HOMILY: "The Shepherd's Sacrifice"

A Meditation on John 10:11-18
Sunday, April 21, 2024

1.

The Jesus we meet in John’s Gospel is in some ways a very different cat from the one we meet in Matthew, Mark and Luke. He’s kind of one part mystic, one part rabbi and one part beat poet. Think Jack Kerouac, Mary Oliver and Maimonides wrapped up into one. It’s not so much the one-liners with John’s Jesus—as it is the way he gets to his point, his breathtaking audacity, even the metaphors that cause us to say, “Huh?” “What was that?” To get this Jesus, to really hear this Jesus, you want to find a corner table in a smoky pub and get comfortable, or a poetry slam in a coffee house, or a storefront church at the intersection of hope and holy cow.

“I am the bread of life / the bread of life / the bread of life,” he raps in the corner, and then he riffs on the multiplication of mercy, and the nourishment found in community, his community. The immediacy of God. “I am the resurrection / I said the resurrection / I said the resurrection and the life,” he whistles to a coffee house crowd, and then he riffs on the kind of power they receive in prayer and purpose together. One part mystic, one part rabbi, and one part beat poet. And, this morning, in our own reading, we get “I am the Good Shepherd.” “I am the Good Shepherd.” And then he riffs on the difference between the shepherd who knows his sheep, who loves his sheep—and the hired one who runs for the fences when trouble comes, who leaves the sheep to face the wolves alone.

And this is a big deal for us, urgently important to the church today. Jesus is not one to run for the fences when trouble comes. Jesus is not one to pick and choose who gets God’s love, who gets God’s care, who gets the gentle and generous protection of God’s hand. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the doubters and the believers. For the lost and the found. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says this morning. For the transgender servants of God, and the cis-gender servants of God. For the migrants and the sons and daughters of migrants. “I am the Good Shepherd,” he says.

So the cadence of John’s Gospel is different. The rhythm of John shakes things up. Causes us to wonder and moves us to care. This Jesus, the Jesus we meet in John’s Gospel, is far more likely to take over a room with his poetry, with his mysticism, and with his “I am’s.” “I am the Light of the World.” And then, “I am the Door to Mercy and Meaning.” And then, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.” His intention, it seems, Jesus’ intention, is as much bewilderment and curiosity, as it is clarity and devotion. He wants us to ask, “How?” He hopes we’ll ask, “Why?”

This Jesus is determined to build a community, a church, vulnerable to amazement, befuddled by their teacher, willing to wonder what in the world he’s doing and where in the world he’s going. He’s not interested in a bunch of theological parrots, after all, but in a church of sisters and siblings, brothers and lovers. And those are different things.

2.

Now let’s talk about these “I AMs” a little bit. Jesus’ preoccupation with “I AM” statements is particularly important to John, but also to us, and how we lean into the mysteries of the gospel. We are not to take Jesus for granted. Jesus didn’t want that. We are not to assume we always know or understand. Jesus resists our expectations, even our convictions. In fact, all these “I AM” statements stoke more fires than they put out. And that may well be the point. I am. I am. I am. They harken back, of course, to the great narrative of the Exodus itself, and to the divine name revealed to Moses at the burning bush. Jesus aims to surprise us in the same way the unknowable is known to Moses in the desert.

Remember how that goes? “I am who I am,” says the shimmering light to the shepherd. Yahweh! “I will be who I will be,” says the presence to the prophet. Yahweh! And then to Moses: “This is what you are to say to the Israelites suffering in Egypt: I AM has sent me to you. I AM has sent me to you. I AM has heard your cry.” Yahweh! The unsayable name of God. Yahweh. “I am who I am.”  The unknowable, known now in compassion and love.

So when Jesus says to us, “I am the Good Shepherd”; when he says, “The Good Shepherd puts the sheep before himself”; he’s affirming God’s immeasurable grace, God’s undivided heart, God’s passion for the wholeness and wellness of the flock. And when Jesus says to us, “I am the Good Shepherd”; when he says, “I know my sheep and my sheep know me;” he’s making to us a commitment that will not be broken; he’s promising to us lovingkindness and mercy beyond imagining. The unknowable, known now in compassion and love.

At the very heart of our lives, at the very center of our being—whether we feel it or not—is the power and peace that brings light out of darkness and love from despair. Here, in Jesus, is the mystery of being, of existence itself. Yahweh. I am who I am. Here, in Jesus, is the creativity of the creator—seeking out friends, partners, collaborators, co-conspirators. Yahweh. I will be who I will be. Here, in Jesus, is the unsayable, but tantalizingly imminent presence of God. Yahweh. And this God will not abandon the sheep. Not a single one of them. And this God will always stay close. To the whole flock. And this God calls us by name. Yours, mine, all of us.

"The Wall" سيمون شاهين - الجدار

Kate and I went to see Simon Shaheen at the Mosesian Center in Watertown last night...a benefit for Anera and relief in Gaza.  He played this piece, "The Wall," which he wrote himself outside of Bethlehem several years ago. 

HOMILY: "A Future Shaped by Love"

4/7/24
John 20:19-31

I have in my mind—as I listen to this morning’s gospel—the six memorials and burials ahead of me over the next two months. And I say “ahead of me”—I really mean “ahead of us.” Six different opportunities to give thanks. Six different families grieving. Six different souls whose lives touched this congregation in a lovely and wonderful variety of ways. Rob Swift. Diana Frost. Maggie Morrison. Mary Madson. Carl Deame. And Barbara Nevel. For every one of these dear ones, we will gather, and we will give thanks to God. And we will remember the ordinary seasons of life and loss we shared together; and then the extraordinary gifts of grace we received in real time. I say this often; but our ministry together at these moments is in some ways the very heartbeat of the church. Grief, grace and gratitude.

There is in the Easter gospel—in the many stories around the resurrection—a promise God makes to us and a promise we treasure together in the church. This morning we hear again this startling and befuddling promise—even as it arrives in the midst of a grieving community of disciples and friends. “Peace be with you.” That’s the promise. “Peace be with you.” I know you’ve been through hell. I know you are grieving. “Peace be with you.” I know you have seen the cruelty in humankind, face to face. “Peace be with you.” I know you are anxious for your own futures. Unaware of what could possibly happen next. “Peace be with you.”

It's always been a temptation for the church to get dangerously specific about the promise. Over millennia, theologians and priests begin to describe exactly what heaven looks like, and where it is, and who gets there, and what happens there. Moralists get interested in who’s going to heaven and why, and who’s not—and what happens to them anyway. But it strikes me this morning, in these early resurrection appearances, that Jesus is not the least interested in all that, in the machinations of ecclesiology and church dogmatics. What Jesus wants the disciples to know, and I really do believe what Jesus wants us to know in our own time is this: God’s peace is with us. Through the grief. In the face of all the cruelty. God’s peace is with us. When we can’t see two feet in front us—for the uncertainty of it all. God’s peace is with us. When we’ve locked the doors—maybe the real doors of our lives, or the doors of our hearts—when we’ve locked it all up for all the fears in our hearts. God’s peace is with us.

So the gospel promise to the six families we’ll surround with love these next two months; the gospel promise is God’s peace, the power of the resurrecting God. What that means about heaven’s geography—we’ll have to wait to find out. But the more powerful message is that you and I have nothing, nothing, nothing to fear. Just as Maggie had nothing to fear, and Mary, and Rob, and Barbara, and Carl, and Diana. Whatever the future holds for them, whatever the future holds for us, we trust—by the light of this gospel—that the future is shaped by Love. The future is shaped by God’s Love. And even when we lock the doors, even when we can’t imagine anything other than our fears, Jesus rises again to find us. Jesus rises again to dissolve the boundaries. Jesus rises again to invite us to the next leg, to the next journey, to the next opportunity for growth and service and praise. In this world. Or in the next. Always, always, on his lips, and in his breath: “Peace be with you.”

Now none of this, not a single bit of this, means that death is easy or that death makes sense; nor does it mean that we’ll just waltz our way through these losses as if none of it really matters, as if none of it really hurts. Because of course it does. As we watch our dear ones suffer, it hurts. As they begin to let go, as they begin to transition and change, as they breathe their last breaths—it hurts. It causes them and us immense pain. And our pain is profoundly sacred stuff. Our tears are sacraments of God’s holiness and presence in the world.

So we really can’t say—and the gospel doesn’t want to say—that it’s all going to be easy and sweet. And we really can’t say that if you only have faith, you won’t have to worry. And we really can’t say…you’re going to heaven…and it’s better there anyway. These are the flimsy assurances of cheap grace.

But what we do want to say, in light of this morning’s gospel to be sure, is that God’s Peace will always, always, always go where we go. Through every dark night. In every transition. Across every threshold. Into every possible future. You can count on that. And your loved ones can count on that. That God’s Peace is a persevering peace. That’s God’s Peace is committed to you, to your loved ones, and to every single life on earth. In those moments when nothing makes sense: the power of the resurrection is yours. And you will not face any of it alone. In those moments when cruelty overwhelms your heart: the power of the resurrection is yours. And you will not endure any of it alone. And in those last moments, or those moments when your earthly life is coming to an end: yes then, especially then, the power of the resurrection is yours. The God who breathes peace through the Risen Christ will go with you, will travel with you, will walk with you.

And yea, though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will not ache in absence. For God goes with you. Now, now, and always, always. Amen and Ashe.

OP ED: "Penalize Nonviolence?"

ART: "Palestinian Vision/Suhad Khatib"

EASTER HOMILY: "While It Was Still Dark"

A Meditation on the Resurrection
Sunday, March 31, 2024

John 20:1-21

1.

If you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself in the ruins of a city shattered by violence; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself hoping against hope that there is some other way this all turns out; if you, like Mary Magdalene, find yourself stumbling toward a tomb in the darkness—you should know that every resurrection story begins in that darkness. That bewildering, befuddling darkness. That strange brew of the unknown and the unbearable. It’s a crisis of conscience in a season of war. It’s a commitment to recovery on the worst day of your life. It’s a disruptive and unforgettable dream in the middle of the night. It’s a brutal ending that somehow, somehow becomes a new beginning. Every resurrection story begins in that darkness.

There’s a lovely little poem by the irreplaceable Mary Oliver, where she writes: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.” It’s one of her shortest poems. Heartbreak and redemption. “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years”—she writes—“to understand that this too, was a gift.” So it is that Mary Magdalene stumbles through the besieged city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones thrown and clubs wielded in rage, just days ago. And it’s curious, right, because her despair has to be real, and it’s got to be overwhelming; but it’s not so destructive that she sleeps in that morning. Because she doesn’t sleep in that morning. Stumbling through the city, while it’s still dark, kicking at stones and clubs. All the way to the tomb where they buried her teacher’s body.

And this is the first sign, I think, that something is stirring in this story; and something is stirring in Mary’s soul, in her spirit; and something could well be stirring in yours and mine as well. Even two days after the crucifixion. Even two days after the scattering of her friends. Even two days after his body’s sealed up in that tomb. Because Mary has experienced a love so deep—on the road from north to south—a grace so liberating, that she rouses her weary soul, shakes off sleep, and sets out anyway. To the tomb. Where they buried his body. Jerusalem is Gaza. Jerusalem is Haiti. Jerusalem is a city of broken dreams and crucified prophets. And she sets out anyway. And she shakes off sleep. Stumbling through the city, “a box full of darkness,” hoping against hope that even that darkness bears some kind of gift. Some kind of possibility and grace.

You see, sometimes this kind of love is more of an instinct than a conviction, more restlessness than certainty. It isn’t just his teaching that captures her imagination; it was the courage of his loving, it was the authenticity of his welcome, it was his refusal to judge anyone for anything. Jesus didn’t save her soul; he woke it up. It’s my own fanciful midrash, perhaps, but I kind of like the image of Mary kicking away those stones and clubs on the way that morning, maybe a Roman spear or shield for good measure. Her rejection of each and every symbol of violence, vengeance and war. With every breath, she chants into the darkness: “Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers.” I can hear her even now.

And she finds the tomb, even in the dark, she finds the tomb. And she discovers that the stone that had sealed it shut hours before has been rolled aside. Now the darkness is not only dark, but strange and bewildering and even full of surprise. So now she runs to find the others, her brothers, her sisters, her siblings in the movement. Again, through the sleeping city. Again, through the darkness. Again, kicking aside every instrument of violence and vengeance.

2.

At our potluck the other night, one of you told me that you’re not at all sure you believe in Jesus, or in the scaffolding of belief and theology that gets built up around his stories. Kind of a gutsy thing to say to a pastor during Holy Week! But, you know, I love that this is the conversation we can have at our tables here. And I’m so grateful for your confession, because (to be honest) it’s my confession too, a good bit of the time. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus had to die to atone for our sins, to make right all our wrongs”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus suffered in my place, took his punishment so I wouldn’t have to”—I’m skeptical. If orthodoxy says, “Jesus is the only Truth, and the only Way, and the only Love that matters to the world”—I’m suspicious. That kind of belief seems designed in human institutions (and, frankly, patriarchal privilege) to control and manipulate. It’s the ideology of empire, the spirituality of shame. And that’s simply not the Jesus I come to know, the Jesus I come to love in the stories we read and explore, and then invite into our lives every week.

Instead—and see if this makes any sense—I discover Jesus (and Jesus’ intention for my life) in Mary Magdalene’s perseverance, in her restlessness. The two of them together. As friends, they make faith make sense. I find Jesus’ spirit and Jesus’ love stirring in her feet, as they scurry through the city in the darkness, and then as they kick aside weapons and cruelty on their way to a world redeemed. Again, the two of them. Together. As partners in resistance. As companions in community. So moved is Mary Magdalene by his creativity in crisis, by his loving inclusion of all children—that she cannot let him go. So touched is she by his example—washing their feet, feeding the hungry, praying for his persecutors—that she cannot imagine another kind of life. It’s hers now. Blessed are the peacemakers.

And so, even after the others return to their homes to mull it all over, Mary lingers outside the tomb. She stays behind. Because still, she can’t let him go. Because still, she can’t imagine another kind of life. And here, too, is a sign that something is afoot. Because she’s weeping. Because she’s weeping. And isn’t it so often the case that our stories of rebirth and reawakening are foreshadowed by tears, that our grief is often the midwife of new life? Mary’s weeping. Her tears like sacraments of possibility. Her grief like a memory she can almost touch.

And she turns and she sees a gardener, a migrant perhaps, a country fellow who’s found work in the city. And his face is streaked by sweat and the good earth; and he’s at home in the dirt, in the soil, in the land itself. And Mary wonders aloud: “Where have you taken him? Where have you laid him?” And this same gardener, this same migrant, is Jesus, of course. And he says just this: “Mary.” Through his own tears perhaps. Through the sweat and dust on his brow perhaps. He says her name: “Mary.”

MAUNDY THURSDAY: "Footsteps in the Garden"

 

Maundy Thursday, 2024, Labyrinth

As some watched, others washed feet; 

as some washed, others walked a circuitous route.  

In all these ways, we remembered the example--

and wondered about how it is we might embrace the Love

 that was revealed in that room and those souls.  

Even when, especially when the world seems to be tearing itself in two...

HOMILY: "Unless a Grain of Wheat" (Lent 5)

March 17, 2024
John 12:20-33

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit…”

1.

In the 1970s Carter Heyward was among the first small group of women to be ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. After a long and bitter fight. And like Bishop Gene Robinson here in New Hampshire, these women met fierce opposition in certain circles, and even in some churches. Where meanness and prejudice get especially cruel. And Carter Heyward tells a story about communion, and serving communion in those first few months at a small parish in Ohio. A high moment for her, but a bizarre one for the church.

You may know that, in the Episcopal tradition, parishioners often come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive the bread from priest’s hand. And that Sunday, newly ordained, Carter Heyward stepped to the rail to greet her people with the consecrated bread, the Body of Christ. She stepped down the line, offering each one communion, inviting each one to ministry and partnership with Jesus.

That day in Ohio, one man arrived at the altar rail with a grudge to bear. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let it go. Carter Heyward’s ministry, her priesthood was so abhorrent to him, so threatening to everything he held dear in the world—that he came to the rail, kneeling but seething. And when she offered communion, he batted the bread away and angrily bit the priest’s finger. So committed was he to his own resentment, so unwilling to receive the gift that was literally at hand. And so opposed to the idea of a woman priest. He just batted the bread away, and bit her finger hard. Can you imagine? Carter Heyward says that the cost of discipleship and the risky business of the priesthood got a little clearer for her that day.

It’s tempting, of course, to take communion for granted—this simple, if sacred, transaction, couched in prayer and blessing. We’ve done it a hundred times, five hundred times before. It can seem rather routine. But what if it’s more than that? What if this simple monthly meal at the table is both our lived memory of Jesus’ sacrifice and our solidarity with that sacrifice? What if we take the broken loaf in our hands, and into our lives—to welcome and embrace this promise: That just as his heart was broken open in love, so it will be with us. After all: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies,” Jesus said, “it bears much fruit.” The broken bread, the emptied cup. What if this sacrament—this eucharistic reenactment is more than just a familiar ritual—but also a risk we take in faith, a faithful risk that our journeys and Jesus’ journey are one and the same. To be offered up to the world in love. To be poured out upon the earth as mercy. To be justice and peace, en-fleshed, in-carnate, in wartime.

Maybe we should follow Annie Dillard’s wonderful advice in A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and show up for Communion Sundays in batting helmets, shoulder pads and shin guards. Because this isn’t just a quaint exchange of consumer goods; it’s a commitment we make—every time—to “soul force” and total transformation. It’s a commitment to trust and courage and solidarity with Jesus. If we dare. If we dare to let go.

And of course, that’s exactly what that parishioner in Ohio couldn’t do—or at least, couldn’t yet do. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t give up on his own grievances, release his anxieties to God’s grace, turn over his patriarchal prejudice at the altar. And because he couldn’t—at least, couldn’t yet do that—he met the gift of God’s grace with contempt. He took the promise of new life and mangled it. He rejected his own liberation, and the Love that even in that moment sought him out. I want to believe that that wasn’t his last trip to the altar. I want to believe that—like the rest of us—he was given a second, a third, a fourth chance. As many as he needed. To wake up. To give up on his grievances and release his fears at last. To receive the gift of faith. To see his world reawakened and his life within it.

2.

This morning, on his way to the cross, inviting you and me to join him, Jesus says: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And this kind of poetry, which means to bewilder but inspire, invites reflection around sacramental practice and communion itself. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And then: “Those who cling to their life in this world will lose it, and those who let go will keep it for eternal life.” There’s a koan in all this, a sense of mystery and strange blessing, an invitation to curiosity and hope.

If that fellow in Ohio has to learn, somehow, to turn over his privilege and prejudice, in order to fully and gracefully receive what Jesus is doing in his life, maybe I too have privileges to sacrifice at the altar. Maybe every one of us has grievances to release, and fears, anxieties, burdens to set aside—so that we can accept the healing, love and partnership Jesus is extending. In the bread. In the cup. In the hands of a priest or priestess. And we do this over and over and over again. Communion is transformation. Communion is conversion. Communion is poetry; and faith then is like the art of being alive in wounded but wonderful world. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

So I want to offer this as a way to approach this ancient, but dynamic sacrament at the table with Jesus. To step into that Upper Room with Jesus, to lean into his presence at the table—is to bury our fears in the gospel of love. To acknowledge his suffering, to bear witness to his lovingkindness—is to release every grievance that blurs our vision, every bitterness that diminishes our hope. Maybe your fear has something to do with your own unique vulnerability in the world, your own mortality perhaps, a sense of foreboding or shame that just clings to your soul. Lean into God’s presence. Here at the table. Bury your fears in the gospel of love.

In this broken bread, in this common cup, in this sweet feast, Jesus says: “As I give up my fears, as I release my grievances, as I welcome God’s abundant love—so can you. Break this bread.” And then, “As I receive God’s promise of everlasting mercy and endless abundance—so can you. Drink this cup.” See, it’s not transactional, not at all. This sacrament is the promise in the midst of your awakening, the assurance in the midst of your transformation, and the strangely satisfying gift of divine presence—as you and I move into the conflicted spaces, and unsettling challenges, and critically important ministries of our lives. And there will be conflicts. And there will be challenges. But always, always, always, in releasing our fears to God, in casting off our grievances, in putting our hand in Jesus’ hand—we are renewed and refreshed and awakened again and again by the Love that sets us free. If we dare. If we dare to let go.

HOMILY: "Love Weeps" (Lent 4)

A Meditation on John 11

Sunday, March 10, 2024

1.

Weeping for Jerusalem

In just two short weeks, anticipating what will become a procession of palms and his own version of first century civil disobedience, Jesus will pause on a hillside overlooking Jerusalem. And there he will weep over the holy city, the city whose very name means City of Peace. The city whose reason for being is to bear the promise of inclusion and communion and justice.

And on that hillside, reflecting on his life, his world, maybe even human history itself—Jesus will weep over Jerusalem. And he will say: “Would that you, even now, might know the things that make for peace!” “Would that you, even now, might know the things that make for peace!” Jesus will feel all this violence in his bones, in the very marrow of his bones. He will grieve the militarism of empires, the calculated violence of nations, the hatred and venom unleashed in conflicts festering in human communities. And he will weep.

After last night’s offering of “The Armed Man,” I spoke with several singers who told me that there’s a point in the piece—when rage overcomes human decency, when violence roars in the lyric and music—where their own tears overwhelm even the director’s instructions and they just can’t sing. For a measure or two. For a heartbeat or two or three. We’re talking about Hiroshima and Auschwitz and Vietnam. We’re talking about genocidal wars and human pride turned demonic destruction. And I’m moved by each of you, by each of those singers, and by your Christ-like weeping, and your Christ-like humanity, and your Christ-like tenderness. Your tears, I might add, are the salty seeds of a world healed, a planet reconciled, a human community redeemed not by AR 15s and weaponized drones and atomic bombs—but by love. By love and hope and your own tears.

2.

Unbinding Lazarus

And, of course, in this morning’s story—this long and involved story from the Gospel of John—Mary and Martha are grieving for Lazarus, their brother, their beloved brother.  And their friends, their community has gathered around them, come to them with love and support.  And they’re all grieving together, weeping for the one they’ve lost, leaning into one another with love, and hanging onto one another through waves of sadness and the kind of pain that rolls through the human spirit like a tsunami.  And Jesus—who strangely delays—comes to them at last.  And there’s a special relationship here, between Jesus and Mary and Martha and Lazarus; they were particularly close, especially dear to one another.  So when he sees Mary coming, and when he hears her brokenhearted voice, and her despair for what might have been—Jesus weeps.  Again, for a life lost.  Again, for the circle broken.  Again, for a friend in distress.  Jesus weeps.

  

Early on, in this Lenten season, we talked about giving up fear for Lent.  Instead of chocolate or TV.  Giving up fear for Lent.  Maybe the flip side of that is taking up grief—allowing oneself to weep, allowing our grief to roll like waves through our bodies, through our voices, across our communities.  Maybe it’s our weeping that reveals the passion of God for life, and the love of Jesus for all peoples and all children and all kinds of communities and nations and human hearts.  Maybe it’s our weeping that will open fissures in our spirits through which new light can shine and new hope can break forth.  Give up fear for lent.  But let every tear flow freely.

Now it’s interesting about today’s story.  When you read the Gospel of John—the whole of it, or (really) any one piece of it—you are struck by how very different it is, how odd it is, and how wildly it wanders from the language and pacing of the other three New Testament gospels.  Matthew, Mark and Luke.  

Matthew, Mark and Luke are beautiful texts, to be sure.  But they move more quickly.  And they focus on Jesus’ deliberate movements, across Palestinian landscapes, in and out of human communities—welcoming and feeding, healing and teaching.  In one moment he’s confronting shameful purity codes, and in the next he’s upending oppressive systems of debt and judgment.  His teaching seems to have a clear purpose.  

But often the Gospel of John raises questions that are hard to answer.  Often it lingers around wonder and delight.  Even celebrates bewilderment and confusion. And throughout, the Gospel of John cautions against idolatry, Christian idolatry in particular, assuming we have all the answers and that this Jesus is ours alone.    “Concepts create idols,” said Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth century Cappadocian bishop.  “Concepts create idols; only wonder comprehends anything.”  And that’s kind of a fitting summary of the Fourth Gospel, and what makes the Gospel of John tick.  “Only wonder comprehends anything.”  Even Jesus.  

So the Gospel of John insists that just when we think we have Jesus pegged, just when we think we know exactly who Jesus is and what he’s about, just when we think Jesus is “our” guy—Jesus is going do something unexpected, or flip a table in the temple square, or ask an odd and unanswerable question.  Just when we think we have Jesus and God figured out, Jesus aims to surprise us.  To throw the doors of our hearts open wide again.  To cause us to reassess his message and purpose all over again.  Because it’s all about wonder for Jesus.  Wonder and faith and divine compassion.  And there’s no way around the messiness of life.  And there’s no way around the hard edges of human experience.  And there’s no quick theological shortcut through the mysteries of grace and love and incarnation.  God is in the details.  You heard that right, God is in the details.

PRAYER: "Bird of Peace 2023" (English, Hebrew, Arabic)