Come and see this Jesus who saw us under the fig tree and loved us even then.Read More
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There is so much more to being baptized than eternal fire insurance.Read More
This good news - so far-flung, fragile, and freakish; so marginal, maligned, and forgotten; so startling, invigorating, and haunting - is ours to remain awake to, to savor, to believe.Read More
The Canaanite woman is a theological alchemist who spins herself into a narrative not originally meant for her.
The Revelation to John, like much of the Bible, is considered “literature of the oppressed.” It is a collection of sayings and visions that flip the script of history. Instead of Caesar, Herod, and other leaders having taking center stage, St. John defers to Jesus, the one whom he describes as both lion and lamb. The one whom Jerusalem’s elites wrote off as a bygone trend. The one whose followers Rome was bent upon crushing. And yet, in the middle of exile, John crafts this haunting piece of literature: a letter that assures its various audiences that despite persecution, isolation, and other pending forms of violence, the crucified and risen, broken and mended, executed and resurrected Christ is the first and last word in history.
For John, the risen and ascended Jesus is the, “the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” And while the Roman Empire and the broader world may not perceive it, Jesus is God’s way of saying that terror, persecution, and oppression do not have the final word. In John’s apocalyptic imagination, the martyrs and the faithful dead - not soldiers and emperors - are the heroes, heroines, and stars of the drama.
And then it happens: the Bible ends. If we were to read this passage from a copy of the Bible, we’d see that these are its final words and that the grand story of our origin and meaning has reached its conclusion. And yet, like any good story, it’s not really over because it ends with an invitation, not a statement; a comma, not a period. “The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” The weight of history’s Alpha and Omega, history’s A and Z, history’s beginning, middle, and end now rests with us, that body of people nourished and sustained by bread and wine, washed and nurtured in the waters of baptism.
This drama, this great flipping and inverting of history continues in our own day, as we join the saints, living and dead, around this Table, saying, “Come. Just be thirsty.” Amen.
Seventh Sunday of Easter
Grace-St. Luke’s Church
One of the temptations when discussing Good Friday is to become a theological robot, repeating the cerebral maxims and platitudes that muffle the visceral brutality of crucifixion. We’d rather quote statistics about poverty than tell the stories of the impoverished. We’d rather examine suffering at thirty-two thousand feet than zoom in on its particularity. This impulse to impersonalize Jesus’ suffering, however, is not present in a text composed by an anonymous Irish monk between the eighth and thirteenth centuries.
"At the cry of the first bird," writes the monk, "they began to crucify Thee, 0 Swan!" And never shall lament cease because of it. Never shall lament cease in the wake of the crucifixion of Christ the Swan, that elegant fowl. In crucifixion, its wings are cut and every hope that glided with it in migration is crushed. Crushed by the Roman Empire, crushed by a Temple Industrial Complex bent on the suppression and oppression dissenting voices and identities. But instead of elevating empires and other systems of domination, the medieval Irish monk focuses in on Mary:
Crucifixion - for this monk at least - is the severing of a tender relationship: that of parent and Child. It is Mary, witnessing the unjust execution of her Son while he witnesses her grief, which becomes for him, a source of greater grief than his slow, brutal death; a mutuality of grief all too common in our own day.
A parent seeing their child for the last time before she serves her prison sentence for drug possession; a daughter heartbroken because of her parents’ tortured final gaze. A first responder who arrives at a scene only to witness the victim’s last breath; the victim’s final gasp of hope and then the realization that this is it. A black mother watching her black child be lost to the guns of police and vigilantes; a black child thinking of her mother just before breathing her last on a modern-day Calvary.
At the cross, I doubt Mary articulates a theology of salvation or a dogma of atonement. If anything, as she watches her Son suffer and die, she quickly develops the skill of questioning God. “For what am I losing my Son? How am I supposed to make sense of senseless brutality?” And with Mary, baptized people throughout the ages wrestle and have wrestled with similar questions about loss, suffering, and the myriad ways our hearts are punctured by trauma.
If Mary is the mother of God, as the Church's early councils entitled her, she is also the mother of risk. Because God, in Christ, is the cosmic risk-taker, the swan who traverses our well-worn migration patterns for the sake of humanity's flourishing. While I am usually inclined to attribute Jesus' proclivity towards risk to his divine nature, I must wonder why I have never attributed this to the rearing of his risk-taking mother. The Mother who takes the risk of unwed motherhood, of non-traditional parenting, of unconventional, ambiguous paternity?
This proclivity towards risk is what brings Mary to the cross with Jesus; much like parents in oppressed demographics who still birth children, knowing that their first breath as an oppressed person will be one of struggle. And yet, through Holy Spirit-inspired grit, Mary not only brings Jesus into the world, but is a witness to his final moments.
Mother Swan. Mother Risk. Mother of Risk, we thank you.
Grace-St. Luke’s Church
“The Crucifixion” from Hermit Songs
The contrast could’t be starker: Mary anoints; Judas antagonizes. Mary prays with her whole body while Judas preys on her lavish offering. Mary fills the room with the aroma of pure nard while Judas fills the room with the stench of self-interest. Mary sees Jesus as the subject of her devotion while Judas sees Jesus as an object to serve his greed. These contrasts elevate the social, political, and interpersonal tension of this moment.
Today’s Gospel text is sandwiched between Jesus’ controversial raising of Lazarus and the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which we will commemorate next Sunday in the festive Liturgy of the Palms. On some level the scent of revolution is in the air and it is intoxicating. Jesus’ fame is gaining traction as word about his raising of Lazarus. This causes a frenzy in Jerusalem, forcing the Temple Establishment to convene, asking what could be done to stop Jesus’ growing momentum. And the buzz is highlighted at the end of the preceding chapter : “‘What do you think? Surely he will not come to the festival, will he?’Now the chief priests and the Pharisees had given orders that anyone who knew where Jesus was should let them know, so that they might arrest him” (John 11:56-57).
In this context, amid the foment of public anxiety and private angst, Jesus arrives in Bethany. Bethany where Lazarus was raised, Martha was crazed, and Mary was praised. Bethany, where the so-called Jesus Movement became a threat to the powers that be. Bethany, where Jesus could find refuge from a demanding populace thirsty for liberation. A part of this refuge is the ritual of the ordinary: reclining at a table and having dinner. Instead of posturing or campaigning, Jesus shares a meal with close with friends. It is during this tender, intimate scene that Mary takes a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anoints Jesus’ feet, and wipes them with her hair, filling the house with the fragrance of the perfume. Mary responds to social unrest with adoration.
But Judas Iscariot objects: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor? Why was this money wasted on fragrant beauty when it could have gone to a more noble cause? Why wasn’t she more prudent with her budget?” This question leads the narrator of this Gospel to insert: “He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief.” If Mary is preoccupied with adoration, Judas is preoccupied with domination.
In the chaos of the final days before Jesus’ brutal crucifixion, Judas is swept away by greed. But this doesn’t happen overnight. Judas’ ball of betrayal begins rolling long before Bethany. It begins as he realizes the trajectory of Jesus’ life won’t lead to a throne, but a cross; not to centers of power, but to the margins. This brings texture to his eventual betrayal, causing us to believe that Judas probably betrays Jesus for much more than thirty pieces of silver; Judas betrays Jesus because Judas feels betrayed by Jesus’ solidarity with the impoverished. And if one fundamentally despises the impoverished - blaming them for their plight instead of critiquing the system that impoverishes them - there is little hope of one finding anything compelling about the arc of Jesus’ prophetic life and agenda.
The scene in today’s text is a clash of visions: Mary’s love for a person who loved her first and Judas’ self-interested pursuit of power and prestige. These are two distinct visions of what it means to live in the baptized community of Jesus: to be loved and claimed by him, to be transformed by an encounter with the Incarnate God; visions that war within us even today; visions that pill us in various directions: chaos or community; domination or deliverance. And much like the Eucharist we will share today, it all happens at a table. Amen.
Fifth Sunday of Lent
Grace-St. Luke’s Church