Easter 3(C): How Will We Respond?

Easter 3(C): How Will We Respond?

John 21:1-19

By: Casey Cross

In the history of my serving as a youth, children, and family minister, there is one thing I really love to do. I get to talk to children and their parents about communion. We do not offer a series of classes leading up to one’s First Communion where kids are dropped off on a weekly basis until they can answer a series of questions in just the right way. The First Communion part of it isn’t the focus. Instead, we offer communion instruction for children or youth and at least one parent or guardian from the household. I always make a point to tell families, especially families with younger children, that they can revisit this instruction again and again. We can never spend too much time learning the Bible stories and wondering over the mystery of God’s presence in this simple act. In fact, I’d argue that Holy Communion is the epitome of our life together. It is where we experience the mystery of our faith in the most mundane of human acts, eating and drinking with friends and strangers, not even 100% sure of why we are there, but saying yes to the invitation anyway.

One of the first things I do in my communion instruction is ask families to talk about their favorite foods and special meals. A party isn’t a party without good food, good drink, and good friends. Balloons and piñatas are just that extra bit of flair. Of course, some kids might argue with me on that point. What I notice in this conversation is that everybody smiles. That simple question brings them somewhere else, links them to that favorite food or moment, and sparks a smile. I don’t think they even realize the way their eyes are shining or how the smile curls at their lips. It is a beautiful sight to see.

All I could think about when reading this passage from John was how much Jesus understood the centrality of food to our personal and communal connection and wellbeing. Food matters. It is not always the type or amount that makes a difference, but the manner in which it is shared.

It must have been a confusing and difficult time for Jesus’ disciples. I am sure, even after Jesus first appeared to them and did all of these miraculous things, they must have been left wondering, “Now what?” So I totally get that Peter had to get busy doing something as a way of sorting through all of his thoughts and feelings. I know quite a few people who like to go fishing for this very same reason. And in their “Now what?” numbness, the others followed him to the boat. They didn’t catch anything, but maybe that wasn’t their main purpose for being there. Maybe they weren’t even trying that hard. So when some dude from the beach tells them to try the other side, of course they would. Their hearts weren’t in it anyway. But this is what shakes them awake. THAT’S A LOT OF FISH! And, “Did that guy just call us children?” Then they see. This is their Lord. He is still with them. Again, Peter jumps into action and jumps into the water. They get to the shore and they are invited to sit around the campfire for breakfast, time together, communion. With the sharing of the bread, they had no doubt this was the Lord.

Jesus and Peter have a moment. In this moment, their entire life together comes into focus, the whole point of it all. “Do you love me?” How many of us have put ourselves in Peter’s place, thinking, “Of course! Of course I love you!” It is so easy to think, so easy to say. But Jesus pushes and continues to ask, “Do you love me?” Peter is hurt, thinking Jesus doesn’t believe him or hear him. Peter is focused on his personal love for Jesus. But Jesus is meeting Peter at the limits of his understanding and pushing, broadening his vision of what this love means. Where does our love for Jesus take us? Not to a building once a week for prayers and songs, but to each other.

Here is the resurrected Jesus’ call to all of us, with words, yes, but most especially modeled in his interactions with others. “Feed my lambs.” Feed my children. I do not think this is simply a metaphorical statement. Those who suffer the most from hunger are the children of our world. I think Jesus wants us to wake up and see the simple, most obvious meaning in this first call and response. Do we love Jesus? Then feed one another, make sure no one is hungry, especially our children.

In the second call and response, Jesus asks again if Peter loves him. Peter says again, “Yes Lord, you know that I love you.” And here Jesus takes the next step of pushing him further. “Tend my sheep.” Pay attention to and look after one another. Serve one another. Care for one another. This love is not about you, it is about the manner in which it is shared.

A third time Jesus asks of Peter’s love. He responds to Peter’s hurt and frustration with, “Feed my sheep,” but also some more instruction. When we let our love for Jesus lead our lives, we are led to people and places we would have never imagined for ourselves. We connect with people we would have never otherwise chosen to connect with. We are pushed beyond our comfort zone, even to the point of facing death.

Jesus concludes with a final call, “Follow me.” We do not hear Peter’s reply. We do not hear any more about this breakfast on the beach. We are left with the call. We are left to respond, not with our words, but with our very lives. Will we?

There is power in the meals we share. Certain foods connect us to not only special times, but special people. I was recently introduced to a resource that is committed to connecting grieving people through the power of food called, The Dinner Party (https://www.thedinnerparty.org/). Their tag line is, “We know what it’s like to lose someone and we aren’t afraid to talk about it.” The premise is simple. After signing up, you meet for dinner and bring something that reminds you of the person you lost. Simple, but not so simple because this food is so much more than food. When we meet for communion, we are doing the same thing. In communion, we meet Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. We join the body of Christ that transcends time, connecting us with the past, the now, and the not yet. In communion, the stories we’ve read in the Bible since we were children become real stuff for us to chew on and embody in the world. This is what happened in every one of those resurrection stories, where Jesus is made obvious, real, and living among his followers with the breaking of the bread. When we gather for communion, we gather with the disciples on the beach, around a fire. We are sitting with Peter, hearing the call of love for Jesus and being left to respond with our lives to follow him.

 

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Casey Cross

Casey Cross is serves as the Young Disciples Director at Hope Lutheran Church in Eagle, Idaho. Check out some of her other writing at http://caseykcross.wordpress.com.

Easter 2(C): Sucking Wind

**EDITOR’S NOTE: This essay was originally published for Easter 2 in 2017**

Easter 2(C): Sucking Wind

John 20:19-31

By: The Rev. Kim Jenne

Sucking Wind

My Grandpa Charlie spent the last of his life suffering from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. COPD makes it hard to breathe because air flowing in and out of your airways is restricted, so you are progressively, and sometimes, aggressively relying on less and less oxygen. Grandpa would joke that he was “sucking wind” because it seemed his mouth would blow away more oxygen than it took in. As you might imagine, with COPD comes anxiety. The anxiety is contagious. Watching him wheeze and suck desperately at the air around him was painful and angst-ridden for my whole family. In his last months, nothing gave me more pleasure than sitting at his bedside during and after a breathing treatment. The gift of breath—the opening of the airways in his lungs—relaxed his oft-tensed face and his body. And then the Grandpa I knew and loved would reappear with a smile and a wink.

Anyone who has ever had the wind knocked out of them or experienced a panic attack knows that breath is one biological commodity that you only notice when it’s gone. That first wonderful gasp of air inflating your lungs after falling flat on your back off the swing set is like being reborn. The world looks different.

I think this might have been the case for the followers of Jesus when he summoned and gifted the Holy Spirit by his breath that evening on the first day. I imagine his appearance within the locked room sucked what little breath was left in it. And with a simple greeting of peace and the gift of breath, he gives them new life (cf. Gen. 2:7) invoking a new world whereby the relationship between God and humanity had forever changed. The world looked different.

Becoming God-Begotten (Reception of the Holy Spirit)

This passage in John witnesses Jesus widening his circle of post-resurrection believers. There is much to unpack in John’s second post-resurrection story. And yet, the practical preacher may find it best to focus on one of the three areas of this passage and allow the mystery of Easter to continue to resound. In particular, vv. 19-23 offers the hearer ample depth to plumb in reflection on the new relationship established through Christ’s resurrection and the connection between Jesus’ greeting of “peace be with you” and reconciliation through forgiveness. This passage, in particular, provides an opportunity for a congregation to wrestle with the purpose of the cross and what it says about the character of God.

As the sun begins to set on that first day, Jesus isn’t finished up-ending the world. This is the second post-resurrection appearance in John. Mary encountered her living “Rabbouni” (Teacher) in the place of her dead Lord early that morning and has sought out the disciples to share the Good News. When we next hear from the disciples, they are hiding out in a locked house.

Are the disciples are huddled in the dark because of what they heard Peter say about the empty tomb or are they wincing with anticipation of their own persecution foretold by their leader (Jn. 15.18-27)? It may be helpful to unpack for a Sunday morning crowd that the depiction of the disciples locked away “for fear of the Jews,” is closely connected to the growing tension and conflict between the synagogue and the Christian community at the end of the first century rather than the contemporary political climate immediately following the Roman execution of Jesus. The author, therefore, is writing into the Gospel narrative their own experience of persecution and marginalization within the Jewish community.

Despite this contextualization, the Gospel’s author offers a critical teaching in the way the Christ works in our life in this post-resurrection world. Forgiveness is a relational thing. We have to be in relationship in order to give and receive forgiveness. Jesus’ appearances to his disciples are bodily affairs: they cling to one another (v. 17), they are close enough to feel one another’s breath (v. 22), they reach for each other and poke one another’s flesh (v. 27). With the in-breaking of God into humanity through the personhood of Jesus, the Godhead is proclaiming a new, personal way of relationship for the believer. No longer are priestly sacrifices or bureaucratic and showy displays of religiosity required. Righteousness is far more basic and yet deeply intimate than that—relationship simply requires our reception of the breath that Christ offers us. That reception of the Holy Spirit can happen anywhere. In our grief. In our fear. In our locked rooms. Christ meets us in our fear and isolation, even when we are huddled together under the cover of darkness scared out of our wits, to empower us for the work of sharing that peace with others.

Christ is our Peace. The Church as Peace-Offeror

The reception of the Holy Spirit brings with it peace. Jesus, through his death and resurrection, is fully united with the Godhead. His greeting of “peace be with you”—offered three times in this chapter—represents the peace that resides in the Godhead and in relationship within each member of the Trinity. He reappears in the lives of his followers to bring them that peace. As the Alternative Service Book declares: “He has reconciled us to God in one body by the cross. We meet in his name and share his peace.”[1]

Like fresh air filling up one’s lung, with the reception of the Holy Spirit, Christ grants the gift of new life that is meant to be shared through forgiveness and reconciliation. As John Wesley would say, the “fruit of this living faith is peace.”[2]

The Gospel offers the Church a chance to renew one of its critical marching orders. In this visit, Jesus teaches the early movement one of its key responsibilities: the power to offer forgiveness, peace, and the Holy Spirit to others. In a world filled with conflict, tension, fear, and pain, what witness does the Christian community and the individual disciple provide? Do we offer the Holy Spirit and gift of new life, or do we horde the gift of liberation for the precious few, particularly the ones we agree with, who look like us, pray like us, spend like us, vote like us?

Life requires breath. Being a follower in the way of Christ means to be receptive to the breath of the Spirit in the life of the community and in its followers. Because the Spirit is inherently relational, one cannot receive the Spirit without sharing that gift with others. The Spirit will always pull the believer toward community, toward relationship, toward the other. That is the Holy Spirit’s desire. It is who the Christ is. On the second Sunday of Easter, the community continues the feast of celebration by readying itself to receive the Holy Spirit.

In common parlance, sucking wind usually refers to people who are breathing heavily, usually while performing some activity, and because they are out of shape. My Grandpa understood that his way of labored breathing was the result of failing systems in his body. The Church might ask itself if it is sucking wind or if, like Jesus, it offers the Holy Spirit’s gift of peace and reconciliation, forgiveness and liberation from sin and oppression readily.

 

[1] Alternative Service Book (1980), 128.

[2] John Wesley, “The Marks of New Birth” (Sermon 18).

 

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The Rev. Kim Jenne

The Rev. Kim Jenne (@kimkjenne) is the Director of Connectional Ministries for the Missouri Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church. The Office of Connectional Ministries is responsible for Annual Conference, Boundaries, Communications, Discipleship Ministries, Safe Sanctuaries, Lay Servant Ministries, and Leadership Development through the Nominations Committee. Before her current appointment, Kim served as senior pastor of Webster Hills United Methodist Church in St. Louis. She is a die-hard St. Louis Cardinals fan, loves NASA and is sorely disappointed we aren’t already living on Mars. She considers herself an inconsistent but persistent disciple of Jesus Christ.

Easter Vigil (C): The Mysterious Night

Easter Vigil (C): The Mysterious Night

John 20:1-18

By: The Rev. Dr. Hannah Adams Ingram

The challenge of preaching during Holy Week and on Easter is that once again, only a year after we’ve told this story, it’s time to tell this story again.

Don’t get me wrong: as far as stories go, it’s a good one. It’s actually the main one for Christians. Christ died, buried, and risen again.

But when you’re a preacher tasked with inviting people into the story year after year anew, almost as if they’ve never heard it before, it’s easy to be intimidated.

It’s in these moments that having multiple versions of the story comes in handy. The lectionary rotates the stories around each year, changing up when we read one passage for Easter Vigil and when we read a different passage for Easter Day. We keep it rotating, and though the changes may seem small, they always provide us with particular lenses through which we can tell the new, old story.

This time around, the Johannine version of the story is reserved for Easter Vigil, which is delightful since the passage begins, “while it was still dark.” Because there is an aura of mystery in the night, there is rich imagery to explore in the mystery of the night, the mystery of the Easter story, and the mystery of faith in the resurrection.

There is mystery in the night simply because we cannot see as clearly in the dark as we can see when the sun is out. This sense of mystery and healthy fear would be embedded in us as animals from generations, dating way before we had electricity and ways to light up entire rooms efficiently. We honor this mystery in a couple different evening services in the life of the church: Easter Vigil and Christmas Eve are two most common, and both of those are connected to the mysterious incarnation of Christ.

There is mystery embedded in the story. Mary Magdalene arrives to the tomb first, and she is shocked and confused to find the stone rolled away. She thinks the body has been stolen, which is a sentiment that seems mysterious to current readers of the text. There is a mystery about who she goes to—Simon Peter and “the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved.” And they do not know more than she does, in fact, the story tells us that they did not understand the scripture.

It is only when Mary Magdalene speaks with the angels and Jesus in the tomb that she realizes that Jesus is not dead, but alive. At first Mary Magdalene did not recognize him—though it is unclear whether that’s because she was so upset and unexpectant or because his post-resurrection self was hard to recognize. Either way, there is mystery surrounding the whole encounter, from the presence of angels to the recognition of Jesus.

Just as Mary Magdalene could not figure out where they took her Lord and just as the disciples “did not understand the scripture,” so it might be with the people of God gathered for Easter Vigil. People come to our churches on Easter for a variety of reasons: tradition, obligation, devotion, or any mix of the three. There are many who will be with us for Easter Vigil and Easter Day that are not sure how to make sense of the Easter story. It is full of mystery, not just for the followers of Jesus who found an empty tomb, but for those of us who read the story today.

Perhaps it is of great comfort for those who have a harder time making sense of the Easter story and the resurrection to hear that they are not alone in the mystery. Just as making one’s way through the dark is scarier alone than with other people, feeling like the only one in the room who can’t make sense of the mysteries of faith is scarier than knowing that there is room in the church for uncertainty. There was room for Mary Magdalene, there was room for Simon Peter and “the other one,” and there is room for all who are ready to embrace the mystery of our Christian faith.

And if we’re lucky, when we embrace the mystery of our Christian faith in the darkened setting of Easter Vigil, we can say that “We have seen the Lord.”

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The Rev. Dr. Hannah Adams Ingram

The Rev. Dr. Hannah Adams Ingram serves as the Director of Religious Life and Chaplain of Franklin College in Franklin, Indiana. She grew up in non-denominational evangelical land and is now an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. She earned a BA from Anderson University, a Master of Theological Studies at Emory University’s Candler School of Theology, and a PhD in Religion and Psychological Studies from the University of Denver and Iliff School of Theology. Her areas of interest include education, practical theology, and escaping overthinking by baking, crafting, and watching TV.

Maundy Thursday (C): A Daring Love

Maundy Thursday (C): A Daring Love

John 13:1-17; 31b-35

By: The Rev. Andrew Hege

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.”

John’s Gospel text, appointed for this evening in Holy Week, invites us into the dining room of a home somewhere in the city of Jerusalem. It is not a familiar setting, for us or for Jesus and congregation his friends sitting around the table. From the other Gospel writers, we know that this is a borrowed table in the home of an unnamed resident.

The night that brings them around that table is the night that is different from every other night—the night that, for first-century Jews, the night of remembering the story we will also read from the Exodus. This night is a moment to pause and to recall with thanksgiving the great faithfulness of God who acted in mercy toward the people of Israel, bound for generations in slavery in the land of Egypt. It is a night to remember an identity.

And yet, all over again, this night is about to become different from every other night. Even as the twelve are around the table, Jesus is setting in motion a new remembrance; a new act of God’s mercy.

The sacred ritual that will mark this new, old remembrance is an act of humility; a chore reserved not for the leader of the movement but for the servant of the household. By removing his outer robe and wrapping the towel around his waist, the night became new and different all over again.

As the simple sound of pouring water strikes the bottom of the basin, one can almost sense the tension that must be present in the room.

What is he doing? Has he forgotten?

No, in fact, he is remembering who he truly is, as he attentively washes and tenderly dries the first pair of feet, then the next, and the next.

Simon Peter, for those in the room and, truly, for all of us, names the tension. To Jesus he wonders aloud, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus, in reply, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

And, in response, “You will never wash my feet.” Just like that, so many of us find, in this old Gospel lesson, a person with whom we can relate. Not me. Not my feet, Lord.

You will never wash my feet that haven’t had time to receive a pedicure.

You will never wash my feet that have walked around in these shoes all day long.

You will never wash my feet that went to the gym during the lunch hour.

Lord, you will never wash my feet.

To this, Jesus issues the most difficult of his responses: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Tough words, for the disciples around the table and for us who hear this text some two millennia later.

Their Lord and Teacher reminds them of his place among them; an example that they have seen and should go forth to imitate themselves—servants are not greater than their masters and messengers are not greater than their senders. But the teaching, the message, he tells them, is in this mandatum, this new commandment:

That you love one another.

Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.

All that Jesus has showed them, all that he has taught them, all that he has sought to share with them in their journey has been summed up in this single and simple way: Love one another.

It is a daring love.

But let’s be honest about what the disciples either did not or could not say in that sweet, solemn moment: Loving one another like this sounds well and good; but when put into practice, it is not as simple as Jesus makes it sound.

Love one another.

Love one another and bear each other’s burdens.

Love one another and feel one another’s pains.

Love one another and allow the possibility of being hurt.

Love one another and open yourself to being understood in your depths.

Love one another and make amends where you have wronged the other.

Love one another and put your arm around the one who cries, who hungers.

Love one another and be willing to love even to the point of washing one another’s feet, as Jesus has knelt to wash those of his closest friends, his tender hands touching their dusty, calloused feet.

It is daring because this kind of love bids the invitation to open up to be seen for who one really is; to experience the type of intimacy that everything around warns us to guard ourselves from; to be vulnerable enough to look into another person’s eyes as they wash with water the calloused skin of a bare foot.

Love such as this is not easy because it is the type of genuine love that does not come cheaply.  This love comes at a cost; at a great expense. But in and through and by such love, “everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Do we dare love so deeply?

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The Rev. Andrew Hege

The Rev. Andrew J. Hege serves as the Assistant to the Rector at The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Lexington, Kentucky. Born and raised in Thomasville, North Carolina, he is a graduate of Montreat College, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and Virginia Theological Seminary. Andrew is an ardent golfer, occasional runner, and an avid reader of historical fiction. Ordained a priest in January 2015, Andrew is married to Amanda Schroeder Hege.

 

 

 

 

 

Palm Sunday: No Hope Here

Palm Sunday: No Hope Here

Luke 23:1-49

By: Kristen Leigh Mitchell

If you’re looking for ways to spin the narrative of Jesus’ crucifixion and death as the story of salvation, read no further, because that’s not what I’m going to offer here. In fact, I’d like to suggest that the crucifixion itself is not a story of hope and salvation, that it was never meant to be, and that trying to pretend like it is will always do more damage than good, leading us inevitably into moral and theological error.

And yes, I do still consider myself a theologically orthodox Christian.

A great deal has been written over the past century on the subject of atonement theology, and far more qualified theologians than I have already done the work of deconstructing the heresies associated with the idea of “substitutionary atonement” –the idea that Jesus “had to die” on the cross in order to pay the price for human sin by satisfying God’s wrath against all humanity for disobeying him in the Garden of Eden. It’s unnecessary for me to repeat all the criticisms of this theology here, but I highly commend Elizabeth Johnson’s excellent new book Creation and the Cross, along with Brock & Parker’s lengthy but thorough historical analysis in Saving Paradise.

 Suffice to say, while many people in the U.S.—Christians and non-Christians alike –still believe substitutionary atonement to be a core tenet of the Christian faith, most people with even the slightest bit of theological education or awareness of Western history know that the idea was not part of the Christian faith until Anselm of Canterbury proposed the doctrine in the 11th century, which was right around the same time that we find the earliest images of the crucifixion showing up in Christian art.

In other words, for the first 1,000 years of Christianity, there were no images of Jesus dying on the cross, and no references to Jesus’ death or the crucifixion event itself as being constitutive of salvation. Apparently, crucifixion is not necessarily the core of Christian faith.

Many mainline clergy and theologians have long since rejected Anselm’s child-like notions of the need to appease the abusive wrath of a parental deity with a blood sacrifice. But most still attempt to re-frame the crucifixion in “positive” terms, spiritualizing it as a metaphor for “kenosis,” self-sacrifice, or non-violent resistance. They attempt to reject Anselm’s doctrine while still retaining a framework that places Jesus’ death at the center of the faith. And yet, we still end up with a theology that is built around—and dependent upon—violence. This is a theology that teaches that the ends can justify the means—a theology which can only perpetuate and enable cycles of abuse and oppression by glorifying suffering and victimhood in such a way that encourages people to stay in abusive and oppressive relationships.

While Christians of the first millennium seemed to reframe everything in the context of life—incarnation, resurrection, and the redemption of the world—the crucifixion-based theologies of the second millennium dealt only in death, shifting the focus to the next world while giving up on this one. At the end of the day, this is a theology of despair, and has accordingly encouraged and contributed to the despair and death of far too many women, people of color, LGBTQ people, and others who have found themselves defenseless on the wrong side of a power dynamic. Rather than experiencing God as one who calls us out of patterns of human violence and into new and redeemed life in Christ, many victims of violence believe that God is pleased by their suffering, demanding the erasure of selfhood for the sake of redeeming oppressors.

This is not the Gospel. It is nothing more than codependency writ large, and then reframed as a religion. This does not point the way to salvation. It is simply a defense mechanism that makes suffering more bearable by spiritualizing it and reframing it as altruistic.

I am convinced that no matter how you spin it, there is no way to frame the crucifixion narrative as positive or necessary without falling into this morally and theologically debased trap. I am also convinced that we do not need to frame the crucifixion as positive or necessary in order to be grounded in the Gospel Truth.

The story of the incarnation constitutes our hope and salvation. The story of the resurrection constitutes our hope and salvation. But the story of the crucifixion is a tragedy nothing more. It is the tragic story of a pattern that plays out in our world every single day, over and over again—in workplaces, in courtrooms, in classrooms, in churches, in living rooms, in bedrooms –a pattern in which the people most responsible for harm are the ones most shielded from having to take responsibility for it. A pattern in which oppressors look like victims, and innocents are framed as villains. A pattern in which those with power can wash their hands of blame, while the masses find easy scapegoats that can satisfy the desire for “justice” in ways that avoid addressing underlying power dynamics and allow us to return to the safety of the status quo. It is a pattern in which victims are left with no recourse but to accept whatever blame is foisted upon them, knowing that if they try to defend themselves, they will only invite more blame, and more suffering.

This is what makes the story of the crucifixion matter. And this is why it is important to tell it in all its vivid, excruciating detail. Not because it is a story that constitutes our redemption, but because it provides us with the recognizable context that makes resurrection matter. This is the hell that we are saved from – a hell that the poor and the oppressed know well, and will immediately recognize. It is a hell that must be named, because so many people are in the midst of it right now. We see crucifixion in abusive relationships. We see crucifixion in the structural racism that is built into our criminal justice system. We see crucifixion in the religiously-motivated dehumanization of LGBTQ people. We see crucifixion in bizarre stories like the one recently reported by the NY Times in which an innocent kid with codependency issues became the scapegoat for the tragic death of his friends, while the landlords and the city officials responsible for ensuring the building’s safety washed their hands of it.

The crucifixion is a story that needs to be told so that the people who find themselves living in this hell can understand that even though this is what happens, this is not God’s will, and they are not alone, and no matter what happens or how they are made to suffer, this is not the end. The crucifixion only has meaning through the lens of resurrection, and that this is the only way in which we can frame it through a lens of hope.

On Palm Sunday (and Good Friday) we must resist the urge to skip ahead to Easter by giving the crucifixion narrative a happy spin, or trying to frame it within a theology where violence is part of God’s plan, and realize that we tell the story of crucifixion so that we can name the truth about who we are as human beings, and the kinds of insanity that we are saved from, through a faith that would never call us into this kind of death, but always calls us into new life beyond death.

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Kristen Leigh Mitchell

Kristen Leigh Mitchell, M.Div. is a freelance writer, theologian, and indie-folk singer-songwriter based in Asheboro, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband, the Rev. Joe Mitchell, and their dog Casey. Kristen graduated from Union Theological Seminary in New York City in 2014, where she focused on theology and the arts. Kristen leads classes, retreats, and workshops, and regularly performs music at venues across central North Carolina.

 

 

Easter Sunday (C): The “Crazy” Mysticism of Easter

Easter Sunday (C): The “Crazy” Mysticism of Easter

Luke 24:1–12

By: The Rev. Dr. Daniel London

 

The word that resonates most deeply with me in Luke 24:1–12 is the word which the NRSV translates as “idle talk.” In the original Greek, the word is layros, which means “nonsense” or “folly” or “crazy talk.” The idea of male apostles dismissing the women and their testimony as “crazy” reminds me of the Nike commercial in which Serena Williams exposes the sexism within professional sports that derides female athletes as “crazy” for demonstrating human emotion and ambition. In the ad, Serena makes clear that the women who have initially been dismissed as crazy ultimately prove themselves to be truly courageous and awe-inspiring. Similarly, the women in Luke 24 inspire amazement in the one person who chose to take them seriously. Personally, I have had my fair share of skepticism in response to people’s mystical experiences of the Risen Christ. However, whenever I choose to remain open and look more deeply into such testimonies, I often become amazed and even transformed by that which I initially dismissed.

I teach a class on English Spirituality and Mysticism in which we study medieval English mystics such as Julian of Norwich, the anonymous author of the Cloud of Unknowing, Walter Hilton, and Richard Rolle, who each describe mystical encounters with the Risen Christ in their own unique way. Perhaps the most eccentric of them all is Margery Kempe, who was derided by many in her lifetime and who remains unsettling to readers today. In The Book of Margery Kempe, which is the earliest extant autobiography written in English, Margery describes her experiences with the Risen Christ and the colorful ways in which she expressed her devotion in the 15th century.[i] She would weep, howl, shriek, moan, and roar excessively in the middle of worship services and homilies. She would wear white clothing, a sign of virginity, even though she had fourteen children. On her many pilgrimages to the Holy Land, Spain, Rome, Germany, and beyond, she would zealously tell others about her devout piety, whether they wanted to hear or not. Many of her contemporaries discredited her as hysterical or heretical or simply rejected her words as “idle talk” (layros). In fact, some scholars today question the veracity of her account altogether, arguing that her Book is really a fiction.[ii]

I see Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary, and the other women of Luke 24 as the spiritual mothers of female Christian mystics like Margery Kempe who have been dismissed as crazy but who inspire astonishment in those who choose to take them seriously. These women were the first people to encounter the Risen Christ, the apostles to the apostles, and, like many of their spiritual descendants, their words were considered nonsense according to the men in authority at the time. God chose these women as the first people to witness the resurrection of Christ, perhaps because God knew that they alone would have the courage and strength to be true and faithful to their own experience. Even when their words were discarded by the apostles, they did not seem to waver at all or question their experience of the angels and the empty tomb. They seemed to persist in their message in spite of the apostle’s doubts, thus proving that their faith was, in many ways, superior. Like Peter, who decided to look more deeply into these women’s testimony, I have personally been amazed by the Christian female mystics whose experiences of the Risen Christ have enriched and informed my own. When I probe more deeply into the testimony of Margery Kempe, I become encouraged and amazed by the compassion of the Risen Christ as manifested in her life.

I am moved when I learn that Margery’s copious tears were shed for all people, especially those who were suffering and those whom the church had considered damned. Like Julian of Norwich, Margery’s hopes bended towards universal salvation. I am encouraged by Margery’s experience of Christ’s presence in her day-to-day life, in her travels, trials, and tears. She heard Jesus say to her, “When you go to church, I go with you; when you sit at your meal, I sit with you; when you go to bed, I go with you; and when you go out of town, I go with you.”[iii] Towards the end of her life, Margery experienced Christ’s presence most powerfully in menial and mundane tasks and especially in caring for the sick and needy, including her severely injured and disabled husband. Because she lost one of her sons to a fatal sickness, she felt a deep kinship to Jesus’s mother Mary. In one of her visions, she comforts Mary after Christ’s death by serving her a “good hot drink of gruel and spiced wine.”[iv] In this same vision, she visits with Mary Magdalene, with whom she also felt a kinship, as the Risen Christ appeared to them both. Perhaps the greatest gift I discover in reading Margery’s Book is the invitation to encounter the Risen Christ in my own day-to-day life, in my own travels, trials, and tears. This gift helps me realize that the invitation of Easter is, after all, an invitation to mystical experience with the Risen Christ.

Sometimes the term “mystical” can turn people off because it sounds too obscure and esoteric and a bit like “crazy talk” (layros). However, Jesuit theologian Karl Rahner insisted, “The Christian of the future will either be a ‘mystic’ or will cease to be anything at all.”[v] According to Rahner, the future of Christianity depends on our willingness to take seriously the invitation of the Christian female mystics, which is the same invitation of Easter: to encounter the Risen Christ in our lives here and now, no matter how crazy that might seem. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary, Margery Kempe, and countless other female mystics urge us to let our imaginations be stirred and inspired by the resurrection. To those whose thinking is dominated by death, the resurrection-stirred imagination will seem like nonsense (1 Corinthians 1:18), but not to those who look deeply and peer curiously into the empty tomb. For those who refuse to dismiss the women’s testimony as layros, the Risen Christ is waiting to be discovered and experienced here and now in the “crazy” mysticism of Easter.

[i] The Book of Margery Kempe, trans. and ed. B. A. Windeatt (Harmondsworth: Penguin), 1985. A helpful introduction to Margery Kempe and the medieval English mystics is Joan M. Nuth, God’s Lovers in an Age of Anxiety: The Medieval English Mystics (London: Darton Longman & Todd, 2001), 121-140. Also recommended is Bernard McGinn, The Varieties of Vernacular Mysticism 1350 – 1550 (New York: Herder and Herder, 2012), 331-490.

[ii] Lynn Staley, Margery Kempe’s Dissenting Fictions (University Park PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994).

[iii] The Book of Margery Kempe 1:14, 66.

[iv] The Book of Margery Kempe 1:81, 236.

[v] Karl Rahner, Theological Investigations VII, trans. David Bourke (New York: Herder and Herder, 1971), 15.

Fr. Daniel at Christ Church
The Rev. Dr. Daniel London

The Rev. Dr. Daniel London is the Rector of Christ Episcopal Church in Eureka California. He earned his PhD in Christian Spirituality at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley California and teaches English Spirituality and Mysticism at the Center for Anglican Learning and Leadership (CALL). An abbreviated version of this course is available at ChurchNext. When he’s not reading the English Mystics, he is sauntering through the redwoods, playing acoustic guitar and ukulele, or listening to music from his modest vinyl record collection, with his wife Dr. Ashley London Bacchi.

 

 

Good Friday(C): A Long Look in the Mirror

Good Friday(C): A Long Look in the Mirror

John 18:1-19:42

By: The Rev. Lori Walke

Preacher Fred Craddock advised lectionary preachers to “distinguish between lengthy readings that are single narratives and those which consist of collected teachings. The key is to be sensitive to the integrity of the text – that is, its inner most unity, whether it is one verse or fifty.”[1]

So what is a preacher to do about the Gospel selection for Good Friday? The pericope is over 80 verses long! On one hand, it is easily broken down into smaller narratives. There’s Jesus’ arrest in the garden and then the questioning and trials (first in front of Caiaphas, then Pilate). We overhear Peter’s three denials of being a disciple. Jesus’ crucifixion, death, and burial could each be a specialized attention. It would be reasonable to give a nod to the entire reading, but then focus on just one of those scenes. There is enough material in each of them for a sermon.

But in the context of Good Friday, slicing-and-dicing the text into smaller chunks isn’t particularly effective. To hear all eighty verses is to walk the entire road with Jesus. We should sit with the gravity of it, if nothing more than to note that even just reading it elicits tension and grief, even anxiousness to get it over with. Sunday’s coming, right?! Some of us might also admit beginning to count all the opportunities there were to stop the madness or at least join Jesus in the fray. Take your pick of the people who interacted with Jesus in the passage: the disciples, Caiaphas, Pilate, Peter, or anyone in the crowd. Where was their compassion, and, for the disciples, where was their conviction? Even though we know how the story ends, there is something about reading the entire narrative that elicits frustration over the abandonment and suffering of Jesus, maybe even a little judgment.

Why didn’t Peter admit to being a follower of Jesus? Why didn’t Caiaphas use his position as high priest to apply divine wisdom to the situation? Why didn’t Pilate listen to his better angels? Why didn’t anyone in the crowd do some fact checking? All of which low-key implies that we might have responded differently. Most of us are too humble to admit it out loud, of course. Just as we are sure we would have been marching with Dr. King during the Civil Rights Movement, we are certain we would have been right there beside Jesus through it all. There is, of course, an easy way to find out what we would have done in their shoes: take a long look in the mirror.

If we wonder what we would have done in the garden, whether or not we would have been peacemakers in the face of violence, we might reflect on our current behavior. What we are doing now gives us the answer. Are we offering a theological response to war? What about gun violence in our own neighborhoods? How about peace between our own relatives?

If we wonder how we would have answered the question of loyalty posed three times to Peter, we should consider to what extent we are willing to be inconvenienced in order to follow Jesus. What we are doing now gives us the answer. We are usually happy to be generous, as long as it doesn’t impact whether or not we can afford another cable station. We are typically willing to help a stranger out with gas or a meal, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our morning Starbucks run.

If we wonder what we would have done during Jesus’ trial, we might evaluate our connections to our neighbors and neighborhood. What we are doing now gives us the answer. How much do we know about the single mom living across the street? Have we exchanged more than a superficial hello with the family next door? If they were in trouble, would we know enough to step in and offer help? We might be interested in what’s happening to them, but that’s different than being invested in them.

As we sit with such a heavy text, let us use it as a mirror. Whatever we might have done in the garden, at the trial, or at the foot of the cross, we are already doing. Or not.

[1] Fred Craddock, Luke (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1990) 91.

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The Rev. Lori Walke

The Rev. Lori Walke, J.D., is the associate minister of Mayflower Congregational UCC, a graduate of Oklahoma City University School of Law, Phillips Theological Seminary, Oklahoma State University, and is currently working on her Doctor of Ministry at Emory University. Raised by faithful Baptists, she found in a home in the United Church of Christ, where she is part of the Next Generation Leadership Initiative, a program focused on energizing and sustaining younger, emerging UCC local church pastors. She is married to Collin Walke, an attorney and State Representative for House District 87, and together the “Rev & the Rep” try to make as much trouble in the name of Jesus and justice as they can.