Now For a Little While

This final chapter.  My ten year journey alongside the good people of Aldersgate is drawing to a close.  I confess it isn’t ending like I dreamed it would, and there is heartache in that.  But I am learning to find moments to celebrate. And there are many things to give thanks for, many relationships that sustained me, many souls that have been touched by our shared ministry.  I can’t help but give God thanks for the ways God’s blessings have been experienced here in the past ten years.  Thanks for those who have welcomed us like family, for those who have been instrumental in shaping me and my family into who we are today.  To those who have caught the vision of what we could be, what we are called to be in Christ, and worked like crazy to make it happen.  The Kingdom was experienced at Aldersgate by those who had eyes to see.

So, what shall be the theme of this final chapter?  How shall we begin the process of following the call of God to continue to be the body even as we walk separately from here?  What shall we grab hold of to carry us into God’s glorious future?  Joy.  

Just that?  Joy?  Nothing more profound?  Just ...Joy?  Well, yeah.  But no.  No, in fact, there is no such thing as just joy.  Nothing “only” about it, nothing insignificant, nothing easy, nothing “no big deal” about joy.  It is central to the faith.  Really?  Central?  I thought that was love.  Yes, it is.  Two centers?  No, one center, or central expression.  You’re right, it is love.  But Paul’s letter to the Galatians says that this central expression, this fruit of the Spirit, love is characterized first by joy.  It is the chief property of love.  A joyous love.  That’s what we ought to have, ought to exude, ought to live each and every day.  And why not?  We’ve got everything we could ever ask or imagine.  Our cup runneth over.  The Lord is our shepherd, we shall not want.  Do you hear how many verses are pointing us toward joy?  Read through the Bible (that was fun wasn’t it?  How long ago was that? Maybe time to do it again) and find every word telling us that we can be, we ought to be, we are given permission and encouragement to be joyful.  And don’t forget this one:

1 Peter 1:3-9 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 4 and into an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, 5 who are being protected by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. 6 In this you rejoice, even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials, 7 so that the genuineness of your faith-- being more precious than gold that, though perishable, is tested by fire-- may be found to result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. 8 Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy, 9 for you are receiving the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

First Peter.  Not a letter we read all that often.  It’s just tucked away back there toward the end of the New Testament as though it was embarrassed to be included.  I’ll just sit back here, out of the way, so as not to bother anyone, it says.  Call me if you need me.  But I hope you won’t.  Really.  And why so shy?  Besides the fact that Peter had been through the wringer and was probably a little skittish.  

Well, this letter isn’t really for us.  I mean it is, of course, all of scripture is God-breathed and useful for building up.  But it isn’t.  This letter was written when the church was under constant threat. When the benediction was spoken in a whisper because everyone knew when they gathered again someone likely would be missing, caught up in the cleansing, in deportations and imprisonment. When they were afraid of their neighbors.  Afraid they might discover that they practiced a minority religion, practiced a suspect faith and might turn them in to the increasingly vigilant authorities who were out to make the nation safe.  They were looked at with suspicion as they passed their neighbors on the street. They didn’t feel safe in their own home towns, their own places of work.  They were, in fact, model citizens.  They did jobs no one else would do.  Christians were often the only ones who care for the dead, who would treat the body as though it was something precious and give it a decent burial.  Because they believed that life was bigger than what we could see with our eyes.  But others thought that was just odd.  And icky.  And scary.  

Questions began to be raised in the communities of faith.  Should we go under ground?  Should we hide?  Blend in, act like them?  Would it be safer to pretend we aren’t saved by grace through faith? Should we act as though we weren’t asked to pray for our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, because it’s risky, and darned hard?  The question was should our faith move inside: inside our heads, inside our hearts.  Should it be a personal faith that keeps us safe and warm where it really matters in the imaginations of our inner life?  

This was the question Peter set out to answer in this letter.  OK, let’s be aware that there are some who don’t think this letter was actually written by Peter.  The timing is wrong, they say, the vocabulary doesn’t sound like a Galilean fisherman.  Besides, his name was Simon, not Peter.  OK, I get that.  And they’re probably right.  But, doesn’t it sound like something Peter would do?  If he didn’t write it, then maybe he said it and later someone wrote it down and put his name on it.  If he did write it, I’m sure he did it without a sense of irony.

If the question should we hide is the one being addressed, who better than Peter to answer it?  Peter, who professed his loyalty to his Lord with moral conviction and then ran like a scared bunny when things got heated.  Who claimed his steadfastness with loud protests, and then claimed to not know who they were talking about when someone asked him about this Jesus.  Of course Peter would answer this question.  He’s been there.  He understands the pull to save one’s own skin.  He has a grasp on reality, he knows what will work and what won’t.  He’s as pragmatic as they come.  So, who better?  What do you say Peter?  Stay safe?  By no means.

We’d need to study the whole letter to get all the answer, but we can catch a glimpse of Peter’s spirit even in these opening verses.  A new birth, that’s our gift.  A new life not based our merits, not earned by the sweat of our brows, but by the resurrection of Jesus Christ.  And now that gift is ours.  And nothing can diminish it.  Nothing can snatch it out of our grasp.  But it is ours.  As sure as the air we breathe.  As sure as the light we see.  As sure as the hope in our hearts.  It is ours, this gift of life.  This way of seeing ourselves and all of creation around us.  It is ours.

There is only one response to that.  Only one.  Rejoice.  Yes, of course, rejoice.  And there are times when I can rejoice.  Times when things are going well and I can contemplate the fullness of the promise of eternity.  Then, yes, I can look inward and rejoice.  Feel good about what has been given, content.  Satisfied.  Uh, no, says Peter, grinning in his beard.  You rejoice, even if now for a little while you suffer.  Wait, what?  Rejoice while suffering?  That doesn’t compute.  I know, right?  Says Peter.  But yeah, it really does.  Here’s the thing, you’re alive.  I know, and I’d like to stay that way. No, alive.  Not just living.  You’re alive.  Which means that anything that happens is just a moment in eternity.  Just a blip on the screen.  So all those things that terrify you don’t mean anything.  They can’t diminish you, they can’t break you.  You’re alive.  I didn’t get that then.  I get it now.  All there is is love.

Peter laughs at his own thoughts.  Sounds like a pop song, doesn’t it?  But it’s the truth.  The deep truth.  Love that starts with Him, the One I turned my back on, but who never turned His back on me. Love of Him who loves so deeply it shakes you to the core.  Love so profound we are remade.  Made alive.  Call it salvation, that’s the only word that fits.  We are being saved by His love.  Saved to love like Him.  Saved to live like Him.  Does that sound like a party or what?  

His teeth gleam through that tangle of a beard, weathered face wrinkling around his eyes as he reaches out with those big fisherman hands to slap you on the back.  Welcome to the party, he shouts a little too loudly.  Rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy.   Amen, Peter, amen.

Shalom, 

Derek

Sightseeing in the Cemetery

This is it.  The end of the line.  Our journey is complete.  We began Lent by wandering in the wilderness, acknowledging our hungers.  We encountered Jesus on the way.  We came to Him by night for a confusing conversation about claiming life, and a promise of love that we cling to even in our darkness.  Especially in our darkness.  We met Him in the middle of our day, when we hoped we wouldn’t be noticed, and He told us everything we had ever done, and loved us anyway.  So we ran and told everyone we knew, even those we had hoped to avoid by going to the well at noon.  We felt Him rubbing mud on our eyes so that we could see what we had never seen before, and whole new vistas opened up before us, and even though those around us couldn’t see what we saw and doubted that we were anything other than the blind one we had been before, we reveled in the light that He brought into our lives.  Then the stone we had been hiding behind, the stone that blocked our way forward, cut off our air, crushed our hope, was rolled away at His command and we walked forth, blinking in the light of life.  He did that for us, we remembered.  We wept tears of joy and hope, we clung to him.  Wanting to stop and dwell, to set up camp, to just be.  He wouldn’t stop.

He kept moving forward, and we went with Him, not wanting the light to dim, not wanting the life to fade.  We went with Him, waving our Palms and shouting with joy and with hope, Hosanna.  Save us. Claim us. Want us, we are Yours, for now and for always, Yours.  He rode on our red carpet of many colors as we cast our coats before Him.  He acknowledged our shouts and promises of allegiance with a sadness we couldn’t grasp.  Our joy was real.  Our commitment was deep.  We were His.  He kept moving.  

We sat at the table as He lifted the bread.  He told us it was Him.  The bread, somehow, was Him. His body, broken into as many pieces as we needed, would need, now and into eternity.  We ate with clouded eyes and confused minds.  He was here, right here with us, why did we need this bread to be Him?  The cup He raised, giving thanks for the fruit of the vine and the sweetness we would drink, then He gave it to us and said to drink, because it was Him.  His blood, His very life, poured out, as though a sword had pierced His side, flowing down to cover us, to cover our sin, all that would keep us from Him, from clinging to Him, as we had just promised we would.  We drank, tasting the bitter and the sweet, the pain and the promise both.  It burned all the way down as we gazed into His eyes and heard His words of the betrayal to come.  We prayed with Him in the garden at night, tried to stay awake to comfort Him, but sleep overcame us and we left Him alone to rail against the night and succumb to the will of the One who sent Him.

We walked with Him when they came, with swords and clubs, with hatred and fear, we walked with Him as they tore Him away from us, beat Him and abused Him.  We walked with Him as they laid on Him a sentence of death, a cross of shame.  We walked with ... No, no we didn’t.  We wanted to.  We thought we did, we promised we would.  But it was our fear that tripped us up again.  How many times had He told us not to be afraid?  And we deserted Him in this hour, we denied Him, we betrayed Him.  And now He walks alone, down those palm strewn streets, out to the hill and He gave Himself up for us.  And the world wept and shook as the darkness descended.  

And now here we are.  The end of the line.  No where left to go.  As if a conductor has announced the last stop, we shuffle to the exit with no destination in mind.  We stumble blindly in our personal darkness wondering what happened to hope.  We gasp for the breath that now escapes us, as though we had just run a marathon and can’t breathe without feeling the pain of our exertion, desperately needing the wind to blow, the air to fill our lungs again.  But there is nothing.  A stillness.  An emptiness.  It presses down on us, a weight too heavy for us to bear.  All we can think of is death. His death, and ours.  He carried us with Him when He went, when He breathed His last, He took the air out of our lungs.  And now we lie, gasping for life, like the fish we caught that day when He found us and sent us out into the deep water.  All those fish.  Dead.  Like us.  

When you can think of nothing but death, where else should we go?  We head to the cemetery.  Just to look.  Just to see.  To see the only reality we know any more.  The only certainty we have.  Death. His death, and ours.  So, we go.  Just to look.

Matthew 28:1-10 After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2 And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. 4 For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. 5 But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. 7 Then go quickly and tell his disciples, 'He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." 8 So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. 9 Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. 10 Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

What did you go to see?  The Marys that went sightseeing in the cemetery, what did they go to see? Death, tombs, stones and shrouds.  They went to weep at the end.  The end of the line, no where else to go.  Nothing else to hope.  Just ... death.  A life surprised them again.  Not a quiet, unassuming life. Not a gentle fluttering of doves.  But the ground shook, the stone rolled, a being of light came and sat on the stone as though it was a royal throne he was keeping warm for someone else.  When he spoke it was like an organ playing, like strings plucked, notes reverberating through the air.  Don’t be afraid. Still those words are said.  Our final nemesis isn’t death after all, it’s fear.  The fear of death, yes, but the fear of abandonment, the fear of failure, the fear of disappointing the One we love more than life itself.  We are gripped by fears too many to name, crippling us, binding us, limiting us in ways we barely comprehend.  Don’t be afraid, the being of light sang to us.  Don’t be afraid.  

I know, he sang with a smile because he was in on the divine joke, because she was ready with the punchline.  I know you seek the dead one.  The died one.  The killed one.  There ain’t such a person at this address.  No death here, even in the realm of the dead.  No one by that name, Jesus the dead one.  Unable to forward, person unknown. The orchestra sitting on the stone could barely contain the laughter.  But, she chuckled, if you want Jesus the Risen, I can give you the directions.  I’m your Mapquest, he slapped his thigh at that one. I’m your GPS, she snickered behind a shining hand.  Go, the song swells, Go, the strings vibrate and the horns announce, Go.  

Go where?  Go home.  Go home, the place you’ve run from because it bores you.  Go home, the place you run to because you think it will keep the world at arms length, though it fails to do so on a regular basis.  Go home and there you will see Him.  Surrounded the familiar that now looks different, because He breathed life into you.  Surrounded by the ordinary that now crackles with the lightning of divinity, the earthquake of love that is stronger than death.  Go home, to the place you felt most alone and know you will never be lonely again.  Go and see the world in your backyard.  Go and see heaven in the earth you know best. 

So, they run because they can’t think of anything else to do, any reason not to.  They run full of hope and the fear that simply won’t release its grip on them. On us.  We run, with a word.  A message.  You will see Him.  You will.  See Him.  Him.  Not the dead one, the hung on a cross one, the stripped and beaten and spat upon one.  But the Risen One.  The Alive One.  You’ll see Him, where you live, at home.  

He ties on an apron and stands near the frozen fish and hands out samples of life as we dash through the aisles filling our carts with things we hope will satisfy our hungers.  The microwave dings and He hands us a sample with a smile, and we taste and it is good, better than anything we’ve collected to that point.  But we push on, afraid we’re falling behind.  As we rush away it sounds as if instead of telling us which shelf holds this sample He says something else. It couldn’t be, could it?  But it sounds like ... well it sounds like He said “Follow me.” 

You will see Him, that’s the message of Easter.  You will see Him, the Living One, the Alive One, Him.  And in that seeing, you’ll be able to breathe deeply again.  Happy Easter.

Shalom, 

Derek

Take Away the Stone

Forgive me talking about the transition so much.  It is kind of all consuming.  And my Bible studies have always grown out of the experience of living in the world held up to the mirror of the text.  So, here we are again. Looking at life through the reflection of the Gospel of John.  And it is as startling as that first bleary eyed glance in the bathroom mirror, when you wonder how your parents got into your bathroom to gaze back at you.

Anyway, some of you know that my new place of service does not have housing provided.  They offer a housing allowance instead, which meant that we needed - at this advanced stage of our lives - to become homeowners.  Needless to say, since this wasn’t in our immediate plans, it threw us for a loop.  We were staggered by the piles of information and warnings and options open to first time home buyers.  Some of the sources we looked to for help only managed to make things worse.  We seemed to be faced with an insurmountable obstacle in our immediate future.  A stone that was too large to get over.

We encounter stones on a frighteningly regular basis, don’t we?  Roadblocks.  Dead ends.  No outlet. Whatever it is that gets in the way of the progress we planned. We may hope for open roads and clear access to our goals, but invariably there is the great unknown, the enemy that brings all your plans to a halt.  And everything grinds to a halt in the face of this hopelessness.  Large or small.  Until someone, or Someone, can take away the stone.

John 11:1-45 Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. 2 Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. 3 So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, "Lord, he whom you love is ill." 4 But when Jesus heard it, he said, "This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God's glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it." 5 Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, 6 after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. 

7 Then after this he said to the disciples, "Let us go to Judea again." 8 The disciples said to him, "Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?" 9 Jesus answered, "Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. 10 But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them." 11 After saying this, he told them, "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him." 12 The disciples said to him, "Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right." 13 Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. 14 Then Jesus told them plainly, "Lazarus is dead. 15 For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him." 16 Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, "Let us also go, that we may die with him." 17 When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days.

18 Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, 19 and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. 20 When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. 21 Martha said to Jesus, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22 But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him." 23 Jesus said to her, "Your brother will rise again." 24 Martha said to him, "I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day." 25 Jesus said to her, "I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, 26 and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?" 27 She said to him, "Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world." 

28 When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, "The Teacher is here and is calling for you." 29 And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. 30 Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. 31 The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. 32 When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." 33 When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. 34 He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." 35 Jesus began to weep. 36 So the Jews said, "See how he loved him!" 37 But some of them said, "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?" 38 Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. 39 Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, "Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days." 40 Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" 41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, "Father, I thank you for having heard me. 42 I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me." 43 When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" 44 The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him, and let him go." 45 Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him. 

John, and by implication Jesus, wants us to see beyond the miracle.  We could stand in awe of the moment where Jesus bends the laws of creation and works something incomprehensible.  But there is so much to this story that we almost have to force ourselves to look beyond that unexplainable moment.  That’s why we’re overwhelmed with words again this week.  Look deeper into the mirror and see your life, even if we don’t come hopping out of a tomb wrapped in grave clothes.

Like Martha we hint at questions rather than ask them.  “Lord, he whom you love is ill.”  OK, thanks for the information.  But then later, like Martha, we complain when those unasked questions aren’t answered. “If you had been here...”  And then we’re known to find an excuse to get away from one who wants more from us than we can give.  Did you notice when Jesus starts getting into Martha’s faith statement, she slips away and tells Mary to go talk to Him.  This is more your area than mine. I’m good with a spatula, you know theology.  Even the crowd at the cemetery tsks behind their hands, “you would think He could have come a little sooner.” 

And then those tears.  Shortest verse and all.  Jesus wept.  Began to weep in our translation.  Those around Him went “aww, look how much He loved His friend.”  Completely missing the point.  Or rather confirming the reason for the tears.  Of course Jesus loved His friend, He loves all of us.  So much that our limited sight causes Him pain.  Jesus wept twice in the Gospels, here and on Palm Sunday, when he rode into Jerusalem and saw the city spread out before Him and His heart broke at the blindness, at the lack of vision, the lack of faith, the inability to see beyond that stone called death into the life of joy and peace and hope.  

We sit behind those stones, stymied so long we begin to stink.  Until Someone comes along and says “Take away the stone.”  Wait, what?  Take it away?  You mean, just like that?  Take it away?  Or better yet, live as though it wasn’t there?  Move forward into the unknown, be unwrapped and live? Notice Lazarus doesn’t move his stone.  Others move it.  Lazarus doesn’t unwrap his shroud, others unwrap it.  He is set free from that which binds him, from that which takes his life, by the community acting on the direction of the Christ who weeps for our blindness.  Who asks whether we believe.  

Do you believe this?  I am Lord of life, he says, I am stronger than the stone called death.  You need not live in fear, you need not limit your own life, your own living.  Set it aside and embrace life in all its beauty and joy and risk, because I’ve got your back.  Do you believe this?  Well, says Martha and all of us, kinda.  Sorta.  Yeah.  I guess.

Somehow, with the help of friends and financial institutions of various kinds, we are now homeowners.  Or will be soon.  Somehow, that stone wasn’t the end we thought it was.  Sure there are some more stones to move, more struggles to endure.  But somehow we moved forward.  Step by step.  Taking away the stones as they come.  One by one.  Thanks be to God.

Shalom, 

Derek 

Formerly Known As

The beginning of the moving process is the sorting.  Going through everything you own and wondering why you got it in the first place, and why you kept it all these years.  Or how can you bear to part with it, even though you only vaguely remember where it came from.  And then all those things you’ve saved, papers you wrote, letters and such, all those photos from a world you barely remember.  Was that you?  Did you once look like that?  Did you once think like that?  Who was that? What happened?

That’s probably the biggest question we ask ourselves in these moments, these reflective moments, looking back to a you you used to be but barely remember.  What happened?  Life happened.  But it was more than that, wasn’t it?  It was your life.  The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that Hamlet decries in his famous soliloquy debating whether life is worth living given all that rolls over us with relentless consistency.  Granted he was having a bad day, but still.  What happened?  It’s often a question we can’t really answer, even to those who have lived as long, through as much, as we have.  But theirs is not ours and ours is not theirs and what happened is too personal, too specific, too intimate to even describe.  That happening, however, made us who we are.  New, different.  Better? Hopefully.  But different anyway.  

Our story today is about a man who walked through one of those doorways into a new life.  In some ways it is a simple thing.  A miraculous simple thing.  He met Jesus one day.

John 9:1-7 As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" 3 Jesus answered, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him. 4 We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world." 6 When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man's eyes, 7 saying to him, "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see.

Simple, right?  A miracle.  But in this story he is hardly a person at all.  He’s an object lesson, a theological conundrum.  Who sinned and made him like this?  Who’s to blame for his brokenness? Jesus’ impatience with this line of argument seems profound.  This is about work, God’s work. About seeing every challenge, every opportunity, every turn in the road a chance to claim the goodness of God, the glory of God.  Then he shows what he means.  Make a life better because you encountered it.  

The problem is that better is not always seen as better by those who got used to the way it was. Something isn’t right here, they said, the folks who were used to him being blind.  They almost didn’t believe it was him. 

John 9:8-12 8 The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, "Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?" 9 Some were saying, "It is he." Others were saying, "No, but it is someone like him." He kept saying, "I am the man." 10 But they kept asking him, "Then how were your eyes opened?" 11 He answered, "The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, 'Go to Siloam and wash.' Then I went and washed and received my sight." 12 They said to him, "Where is he?" He said, "I do not know."

He couldn’t explain what happened.  You had to be there, he said.  Something happened he said.  I did this thing with mud and a voice and now here I am.  But that didn’t satisfy them.  They went for help, for authorities.

John 9:13-18 13 They brought to the Pharisees the man who had formerly been blind. 14 Now it was a sabbath day when Jesus made the mud and opened his eyes. 15 Then the Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, "He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see." 16 Some of the Pharisees said, "This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath." But others said, "How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?" And they were divided. 17 So they said again to the blind man, "What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened." He said, "He is a prophet."

Dang it Jesus, get a calendar. Quit just looking at people and wanting to help.  Start paying attention to the rules, to the patterns, to the ways we have of doing things.  It’s almost like He’s trying to pick a fight every time.  Just say come back tomorrow, or wait until dark.  The man was blind since birth, what’s a few hours?

The Pharisees put on their Sherlock Holmes hats and grabbed their pipes and decided to investigate. Talk to the parents.  Something is afoot!  

John 9:18-23  18 The Jews did not believe that he had been blind and had received his sight until they called the parents of the man who had received his sight 19 and asked them, "Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?" 20 His parents answered, "We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; 21 but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself." 22 His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews; for the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue. 23 Therefore his parents said, "He is of age; ask him."

So they did.  John 9:24-34 24 So for the second time they called the man who had been blind, and they said to him, "Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner." 25 He answered, "I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see." 26 They said to him, "What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?" 27 He answered them, "I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?" 28 Then they reviled him, saying, "You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. 29 We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from." 30 The man answered, "Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. 31 We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. 32 Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. 33 If this man were not from God, he could do nothing." 34 They answered him, "You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?" And they drove him out.

Some investigators.  The facts don’t fit their way of seeing so they throw them out.  Throw him out. This thing that happened, that you can’t explain, isn’t real, they said, you’re still blind, or you were pretending all these years just so you could pull this trick.  This isn’t how things are supposed to go. Get out of here, they said.  You’re messing with our way of seeing the world.  Then they pretended nothing ever happened and they stuck their fingers in their ears and said na-na-na-na-na until the formerly blind man left, shaking his head at them as he did.  Only to run smack into Jesus who was looking for him.  

John 9:35-41 35 Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, "Do you believe in the Son of Man?" 36 He answered, "And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him." 37 Jesus said to him, "You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he." 38 He said, "Lord, I believe." And he worshiped him. 39 Jesus said, "I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind." 40 Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, "Surely we are not blind, are we?" 41 Jesus said to them, "If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, 'We see,' your sin remains.

“I have come so that those who don’t see may see and those who do see may become blind.” Something has to change.  We get to choose how we deal with the change.  We get to decide if we want our eyes opened or closed.  If we want to see what happens as growth, as new and exciting and something that makes us stronger, better, more alive.  Or if it asks too much of us and all we want is to close our eyes and stumble in the dark that feels more familiar.  He lets us choose that.  Embrace the One who comes and makes us different, worship in the hope that we can become even more, know even more, claim even more, live even more.  Or cling to what was, even when it’s already gone.  Cling to the ghosts of what we used to be, hold on to an image of youth that isn’t really us any more.  All I know, the formerly blind man said, is that I was blind and now I see.  Our call is to be ready to tell who we are now, even if we can’t always explain what happened.  Yeah, that was me then, but this is me now.  Thanks be to God.

Shalom, 

Derek 

And The Well Is Deep

We’re breaking new ground around here these days, crossing boundaries previously uncrossed.  And it is nerve-wracking, unsettling, to say the least.  The new ground isn’t all that dramatic, really.  Many of you have crossed it before, maybe even a long time ago, and now it’s no big deal.  But the unknown is always sobering if not terrifying.  This particular new ground is that of home ownership. I have lived in parsonages all my life - except when I was in university housing.  And my wife and kids have known only this somewhat nomadic kind of life, relying, as Blanche DuBois says in “Streetcar Named Desire,” on the kindness of strangers.

But now it is all about to change.  The new church doesn’t own a parsonage, and instead provides a housing allowance.  Which means we are moving into the undiscovered country of home ownership. At this stage in our lives to be first time home buyers is a bit daunting, to say the least.  And that we were unprepared to make this leap is also something of an understatement.  But here we go, crossing a line, taking a risk.  Holding our breath, with lots of prayers, we’re stepping out.

Crossing boundaries is never easy.  There is always risk involved.  And it could go terribly wrong. Sometimes those boundaries are there for protection, sometimes they are necessary, sometimes they are helpful to us.  But other times they limit us.  Even worse they keep us from being who we are called to be, who we could be, who our hearts long to be.  And the sooner we can cross over the better.  

Our passage this week has boundaries all over the place.  You almost have to have a scorecard to keep track of them.  The reading starts with verse five of chapter four of the Gospel of John.  But to get the mood, we really need verse four.  And then it just goes on and on, crossing boundaries, stepping into the unknown.  So, hold on to your hats.

John 4:4-42 4 But he had to go through Samaria. 5 So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. 7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, "Give me a drink." 8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water." 11 The woman said to him, "Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?" 13 Jesus said to her, "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." 15 The woman said to him, "Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water." 

16 Jesus said to her, "Go, call your husband, and come back." 17 The woman answered him, "I have no husband." Jesus said to her, "You are right in saying, 'I have no husband'; 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!" 19 The woman said to him, "Sir, I see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem." 21 Jesus said to her, "Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. 24 God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth." 25 The woman said to him, "I know that Messiah is coming" (who is called Christ). "When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us." 26 Jesus said to her, "I am he, the one who is speaking to you." 

27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, "What do you want?" or, "Why are you speaking with her?" 28 Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29 "Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?" 30 They left the city and were on their way to him. 31 Meanwhile the disciples were urging him, "Rabbi, eat something." 32 But he said to them, "I have food to eat that you do not know about." 33 So the disciples said to one another, "Surely no one has brought him something to eat?" 34 Jesus said to them, "My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work. 35 Do you not say, 'Four months more, then comes the harvest'? But I tell you, look around you, and see how the fields are ripe for harvesting. 36 The reaper is already receiving wages and is gathering fruit for eternal life, so that sower and reaper may rejoice together. 37 For here the saying holds true, 'One sows and another reaps.' 38 I sent you to reap that for which you did not labor. Others have labored, and you have entered into their labor." 

39 Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman's testimony, "He told me everything I have ever done." 40 So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them; and he stayed there two days. 41 And many more believed because of his word. 42 They said to the woman, "It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world."

“He had to go through Samaria.”  Actually He didn’t.  In fact most travelers of the time would have done all they could do to avoid going through Samaria.  If there is any had to, it is they had to not go. But Jesus had to.  Why?  Because it was His business to cross boundaries.  He had to so that He could do the job, so that He could live the life He came to live.  He had to.  

He had to step across social convention and speak to a woman on her own at the well in the middle of the day.  No, wait.  He had to speak to a Samaritan woman at the well in the middle of the day.  A Samaritan woman alone, possibly shunned, looked down upon, a woman who out of self-defense and shame made her trip to gather water in the heat of the day, when no one else in their right mind would venture out.  Not just speak to, but ask for a drink. A drink of water, from her personal flask, the one she drank from to quench her personal thirst.  Now this Jew, obviously lost, wandering around an unwelcome land, asks to drink from her hand, almost.  She’s shocked, the disciples when they return are shocked.  That Jesus so cavalierly steps over boundaries into the new world, a new way of living in community.  

We know the conversation, that’s usually the content of the study and the sermon.  How she stubbornly missed the point, kept Him at arms length, tried to turn a discussion about a hurting heart into a theological/worship preference conflict. But Jesus kept crossing boundaries, kept getting closer, kept getting deeper.  She knew it was deep.  She didn’t want to go there.  The well is deep she said, hoping He would give up His pursuit of her soul.  But He kept crossing the line, asking more intimate questions, wanting more of her.  Finally she waved it all off, Yeah, well, someday, she said, quoting the line everyone knew and no one really believed, someday, the Messiah will come and sort out all the brokenness, all the abuse, all the boundaries that keep us from knowing and living love. Someday. He smiled.  Today, He said.  That day is today.  

Was she sure?  Was she convinced?  Or did she just want to hope?  She ran off and spoke to those who had shunned her, tossed her aside.  Spoke to those she had come to the well in the heat of the day to avoid.  Could this be, she said breathlessly, could this be?  And something about her boldness, something about her disregard of proper behavior made them curious enough to come and see for themselves.  So, they came and saw and believed.  

Meanwhile the disciples sat in stunned amazement.  He talked about food they couldn’t see, and He ignored boundaries they could see.  But He came relentlessly closer.  Crossing into territory they had never entered. But like the villagers, they had decided to believe, which meant their lives were in His hands.  So, they followed Him.  Across the boundaries, into a new way of living.    

Shalom, 

Derek 

Speak of What We Know

Transitions are hard.  I’m leaving in a few months.  And this transition seems harder than most.  But maybe necessary.  The latest manifestation of the need for change arose in the conversation of a group of leaders of the church who are charged with finding a way forward, who truly do, I am confident, want what is best for the church as they see it.  Someone said maybe we should wait for the new pastor to come and see what vision is brought for the church and see how we can support that.  Someone else said, no, the new pastor will want to know what our vision is and then help us fulfill that.  And then the question came: Do we have a vision?  “No, we don’t” was the response.  We don’t have a vision here.

For ten years I have been pastor to this congregation.  I have taught children and youth and adults.  I have visited the sick and comforted the grieving.  I have presided over death and celebrated life.  I have performed weddings and given ritual prayers at social occasions. I have met late at night with those who are hurting, tried to mend broken hearts and broken relationships and broken hopes.  And I have preached.  For ten years, I’ve preached that we are here to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.  I talked about the absurdity of that calling and yet the compelling hope and challenge of it.  For a good part of my time I tried to live into the words given by my predecessor, “Creating Contagious Christian Community” as a way to live into that vision of making disciples.  We even spent some considerable time talking about reclaiming it, a refreshing of all the time that was spent in creating that statement.  We enhanced it, added dimensions and layers.  But it never became a part of the conversation of the church, beyond a few grumbles that it made us uncomfortable, that contagious thing you know.  So I came at it from a different angle, tried to build on what was there but to grasp what was becoming the identity of Aldersgate.  I presented some words at a council meeting.  “Feeding Hungry People.”  That’s who we are and who we can be, I said.  If we choose.  If we wish to claim them.  To catch the vision.  I presented them as a possibility and invited conversation, meetings, debate, other suggestions.  I heard a few conversations, answered questions and shared ideas when asked.  But just wanted to let them lie there and see what would grasp the attention of the body.  Finally someone asked are we ever going to vote on this statement?  So we did.  And “Feeding Hungry People”, bodies, minds souls became the statement of the body by council vote.  We chose it together.  Yet, I still heard “We don’t have a vision here.”

John 3:1-17 Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. 2 He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." 3 Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." 4 Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" 5 Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. 6 What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. 7 Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' 8 The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." 9 Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" 10 Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? 11 "Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. 12 If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? 13 No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. 14 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, 15 that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. 16 "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. 17 "Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

Nicodemus was a leader of the people of God.  He was a Pharisee and a member of the Sanhedrin, the governing body of the Jews in Israel at Jesus’ time.  He comes at night, maybe because serious study takes place at night, or maybe because he was afraid to be seen associating with this questionable Rabbi from the backwoods.  He comes with social niceties, a bit of flattery to grease the wheels of conversation.  But Jesus immediately changes the subject.  Jesus immediately puts him on the defensive.  You have to be a different person to be a part of what God has in store.  “What?”  Nicodemus is reeling almost immediately.  Knocked off his feet and he spends the rest of the conversation trying to catch up. 

He makes a feeble joke, about climbing back in his mother’s womb, hoping to disarm the intensity of the Teacher.  Because the being a different person was couched in a metaphor about birth.  Born again, he said, born from above.  The word in Greek means both things, a reference to time and to direction.  Born again, as if the first time wasn’t traumatic enough, again as if the first time wasn’t as full of potential as it needed to be, again as if drawing breath like never before, filling your lungs with more than air, breathing in Spirit instead, in addition.  Spirit from above, as if you were too focused on this life, the one lived out in front of your eyes and anything invisible isn’t real.  Anything invisible, like love and hope and joy and transformation and possibility, isn’t what life was about when born from below.  It’s not a bad life, just a shallow one, just a nose to the grindstone and find your meaning in successes and failures each and every day and not in the love of a creator who stands ready to fill you with vision.

Let go, Nicodemus, let go of the need to control, your need to have everything your way. Let go of the belief that you can build a better world, a more vibrant community by shaping it along the lines of your own preferences and understandings.  Grab hold of the Spirit, and be blown about, from one world to the next, from one joy to the next, from one soul to the next.  Be born into a new way of seeing, let go of what was, no matter how satisfying it may have been.  Grab hold of where God is calling you to go, who God is calling you to be.  

I’m not telling you anything new, Nicodemus.  I’ve been saying these things since I got here, since the beginning of time.  This is all I have to say, this is all I know, this God thing, this vision of the people of God, the community of faith.  I have not stopped saying this.  And you are a leader of people and somehow don’t get it.  How can this be, Nicodemus?  What did you miss?  Get ready, it’s about to get even more intense.

Jesus gave Nicodemus a whole lot of stuff to think about, to process.  We don’t know how it all impacted him, what he went away with that night.  But a few chapters later, when the rest of the leadership is complaining that the police didn’t arrest Jesus for speaking of the kingdom of God, Nicodemus speaks up and says, don’t we have due process?  Not an affirmation of faith, by any means, but at least he attempts to stand on the side of right.  They sneered at him and accused him of being a hick from the sticks like Jesus.  Then Nicodemus shrinks from sight completely.  

Well, not completely.  He doesn’t speak again.  But he shows up in the darkness again, the afternoon darkness of a weeping world, and gathers up the body from a horrible death, and wraps it up with about a hundred pounds of spices and puts it in the tomb of another Pharisee named Joseph.  A hundred pounds of spices?  Was that really necessary?  I don’t know.  Maybe.  Or maybe it was overkill.  Overboard.  Maybe it was apology spice, maybe he finally understood what he had missed that night in the darkness and wanted to make up for it by bringing so much that he could barely carry it, a penance of spice poured out over a dead body that wasn’t going to stay dead, though he didn’t know that yet. 

Summing up this story is a verse we all know.  Know by heart.  Or maybe know by rote, not yet by heart.  For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whosoever believes in Him may have eternal life.  Believes as in puts their life in, surrenders everything to, joins completely.  Shares the vision.  Having a vision means more than a slogan we can recite, though that can be helpful.  It means grabbing hold of the wind, it means leaning into the Spirit, even when it blows you out of your comfortable spot.  So, I’m leaning into the Spirit and will go where I’m sent.  I pray you will too.

Shalom, 

Derek 

If You Will Fall Down

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  Thank you Lao Tzu.  Whatever that means.  I mean we think we know.  It sounds great.  Something powerful, something that sounds impossible, has humble beginnings.  Actually, supposedly the original quote said a thousand li journey.  A li was an ancient Chinese measurement that equaled three hundred and sixty miles.  So, he actually said a journey of 360,000 miles begins with a single step.  Wow.  How far do you have to go today?  More than a quarter of a million, but just short of a half a million miles!  Yikes, better sit down.  You realize that is more than a hundred thousand miles past the moon?  OK, now I’m tired. Thanks Lao Tzu.

We’re on a journey.  That’s how we describe the season of Lent.  It’s our Lenten Journey.  The devotional we are using is titled “Moving Toward the Cross.”  It is a daily reflection based on the writings of Frederick Buechner, one of my long time favorite writer/preachers.  

The Lenten Journey. The very concept implies at least two things.  One that we are moving.  This isn’t a static, sit and contemplate event.  I know we often think of Lent as a time of consideration, self-reflection, introspection.  And certainly there is an element of that inherent in the design of the season.  But movement is built into the pattern of the season.  We are walking with Christ.  And Christ is on his way somewhere.

That’s the second implication of the season: we have a destination.  This journey isn’t just random wandering in the wilderness, even though it often feels like it.  We are on a path, and I’ve already given it away in the devotional title.  Moving Toward the Cross.  That’s our destination.  The culmination of our Lenten journey is not Easter sunrise, as much as we wish it was.  No, Easter is something completely different.  We can no more journey to Easter than we could travel a hundred thousand miles past the moon.  Easter is another dimension of time and of space.  No, actually it is beyond time and space.  It is completely out of reach.  More on that to come ... really.

No, our destination is much more earthy.  Much more real.  And, unfortunately, more painful. Requiring more sacrifice, more surrender.  The journey to the cross is a journey laden with struggle, with a wrestling match with our greatest foe.  Ourselves.  I know, you were hoping for an enemy to conquer.  A stranger who’s a threat.  The bad guy.  Them.  You know those people, that type, the evil empire, all that stuff.  Yeah, no, sorry.  It’s you.  Old Pogo had it right.  We have met the enemy and he is us.  And because he is us, because this journey is an inner journey at least in part, we’d just as soon not.  We’d give it a pass, and most of the time we do.  No thanks, I’m fine.  Our usual social response.  No thanks, I’m fine.  All on my own, I’m good.  It’s everyone else that is the problem.  If it weren’t for them, all would be peachy.  

Which means that our philosophical aphorism ought to be “a journey of a thousand (or three hundred sixty thousand) miles begins with a single stumble.  We fall down a lot.  That’s kind of our story.  We start out that way.  I remember when the kids were learning to walk all those years ago.  Falling down seemed to be the way of it.  Hardly any attempt was made without crashing down on their thankfully well padded existential ground of being.  Sometimes there was tears.  Sometimes frustration. Sometimes the ground seemed a safer place and the attempt was put off until another day.  We fall down.  Any journey that gets us anywhere important is going to include a few stumbles.  A stubbed toe, a cracked shin, a bloody nose, a teary moment, an unplanned detour, a lack of resources, a mechanical failure, a ... well, point taken.  We fall down.

Which leads us to continually ask why bother?  If the journey is too great, why take it?  If I’m likely to fall down, why set out?  Especially to heading someplace that is “good for me”?  God save us from what is good for us.  That just seems to scream painful, exhausting, humiliating, and ultimately asking for me to change.  

Who does that?  Who seeks that strenuous, wrestling with self that leads to surrender and sacrifice and then transformation?  Who does that?

Matthew 4:1-11  Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. 2 He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. 3 The tempter came and said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread." 4 But he answered, "It is written, 'One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.'" 5 Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, 6 saying to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you,' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'" 7 Jesus said to him, "Again it is written, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" 8 Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; 9 and he said to him, "All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me." 10 Jesus said to him, "Away with you, Satan! for it is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'" 11 Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Yeah, ok.  Him.  He would go for that.  But then He’s ... Him.  Well, take another look.  Matthew (and Luke) says that He was led up.  He didn’t go looking for it.  He didn’t run to meet it.  He shuffled forward in the line at Ash Wednesday with the same slumped shoulders as the rest of us.  Mark even goes further and says the Spirit drove Him into the wilderness.  Kicking and screaming perhaps.  I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.  Or maybe not, maybe He knew that this journey was one worth taking.  Even though it ended at what seemed like a dead end.  Even though it ended with a painful betrayal and an agonizing night and lonely and broken surrender of life on a hill that looked like a skull, under a blazing sun that didn’t weep until it was too late for Him to feel it.

But that was His journey, not ours, surely.  We don’t spend forty hungry days in a desert hallucinating conversations around impossibilities and sleight of hand.  Do we?  No, of course not.  We can’t turn stones into bread, that wouldn’t enter our minds.  But we can turn every hunger into a physical one and satisfy spiritual needs by stuffing our faces or filling our closets.  We can’t leap from the pinnacle of the temple and be caught by angels.  But we can leap into self destructive habits that lead to death more often than not in the misguided belief that we are immortal as long as we don’t think about it. We aren’t shown the kingdoms of the world in their splendor and given the keys to these kingdoms if we just fall down again.  Yet we believe we deserve everything, anything our hearts desire, in an odd confusion about rights and freedoms.

We fall down.  Over and over.  The painful realization is that our journey is not just the forty days of Lent, but the whole of our lives.  Every day we are given opportunities to claim the gift of life that we’ve been given in Christ, and we fall down.  We surrender to our own temptations, to our own selfishness, me time.  Instead of surrendering to the cross.  Upon which we can nail all our falling down, all our brokenness.  Instead of journeying to the death of self and of sin.  We wrestle with the adversary inside of us, our own willfulness.  And we fall down.  

We seem to think Lent is about falling down.  About collapsing in tears and remorse and regret and this overwhelming sense of sinfulness.  That’s the only way to move forward, we seem to think.  But maybe, like the One we follow, our Lenten opportunity is to not fall down.  For once.  We stand in the arms of the One who stood for us.  We stand and we walk with Him all the way to the cross.  

So, old Lao Tzu was right.  It’s not about falling down, not about stumbling.  It’s about standing and stepping.  It’s about taking the first step.  Putting our hands in His hand and taking that first step on the road to the cross.  It’s a long painful journey, but one worth taking.  Walk with me.

Shalom, 

Derek