Listen to the entire Choral Eucharist from Easter Day HERE.
If you’re ever in downtown Los Angeles, you should visit the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. The building opened in 2002 and sometimes gets mixed reviews: it’s contemporary and cavernous, with a beige outside that hints at the California missions of the 18th century. Once inside, the worship space can seem overwhelming. But then your eyes notice the walls. There, all around, covering the walls, are people. Black, white, tan and red, old and young. As if holding up the walls themselves, as if holding in their hands the prayers and hopes and sorrows and joys of the faithful— surrounding this huge space are tapestries of the Communion of Saints. Saints contemporary and ancient. But they look familiar. And they look real.
Part of the reason they look so real is that the artist John Nava used the people of his hometown Ojai as models for the saints. They are people like you and me. The person around the corner becomes envisioned as Augustine. The lady who delivers the mail becomes Teresa of Avila. Ambrose is the grocer. The waitress at the restaurant becomes Catherine of Siena. The model for the 3rd century martyr Perpetua, was one of his son’s classmates.
I love that the artist used ordinary people. He didn’t pick wealthy donors, or the best looking, or the smartest, or the one with the most connections. The tapestries in the Cathedral make an enormous point: God shines brightest through ordinary people. And God does this all the time.
Over and over, in scripture, in history, and in our lives, God shows up in what might seem like the least likely person, in the most unlikely of places. As we’re reminded by the Holy Trinity icon in the Memorial Chapel, God shows up to Abraham and Sarah in the form of three strangers. In the Hebrew scriptures, God shows up to Jacob in a wrestling match of a dream. In the Book of Esther, God shows up in the words and acts of Queen Esther, Mordecai, and even a Persian King. The stories of Jesus tell us how God shows up in Bethlehem, in the carpenter’s shop, and in dusty Palestinian villages. God is in the garden. God is on the cross. God shows up as a wanderer on the road to Emmaus. And God shows up at a fish fry on the beach that first Easter morning.
When has God shown up for you? Was it in someone you knew, or a total stranger? Was it through a book, or a movie, a piece of music, or a sudden insight? Did it happen in church, or at work, or at the beach? Was it like with Mary Magdalene, when God showed up in a garden?
That Easter morning, Jesus shows up as a gardener for at least two reasons, I think. The first is to remind us to be on the lookout for him. God is often disguised in our world, but with eyes of faith, we can see and rejoice and be a part of the continued resurrection of his love.
But there’s a second reason why Jesus appears as a gardener: It’s because sometimes WE are called to appear as Jesus, to be his hands and feet and mouth in the world. We’re called to speak up for those who have lost their voice or had their voice taken from them. We’re called to reach out and help heal. We’re called to grow and cook food, and to help feed the hungry, to build and provide in order to house the homeless.
Symeon (the New Theologian), a tenth century mystic, puts this beautifully as he writes
We awaken in Christ’s body
as Christ awakens our bodies,
and my poor hand is Christ, He enters
my foot, and is infinitely me.
I move my hand, and wonderfully
my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him
(for God is indivisibly
whole, seamless in His Godhood).
I move my foot, and at once
He appears like a flash of lightning.
Do my words seem blasphemous? — Then
open your heart to Him
and let yourself receive the one
who is opening to you so deeply.
For if we genuinely love Him,
we wake up inside Christ’s body
where all our body, all over,
every most hidden part of it,
is realized in joy as Him,
and He makes us, utterly, real,
and everything that is hurt, everything
that seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,
maimed, ugly, irreparably
damaged, is in Him transformed
and recognized as whole, as lovely,
and radiant in His light
he awakens as the Beloved
in every last part of our body.
And so, this Easter and always: Keep your eye out for the gardener. Or the boiler room man, or the taxi driver, the nurse, the waiter, the politician, real estate agent, teacher, or kid playing soccer. And in the midst of serving others, be sure and check in the mirror some time.
And let us live aware and ready, that Christ may shine through us to bring light more fully into the world.
Alleluia, Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia.
In the middle of Rome, at the top of the Aventine Hill, near the Benedictine Monastery of San Anselmo, you will find a strange sight. No matter what time of day, there will probably be a bunch of people, formed in a line perpendicular to a large green door. At first, it seems like people are waiting to get into an event, but if you watch, you’ll notice that each person is actually taking a turn at looking through a tiny hole. It’s a keyhole, and it’s in a gate that leads to a garden and property belonging to the Knights of Malta. But what’s interesting about the keyhole (and why people line up to look through) is that if you look through it, framed perfectly in the distance is the dome of the Vatican.
In Rome, this “Papal Peephole” draws lots of people. But I bet you anything, that if we were to build a wall on 88th Street and put a small peephole in it, people would also line up to look in. There’s just something about “looking in,” that is a part of human nature. We want to look in, to look deeper, to see more. And this yearning to look in and see more is at the heart of tonight’s Easter Gospel.
In the Reading from Luke for this evening, the friends and family of Jesus go to the tomb. They need to see. They are prepared to look through a crack in the door or a gap in the stones. They expect to have to deal with the guards and ask that the stone be moved away so they can tend to the body of Jesus. They probably expect to see a body that is bloodied and beaten. But they go out of care for Jesus, out of caring love for Jesus. They find they don’t need to look through a crevice—the stone has been moved. Strange-looking men ask them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” These men seem even stranger when they say, “He is not here, but has risen.”
The women are amazed and go and tell the other disciples. It’s all too wild to believe, too good to believe. But eventually, the male disciples decide to see what the women are talking about. Peter runs to the tomb. And Peter looks in. They all look in.
Entering the tomb, they find it empty. But it’s a different kind of emptiness than they imagined they would find. They went expecting to look in and see death, sadness, despair, darkness, failure. But when they look, they see the burial clothes Jesus had used. They see emptiness, but it’s full of possibility, it radiates promise, it holds life, and in that “full emptiness,” those first disciples discover new life for themselves–because everything has changed.
There are various times in our lives when we approach a precipice or the edge of something, we lean out, and we look in. Perhaps we shyly open the door and step into a new classroom. Maybe we sneak a peek at the place that is about to be our new home. At the beginning of life we peer into the window of the hospital room to see a newborn. We glace with hope at opportunities and challenges. And at the end of a life, we look into the final resting place for the ones we have loved. Probably, we look in pretty much knowing what to expect. We look in, like those first disciples did.
But sometimes we get a surprise.
I’m reminded of a story told by the Rt. Rev. James Curry, the former Bishop Suffragan of the Diocese of Connecticut. was here on Monday for the Way of the Cross that went through downtown Washington. Bishop Curry tells a story about visiting the Diocese of Lebombo in Mozambique one year on Good Friday.
It seems that every year on Good Friday, the church in Maputo gathers for what they understand as the Burial of Christ. A black casket is brought into the church, complete with pallbearers. The pallbearers lift a lid off the casket and place it to the side. The bishop leads prayers as the people affirm that Jesus is dead. He is really dead and this is his funeral.
The congregation, then, is invited forward to pay respect. And so, two by two, they are invited with the words, “Come and see the one who has died and will rise from the dead.” Acolytes are standing along the side, and they offer flowers for people to place on the grave.
Two by two, the people make their way forward and walk by the open casket. Choirs sing as people move forward, pause at the casket, bow, and look upon “the one who has died and who will rise from the dead.”
Bishop Curry had watched this ceremony carefully, knowing that his turn would come, and he wanted to do just what everyone else was doing. And so, he went forward, and took a flower to place on the casket.
He approaches what he understands to be a holy moment, he bows, and he looks in. He looks, but there in the casket is a mirror and he sees his own face. And he hears the words again, “See the one who has died and who will rise again.” He is the one who has died and will rise from the dead.
We are the ones who, in baptism, have died, and are raised to new life in Christ. We are the ones who die daily to sin, as we make good choices, as we repent and forgive, as we put one faithful foot in front of the other and walk with Christ into tomorrow, we rise from the dead. We are the ones who, one day, will have died to this earthly place. But because of the death and resurrection of Christ, we too will rise from the dead.
Easter is about looking in—looking into an empty tomb and finding it full of possibility. Looking into our future—even the future of the grave—and seeing in it a blending of the image of Christ with our own image.
St. Paul reminds us that when we look at Christ, “…Now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.” And then Paul tells us how to gaze, how to peer, how to keep looking, “So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love” (1 Cor. 13:12-13).
I hope that when one of the newly polished crosses passes by, you might catch a glimpse of your reflection. Or that you might see yourself reflected in a Communion Chalice, or catch your reflection in the wine (that is the Blood of Christ), blending with the Risen Christ.
My prayer for all of us is that this Easter we might be given the faith to look more deeply into the life of Christ, and find in it the fullness of our life, both here and hereafter.
Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia!
Good Friday can feel like a lonely day: the spare, quiet church, the prayers of penitence, psalms of lament, and mournful music. It all can contribute to a sense of aloneness, of individuality, and isolation. The focus of the day is Jesus dying of the cross. But what happens on the cross is described somewhat differently, depending on the Gospel one reads. And some accounts, the Passion is lonelier than in others.
Matthew’s Gospel has Jesus in anguish, crying to God, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46) Jesus is alone, surrounded by strangers and criminals. In a similar way, Mark’s Gospel also includes this cry of abandonment—this cry of frustration, of loneliness, of fear, even. And this can raise a lot of questions: Has God abandoned Jesus? Is Jesus truly alone?
If Jesus dies alone, we might wonder about ourselves? When face death (whether in the face of illness, or violence, or accident, or a graceful and peaceful end) are we also left alone, like Jesus? Will our prayer be like his: “Why have you left me, God?” “Where are you?”
But here is where a little bit of biblical literacy is a very helpful thing. Each Gospel has its point of view, but in the search for truth, we should read each one and allow each one to contribute to the conversation. We don’t conflate all the Gospel accounts into one.
John’s Gospel, the one we have just heard, includes no sense of abandonment. God is there. Fully, richly, completely.
The theologian Jürgen Moltmann explains it this way: “To understand what happened between Jesus and his God and Father on the cross, it is necessary to talk in trinitarian terms. The Son suffers dying, [but] the Father suffers the death of the Son. The grief of the Father here is just as important as the death of the Son. The Fatherlessness of the Son is matched by the Sonlessness of the Father…. (The Crucified God, p. 243).
And so, in John’s Gospel, Jesus dies on the cross, but he is not alone. There is the company of the Father, and the presence of the Spirit. But this community extends into our world, there at the foot of the cross, where Mary the Mother of Jesus, the Mother of God stands watching (and weeping.)
Every Friday night in Stations of the Cross, we have sung of Mary’s presence,
At the Cross her station keeping
Stood the mournful mother weeping,
Where he hung, the dying Lord.
For, her soul of joy bereaved,
Bowed with anguish deeply grieved,
Felt the sharp and piercing sword.
Mary is there, along with her sister. Also there’s Mary the wife of Clopas and there’s Mary Magdalene. The Beloved Disciple is there. Even though the Beloved is not named, tradition points to John, and if, in fact the Beloved Disciple is the author of this Gospel, his anonymity might be explained by humility.
From the cross, Jesus speaks to Mary and the Beloved Disciple. “Woman, here is your son.” And then to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” On one level, this seems like a logical thing to do. But haven’t the Gospels suggested elsewhere that Jesus had (at least) step-siblings? Where are they? Is there nowhere else for Mary to go? Her sister is there with her at the cross, and yet Jesus does not entrust Mary to her. Presumably, Joseph has died, so he’s not there, either.
Another explanation of this new bond of Mary with John comes from a theologian named Tim Perry. Father Perry is a priest and professor in Canada and he thinks a lot about the Virgin Mary’s role in the Church and he explores it from a Protestant perspective. He wonders if there isn’t more going on here than we might first imagine.
Father Perry points out that by giving Mary to the disciple and the disciple to Mary, Jesus is forming a bond, a new relationship, between the CHURCH and the TEACHING OF THE APOSTLES. “On the one hand,” Father Perry suggests, “all people who would receive the salvation Jesus brings (symbolized by the mother of Jesus) must come under the care of those who knew Jesus best, the apostles (symbolized by the Beloved Disciple)…. [But on the other hand]”… the apostles’ teachings are cared for, preserved, protected, and indeed understood nowhere other than the Church.” (Blessed is She: Living Lent with Mary, p. 91-92). Both need each other.
In other words, Mary can represent the Church at its best—showing up, serving, doing, praying, loving, abiding in the love and life of Jesus. John, the Beloved Disciple, represents the apostolic tradition in which we all play a role—learning, teaching, meditating on the way of Christ, deepening our lives and the life of the Church through spiritual disciplines. Mary and John need each other.
Perry suggest that reading Mary as symbolic of the Church and the Beloved Disciple as symbolic of the apostles can serve both as a warning and a promise for us.
As a warning, it reminds us that it’s not all about me. It’s not about “me and Jesus.” It’s not enough for me to walk in the woods and create a special relationship with Jesus and have that rule the day, must less rule other people. My conception of Christ needs the Church to shape it and test it and encourage it. And the Church risks losing its soul when it drifts too far from the teaching and wisdom of the apostles. Both happen in our day just as much as they have happened in history.
But there is also great promise in this relationship of Mary with the Beloved. The cross does not leave us alone. We are never forsaken. We have been grafted into the church through baptism and we have been entrusted into the care of the apostles. When we hear the scriptures, when we receive the sacraments, when we walk and talk together in faith, we are in the presence of the Risen Christ.
At the Fourteenth Station of the Cross, as Jesus is laid in the tomb, we affirm, “You will not abandon me to the grave: Nor let your Holy One see corruption.” And then we sing, with Mother Mary and the Beloved Disciple, and all the Company of Heaven,
Jesus, may thy Cross defend me,
And thy saving death befriend me,
Cherished by thy deathless grace.
When to dust my dust returneth,
Grant a soul that to thee yearneth
In thy Paradise a place. Amen. (Stabat Mater, Jacopone da Todi, 13th c.)
The love and presence of the Holy Trinity means that no matter how we might feel, no matter what the presenting evidence might suggest, WE ARE NEVER ALONE. With God’s abiding and loving presence, may we be kept safe until we, too, are brought to new life in the Resurrection.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Some years ago when I was trying to decide whether to transition from the Presbyterian Church to the Episcopal Church, I can tell you that the idea of footwashing was almost a deal-breaker. It seemed strange, contrived, artificial. I was used to certain rituals associated with Maundy Thursday, but they included things like shining my shoes, keeping them on my feet, and sitting in a church pew while I listened to the minister preach… and preach…. and preach.
When I took the leap into the Episcopal Church, before long I was serving as an acolyte, and in the church where I served, as Holy Week approached, I began to worry. I worried because I knew that all of the acolytes were expected to participate in the foot washing. That first Thursday approached, and I was nervous. Of course, knowing that I was nervous and worried felt self-righteous and prideful, which just made things worse.
I wondered, What if the person who was to was my feet didn’t like what they saw? What if they switched with another person to avoid me? What if they quietly washed my feet this year, but then left the church, desperate to avoid ever having to wash my feet in the future? And so my obsessive worry about feet continued. That first Maundy Thursday arrived. I had my feet washed, and I was surprised to find just how deeply moving the experience was, and has been ever since.
In that place, at the foot washing, everyone came forward, much like communion. One person would kneel before another. It might be a stranger, a visitor, a homeless person, or a bishop. But if one really looks for Christ in the other person, in the awkwardness and vulnerability, something of Christ indeed seems present. For me, that’s the easier part, the washing of the other person’s feet. But as soon as they are dry, it would be time to switch places. It would be my turn to sit in the chair and allow another person to wash my feet. That’s the part I don’t like. I’m not good at being vulnerable or showing weakness and I don’t like being needy.
The washing of feet is symbolic, of course. In many churches, twelve people are selected and they represent the entire congregation. The Pope washed the feet of refugees today, both to remind us of Christ’s humility but also to highlight the situation of those who look for a new home and a fresh start. But if we only stop there, with the priest, the bishop, or the Pope modeling humility, we’ve only got part of the Gospel.
“After Jesus washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, … 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.”
We, all of us, are called to wash feet and have our feet washed. In just a few minutes, there will be the opportunity to do just that. There will be two chairs and two basins. All who wish, are invited to form two lines and come forward, two and a time. A person will be sitting in the chair. You are invited to pour a little water on that person’s foot or feet, and then wipe it off with a towel. Then, you are invited to take the chair, and the next person will come and wash your feet. On and on, it continues.
“Love one another,” Jesus says, “even as I have loved you.” Maundy Thursday gives us
one way of acting out this very practical expression of love. But the foot washing is closely connected to the other great act of our Lord’s hospitality and graciousness: the Passover meal that he celebrates with his friends.
We continue to celebrate that meal. We offer the love of Christ to one another even as he offered his love, every time we celebrate the Holy Communion. Like the foot washing, there is a kind of threefold choreography.
At communion, we come forward either standing or kneeling, but we come in humility, acknowledging that we need to be fed. We cannot feed ourselves entirely. All our striving,
our working, our grasping—in the end, does not satisfy. And so we hunger and thirst for
God, for change, for something to happen in our life, and we step forward.
We eat from common bread and we share a common cup. We risk closeness, we risk being needy, being like other people, being ordinary, being unleavened, as it were. But we also feel strengthened by one another. If the steps up to the altar are difficult, the person next to us helps us. If the knees don’t want to help us get down or up, there’s usually a stabilizing arm on one side or the other. If we’re unable to walk, a minister brings communion to us. And so we eat. And we drink, together.
And we are changed. We are renewed. By taking Christ’s body and blood into ourselves,we are made one with him and one with each other.
Every day is not Maundy Thursday and most of us don’t have the daily opportunity of serving one another by washing feet. Nor do all of us live at or meet people at the High Altar every day.
But we do live in a world of opportunities. We live in a world in which people hunger and thirst—for the essentials of food, shelter and clothing; for a sense of being loved and of belonging; and we live in a world that hungers for God.
May we grow into Christ’s new commandment. May we practice in every way, and continue to learn to love one another as he has loved us.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
(Unfortunately, the recording failed, so there is no audio sermon this week.)
One of the many interesting things about working in a church office is the church supply catalogs that come in the mail. Sometimes they have vestments and clothing that seem better suited to movie sets than real churches. Other catalogs lead clergy like me to dream of lightweight, collapsible tables, and clear, durable sign-holders. But one of the funniest catalogs I’ve seen in a long time had an entire section of small figures that one could order as gifts.
The section was called, “Jesus is my coach.” Each of the little figures, or clusters of figures, pertains to a particular sport, so the baseball version of “Jesus is my coach” shows a child of ambiguous gender at bat, while another young person is next to the first as a catcher. But then just behind the batter, as though a coach or a parent helping with how to hold the bat, is Jesus—not in a baseball uniform, but complete with beard, long hair, and white robe. The football version has Jesus going in for a catch while another kid tries to tackle him. There is a martial arts Jesus and a skiing Jesus. And just so that no one begins to think Jesus is only interested in macho sports, there is also a ballet Jesus in which he is gently offering support to two ballerinas.
The “Jesus in my coach” figures are probably just the thing for a pious grandmother looking for a confirmation gift, or a desperate priest with no experience of children wondering what to give a young person. And while I don’t think I would ever order one of the figures, I do appreciate the point they are trying to make. At some level, they are proclaiming the Incarnation: the belief that God is more than an idea or a vague warm feeling, that God came into the world in the flesh; died, and rose again for us, and is still available to us as a friend, as a guide, and even (I dare say) as a “coach.”
The scriptures today move us toward the events of Holy Week, but they do so by reminding us of Jesus the human being; Jesus, the friend.
In today’s Gospel, we’re taken right to the edge of Jerusalem, to Bethany, thought to be where today’s West Bank is, about a mile and a half east of the temple in Jerusalem. It’s not far in proximity, and it’s not far from the events we will retrace in Holy Week.
There, in Bethany, Jesus is with his friends, the sisters Mary and Martha, and their brother Lazarus. This is just after Lazarus has died. But Jesus has visited, said to death, “not so fast,” and Lazarus is again full of life. This is the great story represented in the stained glass window over our altar. I love that the primary image is of Jesus raising Lazarus from death to life again—not yet eternal life—(that’s to come later) but raised to life for another chapter, another week, another day. The raising of Lazarus hints at even greater things to come.
While each of the Gospels has a story about a woman anointing Jesus’ feet, each one puts a slightly different slant on the story. Some accounts are more ambiguous than others. For example, in Matthew, the woman is simply described as a “woman with an alabaster jar.” It’s from this brief description that led the author Margaret Starbird on a fanciful story of how this woman is actually Mary Magdalene. She imagined that this Mary was related to the legend of the Holy Grail, and this, then gets picked up by Dan Brown in his famous Da Vinci Code. It’s all great fun, but it’s of very little biblical or spiritual substance.
The version we hear today from the Gospel of John is a much fuller story and placed where it is for a reason. Here, Mary of Bethany anoints the feet of her friend and teacher, probably as a gesture of warmth and hospitality. But Jesus understands it and names it as anointing for death. He does this because he knows what’s ahead.
This story of Mary anointing Jesus helps set the stage for next Sunday and Holy Week. Judas’ criticism signals the betrayal of Judas in the Garden of Gethsemane. Mary’s anointing hints at the women who go to the tomb to anoint Jesus and discover the tomb is empty. The raising of Lazarus foreshadows the great movement from death to life. But this story also sets a pattern for friendship with Jesus the Christ, a pattern that is open and available to us.
In the Letter to the Philippians, St. Paul writes about how nothing in his life matters but his relationship with Christ. The fact that he’s a religious Jew doesn’t matter. That he’s educated doesn’t matter. That he’s a person of some standing, doesn’t matter. His friendships, his family, his experiences, his eloquence…. It all amounts to nothing, Paul says. The thing that matters is “that I may gain Christ and be found in him.” Paul says he wants to know the full power of the resurrection from the dead, and while he doesn’t yet know it, “I press on,” Paul says, because “Because Christ Jesus has made me his own.”
The physical body of Christ is not ours to anoint or hold or touch. And yet, Christ has told us where to find his body—not in a tomb, and not even in scripture. Jesus lives as our brother and sister, the expression of God’s Incarnation all around us. In trying to explain the Kingdom of God, Jesus talks about the opportunity to meet him in those who are hurting and in those who are in need. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me” (Mt. 25:35-36). Those listening ask him when that happened—when did he come in those ways and when would they have met him? And Jesus replies, “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me” (Mt. 25:45).
Whenever we notice the poor, the imprisoned, the hungry, the lonely, we stand a good chance of seeing Christ. When we anoint them, we anoint him. In the famous story of St. Francis’s conversion, it’s this Risen Christ that St. Francis meets in the leper. It’s the same Risen Christ we meet from time to time on the street, in our family, at work, when we least expect him.
Christ is met in the stranger and the suffering, but we also encounter the Body of Christ at the altar. In Holy Communion, we become one with him and with one another. In the sharing of a meal, we become a family. In the eating and drinking, we take into ourselves the Body and Blood of Christ. As I prepare the elements at every Eucharist, when I add a little water to the wine, I pray the traditional prayer, “By the mystery of this water and wine may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity.” That’s what happens in Holy Communion. Christ’s divinity and our humanity co-mingle and become one, so that, with Paul, we “may gain Christ and be found in him.”
We gain Christ, we find him and are found in him in the Eucharist, but also, that unmistakably sensual-spiritual quality to Mary’s anointing of Jesus points to a kind of relationship we can have with Jesus Christ that is even beyond the physical and beyond the sacramental.
Christ also lives mystically and spiritually, as all the saints and mystics attest. But he doesn’t just show up, one day. He doesn’t barge his way in. This kind of relationship happens over time, through persistence, and patience, and penance, and prayer. It happens through silence and yearning, through our longing to reach God with the same kind of passion as Mary who reached out to touch and anoint her friend. Jesus wants to be our friend.
We not understand Jesus exactly as our soccer coach or the one who holds our briefcase for an important meeting, but a “personal Jesus” is a part of our faith. The 20th century English theologian Austin Farrer once said, “One of the silliest of all discussions is the question whether God is personal [or not.] … it would be more useful to inquire whether ice is frozen.” In other words, God is personal by definition, in God’s very being. Through the Incarnation, God comes to us in personal, present ways. And one of those ways is as a friend.
A friendship takes time to develop, it involves talking and listening. We can be ourselves with a friend—no pretenses, just comfort. A friend can challenge us and change us. A friend’s presence can give us all that we need sometimes to get through the day, sometimes to get through the hour. Jesus can be this kind of friend. I don’t mean the kind of self-serving Jesus-Friend who is a copilot in driving and steers us through green lights and finds the perfect parking space. That’s a silly piety that doesn’t stand up to much challenge. But Jesus our Friend is more like the one who stretches out his hand when we’re about to lose our footing. Jesus our Friend shows up when no one else is available. Jesus our Friend stands between us and danger, sin, and death itself.
In just a few days from now, on Good Friday, the Church will offer a prayer that is among our very most beautiful and powerful. It speaks to the strength and the passion of the friendship of Christ. In these final days of Lent, may we be led forward by all our senses to pray that … “Our Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, would set his passion, cross, and death between all judgment and our souls, now and in the hour of our death. That God would give mercy and grace to the living; pardon and rest to the dead; to the Church peace and concord; and to us sinners everlasting life and glory.”
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Each Friday night in Lent, a handful of us gather to walk and pray the Way of the Cross. We walk from station to station, hearing the scripture, praying the prayers, and singing the ancient Stabat Mater hymn. The service is one of my favorites, and one reason is because even as it invites us to see the church different angles and perspectives, we’re also beginning to understand our faith from slightly different perspectives and points of view.
I think of the various points of view offered by Stations of the Cross as I heard the Parable of the Prodigal Son, in today’s Gospel. The beauty of this story-form called a parable is that unlike an allegory, a parable has several points and can change according to one’s point of view. The same story can change in meaning over one’s life, which is the fun of reading scripture over and over again.
The story is a welcome one for those who relate to the prodigal—St. Augustine related to him, having spent some of his early years running, living beyond his means, using people to rise socially, fathering a child out of marriage, joining an heretical sect. But Augustine came home, and he came to know the welcome of his mother Helena, who had been praying for him, and he came to know the welcome of his spiritual father, Ambrose. He spent the rest of his life coming to know the heavenly father—who is the combination of all that is maternal and paternal, the one who seeks us out and finds us. Augustine writes, “The prodigal son was sought out and raised up by the One who gives life to all things. And by whom was he found if not by the One who came to save and seek out what was lost?”
One could also pretty easily step into this story and understand something of the older brother. Some of us might relate to the older brother who has stayed at home and done his work—and yet gets no feast from the father. But I wonder if there’s not more than resentment in the older brother—but perhaps also, isn’t there just a little bit of envy? Notice that he assumes the younger brother has spent time with prostitutes, though there’s no other mention of that little detail in the story. Charles Wesley, the great hymn writer, once thanked God that in his youth he had escaped the more “grievous sins” and that he had not been one of the “young corruptors,” as he put it. But, he said, the reason he didn’t sin more was because of a kind of “sacred cowardice.” It was not his goodness that had kept him from sin, but the only the fear of the consequences. (Do we ever stop to wonder what trouble we might get into if there truly were no risk of getting caught?)
Today’s Gospel presents us with characters we can understand. There is the younger child who runs away, who becomes lost, and who loses himself. But then he is found, and in the finding he finds himself. He comes to himself.
There is the older child who watches all of this and doesn’t understand, who simply grows angrier and angrier and angrier, until at last the rage breaks.
But there is also the father who forgives. Jesus tells the story, “While [the younger son] was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.” And then it’s party time. “Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”
Laetare! Rejoice. As the Church sings out today, “Rejoice in gladness, after having been in sorrow, exult and be replenished.”
Henri Nouwen wrote a great little book, entitled The Return of the Prodigal Son. It’s a reflection upon the great painting of the story by Rembrandt, and also a reflection of Nouwen’s own changing experience of the painting and this story in the Gospel.
As much as he loved the painting, there was a problem in the story for Nouwen. As one who returns to God like the younger child in the parable, Nouwen was familiar with the judgment and authority and majesty of God. But he did not know where to begin when it comes to experiencing the love and mercy of God. As he puts it, “I know that I share this experience with countless others. I have seen how the fear of becoming subject to God’s revenge and punishment has paralyzed the mental and emotional lives of many people. The paralyzing fear of God is one of the great human tragedies.”
But God is beyond our experience of a human parent—even the very best mother or father we can imagine. This is a God who, like the parent in the Gospel story, shows vulnerability in being willing to forgive.
Nouwen believed that Jesus tells the parable of the lost child who is found not so we can related to the prodigal, not so we can relate to the older child, but so that we can relate to the parent; the parent who forgives.
The life of faith is a growth into spiritual adulthood. It is the business of children, after all, to grow up. Saint Paul writes, “We are children of God. And if we are children, then we are heirs, heirs of God and join heirs with Christ, provided that we share his sufferings, so as to share his glory.” (Romans 8:17) The life of faith helps us grow to be more forgiving; to show mercy.
What would the Christian church look like if it were filled with spiritual adults? The spiritual adult does not blame the problems of the church of a bishop or a few bishops, but takes responsibility for being the body of Christ. The spiritual adult in a parish does not always sit back and wait for the clergy or vestry or unnamed and unknown volunteers to do everything, but takes responsibility. And just imagine the power of a church that is filled with spiritual adults who offer forgiveness and welcome. I can’t help but wonder if one reason so few young people are in church these days has to do with the fact that so few of the adults have ever really grown up themselves. If a church offers no wisdom, no maturity, no leadership, then why should a young person bother?
Jesus told this parable to the religious leaders of his day, the Pharisees and scribes who were murmuring about the sinners who Jesus was spending all his time with. In telling them this story, he was encouraging them to grow up; to grow into more merciful, forgiving people.
In announcing a Jubilee Year of Mercy, Pope Francis reminded the faithful, “Do not forget that God forgives all, and God forgives always.” May the grace of God work on our hearts to help us to grow up in our faith. May we be brought to the place where we can offer forgiveness without reservation, generosity without question, and where the homecoming feast at the altar may be never ending.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
