Sermon: Opening the eyes of our hearts to see Jesus (April 23, 2023)

Easter 3A
April 23, 2023
Luke 24:13-35

INTRODUCTION

Today’s readings are a nice follow-up to last week’s readings. First, our lesson from Acts is, in fact, the conclusion of Peter’s sermon of which we heard the beginning last week. Peter, it turns out, the guy who is too quick to speak and frequently puts his foot in his mouth (I really relate to Peter in this way!), is quite a persuasive orator. As a result of his powerful Pentecost sermon, 3000 people are baptized. Woosh! 

And our Gospel reading brings us back once again to Easter evening, several hours after the women have come to say Christ is risen (a story which the disciples dismissed as an “idle tale”). Remember last week, we heard John’s version of what happened that evening, that Jesus appeared to the fearful disciples in the locked upper room and breathed his Holy Spirit on them and gave them his peace. Luke tells a different story, about Jesus appearing to two disciples (not a part from the usual 12) as they walk the road to the nearby town of Emmaus. It’s a very different sort of appearance from what John tells, but it has some very wonderful details and things to hold onto. One of my favorites is that the disciples observe that their hearts “burned within them” as Jesus opened the scriptures to them. So, as you listen, notice where Christ is warming your heart this day. What stirs you? What is speaking to you in a way you need to hear? Let’s listen.

Road to Emmaus by He Qi

[READ]

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our risen Lord and savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Road to Emmaus is simultaneously one of the saddest and one of the funniest stories in the Bible. First, the sadness: obviously, that is the state of the disciples who are getting the heck out of dodge (aka Jerusalem) and heading to a place that isn’t here (aka Emmaus). We get that – we’ve all been in situations where we just can’t with this anymore, and we just have to escape to… somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t here. As they go, they are talking to each other, trying to make sense of the craziness that has just ensued: the worst possible news (that Jesus, who was supposed to redeem Israel, was crucified), followed by the best but completely unbelievable news (that he was risen from the dead). That was the story the women were telling, but it didn’t seem possible. In their confusion and grief, Jesus comes among them, but they don’t recognize him – perhaps they are blinded by their own grief. Luke tells us that they were “looking sad,” in case it wasn’t obvious enough before. And then, as they share what has been going on, they utter these sad words: “but we had hoped.” Preacher and author Barbara Brown Taylor comments that, “Hope in the past tense is one of the saddest sounds a human can make,” and I agree; indeed, most of my own saddest moments are a result of my hopes not coming about, of expectations unmet. And this particular hope was, for the people of Israel, a really big hope, with really high stakes, that did not seem to have come about. 

Yes, it is certainly a sad scene. 

        And yet, look at all the humor in it: 

Jesus, the very person they are talking about, shows up, and they don’t recognize him. I like to picture him in one of those masks with the glasses, mustache and big nose. He plays the fool: “Whatcha talking about?” They ignorantly ask Jesus if he is the only person in town who doesn’t know about… you know, himself. Rather than whipping off the funny glasses right then and saying, “Ta-da! Hey guys, it was me all along! Fooled ya!” Jesus continues in the game. “What things?” he innocently asks – knowing all
along that ironically, they are the only ones there who don’t know what’s going on here! Then as they sit down and eat together, and Jesus’ true identity is revealed in the breaking of bread – no sooner have they figured it out than POOF, he disappears, apparently into thin air. I mean, if you picture it, it’s pretty funny, right?!

A lot of both the humor and the sadness revolve around this strange fact at the beginning, that the disciples’ “eyes were kept from recognizing him.” I have so many questions about this. Like, what was keeping their eyes from recognizing him? Was it their grief? We know what that’s like, to be so sad, so absorbed in our own pain, that we can’t bring ourselves to see anything beyond it with any clarity. Was it that they simply weren’t expecting to see Jesus, and so why would it occur to them that this was him? Like when you randomly come across someone you know while traveling, and at first you just can’t believe this person would be standing before you, so you assume it must be someone else. Or was the force keeping them from seeing Jesus for who he was God himself? If so, for what purpose? Was God in on some divine practical joke on these unassuming disciples?

And then there is this detail, which I only just noticed this week. Luke tells us not that they were kept from recognizing him, but that their eyes were kept from recognizing him. Like, they did not consciously realize it was him in the moment. And so, a comically ironic conversation ensues. But I wonder if Luke is also indicating that while their eyes didn’t recognize him, some part of them did know it was Jesus, because then later in the story, as they reflect back, they realize, “OH! Were not our hearts burning within us as he opened to us the scriptures? We should have known!” You see, their eyes had been kept from recognizing him, but the eyes of their hearts, as the letter to the Ephesians calls them, had indeed recognized him for exactly who he was. Or maybe you’re more familiar with the old camp song using that image: “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart: I want to see you. I want to see you.”

And I do – I do want to see Jesus. Like the disciples on the road to the Emmaus, we do want to see Jesus. And in reality, he is always there, coming alongside us as we journey through life’s sad and happy, even funny moments. But we are often too preoccupied with whatever we are doing, or absorbed in our grief, or focused elsewhere – and so our eyes are kept from seeing him. 

But here is one thing I love about this story – that later, and then in hindsight, the “eyes of their hearts” come through for them, and they realize it was Jesus with them all along. The tip off was the breaking of bread, that quintessentially Jesus act of feeding and being in fellowship. And then in retrospect, they realize what the eyes of their hearts knew all along: “Were not our hearts burning within us as he opened to us the scriptures?” 

I love this because this is so often how it is for me. I miss Jesus in the moment more often than not, I’d say. But when I look back over the events later, viewing them through the eyes of my heart, I am able to see that Jesus had come alongside me over and over again. He showed up in the sadness and grief, and in the irony, and in the joy and the belly laughs. He showed up in the journey, and the fellowship, and the shared meal. He certainly showed up in the study of scripture and in the holy sacrament (though I’m at least better at recognizing him there the first time around!). He is there, every single time.

How about you? Are your eyes kept from recognizing Jesus with you in all these moments? Do the eyes of your heart ever find him there later, perhaps when you recall that your heart was burning within you? 

I had a spiritual director who was always asking me, after I’d ramble on about this or that thing that had recently happened to me, “And where did you see God in that?” And I’d have to stop, rub the eyes of my heart, and take a closer look… and sure enough, there he was. Why is this so hard to do the first time around?

I wonder if it is hard because we simply aren’t practiced at it? We have gotten so good at relying upon ourselves and our own good sense, that we forget to watch for Jesus walking right there beside us. We seldom take the time to look back over our lives with a heart eye toward God. What would happen, I wonder, if we took the time to practice this more? Strengthen those heart eye muscles. Maybe we commit to, every day, even just for a week, sitting with a friend, a spouse, or even a journal at the end of each day, and reflect back: where did I experience God’s presence with me today? Try to find him in something good (a shared laugh, a helpful stranger, a meal), and in something less good (a deep breath during an anxious moment, patience you didn’t know you had during an argument, a lesson learned from a mistake). 

Once we strengthen those muscles, I suspect it will get easier for us to see Christ coming up beside us on our journeys, not only in the usual places we encounter on Sunday morning – the study of scripture, and the holy meal – but also anytime we share our stories of sadness or joy with one another, or gather to break bread, or extend an invitation to a stranger, or accept one. 

And as we notice Christ’s presence with us, may we also, like Cleopas and his friend, be inspired to run and share the news of new life with those whom we meet.

Let us pray… Open the eyes of our hearts, Lord. Open the eyes of our hearts. We want to see you – along the way, in joy and sadness, every day. When we feel the familiar warmth of your presence, help us to call it what it is, and empower us by it, so that we would share your love with all the world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Sermon: Doing the best we can (April 16, 2023)

Easter 2A
April 16, 2023
John 20:19-31

INTRODUCTION

During the seven weeks of the Easter season, we will hear from Acts for our first reading, which tells about the beginnings of the Church. Today we’ll hear a part of Peter’s famous sermon on Pentecost, after those tongues of fire rested on their heads. In his sermon, he will quote Psalm 16, which we will then sing together. In 1st Peter, we will hear a marvelous message of hope for those enduring difficult times. It includes this line, “Even though you have not seen [Jesus], you love him” – which will lead us nicely into the Gospel reading, in which Jesus commends those who have not seen, and yet have come to believe. 

It's the story of “doubting Thomas,” but it is about so much more than Thomas. Some context: This story happens on the evening of Easter. That morning, according to John, a weeping Mary Magdalene encountered Jesus in the garden tomb. Jesus told her to go tell the disciples that he was ascending to the Father. Mary does so, telling them, “I have seen the Lord!” John doesn’t tell us how the disciples react to the news in the moment, but whatever the case, now they are scared. The disciples have locked themselves in a room, afraid. Did they not believe Mary? Or are they scared because they did believe her?

Whatever the case, we will see that Jesus comes to them in their fear, offering this great gift: peace be with you. Each of today’s readings are full of life-giving words for a hurting world – these, and so many more – so as you listen, I pray you will hear just exactly what you need to. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Nine days ago, on Good Friday, we heard the story of Jesus’ death: his pain, his wounds, his disciples’ betrayal, denial, and desertion. We heard about the brokenness of Jesus’ story. Then last week on Easter we heard the story of his resurrection! Jesus rises from the dead, and we gave thanks that God has defeated the power of death. Now today, we return to fear and wounds: the disciples are locked away in fear, and Jesus appears with a still-broken body, wounds and all. 

From brokenness, to new life, and back to brokenness. It’s a pattern that we often encounter in our lives, isn’t it? At the center is always God’s promise of resurrection and new life… but it so often comes to us, doesn’t it, when pain and woundedness are close beside. 

That’s not meant to be dismal – after all, what’s the point of the resurrection promise if it is not spoken into a world of pain? Why would we need the resurrection if everything was roses and rainbows all the time? Still, perhaps we’d rather hear a different gospel today – one that erases Christ’s wounds and, while we’re at it, the wounds of the world, rather than one in which Christ’s wounds remain as a stark reminder that ours remain as well. But, it is not so: wounds and fear and brokenness are all still very much a part of our reality. 

In fact, I love that this story draws attention to Christ’s lasting wounds, precisely because it draws attention to the lastingness of our own wounds – that is, those things we can’t seem to shake or let go of, the things that hang onto our hearts, whether or not we are consciously aware of them. In a word: our baggage. Even in the face of new life and Easter joy, this story draws our attention here, giving us an opportunity to face those things that would hold us back from living into that new life.

One of the ways baggage and past woundedness can hold us back from fully embracing new life is in how it negatively affects our view of the world: maybe we view others with skepticism and lack of trust, and assume the worst of people as an act of self-protection. Our wounds cause us to view the world with a furrowed brow, and always on the defensive. While it may seem like a safer approach to life – always on guard for someone to attack or disappoint us – this is also perhaps the best way to miss out on living into the new life Christ promises.

In her book, Rising Strong, Brene Brown recalls an encounter with a woman who has no regard for rules, and indeed laughs at those who do. Brene is so infuriated by the encounter, she talks to her therapist about it, who suggests that really, people, even this woman, are doing the best they can. This infuriates Brene even more! How ridiculous, she thinks! She storms off to the bank, where she watches the woman in front of her in line yelling at the bank teller, a young African American man, saying, “I didn’t make these withdrawals! I want to see a manager!” When he points to his manager, another man who is black, the woman says, “No! I want a different manager!” Brene immediately chalks the woman’s behavior up to racism. So when it is her turn to talk to the teller, she asks him, point blank, “Do you think people are doing the best they can?” He smiles and asks if she saw what just happened. Brene says yes, and that it was obviously racism. The man shrugs and says, “She’s scared about her money.” He goes on to say he does think people do the best they can, but the best they can might not be very good at any given moment. He says, “The thing is, you never know about people. That lady could have a kid on drugs stealing money from her account, or a husband with Alzheimer’s who’s taking money and not even remembering. You just never know. People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all they can do.” 

Hm. It makes me think about those disciples on that Easter night, when they were locked in the upper room for fear of the Jews. It makes me think of Thomas, who didn’t have the benefit of seeing Jesus and receiving his breath of peace, who is perhaps still very scared. It makes me think of all the disciples who, just a few days earlier, had deserted their friend because they were scared of what was happening to him, what might happen to them. “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all they can do.” 

We’ve all been there! And don’t those mistakes – those times when “all we can do” ended up hurting someone or getting ourselves hurt – don’t they just hang onto our hearts? Don’t they just get packed tightly away into our emotional baggage, threatening always to make an appearance when we least expect or desire it? “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared” – and oh, how that reality can come back to bite us again and again!

And yet, even though we’ve been there ourselves, how quick we are to label the disciples as doubters, deniers, betrayers, deserters. How quick we are to label one another as liars, careless, thoughtless, incompetent, mean. Even though we know: people aren’t themselves when they’re scared, and they are probably just doing the best they can under the circumstances. 

Brene Brown continues to grapple with the question of whether or not people are doing the best they can, until she finally asks her husband. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, he says, “I don’t know if they do or not, I really don’t. All I know is that my life is better when I assume people are doing their best. It keeps me out of judgment and lets me focus on what is, and not what should or could be.” 

Ah, to me, this possibility – that simply assuming people are doing the best they can actually makes our lives better – this feels like Jesus’ breath of peace. Did you notice, Jesus says, “Peace be with you,” not once, not twice, but three times in this text? Peace be with you – peace be with you in your fear, in your disappointment, in your anxiety, in your uncertainty. Peace be with you when you are just about to judge someone else for their failure or shortcoming. Peace be with you when your wounds or scars try to undermine Christ’s invitation to you to join him in new, resurrected life, into a life where death and fear do not have the final word, but rather, God’s own love and grace do. Peace be with you.

And to prove the point, Christ invites Thomas – and so also us – to touch his own wounds. It becomes a poignant reminder that wounds can exist, whether still open and aching or long ago scarred over, at the same time as peace. Our wounds and our scars and our pain and brokenness do not have to have power over us, because even into those wounds, Christ breathes his peace. 

Maybe, especially into these wounds, Christ breathes his peace. “Peace be with you” is not a word of grace to those who are already whole. It is grace to those who still seek healing, who still experience brokenness, who still have pain. It is grace to those who long for new life. It is grace to all who carry with them the baggage of past mistakes – either our own, or those that others have made that have hurt us. 

It is grace and gift… and it is also a call – to bring that peace to the world and its brokenness. It is a call to seek forgiveness and healing in relationships, to search for and embrace that which will bring peace to all the places in our lives and the world that need that peace of Christ which surpasses all understanding. It is a call to bring into a wounded world in need of healing the promise of the resurrected Christ.

Peace be with you, sisters and brothers in Christ. 

Let us pray… God of peace, when we are scared and wounded and unable to be the people we’d like to be, you breathe your peace into our hearts. Be in our every breath, O God, as we go about the work of seeking healing and wholeness in this hurting world, so that all might know the joy of your resurrected life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Full service can be viewed HERE.

Easter Sermon: Who do you want? (April 9, 2023)

 Easter Sunday
April 9, 2023
John 20:1-18

The Resurrection, by Ellie, age 7

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

Every preacher will tell you that even if you have read or preached a text a dozen times, every now and then something will cause you to look at one detail differently, and it helps you read the story in a new way. That happened with me this week with the story of Mary in the garden looking for Jesus. When Jesus encounters Mary in the garden, before she knows it is him, he asks her, “Who are you looking for?” But this week, I learned that in Aramaic, that is, the way Jesus would have spoken it, that question is better rendered, “Who do you want?” That has a very different feel to me than “who are you looking for.” It feels more visceral, like it speaks to a deep inner yearning, and not just an intellectual interest. Who do you want? 

It makes me wonder, who is it that we want, as we come with Mary to the tomb this morning? I suppose we all come to Jesus wanting something, looking for something, craving something. Perhaps we come to Jesus wanting comfort. I do wonder if that’s what Mary was seeking. Other Gospels tell us that the women were bringing spices to the tomb that morning, to anoint the body, but John’s Gospel makes no mention of this intention. So perhaps Mary is only coming to feel close once again to her friend and teacher. She has been through quite a lot these past days, after all, watching what happened to Jesus. She is understandably deep in grief. And so she comes to the tomb, wanting… A place to cry and feel close to Jesus? An escape from the long, sleepless nights that so often accompany such acute grief? Maybe she herself doesn’t even know what exactly she hopes to find, what she wants, what she is looking for. And yet, she goes in search of it, hoping and praying that mere proximity will bring her the comfort she craves.

What else do we want from Jesus? Perhaps we come to the tomb, come to Jesus, wanting relief – relief from pain, from our myriad day-to-day struggles. I think of the story we heard a couple weeks ago, when Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. On the way to that tomb, Jesus is met by Lazarus’s sisters, saying, “If you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.” You have the power to fix this, Jesus, we know you do. And in that case, Jesus did raise Lazarus from the dead! So, if Jesus has the power to take away our pain, then why shouldn’t we come to him asking the same? We want a God who can *poof* make our troubles disappear.

Or perhaps who we want is simply someone to give us answers, something certain in this world that sometimes makes no sense. It would seem that’s what Peter and the beloved disciple seek. They come racing over like two schoolboys trying to get to the ice cream truck first, hoping to find the answers they crave – what was the point of all this? How could this happen? What will become of us? When all they find is a tomb with no body and some deserted grave clothes, they head back home. They wanted answers, not more questions. And I know that feeling! I have shaken my fist in God’s general direction enough times to know the frustration of not knowing. We hear about another mass shooting, another devastating natural disaster, another senseless tragedy, and we want answers – answers that come from policy change or action, yes, but also on a more philosophical level, answers from an allegedly all-powerful, all-knowing God. Why would such a God allow this to happen? And so we come to Jesus, and who do we want? We want a God who will give us the answers we crave.

I also know there are among us this morning plenty of skeptics, folks who are not so sure about this magical story of a man who is raised from the dead, and this somehow saves us from sin and death. I get that – it does seem completely implausible at times! It is well beyond my comprehension! Frankly, even if you do believe in the story of the resurrection, it seems implausible – why would God care so much about me, that God would go to such a length to show that love? What’s so special about me, or any of us? If either of these describe you, maybe the Jesus you want this day is one who makes sense, who fits neatly into your understanding of how the world works. 

And what about you? Who do you want? When you come to church on Easter morning, or arrive at the tomb or whatever is a symbol of your loss, pain, and need – what is it you want out of Jesus? Who are you looking for? Who do you want?

This is all worthwhile reflection – it is never wasted effort to plumb the depths of our hearts to find what drives us and our actions – but the real question on Easter morning is not who do we want, but who do we get? 

The Jesus we get is not one who pats us on the back, saying, “There, there,” and hands us a tissue to mop up the tears and snot, if that is the sort of comfort we wanted. The Jesus we get is not one who will instantly remove the source of our pain like some sort of magician. The Jesus we get on Easter morning will not give us answers, at least not in the way a textbook or Wikipedia will. He will not make everything suddenly clear and able to fit neatly into a box, because as soon as you can fit God into any earthly vessel, that has ceased to be God – God is far too big to fit into anything we can comprehend. 

So, what Jesus do we get? 

The Jesus we get is one who will join us and sit with us in our pain. He won’t say, “Stop crying, it’s okay,” because he knows that sometimes, it isn’t okay. We have been hurt or we’ve hurt someone else; we have made a tragic mistake; we have experienced or participated in some injustice – and it is not okay, and crying is an appropriate response to that. But he will ask us, “Why are you weeping? Tell me about it. I’m here, and I’m listening. There is space here with me for you and your needs.” He will ask what we want, what we need, what we’re looking for. He will call us by name, to assure us that we are known and loved, even when we are broken, even unrecognizably, into a million pieces. 

The Jesus we get is one who is absolutely present with us in this way – even as he is also utterly transcendent, far beyond our understanding and comprehension. Truth be told, the ways of God don’t make a lick of sense. The resurrection sure doesn’t! But in the end, it is not despite this, but because of it that we can trust the Jesus we get on Easter morning. This good news, that God is more powerful than death itself, more powerful than anything, and yet still longs to meet us where we are, and to bring us with him into new life, is bigger and better than anything our feeble brains can handle, and better than anything on earth can provide. It is mysterious and awesome, and we are invited to dwell in that mystery – not to dissect it and figure it all out, like we do with earthy things, but to rejoice that it is ours. 

We can trust the God that we get, the God of Easter morning, precisely because that God, in Jesus, is willing to enter into the messiness of our lives, not brush it quickly away or pretend it doesn’t exist. I don't tend to trust people who don't take my feelings seriously. He enters into it, comes right up beside us in our tears and snot, wants to learn more about us, and calls us by name to let us know that we are seen, and loved, and known – and, that we are by his acts, saved from the power of death.

As it turns out, that is the Jesus that I want.

Let us pray… Living God, you don’t make any sense, and, you are the only thing that makes any sense. You are with us, and you are beyond our understanding. You are a mystery, through and through – and yet you love us still. Dwell with us in that mystery, helping us to trust that you are exactly what we need. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Watch the full service HERE.

Sermon: Responding to grief (Maundy Thursday)

Maundy Thursday Sermon
April 6, 2023

If there is a story in scripture that demonstrates the complexity of human emotions, it is this last night Jesus spends with his friends before he is arrested and crucified. I think we forget sometimes that these were real people, real human beings with the same complex emotions that we have. These things played out so long ago in a world so different from ours, and yet humans haven’t really evolved all that much in 2000 years, have they? We are not so much better today at managing the big emotions that come alongside grief and loss. 

Remembering that we are not so different can help us make sense of what is going on in this story, and even can help us understand how it might relate to our lives today – lives that yes, are different, but that deal with our own types of grief, loss, anxiety, fear, and yes, love. Let’s take a look at how people respond to the emotional cocktail of that night.

First, Peter. Dear, impetuous Peter – one of my favorite biblical characters. His eagerness, earnestness, and his desire to do the right thing are traits we can relate to! In this story, though, he begins to realize that Jesus is about to leave them, that a devastating abandonment is in his future… and he is afraid. How does he respond? He pushes Jesus away. “You’ll never wash my feet!” As if he is saying, “I can’t handle that level of intimacy with you. It will only make this hurt more when you’re gone.” He can’t receive that act of love from Jesus because then, when Jesus is gone, Peter will be shattered.  

I suspect that’s something many of us have experienced, either ourselves, in Peter’s position, or in the behavior of a loved one, who pushes us away the more we try to draw close. Fear of abandonment is a very common, yet not often discussed affliction, and for one who lives with that, it sometimes feels like the best defense against it, the only way to feel in control, is to avoid closeness at all, or to be the one who pushes away first, so a sense of control can be maintained.

But then, in the next breath, Peter is once again grasping for Jesus: “Give me ALL the intimacy and love! I want you to wash everything! Shower me with your love, Lord, from head to toe!” This, too, is not so unlike us in our own fears of loss. Even as we may first push away, we still long for the one we don’t want to lose, and we grasp them all the more tightly. Through Peter’s back-and-forth, Jesus is the model of non-anxious, secure attachment style, stating truth in love, staying steadfast, and exercising humility. And while I suspect Peter’s emotions continue to run high, he is able to stay in that place, in that relationship (well, at least at first – we’ll get to that next part tomorrow night!). 

Judas, on the other hand, cannot stay. In the face of this moment, he takes off. John names Satan himself as the culprit, for it is when Satan enters Judas that he leaves; whatever the case, Judas does not have time, energy or interest for this relationship anymore. We usually think of Judas as the betrayer, right? That is, the one who turned Jesus over to the authorities. And in Matthew, Mark and Luke, that is accurate. But in John, the turnover is not the moment of betrayal. In John, Jesus turns himself in. He tells Judas to go and “do quickly what you are going to do.” So the moment of betrayal actually happens when Judas walks out that door, and away from the relationship. 

John points out, immediately after Judas went out, “And it was night.” This is no throw-away line; it is meant to evoke heavy drama and foreboding. You may remember from the story about Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus by night, that darkness is kind of a big deal in John. It indicates a lack of insight or knowledge, a lack of relationship with Jesus. At the beginning of this Gospel, John tells us that Jesus is the light come into the world, saying that “the light was the life of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” And yet when Judas leaves the room, we are told, “it was night.” It was dark. He leaves the light and the life that is Jesus. He leaves that loving, abiding relationship, and in doing so, he betrays Jesus.

I’ll be honest, this revelation makes me squirm a bit. While I can safely say I would not sell out my friend for 30 pieces of silver, I am not as confident saying that nothing would make me abandon my relationship with Jesus. Like many of you, I’m sure, I have had those moments in life when I pushed God away in anger, when indeed I have walked out of the room into the dark night. Obviously, I came back – otherwise I wouldn’t be here now! – but that doesn’t negate the fact that I have, like Judas, wanted to throw up my hands and quit that relationship when things got too hard. Suddenly, I can’t say with confidence that I would never betray Jesus. As our hymn this evening says so plaintively, “Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee.”

One more person who gets only a passing mention, but it’s an important one: the so-called “beloved disciple.” It is not clear who this person is. Typically, it is pinpointed as John, the writer of the Gospel, though there is really no proof for this. A more persuasive explanation is that the beloved disciple is the one who hears and reads this story – it is you, and it is me. It is every disciple. John tells us that as all this confusion and anxiety is going on about someone betraying Jesus, “one of the disciples – the one whom Jesus loved – was reclining next to him.” Twice, John mentions his position: reclining next to Jesus. In other words, in the midst of all the emotional turmoil, this disciple stays intimately cozy with Jesus, the light of the world, nestled in his love and life.

What a contrast! I may find much to relate to in the reactions of both Judas and Peter, but this beloved disciple shows where we want to be: clinging to the source of life, the vine to the branches, the good shepherd to the sheep, the bread of life, the resurrection, the way, the truth, and the life. This is the definition of faith: to be in relationship with Jesus, to abide with him. To recline next to him. When everything around us is full of uncertainty, hatred, fear, and grief, the beloved disciple leans closer still to Jesus.

We know that. But it is easier to say than to do sometimes. Though we know what we want to do, we do not always do it – sometimes we push Jesus away, like Peter, before we come crawling back; sometimes we leave the relationship and walk into the darkness; sometimes we swear we would never leave him, only to turn around and deny him a few hours later. But here is where the good news of Maundy Thursday comes in: all of those people and all of those reactions and more as well were there that night, and which of their feet did he wash? All of them. Every last one of those people’s feet he washed, no matter how they dealt with their grief and anxiety. Each of them, without distinction, received that loving act, that deep desire of God’s to connect intimately with us. And even Judas – it is while he is in the act of betrayal, having left the room and heading to the authorities, that Jesus tells the remaining disciples, “Love one another. Love one another humbly and without pretense. Love each other intimately and deeply. Never stop loving each other.”

And so we do. We love one another when we fear, and when we grieve. We love one another when we want to run away. We love one another when we do run away. We love one another, as Jesus loves us. As we make our way through these three days, seeing how God so loved this world as to give himself for our sake, may we take with us this new commandment to love one another in this way: as a promise for us, when we are the ones struggling, and as a charge to love those who struggle. 

May God give us both the will and the way to do it.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Full service can be viewed HERE.