their very identity.  The people of God, who are about to prepare the Passover feast – the feast that celebrates their release from Pharaoh, “embrace a latter-day Pharaoh whose overthrow the Passover is intended to celebrate.”[iv]  Although we like to demonize the chief priests, we too have pledged loyalties to things other than God.  Perhaps not as dramatically as the religious authorities, but we have all known those moments when a declaration slipped out of our mouths that we later come to realize was denial of everything we claim to be.

On this most holy of days, we can journey so far into the darkness of humanity, of the ways we deny our very own identity, that we can walk out of this beautiful historic chapel feeling lost – having received no encouragement for our bereft hearts.  But I do not think the point of Good Friday is to walk with us into the darkness without giving us a sliver of light to hold onto in these next hours.  Though our reading ends with the finality of Jesus in a tomb, where we are better left is at the foot of the cross.  At the foot of the cross is where we find identity again.  At the foot of the cross, we find a new community being formed.  Jesus gives his mother to the beloved disciple; and to the beloved disciple, he gives his mother.  In other words, Jesus creates a community of mutual care – a new family, a place of forming identity in Christ, even as Christ is departing.[v]  The very reason we gather in community on Good Friday is because we need this group gathered here – this group gathered at the foot of the cross – to bring us back from the denials of our identity, and help us reclaim whose we are.  Today is certainly a day for claiming how deep our own betrayal of God is, but today is also a day of claiming a community who can help us walk back.

I think that was what I was doing all those years ago in college as I sat on those cold, hard pews of the Chapel.  I knew I was lost, that my angst was not just the anxiety of tests and deadlines, but was a much deeper angst about identity.  And although that Chapel was mostly empty, that Chapel reminded me of all the times I had gathered in sacred spaces with the community of the faithful.  Even when the Chapel was empty, the Chapel was somehow a reminder of the mothers and brothers who gathered with me at the foot of the cross.  The only difference today is you do not have to imagine a community gathered with you at the cross.  We are right here with you.  We are struggling right along with you on this journey called discipleship.  Together, starting at the foot of the cross, we will find our way.  Amen.

[i] Jim Green Somerville, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),300, 302.

[ii] Karoline M. Lewis, John (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 218-219.

[iii] Lewis, 222.

[iv] C. Clifton Black, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),303.

[v][v] Lewis, 229.

Advertisements

Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YA, April 14, 2017

Tags

betrayal, blasphemy, chief priests, confession, cross, denial, evil, failure, God, Good Friday, Jesus, Judas, passion narrative, Peter, scapegoat, Sermon, sinfulness, transform

I have been thinking this week about how every year we read the same story of Jesus’ death.  Unlike the Christmas story that we eagerly anticipate hearing each year, this story seems like a masochistic practice of hearing the same devastating story over and over again.  And we do not just read this story on Good Friday.  In addition to John’s version of the passion narrative, we read one of the synoptic versions on Palm Sunday.  Twice in one week we relive the painful story, catching interesting variations.  But the ending is always the same:  death, finality, failure.  At least on Palm Sunday, we use various voices, making the story feel like a performance.  But today, one sole voice, tells the achingly raw story – a story we would rather skip, or soften, or cry out to the reader, “Please stop!”

In hearing the story this year, I was struck by the failures of three characters.  The first is probably the easiest culprit:  Judas.  In Mathew’s gospel there is at least a feigning of loyalty as Judas greets Jesus as “Rabbi,” and kisses his cheek.  But John does not play such games.  In John’s narrative, Judas is fully on the side of the persecutors.  He boldly brings and stands with the soldiers and police.  He does not greet Jesus, or apologize.  He is confident in his decision.  He stands proud, even as we now are able to see his profound failure.  His ignorance of the depth of his betrayal is almost worse than the actual betrayal.  His confidence that this is for the best, is the first crack in our hearts as we hear this painful story.

Then we have Peter – precious, passionate, pitiful Peter.  For all the times he gets things right, and all the endearing times he gets things wrong, today is just a spirit-crushing failure.  In Matthew’s gospel, Peter denies knowing Jesus.  In John’s gospel, Peter denies his discipleship – his very relationship with and dedication to the Messiah.  In the face of Jesus’ “I am,” claim[i] today, Peter’s claim is “I am not.”[ii]  For all the wonderful, powerful, sacrificial moments in Jesus today, Peter is shameful, cowardly, and self-serving.  Even after being warned that he will deny Christ, Peter denies Christ in spite of himself.  That cock’s crow is the second crack in our hearts as we hear this brutal story.

The third character today does not always get as much attention, but their failure is perhaps the worst.  Whereas Judas and Peter deny and betray a friend, the chief priests deny their very God.  They say seven words to Pilate today that should be more shocking than anything said.  “We have no king but the emperor.”  We often get distracted by their words, because we know that they are meant manipulate Pilate’s sense of authority.  But the chief priests, the religious, moral guides of the people of faith say today, “We have no king but the emperor.”  Of course, we have to think back to remember why this statement is so profoundly painful.  You see, once upon a time, God was the king of Israel.  The people worshiped Yahweh, and Yahweh alone.  But the people got greedy, and begged Yahweh for a king like the other nations.  And so God anointed kings through God’s prophets.  But the chief priests take their self-centered sinfulness a step further than our ancestors.  They deny God today.  Their claim to have no king but the emperor is treason against our God – blasphemy.  And with their claim, our heart lies cracked in two as we hear the rest of the awful story.

Of course, blaming Judas, Peter, and the chief priests would be an easy way to scapegoat our way out of this dark day.  There are even Christians who claim that the Jews crucified our Lord.  But we know the truth.  We know that we are the Jews.  We know that we are Judas and Peter and the chief priests.  We know that our heart fractures with each vignette because they remind us of times when we have stood on our soapboxes, certain of our moral claims, only to later look back and see whom we betrayed and trampled in the process.  We know that that our heart fractures because we are reminded of those times when we knew the right thing to do, said we were going to do the right thing, and then failed to do the right thing – over, and over, and over again.  We have heard that same cock crowing.  We know that our heart fractures because we have put other gods before our God.  Sure, the gods have varied:  money, power, security, ego.  But we have gotten so lost in our gods that we said and did things that would have inspired a gasp from anyone more faithful than ourselves.  The failures of Judas, Peter, and the chief priests are not just failures of those men, two thousand years ago.  The failures of Judas, Peter, and the chief priests are our failures.[iii]

I think that is why we tell this story year after year, twice a week from different gospels.  We tell this story over and over again because we fail over and over again.  Though the specific characters are important, the characters live and operate in us centuries later.  That is why the story is so compelling – not because we can gather together and wag our fingers at those people.  The story is compelling because the story is eerily close to our own sinfulness.  Part of the devastating nature of this story is how complicit we are in the story.  Though the powers of evil might want us to deny our culpability in this story, what is hardest about this story is how close to home the story really is.

Now, you I do not ever like to leave the pulpit without a word of hope, a reminder that risen Lord redeems us all.  But today, I encourage you not to rush to the empty tomb.  Take time to sit in our collective confession, to tarry on those things done and left undone which are separating you from God and one another.  Bring your failures or sense of failure to the cross and lay them there today.  Grieve the ways that you cannot help yourself, year after year, from sin and shame.  The whole season of Lent has been building up to this day.  The whole reason we took on those disciplines and came to church for confession was because we knew, ultimately, that this is where we keep tripping up:  in betrayal and denial of our very identity as beloved disciples and children of God.  We are the ones bombing others.  We are the ones racially profiling.  We are the ones denigrating women, the poor, and the oppressed.  We are the ones, century after century repeating the sins of the faithful.

Lay all that sinfulness at the cross today.  Whether you venerate the cross in the liturgy today, wear a cross around your neck, or pray with the cross on your prayer beads, the power of the cross is to absorb all those failures and to transform them into something worth living.  You can, and perhaps should, feel the powerful weight of your sinful patterns today.  But let them die at the foot of the cross with Jesus.  Lay them naked at the cross, for all the world to see.  There is relief in that confession, the depth of which you may not feel fully until our Easter proclamation.

[i] Susan E. Hylen, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 299.

[ii] Karoline Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 222.

[iii] Rolf Jacobson, Karoline Lewis, and Matt Skinner, “SB 535, Good Friday,” April 7, 2017, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=873 on April 8, 2017.

Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YC, March 25, 2016

Tags

Adam, cosmic, crucified, fall, garden, Garden of Betrayl, Garden of Eden, Garden of Redemption, Good Friday, gospel, Jesus, John, Sermon, sin

One of my favorite places is the garden at a monastery called Mepkin Abbey in South Carolina.  The trees are old and large, many dripping with Spanish moss.  There are a few statues and pieces of artwork that are artfully nestled in the gardens.  There is an old, small cemetery surrounded by a rusty wrought-iron fence.  But the most wonderful part of the garden is the river that runs along the edge of the gardens.  Benches are strategically placed near the water’s edge so that visitors can sit and listen to the lapping water, hearing the whir of insects, and rustle of the breeze.  The gardens of Mepkin Abbey are one of the most peaceful places I know.

Or at least, they are supposed to be.  Everything there, from the beauty of God-made creation to the beauty of man-made art, is supposed to invite the visitor into holy contemplation.  But I rarely find contemplation peaceful.  Contemplation usually leads me to a quiet conversation with God – which certainly sounds peaceful and serene.  But the trouble is that more often, my prayer life is about talking to God.  When I make space for the kind of quiet I need to actually listen to God, I sometimes hear things I do not want to hear.  God uses the rare gift of silence to put before me the things I have been avoiding with all my busyness.  So what should be a time of peaceful bliss more often becomes a time of sobering reflection.

The agonizing story we tell this day is rooted in gardens too:  three of them to be exact.  As the story opens we are told that Jesus and the disciples go to a garden – one where they had frequented, as Judas is familiar with the garden where they often met.  The garden was a place of peace for Jesus – the place where he retreated for prayer after long days of teaching, preaching, and healing.  The garden was a place of familiarity – a home for the man who really had no home.  The garden was a place of affirmation – a place where he and his closest companions went together without pressure to perform or do, but to just be together.  Into that peaceful garden violence erupts.  “Sinful men, violent men, men with weapons, come to the garden in the dark, looking for someone,” as one scholar writes.  “The someone who was the father’s only son.  Like all humans, they are looking for God, but they don’t know that’s what they are doing.  They think they are only doing their job…”[i]  But unlike in Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s gospel, John does not paint the garden as one of agony.  No, Jesus has already done his grieving.  In this garden, Jesus is ready.  We hear his resolve in his conversation with the armed men.  Jesus has no intention of hiding or grieving in the darkness.

The story of that garden is laced with the story of another garden:  the garden in which John’s gospel is rooted.  If you remember, John’s gospel is the gospel which starts on a much more philosophical note than the other gospels.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  In the beginning there was a garden too – the Garden of Eden.  In the Garden of Eden, the roles were reversed.  Instead of men coming to look for God in the person of Jesus, God goes looking for man – Adam, specifically.  N. T. Wright describes that day in Eden artfully, “[God] came on the evening breeze, came as he had always come.  Came because they knew each other, and used to spend time together.  Came to the garden because that’s where they always met.  That’s where he was at home.  And there was no answer.  The man had hidden.  Something had happened.  The friendship was soured.  There was a bad taste in the air, a taste made worse by the excuses and feeble stories that followed.  Love, the most fragile and beautiful of the plants in that garden, had been trampled on.  It would take millennia to grow it again.”[ii]

In the garden of Eden, God comes searching for a sinful man.  In the garden of betrayal, sinful men come looking for God.  The first Adam entered into sin, forever straining the relationship between humankind and the Creator.  John’s gospel presents Jesus as the true Adam, the man without sin, who is sent to his death by sinful Adams, so that “the garden may be restored, and instead of bloodshed there may be healing and forgiveness.”[iii]  From the beginning of our story today, the two gardens are ever intertwined, holding for us the tension of the significance of this event.  For although this story today is the story of our Savior crucified, the story today is also a cosmic one, one we understand to be rooted in the oldest of stories – the fall of humankind that is not redeemed until the fall of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Of course, Jesus standing boldly in the garden of betrayal is just the beginning of our story.  We listen intently as we hear the painful story retold – of God’s chosen ones betraying God by putting Caesar in the place of God, of Pilate sacrificing his ethics because of peer pressure, of disciples abandoning and denying Jesus, of Jesus’ suffering to the very end.  And where do we end our story, but in another garden – the garden that holds a new tomb that Joseph of Arimathea offers.  This is the garden that will host sacred events.  The redemption begins right away.  Though Joseph and Nicodemus were ashamed and afraid of their discipleship, when the opportunity comes to show their loyalty, they do not waiver.  Their shame is washed away by their royal care of Jesus’ body.  With enough spices for a king, in an untouched tomb, in the beauty of a garden, they put to rest the new Adam, who redeems the age-old Adam in us all.

Now I said initially that there are three gardens in our text.  That number is still true.  But today, we create our own garden as well.  Our garden is bare – stripped of beauty and adornment.  But our garden is still here – a sacred place of comfort, companionship, and company with God.  Stripping our garden of its usual adornment allows us to strip ourselves of our normal busyness and sit with our God.  That is what gardens do for us anyway.  No matter how many beautiful pieces of art or flowering beauties we see, at some point we have to sit down, take a deep breath, and listen to our God.  That is what we do today.  We come to the garden of the redeemed to ponder how we got here.  We come to remember our roots in the sin that severed our relationship with God in the Garden of Eden.  We come to remember those times when we have taken up arms as we stormed into the Garden of Betrayal.  And we also come to remember those moments of redemption when we did the right thing, placing our Lord in the Garden of rest.

Our time in the garden of redemption will not necessarily leave us feeling fulfilled.  In fact, our leaving here pondering the cosmic nature of what Jesus has done to remedy the sin of humanity is all we are given today.  We know good news is coming – that the garden of rest will become the garden of resurrection.  But not today.  Today we leave this place pondering our own participation in the action of the gardens of today’s story:  those times of our sinful fleeing from God, those times of our sinful persecution of God, and those times of our abandoning God or our fear of proclaiming God.  We are blessed by the garden of redemption, the garden of St. Margaret’s, to sit and listen.  We share the experience and draw strength from one another.  Our joy will come soon.  But not today.  Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 102.

[ii] Wright, 102.

[iii] Wright, 104.

Sermon – John 18-1-19.42, GF, YB, April 3, 2015

Tags

denial, failings, Good Friday, Jesus, John, Mark, passion, Peter, Sermon, shame, steady, strong

This week we have heard two accounts of Jesus’ passion.  What I am drawn to in both accounts is Peter’s denial.  Both the gospel of Mark and the gospel of John detail Peter’s denial, but the denial of Peter is a bit different in Mark than in John.  On Palm Sunday, we heard Mark’s version.  In Mark, when the servant girl and others ask Peter if he is with Jesus, Peter three times denies Jesus, saying, “I do not know the Man.”  The denial is bitter to us, since we know that Peter not only knew him, but seemingly loved him intimately.  To proclaim that he did not know Jesus is akin to erasing Jesus’ presence in his life.  Peter’s denial of that intimate knowledge seems like the ultimate betrayal.

But then we read John’s passion narrative today.  Although Peter denies Jesus three times again, this time the denial is a little different.  This time, Peter is not asked whether he knows Jesus, but whether he is a disciple of Jesus.  To this question, Peter responds, “I am not.”  The denial in John’s gospel sounds less personal and less offensive.  Whereas in Mark, Peter’s denial feels more like a lie – to state that Peter did not know Jesus when in fact he did.  In John’s gospel, Peter’s denial feels more like a smoothing of the denial.  He does not deny that he knows Jesus, only that he is not a disciple of Jesus.  The trouble with this kind of denial – the denial of Peter’s discipleship –  is that in some ways this denial is much worse.  By denying his discipleship, Peter denies his relationship with Jesus – all that they have been through, all that he has professed, all that he has learned and grown to love.  Peter is denying how Jesus gave him his name, Peter.  He is denying the times that he professed his faith in Jesus – in fact the time that he said he would lay down his life for Jesus.  He is denying that intimate moment when Jesus washed his feet, and he longed for more – that his whole body be washed.  He is even denying how he passionately cut off a slave’s ear just to protect Jesus.  In John’s gospel, Peter not only denies Jesus, he denies an entire relationship.  He denies his discipleship.[i]

As I was thinking about Peter’s denial this week, I was reminded of popular movie.  Though the movie is a pretty cheesy romantic comedy, the movie Thirteen going on Thirty reminded me of Peter.  In the film, the main character, Jenna, is frustrated that her life has not turned out how she would like at age thirteen.  She is not popular, she is not a part of the cool crowd, and her best friend is a rather chubby, unattractive, but sweet boy named Matt.  And so, in order to reach what she thinks will give her the most happiness, she ends her lifelong friendship with her best friend, Matt, remakes her life, and when she magically wakes up at the age of thirty, she has everything she wants – friends, a job in fashion, an athlete boyfriend, trips around the world – basically the glamorous, comfortable life she always wanted.  All she had to do was deny her relationship with her best friend – even when that denial involved mocking him in front of others to gain status.

What makes that movie so relatable is that we all remember how monumental life seemed as a teenager.  One slight, one suggestion that we did not quite fit in could make our self-worth plummet.  Unable to see beyond what felt like ultimate importance at that age, we all said and did things that we look back upon now and feel shame for doing.  And although most of us would like to think we grow out of that undiscerning teenage phase, the truth is that we continue to struggle with those impulses into adulthood.  When put on the spot, we can waiver between the right thing to do and the most advantageous thing to do.  We can struggle with what our conscious would have us do and what we know will make us the most comfortable or safe.  When we are really honest with ourselves, we can admit that we are creatures who seek comfort.  We regularly choose the path of least resistance so that we can avoid conflict, keep the peace, or just remain in a comfort zone.  The phrase, “don’t rock the boat,” is a phrase that we use when we are encouraging people to just keep things as smooth as possible.  In fact, the only time we want to rock the boat is to toss over the person who is causing us discomfort, so that our boat can get back to smooth sailing – despite the cost.  That impulse is in every one of us, and controlling that impulse is more difficult than most of us like to admit.

That is why reading John’s version of Peter’s denial is so hard today.  Though we have heard the story a hundred times, there is some part of us that always hopes the story will end differently this year.  When we hear Peter answer the question about whether he is Jesus’ disciple, our heart breaks again when he says quite simply, “I am not.”  We mourn Peter’s response, not only because Peter’s response is a denial of all the goodness of his relationship with Jesus, but also because Peter’s denial reminds us of the times that we have denied Christ in our own lives.  We recall today the times when we have downplayed our faith to make others more comfortable; the times when we have avoided caring for the poor when we know that is what Jesus would have us do; the times when we have wrested control of our lives from God because we think that we know better; or maybe the times when we have simply stepped away from faith, or God, or Church because we just could not offer that part of ourselves anymore.

The good news is that in the face of denial, Jesus is ever strong when others cannot be.  When Peter is questioned, his response is, “I am not.”  When Jesus is questioned, his response is, “I am.”  When the crowds say they are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus says, “I am he.”  When they seemed stunned into silence, and Jesus again asks who they are looking for, Jesus says, “I told you that I am he.”  When Peter is faced with the heat of confrontation, he crumbles with an “I am not.”  But Jesus calmly, strongly, steadfastly faces the heat with, “I am.”  Of course, Jesus’ response is not just a response of strength.  His response is a claiming of the divine name.  Jesus takes the same name that God gives to Moses when God says, “I am who I am.”[ii]  Jesus is faithful, strong, and bold because Jesus is the one through whom God is revealed.  Though Peter is not, Jesus is.

In the midst of our failings, in the midst of our shame for the ways in which we deny and betray our Lord, Jesus’ words, “I am,” are what give us comfort today.  When we cannot be who we are called to be, when we fail in our discipleship, or when we deny our relationship and commitment to Jesus, Jesus firmly remains the great “I am.”  Jesus in John’s gospel steadily steps forward to his death, constantly in control of his death.  He carries his own cross, he dies with his mother and beloved disciple with him, and he determines when his mission is “finished.”[iii]  When we are weak, he is strong.  When we fail, he succeeds.  Jesus’ strength, his clarity in his identity, and his determined focus to the very end is our stronghold.  We will never be the as great as the great “I am.”  But by holding fast to Jesus this day – our strong, beloved, crucified Jesus – perhaps we too will be able to turn our “I am not,” into an “I am.”  And in the meantime, Jesus will lead the way.  Amen.

[i] The concept of the differences in John and Mark’s version of Peter’s denial presented by Karoline Lewis, in her Sermon Brainwave podcast at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=610 on March 27, 2015.

[ii] Guy D. Nave, Jr., “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 305, 307.

[iii] Nave, 309.

Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YC, March 29, 2013

Tags

cross, dark, Good Friday, hope, Jesus, light, Sermon, sin, stark, ugliness

Good Friday is one of the most difficult liturgies in the Church year.  The tone of the liturgy alone is stark.  Without our usual adornments and vestments, without music, and without our sacred sacramental feast, we are already feeling bereft.  But added on top of all this starkness is our passion reading from John.  This is one of those stories that gets worse and worse as we read.  Our tendency in the face of such overwhelming grief and failure is to start disassociating ourselves from others, somehow hoping to deny that there is ugliness in each of us that could lead to the exact same results had we been there.

We would like to believe that we would never betray Jesus in the way that Judas does.  Surely nothing could ever lure us into such a treacherous act.  Unless, of course, we think Jesus needs a little motivation.  Many have argued that Judas’ betrayal is caused by his desire to push Jesus into the role of a political Messiah – to assume the military power that rightly belongs to Jesus.[i]  If we believe as Judas does that Jesus is the political Messiah that we had been waiting for, perhaps we too might find some way to give Jesus a push to fight back.  Surely we have all experienced impatience and pushed others along the way.  Judas’ ugliness seeps into even us at times.

If we have to admit that some of Judas is in us, then at least we can imagine that we would not betray Jesus as Peter does.  We all know that Jesus has said following him will lead to death – we would say “Yes,” to that servant girl’s question because, come what may, we would stand with Jesus.  But how many of us have failed ourselves and our friends under similar pressure.  That survival instinct – that desire to protect ourselves takes over all the time – even if only in the form of white lies that cover our interests.  We have to remind ourselves that Peter wants to be a better disciple – he does attempt to protect Jesus with the sword, and he at least follows Jesus into the cold courtyard.  Who knows if we could have done that?  So parts of Peter must be in us too.

If we concede some of Judas and Peter in us, surely we can at least claim that we are not like Caiaphas.  Surely we would never look at Jesus and claim, “It is better for one person to die for the people.”  Surely we always stand on the side of goodness – except, of course, when we are choosing the lesser of two evils, as Caiaphas claims he is doing.  I remember a classic ethics case in seminary.  A group of Jews were hiding from the Nazis.  A baby in the group starts crying.  The ethical question is this:  Do you suffocate the child in order to protect the lives of the whole group, or do you save the child, knowing that the entire group will be discovered because of the crying baby and most likely murdered.  Just because one option is less evil does not make the option good.  Unfortunately, Caiaphas can be found in us also.

Perhaps, then, we can still deny the Pilate in ourselves.  We see in Pilate a man who knows the right thing to do, but who keeps waffling, trying to weasel out of a decision.  But we too have had times of indecision, even when we know what to do; because the right thing is rarely the easy or popular thing.  How do any of us fare when faced with a group who is staunchly opposed to what we know is right?  Yes, Pilate is in us too.

Having experienced many passion narratives where we have been required to say the “crowd” part, “Crucify him,” we would like to believe that we would never be like the chief priests who shout this line.  Surely we would not succumb to that same behavior.  But in the last several years, we have heard enough stories about mob mentality to know the power of the mob to deteriorate morals.  People say and do things they would never do otherwise when egged on by a crowd.  I think about that school bus monitor who was taunted by four boys on a school bus.  When the parents saw the video, they could not believe their children had done such a thing – had fallen in with the group.  We look at those boys and wonder how that could have happened, forgetting the times we have been swept up in anger or pushed to the point of breaking.  Yes, we have some of the chief priests in us.

So if we cannot deny all these individuals, perhaps we can at least deny the behavior of the soldiers.  We would never flog Jesus and mock him in the ways that they do.  We would not nail him to that cross or gamble for his clothes or pierce his side.  But all we have to do is remember those scandalous photos of the military prison in Abu Ghraib less than ten years ago to realize how corrupted judgment can become, especially for those who have to desensitize themselves to violence as soldiers often need to.  We all take on the behaviors of those biblical soldiers from time to time.

This is what makes Good Friday so difficult.  Certainly we are devastated about what happens to Jesus.  But more importantly, we are devastated because we know deep down, in the most sinful parts of ourselves, we too have betrayed Jesus, denied him, judged him, condemned him, rejected him, mocked him, cursed him, flogged him, and killed him.[ii]  What is so painful about this day is not so much Jesus’ painful death, but our own participation in that death.  That is why we leave here in silence, and why we keep watch in the face of our sinfulness.

But even in this most despairing of days, there is one sliver of hope for me.  Just as we can be Judas, Peter, Caiaphas, Pilate, chief priests, and soldiers, perhaps we can also be like Mary and the beloved disciple.  Perhaps we could also find the goodness in ourselves that would take the risk of standing at the foot of that cross.  Perhaps we can find in us the one who keeps watch until Jesus draws his last breath.  Surely we have all done this throughout our lives.  We too have set at the bedside of a loved one in their final hours.  We have fought sleep, given in to grief, rubbed a withered hand, and waited through the ambiguity of those last hours.

This is the image that gives me hope today.  I think of the countless bedsides I have joined, as we loved someone through to death.  We have spoken in hushed voices, patted each other on the back, and shared hugs.  We have shed tears, reminisced with stories, and prayed the prayers and psalms.  We have stumbled through goodbyes, hoping our words and presence show forth our love.  We have simultaneously felt helpless, and felt like we were doing the right thing.

This is our invitation today.  We claim all of the Judas, Peter, Caiaphas, Pilate, chief priests, and soldiers in us, but we also claim those who stand at the foot of the cross in us too.  The beauty is that we can do both – in fact we can stand at the foot of the cross more honestly if we recognize all the parts in us.  And we can stand at the foot of the cross more vigilantly when we look around and see the community of faith who stands there with us.  We can lean on one another, giving one another strength to live into the light over the darkness.  Even as we see him hanging on the cross, we stand as a community unwilling to let the darkness overcome the light.  Recognizing the dark and light in each of us, even on this darkest of days, we can choose to stand at the foot of the cross together, and claim the light.  Amen.

---

[i] George Arthur Buttrick, Ed., The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, vol. 2 (New York: Abingdon Press, 1962), 1007.

[ii] Jim Green Somerville, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 302-304.