“A Bitter Intimacy”

Job 23:1-9, 16-17 and Romans 8:31-39

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

5/5/24

³¹What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us? ³²He who did not withhold his own Son but gave him up for all of us, how will he not with him also give us everything else? ³³Who will bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. ³⁴Who is to condemn? It is Christ who died, or rather, who was raised, who is also at the right hand of God, who also intercedes for us. ³⁵Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword? ³⁶As it is written,

“For your sake we are being killed all day long;
                  we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.”

³⁷No, in all these things we are more than victorious through him who loved us. ³⁸For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, ³⁹nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (NRSV)

         Last week we began looking at Job. Much happens between the first two chapters and the twenty-third chapter. So, let’s begin with some review. 

         Job is a man of wealth and renown. He lives by rules of hospitality and generosity.

Then, twice, God brags on Job to the accuser. And twice, the accuser, doubting all human goodness and faithfulness, challenges God to make things difficult on Job. God relents, and in no time, Job has lost everything except one furious wife.

“Curse God, and die!” she screams. But even in his emotional, spiritual, and physical pain, Job does not “sin with his lips.” And a fierce conversation begins.

Cursing the day of his birth, Job wishes himself dead. Then we meet Job’s three friends, Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar, all of whom say basically the same thing: You must be guilty of something. Confess it, accept your punishment, and move on.

Throughout the saga, Job maintains his innocence. Things reach a crescendo when Job speaks words that Handel completely misuses in the Easter portion of The Messiah. In 19:25-26, Job cries out, “For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been…destroyed, then in my flesh I shall see God.”

Job is claiming a vindicator, someone who will help him get justice from God who has so uselessly and unjustly abused him.

In chapter 22, Eliphaz scolds Job yet again saying, “Is not your wickedness great? There is no end to your iniquities.”

And to Eliphaz, the ever-faithful Job says:

² “Today also my complaint is bitter; 
    his hand is heavy despite my groaning.
³ Oh, that I knew where I might find him,
    that I might come even to his dwelling!
⁴ I would lay my case before him
    and fill my mouth with arguments.
⁵ I would learn what he would answer me
    and understand what he would say to me.
⁶ Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power?
    No, but he would give heed to me.
⁷ There the upright could reason with him,
    and I should be acquitted forever by my judge.

⁸ “If I go forward, he is not there;
    or backward, I cannot perceive him;
⁹ on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him;
    I turn to the right, but I cannot see him.

¹⁶ God has made my heart faint;
    the Almighty has terrified me.
¹⁷ If only I could vanish in darkness,
    and thick darkness would cover my face! (NRSV)

         “If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!”

Job’s accusatory lament reminds me of Psalm 139 when the poet says, “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you…for darkness is as light to you.”

Somehow, in the midst of his existential darkness, Job cannot not sense the light of God.

         Both Job and the psalmist acknowledge that the utter loneliness of human suffering still happens within the context of intimacy with God. It’s a bitter intimacy, but intimacy, nonetheless. And if we can’t share our deepest anger, fear, and hurt with those we love the most, do we truly love them? When we offer to God nothing but laundered and starched formality, aren’t we just trying to gloss over something?

         After my first year at Columbia seminary, I interned at a church in a small town south of Atlanta. During that summer, a church member died an untimely death. A few months earlier, the man had been a heart patient at a hospital in Atlanta—a good hospital, with a good staff, where a good person made a bad mistake and gave medication to thicken instead of thin the man’s blood. There were confessions. Tears all around. But the damage was done.

         A couple of weeks after the funeral, I went with my supervising pastor to visit the man’s widow. She greeted us with gracious melancholy. After pleasantries, the pastor read some scripture. He began with words of comfort, Psalms 23 and 42. Then he read from Psalm 44 in which the poet dares to name God’s shortcomings: “You have rejected us and abased us…You have made us like sheep for the slaughter…You have sold your people for a trifle… and covered us with deep darkness.”

         The lady squirmed in her chair and said, “O my! I don’t believe I could talk to God like that.”

         While I understand that, I also think we need to feel free to offer to God the rawest, most bitter intimacies of our hearts. Sometimes they’re the most profoundly honest prayers and most sincere affirmations of faith that we can utter. They take seriously our faith that God creates the world and declares it good. Bitter intimacy also takes seriously God’s steadfast presence in the midst of human suffering.

         Job’s tortured laments do all of these things. They also emphatically declare his innocence. Elie Wiesel says that Job felt troubled by his own innocence. It “left him in the dark…[Job] demanded…an answer that would show him unequivocally that [humankind] is not a toy…Job turned against God to find and confront Him.” Specifically, says Wiesel, Job “defied [God] to come closer to [God]…[Indeed] Job needed God because he felt abandoned by…his wife [and] his friends,” none of whom had anything to offer but sanctimonious pity and judgment.­¹

         Job’s anger and his stinging laments declare his absolute faith that his suffering does not reflect the will of God. As pervasive and inescapable as suffering is, it is not God’s desire for anyone. And very often, in our most vehement, unfiltered protests of God, we draw closest to the one who, as James Finley says, “protects us from nothing [yet] sustains us in all things.”

         People of wisdom know that truth, but one challenging annoyance in all of this is that God’s sustaining faithfulness becomes most real in retrospect. The writer of Psalm 23 would have nothing whatsoever to say without having already known the speechless despair in the “valley of the shadow of death.” He could “fear no evil” only by having already endured fearsome evils.

         For many in the world right now, these are times of darkness, uncertainty, and suffering. And it’s easier to act like one of Job’s “friends,” to cast blame and judgment. As children of God, however, one of our callings is to enter the bitter intimacy of lament, to lend our voices to the cries of suffering in the Creation, and in doing so, to help reveal the presence, the strength, the grace, and the love of God.

         And let’s remember, healthy lament always begins with our own intimate struggles with God. When people of faith do not feel free to be bitterly honest with God, we will almost certainly, like Job’s wife and friends, project onto others our anger at and fear of some deity we really have not known and are too timid to confront. Misdirected intimacies and bitterness can cause any of us to lay the burden of blame on people who deserve compassion, not judgment.

If the story of Job does nothing else, it ushers us into the deepest, darkest, most faith-threatening pain in our lives and in the world. And it calls us, in the midst of that pain, to draw near to God, who is nothing like the caricatured deity of Job 1 and 2.

Job also invites us to prepare for and to meet the God being revealed in Jesus of Nazareth—the God who comes to us as one of us, and suffers with us. The God who transforms even our deepest sufferings into sustaining wisdom and redeeming hope.

That God creates and sets the table before us today and invites all humankind to come the feast of reconciling and restoring grace.

¹Elie Wiesel, Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends, Random House, NY, 1976, pp. 198-199

“The Labyrinth of Job”

Job 1:1, 2:1-10 and Romans 8:22-23

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

4/28/24

There was once a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job. That man was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil.

One day the heavenly beings came to present themselves before the Lord, and the accuser also came among them to present himself before the Lord.

²The Lord said to the accuser, “Where have you come from?”

The accuser answered the Lord, “From going to and fro on the earth and from walking up and down on it.” 

³The Lord said to the accuser, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil. He still persists in his integrity, although you incited me against him, to destroy him for no reason.”

⁴Then the accuser answered the Lord, “Skin for skin! All that the man has he will give for his life. ⁵But stretch out your hand now and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse you to your face.”

⁶The Lord said to the accuser, “Very well, he is in your power; only spare his life.”

⁷So the accuser went out from the presence of the Lord and inflicted loathsome sores on Job from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. ⁸Job took a potsherd with which to scrape himself and sat among the ashes.

⁹Then his wife said to him, “Do you still persist in your integrity? Curse God and die.”

¹⁰But he said to her, “You speak as any foolish woman would speak. Shall we receive good from God and not receive evil?”

In all this Job did not sin with his lips. (NRSV)

²²We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, ²³and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. (NRSV)

         Job: History or legend? A flesh-and-blood human being or an amalgamation of human experience in general and of Jewish experience in particular? What we’re asking is whether Job WAS real or IS real?

In his book Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends, Jewish scholar and holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel included an essay entitled “Job: Our Contemporary.” Wrestling with the stories around the story, he says, “Once upon a time. When? Nobody knows. [Job’s] name is mentioned by Ezekiel in passing, along with those of Noah, and Daniel—was he a contemporary of one or the other? Possibly. Other legends link him alternately to Abraham, Jacob, Moses, Samson, Solomon…and…the Babylonian exile. He would thus have lived…more than eight hundred [years].”¹

Later in the same essay, Wiesel describes Job as one who “was everywhere and everything at the same time…[a man characterized by] peregrinations through provinces and centuries.”²

So, to ask, “WAS Job real?” means arbitrating nearly a millennium of conflicting stories. It becomes a kind of maze, a complicated playground with only one entrance and only one exit and lots of dead ends in between. The point of a maze is simply the entertainment of getting lost. The experience leaves you essentially unchanged.

Now, the question, IS Job real? asks something entirely different. It brings the question into the moment. It acknowledges unmerited suffering, and dares to ask, Does God cause our suffering?

To ask if Job IS real is to enter not a maze, but a labyrinth. And a labyrinth is a spiritual practice in which one walks a set course of twists and turns that seems maze-like, but a labyrinth is about surrendering to Mystery, not becoming mystified.

When walking a labyrinth, one follows the pathway, shedding distractions, pretensions, and fear. That single, trustworthy path leads to a center—a place of stillness, reflection, and divine encounter. It also becomes a place of metanoia—of turning and new beginning. To leave the labyrinth, one simply retraces your steps and exits exactly where you entered. Assuming due discipline, which includes regular trips through the labyrinth, one becomes a transformed pilgrim who can help transform the world—or your little corner of it.

To ask if Job IS real is to enter the story as if walking a labyrinth. At the center of this story-labyrinth, we encounter God in, of all places, a gut-wrenching experience of human suffering. When traveling with Job as a path of divine encounter, we discover that regardless of whether or not he existed as a particular individual, Job most certainly IS real.

On the path of discovering the immediate IS-ness of Job, we walk shoulder-to-shoulder with all of the characters in the story. In the first curve in the path, God brags on Job’s righteousness. Irked by God’s boasting, “the accuser” dares God to test Job.

Make anyone miserable enough, says the accuser, and they’ll turn on you quicker than you can say Jezebel.

And then…What?! God accepts the accuser’s challenge? For the second time! (Job 1:6-12)

Do your worst, says God, just don’t kill him.

(The word of the Lord. Thanks be to God?)

Who wants to walk justly, kindly, and humbly with that God?

Then we meet Job’s wife, and she reminds us that it was not just Job who lost everything. Her family and fortune are gone, too. Furious, she dares her husband to test the faithfulness of God the way the accuser dares God to test the faithfulness of Job. And a long, bitter standoff begins.

Instead of eating the toxic apple of vengeance his wife offers, Job lies in an ash heap, scrapes his oozing sores with a potsherd, and cries, “Let the day perish in which I was born and the night that said, ‘A man-child is conceived.’…Why did I not die at birth?…I loathe my life.”

Utter despair is not exactly where one expects to find God, is it? Indeed, many people dismiss the very notion of God when caught in the grip of suffering that seems to have neither purpose nor end. And hasn’t the tantalizing but tormenting influence of the prosperity gospel conditioned many of us to interpret a lack of physical pain and a surplus of material wealth as signs of God’s presence and favor? From the sale of indulgences in the medieval Catholic Church to the Protestant work ethic of rewards and punishments, the Church has infected countless generations with such dis-grace. It has funneled people into a kind of doctrinal maze. Turn here, now there. Memorize this and that. Do not trust experience. Just believe and repeat what you’ve been taught. While there may be some comfort in that kind of certainty, it makes us look more like lab rats in a maze than disciples on a journey.

While the labyrinth of faith does lead us toward gratitude and joy, it also leads us toward suffering. And we encounter God in both places.

When Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio was elected Pope in 2013, he chose the name Francis because of his concern for those who suffer. And during one of his first Holy Weeks as Pope, he famously washed and kissed the feet of prisoners. Since then, he has spoken boldly things like climate change and the death penalty—issues of human suffering. He has also declined invitations to dine with a host country’s leaders in order to eat with the homeless in the streets outside.

While Pope Francis is far from perfect, he often demonstrates what it can look like to walk the labyrinth of faith rather than to wander the maze of theological convention. When he does, he helps us to remember that Jesus—who is more eager to have followers than mere “believers”—leads us into a labyrinth where we encounter God’s most amazing grace in the midst of the world’s deepest pain.

Remember what Jesus says in Matthew 25: “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food or thirsty and gave you something to drink…[or] a stranger and welcomed you or naked and gave you clothing…[or] sick or in prison and visited you?’ ⁴⁰ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.’” (Matthew 25:37-40)

Maybe this is why Jesus often seems more authentic in the projects than the palaces.

We’ll return to Job over the next two weeks. In the meantime, I encourage you to spend time with this remarkable story. And as you read it, trust it. Let a very realJob take you by the hand and guide you to a place of very real suffering, your own or someone else’s. Be honest with any feelings of anger, betrayal, bewilderment, or despair. And if you find yourself in that dark and lonely place, sit still. Open your heart and your mind, and both give and receive the grace of the Living God.

Then may you turn and begin your journey outward—retracing your steps toward healing, transformation, and hope.

¹Elie Wiesel, Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends, Random House, NY, 1976, p. 188.

²Ibid., p. 190.

“God’s Gracious Yes”

Psalm 121 and John 3:1-17

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

4/21/24

¹ I lift up my eyes to the hills—
    from where will my help come?
² My help comes from the Lord,
    who made heaven and earth.

³ He will not let your foot be moved;
    he who keeps you will not slumber.
⁴ He who keeps Israel
    will neither slumber nor sleep.

⁵ The Lord is your keeper;
    the Lord is your shade at your right hand.
⁶ The sun shall not strike you by day
    nor the moon by night.

⁷ The Lord will keep you from all evil;
    he will keep your life.
⁸ The Lord will keep
    your going out and your coming in
    from this time on and forevermore. (NRSV)

Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. ²He 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 unless God is with that person.”

³Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

⁴Nicodemus 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?”

⁵Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. ⁶What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. ⁷Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ ⁸The 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.”

⁹Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?”

¹⁰Jesus answered him, “Are you the 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. ¹²If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? ¹³No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. ¹⁴And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, ¹⁵that 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. (NRSV)

References to John 3:16 show up everywhere, from Sunday school classrooms, to billboards, to bridge abutments, to eye-black on athletes.

However, when divorced from the words of the verse itself, the citation, John 3:16, tends to devolve into a secret handshake, a smug cryptograph. And when the verse appears out of context, it can be used with manipulative intent, saying, in essence, God may love you, but if you don’t say out loud that you believe in Jesus, God will still send you to hell. Have a nice day.

I find that disturbing because, while the words of John 3:16 are, to many of us, as familiar as our own names, those 27 words (or so, depending on the translation) become deeply and permanently transformed when we read them in the context of the over 200 words of John 3, and the nearly 84,000 thousand words in the gospel of John. In context, John 3:16 swells from a soundbite about a life in the sweet by-and-by to a daring call to inhabit and embody God’s realm in the here-and-now. So, let’s review that context.

Nicodemus, a Pharisee of significance, creeps about under the cover of darkness. He’s looking for Jesus. Nicodemus recognizes that approaching Jesus for serious conversation almost certainly means public censure. Let’s remember, too, that the Jewish leadership is furious at Jesus since he has so recently and pugnaciously run the authorized moneychangers out of the temple. So, a censure could even mean some sort humiliating punishment or exile.

When Nicodemus finds Jesus, he says that he privately believes that Jesus is from God because it takes uncommon holiness to do the things Jesus does. Now, Nicodemus makes that as a statement, but he’s really asking a question. And maybe he’s afraid to come right out and ask it because a Yes from Jesus would change everything. Nicodemus’ question is the same fundamental question the incarcerated and doomed prophet, John the Baptist, sends his disciples to ask Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for another?” (Lk 7:19/Mt 11:3)

Instead of offering a definitive Yes, Jesus responds with a cryptic comment about being either “born anew” or “born from above.” Scholars can debate which translation is more accurate, but it seems to me that, in John’s world of symbol and metaphor, they mean pretty much the same thing. That’s what makes those yard signs that scream “Ye must be born again!” so befuddling. It grieves me how casually some can forsake grace—which is God’s boundless Yes to us—and reduce the mystical faith of Jesus to a mandated regurgitation of an absolute derived from one narrow interpretation of one verse, in one chapter, from one book in the community library which is the Bible.

Then again, maybe it feels safe to declare that being “born again” is the exclusive criterion for salvation. After claiming to be born again, we can rest easy in the manufactured certainty that we have mollified God’s fury, and God will, thus, deign to allow us into heaven. Maybe that sounds like grace because it sounds so easy, but it also requires that one imagine God as resentful and violent, and human beings as little more than ten pounds of sin stuffed into five-pound sacks.

Now, I’m not saying that offering a Yes to God is unimportant. In John, though, Jesus is God’s loving and preemptive Yes to us, a Yes uttered not only before Nicodemus asks, but before the formation of the cosmos itself. That’s why John opens his gospel saying, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God…and without him not one thing came into being.” (John 1:1-3)

God’s Yes to us came long before there was an Us. And, maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that any god whose love is not fully available until weemancipate it by declaring ourselves “born again” is just a graceless idol. And grace is God’s essence. Grace is God’s character. Grace is God’s vision and legacy for the Creation.

Nicodemus is trying to live in an absolute and literal world. That’s why he asks the absurd question about a grown person returning to the womb and reentering the world with a second trip through the birth canal.

Jesus’ response again slips right past Nicodemus. He distinguishes between being born of flesh and born of the Spirit. He speaks of the Spirit blowing wherever it will, and poor Nicodemus just can’t follow. “How are these things possible?” he says.

I think John is using the Pharisee’s question to goad his readers into imagining what is possible in a world created by God’s eternal Yes. And God’s Yesis about more than the possibility of entering a post-mortem heaven. It’s about the possibility of living differently in this world now. I hear Jesus talking about living this flesh-and-blood-and-spirit human life more fully by living more deeply-connected to God who, as Spirit, moves about wherever and however God chooses. And while God is beyond our control and beyond our full comprehension, aren’t God’s movements always consistent with grace? With love? With peace and holy justice?

This blows-where-it-will Spirit is the energy that bears us, that births us into the new life through which we connect so deeply to God that our seeing, hearing, thinking, and interacting are transformed into signs and expressions of grace. Jesus implies that he is born of the same Spirit. And he says that “everyone who is born of the Spirit” can experience much of what he, as God’s grace incarnate, experiences.

Imagine that. Through the reverberating Yes of God in Christ, God bears us into Christ-mirroring holiness! That’s pretty wonderful—until we remember that Jesus experiences harassment, rejection, abandonment, and execution. That’s his earthly reward for committing himself to God’s grace.

“For God so loved the world [For God so Yes-ed the world] that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him won’t perish, but will have eternal life.”

To “believe in” Jesus doesn’t begin and end with voicing belief. For John, belief means living transformed and transforming lives of compassion and hope, lives bent toward justice and joy right here, in this imperfect yet God-infused reality.

St. Francis of Assisi said, “Remember that when you leave this earth, you can take with you nothing that you have received—only what you have given: a full heart, enriched by honest service, love, sacrifice and courage.”

A “full-heart” life births us into the eternal life of Christ—a here-and-now life that doesn’t condemn the world, but enters and embraces the world. A life of deep and intimate connection to God through deep and intimate connection to all that God has created. For God so loves all that God has created that, in the power of the Spirit, God enters the Creation to reveal the Son—the eternal, and the universal, reconciling Christ.

“The Road to Emmaus and Back”

Isaiah 35:1-7, 10 and Luke 24:13-35

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

4/7/24

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad;
    the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus ²it shall blossom abundantly
    and rejoice with joy and shouting.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
    the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
    the majesty of our God.

³ Strengthen the weak hands
    and make firm the feeble knees.
⁴Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
    “Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
    He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
    He will come and save you.”

⁵Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
    and the ears of the deaf shall be opened;
⁶then the lame shall leap like a deer,
    and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness
    and streams in the desert;
⁷the burning sand shall become a pool
    and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp;
    the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
¹⁰And the ransomed of the Lord shall return
    and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
    they shall obtain joy and gladness,
    and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (NRSV)

         The more I wrestle with varieties of biblical texts, the more deeply I hear a single voice speaking at the heart of them all. Just as the language of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit affirms the presence of one God, the language of Incarnation, Death, and Resurrection affirms the same whirling mystery of grace.

         The Incarnation suggests that human beings are born out of an eternal union with the Creator. We can deny or mask our oneness with God, but we cannot destroy it. It is our “original blessing,” and it cannot be undone by any talk of “original sin.”

Taken seriously, the truth of humankind’s God-imaged selves can affect everything we say and do. It can move us toward excitement and delight. It can motivate us toward the blessed hunger and thirst for righteousness (Matthew 5:3-11) that leads us to work for God’s holy justice for all.

A healthy understanding of Incarnation can even help us celebrate things like birthdays and Christmas. When a gift reflects incarnate awareness, it reveals in both giver and receiver the eternally-beloved person God sees. So, maybe the gift of colored pencils and a sketch pad energizes a shy child for creative expression and self-understanding. Maybe a camera helps an older person to share the world as their eyes of experience and wisdom have learned to see it.

The best gifts tell you that the giver celebrates your existence and regards you, yourself, as a gift. And if God gives us life, what does that say about who God is and how God loves?

As the ultimate affirmation of Incarnation, Resurrection is a whole different animal. Resurrection completely rearranges our human being. As a gift given to restore our primordial and eternal union with God, Resurrection releases us into God’s realm of unbounded mercy and love. That’s why Resurrection and forgiveness are so intimately related. To forgive and to be forgiven is to shed a deadly burden that diminishes our lives, a burden that buries us in tombs of regret or vengeance.

Now, yes, it is easier to forgive when the other admits offense. The scandal of the gospel, though, is that God’s forgiveness in Christ is preemptive; it precedes our repentance. And while such grace is entirely loving to the one forgiven, forgiveness between human beings is also entirely liberating to the one who forgives. Preemptive forgiveness says, Regardless of anything you do or don’t do, I will not allow anything to impede my joy. So that at least I may live fully and freely, I forgive you.

I understand that there are wounds so deep that preemptive forgiveness can become impossible. In those cases, I think one starts by simply asking for the gracious strength not to seek vengeance. By saying No to revenge and Not yet to forgiveness, we acknowledge and live in the tension of the ongoing struggle between our destructive impulses and our elemental need for relationship.

Forgiving and being forgiven both involve the same painful death—the death of pride. Proud hearts beat with a living death, and can neither let go of grudges nor admit error. Nonetheless, I trust that the God of grace always sees those hearts not as lost causes, but as places of potential resurrection. Remember what Isaiah says: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly.”

         Incarnation, Death, and Resurrection have something else in common. They reveal the fullness of their transforming power not inside some tomb or sanctuary, but out there—in the world, in the midst of day-to-day life.

¹³Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, ¹⁴and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. ¹⁵ While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, ¹⁶ but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. ¹⁷ And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?”

They stood still, looking sad. ¹⁸ Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”

¹⁹ He asked them, “What things?”

They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, ²⁰ and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. ²¹ But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. ²² Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, ²³ and when they did not find his body there they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. ²⁴ Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see him.” 

²⁵ Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! ²⁶ Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” ²⁷ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

²⁸ As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. ²⁹ But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”

So he went in to stay with them. ³⁰ When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. ³¹ Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight.

³² They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” ³³ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem, and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together.

³⁴ They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” ³⁵ Then they told what had happened on the road and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. (NRSV)

         As Cleopas and his companion travel the road toward Emmaus, their destination is simply geographical. They have yet to experience their own transforming deaths—their own Friday. 

Enter the resurrected Jesus, who shows up as a random stranger.

         “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel,” says Cleopas.

         Wow, says Jesus. You sure are slow to die to that which blinds you to truth.

         Now, let’s be easy on Cleopas. It’s no small thing to die to the generations-long expectation that God’s messianic plan includes military conquest. Indeed, just two verses after speaking of the desert blooming, Isaiah says that God “will come…with terrible recompense…[to] save you.’” Cleopas represents everyone who expects shock-and-awe from God, and it’s hard to let that hope die in order to follow Jesus, who teaches non-violence, forgiveness, humility, and compassion.

         As the three men walk, Jesus reviews the story of God’s involvement in and for the Creation. In doing so, he gives these pride-bound disciples another run at Friday, another chance to die to all that their well-intentioned doctrines, and all that their years of frustration and suffering have led them to believe about God’s activity in the world.

         Then, when Jesus breaks bread with them, their eyes [are] opened, and they [recognize] him. They see him through the spectacles of community and grace.

         When Emmaus is our destination, geography defines our journey. And maybe it begins that way, but Cleopas and his companion don’t stay in Emmaus. After their burning-heart experience, and after the revelation of the elusive, here-and-there risen Christ, they hurry back to Jerusalem, giddy with wonder and excitement. So, the road they travel is The Road to Emmaus and Back—a seven-mile hike that ends at dusk, only to turn them around and send them back those same seven miles, in the dark.

         As a Friday-to-Sunday experience, the Emmaus journey is the perennial passage of Incarnation, Death, and Resurrection. The startling newness that begins in Emmaus returns us to day-to-day reality where we embody the news of Resurrection by sharing our own transformed selves.

         To share ourselves is to live in community. And the body of Christ lives, moves, and has its being in the world through community. As Trinity, God is community. Joining this holy and dynamic kinship, we enter God’s presence. We experience the guidance of the Holy Spirit. And newly-birthed into the sacredness of our God-imaged selves, we follow the risen Christ wherever he leads.

         One spiritual teacher says, “I believe that the Christian faith is saying that the pattern of transformation is always death transformed, not death avoided…That is always a disappointment to humans,” he says, “because we want…transformation without cost or surrender.”¹

         On the road to Emmaus, we try to avoid God’s death-transforming grace. And Emmaus can be anywhere—in front of some screen or other distraction, in our fears and resentments, at the bottom of a bottle.

In Emmaus, though, death is transformed through the sharing of fellowship, stories, and meals. And in that communion, God strips us of our comfortable but selfish assumptions, then turns us, and sends us back out to do what we could not do before—begin learning to live according the radical grace of Christ, from whom we were born and into whom, through the power of Resurrection, we are being constantly re-born.

¹https://email.cac.org/t/ViewEmail/d/E159479F503F99402540EF23F30FEDED/CAEF12FB6B3D7B5544D0DD5392A9C75A

Dear Friends,

         When one door closes, another one opens, says the old adage. And it seems as true as it does trite. Mostly.

“In my end is my beginning,” writes E. S. Eliot in The Four Quartets.

         “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his,” says Paul to the Romans. (Romans 6:5)

         They’re all saying something similar. And this wisdom isn’t limited to our own spiritual tradition. Throughout the ages, humankind has shared the experience that endings and beginnings hold much in common.

         From the cross, as death engulfs him, Jesus says, “It is finished.” And with that, the earthly Jesus dies. His limp corpse is removed from the cross and placed in a tomb, which is then sealed with a huge rock. He is only thirty-ish. Not that old by first-century standards, and not old at all by today’s. So, it would seem that his life is cut short. But is it?

Scripture and the witness of 2000 years of disciples would argue that as short as Jesus’ life may have been, it is complete. And when something reaches completion, the implication points toward a deeper level of significance that if something is simply declared to be over. That’s why a given semester may be over, while one completes a degree.

When Jesus says, It is finished, both his ministry and his life are complete. His tomb, then, becomes a kind of cul-de-sac, a place of turning around. Or as one person said, Jesus didn’t come out of the tomb so much as he went slap through it. (I honestly don’t recall who said that, but it was likely Richard Rohr.) So again, Jesus’ end and his new beginning are, simultaneously, distinct and indistinct.

          With a fatalistic, tongue-in-cheek snort, some folks like to say that the only certain things in life are death and taxes. In matters of faith, we can’t claim much in the way of certainties, but with the fullest of trust, we call Resurrection our “sure and certain hope.” When making that affirmation of faith, we’re declaring that, finally, regardless of circumstances, the goodness, justice, and love of God will prevail. And this hope empowers us for living in the here-and-now according to those resurrecting attributes of God. They allow us to see in all endings, unexpected changes, or turns of events possibilities for God to reveal some new aspect of God’s realm of grace.

         While these are uncertain times, hasn’t every era been rife with its own triggers for grief, suspicion, and doubt? And through them all, the proclamations of Incarnation and Resurrection remain our sustaining hope. If God Incarnate overcomes death, we can overcome whatever painful realities life throws at us. For there is no end that God cannot transform into a new beginning.

Blessings and Peace,

         Pastor Allen

“Terror and Amazement”

Mark 16:1-8

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/31/24

Easter 2024

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. ²And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. ³They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” 

⁴When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. ⁵As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. ⁶But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. ⁷But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.

 ⁸So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. (NRSV)

         The women “fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them.”

         I tried to remember the last time I felt genuinely seized by spiritual terror andamazement. And I couldn’t think of anything. I’ve been hearing the Easter story for 61 years. And I’ve been preaching it for fifteen days shy of 28 years. And when trying to come up with yet another Easter sermon, I identify far more with the women as they approach the tomb than when they run away from it.

Approaching this familiar story, I wonder who will roll away the stone of my increasingly unexpectant heart—a heart that often feels like it’s trying only to freshen up a corpse, trying to put spices on an old, old story entombed in an old, old book.

According to the ancient custom, women bore primary responsibility for swaddling the bodies of the dead with spices to fend off the stench of decomposition. And according to Mark, the three women tasked with washing and embalming Jesus’ body knew that they couldn’t get in the tomb on their own. So, why didn’t they bring someone to help them?

Well, embalming a body may have been a routine practice, but given the women’s love for Jesus, given their weariness from grief, and given the condition of Jesus’ body when he died, (I mean, Friday was a bad day, wasn’t it?) maybe they really wanted not to get inside.

Perhaps more pastors than will admit it approach the beloved texts of Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost with a similar weariness. Trying to preach these same stories year after year can be depleting. One possible problem, though, especially at Easter, is that we keep trying to say something inspiring, comforting, and “uplifting.” And what if we’re missing the point? What if a good Easter sermon actually causes “terror and amazement”?

Now, there are more than enough preachers who terrorize with condemnation. It seems to me, though, that being terrified not to believe in Jesus, for fear of going to hell, is as far from the terror Mark refers to as the love one claims to have for their favorite pizza place is far from God’s eternal love for the Creation.

Mark helps us to understand the terror the women feel by adding amazement into the mix. The women’s terror and amazement well up from the same place. It’s not a selfish terror. It’s not a fear for their own lives or property. It’s the ecstatic terror of realizing that the Creation—even in all of its agony—is, nonetheless, saturated with the beauty, the holiness, and the feral creativity of God.

Perhaps the terror and amazement of the women on that first Easter morning accurately illustrates the truest and deepest sense of the word joy. Joy is so much more than mere happiness. And it is light years beyond feelings of personal comfort and satisfaction. While joy can be expressed in our shouts of Alleluia, it can also be expressed in the grief and tears of those who mourn for the world because deep in their hearts they trust that violence, hatred, apathy, poverty, and all other forms of suffering run counter to the loving justice and righteousness God reveals in Jesus. These very real evils must be confronted and defied. And, in the big picture, they can also be survived because, ultimately, they will be defeated. In his profound eloquence, Martin Luther King, Jr. affirmed this when he said, “Right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”

In that same vein, Resurrection declares that death is no ending. Indeed, death heralds the new thing God begins while defeating evil. Maybe that is what should terrify and amaze us: All that stuff Jesus said

about the kingdom of God having drawn near,

about forgiveness,

about losing one’s life to find it,

about feeding the hungry,

about clothing the naked,

about encountering greatness through humble service,

about loving God, neighbor, and enemy,

Jesus meant all of that! And that means that his disciples are to embody it in their lives. And Resurrection empowers us for living that truth.

So, the terrifying and amazing thing about Easter isn’t the resurrection itself, but the implications of Resurrection. If Jesus has been raised from the dead, then we really can, as Paul says, “walk in newness of life.” (Romans 6:4c) If we take Easter seriously, terror and amazement will seize us with joy because we are freed, here and now, to live a new and different life, a life of full kinship with Christ. A life of discipleship in which we fearlessly confront the daunting tasks of facing down all the violent Caesars who traffic in Creation-diminishing greed, waste, prejudice, and in the shameless and self-serving use of violent power—and the shameless and self-serving use of faith traditions! Resurrection life opens us to the holiness in ourselves, in the people around us, and in the natural world. It opens us to the hope of seeing the Creation transformed through the regenerating love of God.

We carry around with us all manner of “spices:” Our sanctuaries and furniture, suits and ties, theological degrees and doctrines, vestments and investments, policies and protocols. And how much of that stuff is just burial spice? How much of our attention do those things divert from the people Jesus cares for and calls us to care for? And when we enter worship, is there some stone that we secretly hope is still blocking the tomb? Still keeping a kingdom life at bay so we can remain comfortable and, frankly, un-amazed?

Brothers and Sisters, I hope this terrifies us: Whether we like it or not, the stone has been moved for us. Life is not what it was. It’s not measured in years. It doesn’t end in death. We won’t experience satisfaction, much less wholeness, by owning, dominating, or even knowing anything. When we follow Jesus, all of our “spices” are, ultimately, useless.

And let this amaze us, as well: There is nothing to fear. Come what may—tears and laughter, feast and famine, summer and winter—our lives are defined by joy. They’re defined by faith, hope, and love. They’re defined by what we share, not what we keep. God gives us our identities and purposes by calling us to follow the Risen Jesus. And wherever we go next, whatever changes we encounter, he’s already there, “just as he told [us].”

“Go”

Matthew 28:1-20

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/31/24

Easter Sunrise 2024

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. ²And 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. ³His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. ⁴For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men.

⁵But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. ⁶He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. ⁷Then 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.”

⁸So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.

⁹Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him.

¹⁰Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”

¹¹While they were going, some of the guard went into the city and told the chief priests everything that had happened. ¹²After the priests had assembled with the elders, they devised a plan to give a large sum of money to the soldiers, ¹³telling them, “You must say, ‘His disciples came by night and stole him away while we were asleep.’ ¹⁴If this comes to the governor’s ears, we will satisfy him and keep you out of trouble.”

¹⁵So they took the money and did as they were directed. And this story is still told among the Judeans to this day.

¹⁶ Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. ¹⁷When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted. ¹⁸And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. ¹⁹Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit ²⁰and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (NRSV)

         If Mark’s gospel ends more abruptly than the other canonical gospels, Matthew’s gospel comes in a close second.

Matthew follows his resurrection account with two vignettes. In the first, the guards report what they saw to the chief priests. In the second, Jesus makes his lone resurrection appearance to the eleven remaining disciples, during which he gives the Great Commission. Turn the page, and you’re in Mark’s gospel.

         In Matthew, as in Mark, there’s no reflection on the resurrection. Jesus doesn’t eat fish as he does in Luke, nor does he give Peter, the three-time denier, a chance to reaffirm his love and commitment, as he does in John.

In Matthew, the angel says to the women, Go to Galilee. Jesus will meet you and the others there. The angel’s command to Go sends the women and the disciples to Jesus who, himself says, Go. Go into all the world and make disciples.

         The Go spoken by the angel and the Go spoken by the resurrected Christ echo the Go that God says to Abram in Genesis 12. And Go means to pick up wherever some apparently-dead-end story has left off and keep following wherever the path of grace may lead. Go, because God calls you to go. Go, because God can be trusted. Go, because God is leading us deeper into relationship with God, with each other, and with the Creation.

         Make disciples, says Jesus. And there’s really only one way to do that faithfully. To make disciples, one must learn to live as a disciple because discipleship is less the words we say than the lives we live. So, disciples are made not by reciting catechisms but by emulating actions of the heart. Disciples are made not by imposing doctrine but by inviting participation in lives of trust, compassion, justice, and peacemaking.

         The two stories that follow Matthew’s resurrection account also set up an instructive contrast. In the first, the guards are justifiably afraid for their lives. All they could say, that their commanding officers would believe, was that the earth shook, a ghost appeared, and they fell asleep on duty. So, they sneak over to the chief priests and tell them the story first.

We got you, say the priests. Tell your superior officers that you fell asleep, and Jesus’ disciples stole the body. Here, if you take this money and promise to tell this story, we will make sure you don’t get crucified yourselves.

And that’s where that version of the story stops—with a logical, plausible, and comfortable dead end. Just sweep it under the rug and go back to the way things were.

In the second account, Jesus appears briefly to the disciples to say, in effect, The story is not over. In fact, it’s just beginning. And now, you are my hands and feet, so keep going. Keep doing what I’ve modeled for you. Keep living through love. Keep welcoming people into community—especially those whom no one else welcomes. Keep helping those who cannot help themselves. And wherever the work of discipleship takes you, just go.

Discipleship has brought us out here this morning where the sky is brightening, the birds are singing, the spring flowers are blooming, the pollen is driving many of us crazy, and life in all its overwhelming beauty and tragedy is happening around us as we speak.

This moment, though, is but a respite on a journey. We’re here not to end, and certainly not to complete anything. We’re here to be reminded that none of us have the final word on anything. “All authority in heaven and on earth” belong to the risen Christ. As his disciples, our purpose is always bigger than our own communities, always beyond the walls of any building, because, as Jesus says in Matthew 25, true discipleship happens out here, among “the least of these my brothers and sisters.”

Maybe the operative word for Easter isn’t He is risen! so much as it is, Go!

Think about it:

It was resurrection faith that sent Abram and Sarai on their way when God said Go.

It was resurrection faith that gave Joseph strength to overcome his brothers’ betrayal, then to forgive them and welcome them into Egypt.

It was resurrection faith that sent Moses back to Egypt for his Hebrew family, and resurrection faith that helped him to guide them through the wilderness.

It was resurrection faith that turned David from an adulterer and a murderer into a poet and a leader.

It was resurrection faith that gave Mary and Joseph the courage to parent their remarkable child.

It was resurrection faith that made Peter, James, and John bold enough to drop their nets and follow Jesus.

It was resurrection faith that gave Jesus of Nazareth the will to reject selfishness and fear during his temptation and, then, to Go and live a life that was truly divine.

And the resurrection on Easter actually follows all of those witnessing events and reveals itself as the authority behind all that is faithful, forgiving, loving, and real in this world. Resurrection is the cycle of beginnings, endings, and new beginnings. Resurrection is everything in every given moment that gives us courage and hope to keep Going.

At Easter, Jesus meets us, again—wherever our Galilee may be—and reminds us that there is no end that is not also, in some way, a revitalizing new beginning. And he sends us out, as disciples to make disciples, as ones who are being redeemed to live as signs God’s redeeming grace in the world.

And it is through our new and renewing resurrection faith that, on the authority of the risen Christ, we embrace his call to Go, to be disciples and to make disciples, in this world, right now, and to do that with his humility, gratitude, generosity, joy, and love.

“A New Passover”

John 13:1-17, 31-35

Allen Huff

Maundy Thursday

3/28/24

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. ² The devil had already decided that Judas son of Simon Iscariot would betray Jesus. And during supper ³ Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands and that he had come from God and was going to God, ⁴ got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. ⁵ Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.

⁶ He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

⁷ Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

⁸ Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.”

Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

⁹ Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!”

¹⁰ Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” ¹¹ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.”

¹² After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? ¹³ You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. ¹⁴ So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. ¹⁵ For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.¹⁶ Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. ¹⁷ If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.”

³¹ When he had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. ³² If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. ³³ Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’ ³⁴ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ³⁵ By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (NRSV)

After leading the escape from Egypt, Moses reflected on the harrowing but transforming experience he and the Hebrews had just survived. And in Exodus 15, Moses sings his proud jubilation: “I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea…³The Lord is a warrior…” (Exodus 15:1, 3)

         The implausible defeat of Pharaoh, followed by the people’s 40-year wilderness sojourn create Israel’s defining narrative. The experience formed the people’s foundational image of God and shaped their expectations of how God’s steadfast love and faithfulness work.

         Since then, for some 3,500 years or so, observant Jews have celebrated Passover, the ritual remembrance and reenactment of God freeing the Hebrews by forcing Pharaoh’s hand. When first-century Jews prepared for Passover, they had a new Pharaoh to deal with. His name was Caesar. And regardless of the specific title—Pharaoh, King, Caesar, or anything else—autocratic leaders always fail to learn what God’s prophets have to teach.

         Absolute leaders—whether of nations or religions—almost always turn deaf ears and cold hearts to God’s prophets, because God’s language is one of humility and self-emptying love. And God’s ethic is one of peacemaking, justice, and compassionate service. As Paul says, the Christian faith itself is foolishness to the wise and weakness to the strong. It’s little wonder, then, that Jesus’ ministry meets an end that Caesar, Herod, and Caiaphas consider the epitome of humiliation.

Leaders aren’t the only ones who struggle with the ways of God. Even those seeking to be faithful followers can struggle. When Jesus’ disciples decide that he is indeed the Messiah, they still, in spite of Jesus’ teaching and example, expect him to mirror the warrior God described by Moses. From Peter to Judas, all the disciples anticipate Jesus delivering something he not only doesn’t deliver, he does the opposite. As Messiah, he stoops down and washes the disciples’ feet.

Into his followers’ bewilderment, Jesus says, You don’t understand what’s going on right now, and that’s okay. Just receive this blessing, and know that one day it will all make sense.

Because only the lowest of slaves wash feet, Peter is more angry than bewildered. So, in protest he says, “You will never wash my feet.”

Jesus’ act of humility shatters all the norms and shifts every paradigm. And to make this point, Jesus responds to Peter saying, If you refuse, you are choosing to have no part in me.

Do you see what kind of moment Jesus creates for Peter? Instead of the blood of sacrificed lambs smeared above doorways, the mark of inclusion in the community of Jesus is water, applied humbly and lovingly to his followers’ feet by the Lamb of God himself.

When we put ourselves in the room with the disciples, we can feel Jesus’ challenging us to live differently, even differently than the Church often teaches, because, on the whole, the Church still prefers a warrior god. More than a mere saintly image, Jesus’ example of self-effacing service is the Church’s urgent calling: Love and serve the world as Jesus loves and serves it.

One crucial and revealing detail in this story can get overlooked: Jesus washes even the feet of Judas, the one who betrays him. This act of unmitigated grace reveals the very heart of God, the essence of God’s forgiveness. And it bears witness to the eternal unity between Jesus of Nazareth and God.

Long before this pivotal moment, the psalmist sang of the grace that reflects God’s all-too-wonderful and loving knowledge:

⁴Even before a word is on my tongue,

O Lord, you know it completely.

⁵You hem me in, behind and before,

and lay your hand upon me.

⁸If I ascend to heaven,

you are there;

if I make my bed in Sheol,

you are there.

¹¹If I say, “Surely the darkness

shall cover me,

and the light around me become night,”

¹²even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as the day,

for darkness is as light to you. (From Psalm 139)

         The juxtaposition of darkness and light is a central theme in John’s gospel, and when laying the ancient psalm against John’s witness to Jesus, we encounter the almost unnerving depth of God’s forgiving love. This irrevocable, irresistible love accompanies us wherever we go. Even in our faithlessness and treachery, God’s Christ washes our feet, claiming us as beloved children of a new Passover of grace, and bestowing on us a message of unity with God to share with all Creation.

Come what may, then, be it faithfulness, denial, or outright betrayal, God is already sharing in our glad celebrations and our grief-stricken regrets, because, as the psalmist says, “even the darkness is not dark to [God].” And as John says, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness [does] not overcome it.” (John 1:5)

         Jesus leaves his disciples with a new commandment: “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” For John, this mutual love is not only the light; it is the very source and substance of the belief about which John’s Jesus speaks. To love as we are loved, to feed as we are fed, to house and clothe others as we are housed and clothed, to speak for those who have no voice—all of this isto believe. It would be so much easier if belief were simply our mouths saying Yes to precepts and doctrines. For Jesus, though, belief is discipleship, and discipleship is love—

expectation-shattering,

neighbor-welcoming,

earth-treasuring,

mystery-embracing,

rule-bending,

death-defying,

preemptively-forgiving love.

         May you experience God’s New Passover in Christ. And may you accept how deeply and perfectly you are loved, so that you may go forth and, to the very best of your ability, on any given day, love with the love of Jesus—God’s eternal Word Made Flesh.

“God’s Will, Not Ours”

Matthew 26:36-43

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

Palm Sunday

3/24/24

³⁶Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.”

³⁷He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee and began to be grieved and agitated. ³⁸Then he said to them, “My soul is deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.”

³⁹And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me, yet not what I want but what you want.”

⁴⁰Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping, and he said to Peter, “So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? ⁴¹Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

⁴²Again he went away for the second time and prayed, “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.”

⁴³Again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. (NRSV)

It’s the night of Jesus’ betrayal and arrest. Judas knows that.

It’s the night before Jesus’ trial, and after doing business with Judas, the religious leaders know that.

It’s also the night before Jesus’ crucifixion and death, and while Jesus seems aware of that, he also feels like it’s worth asking for a stay of execution.

Maybe there’s another way for humankind to recognize that their bloodlust—be it for power, land, or revenge—is not only antithetical to God’s will and Jesus’ teaching, it’s also, ultimately, futile. Violence breeds more violence, and more violence breeds more and more violence. And on and on it goes.

That cycle has always been in play in human history. And if there is, in fact, any hope of breaking the us-against-them cycle, that hope lies in practicing, even against all odds, the kind of love Jesus has embodied—a love in which the ego, who does so love to be right and dominant, is named, and tamed, and its energy channeled toward healing and community-building action. For relatively recent examples of that kind of disarming love, think Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Desmond Tutu.

         Fully convinced that such love is the way forward, and fully committed to it, Jesus enters the quiet and deserted Garden of Gethsemane. Leaving his most trusted disciples to keep watch, he slips off to pray.

God, he says, if there’s another way to reveal the impotence of the people’s violence, can we please try it? That’s what I want, of course, but I’ll do whatever you ask.

         When Jesus breaks from his grief-wrought prayers, he finds Peter, James, and John sleeping as soundly as the Roman guards who will crumble into unconsciousness at the sight of the angel who will, soon enough, roll away the stone from Jesus’ tomb.

Scolding his disciples into wakefulness, Jesus charges them, again, to keep watch while he prays. And yet, once again, Jesus finds that his hand-picked followers have fallen asleep.

         Back in Matthew 8, it’s Jesus who falls asleep in the midst of a high-stakes moment. He and the disciples are in a boat crossing the Sea of Galilee when a storm threatens the boat and everyone in it. And Jesus lies asleep in the back. Terrified and angry, the disciples provoke Jesus from his sleep, screaming, Don’t you care that we’re dying!

You hear the irony here, don’t you?

In both cases, Jesus sees into and beyond the things that apparently are to things that can be, things the disciples do not and, at the moment, cannot see. On the lake, Jesus sees through the storm to a breaking horizon, one of calm and well-being. In the garden, he sees through the apparent stillness of night to a storm gathering on the horizon, a storm that will make the next day unimaginable and unforgettable, a day that will begin to make sense only in light of Sunday.

Whatever lies immediately before him, Jesus, seeing through the eyes of redeeming love and transforming grace, perceives hope and new beginnings. He sees God transforming even annihilating violence into revelations of grace.

To be sure, individuals, groups, nations, animals, and ecosystems often experience annihilation. And those painful losses are hard to endure and even harder to explain. The Creation God loves does suffer. Nonetheless, says God,suffering will not have the last word.

While trying to impose its own will, humankind deliberately unleashes the demons of violence and destruction. And yet, to those with eyes to see and ears to hear, God is always revealing brutality as the fruit of a will consumed by ego. When confusing that will with God’s will, we always end up giving up on faith, hope, and love. 

The transformation God has put into play for the Creation is not sustained by violence. No battlefield victory, no humiliation of political or religious rivals, no accumulation of power or wealth has even a chance of revealing the depth and breadth of the realm of God. That revelation always happens through things like poverty of spirit, hunger and thirst for righteousness, meekness, mercy, and peacemaking grace. And those are fruits of Resurrection.

The Hosannas of Palm Sunday mean Save us now. And as a prayer of willful dependence on the swords, spears, and nails of Friday, it stands in stark contrast to Jesus’ Gethsemane prayer of thy will be done. Jesus says it over and over, but we keep choosing to learn it the hard way:

God does not save through weapons and domination.

God saves by calling and empowering us to participate in God’s love for all things.

God saves and redeems by willing us to live in this world, today, as signs of God’s realm of welcome, service, care, and reconciliation.

“An Encounter at the Temple”

Psalm 69:9-13 John 2:13-22

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/17/24

⁹It is zeal for your house that has consumed me;
    the insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.
¹⁰When I humbled my soul with fasting,^[a]
    they insulted me for doing so.
¹¹When I made sackcloth my clothing,
    I became a byword to them.
¹²I am the subject of gossip for those who sit in the gate,
    and the drunkards make songs about me.

¹³But as for me, my prayer is to you, O Lord.
    At an acceptable time, O God,
    in the abundance of your steadfast love, answer

    me.  (NRSV)

¹³The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. ¹⁴In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves and the money changers seated at their tables. ¹⁵Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, with the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. ¹⁶He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

¹⁷His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”

¹⁸The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?”

¹⁹Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

²⁰The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?”

²¹But he was speaking of the temple of his body. ²²After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken. (NRSV)

         My father and I approached Jerusalem late in the afternoon four days before Passover. Because I had just turned thirteen, it was the first time my father had taken me to the temple for the great feast, and I was terribly excited. We were about to enter Jerusalem—the City of David. For generations, psalmists had sung of her. Prophets had visited her and spoken to her.

         Before we made the descent into the Hinnom Valley and climbed the steep embankment to the gate nearest Herod’s palace, we stopped for a while on the crest of the hill, and just looked at Jerusalem.

         From our vantage point, the light of the setting sun, made the dusty haze hovering over the city glisten like gold—like a halo, or a crown. As the haze began to settle, it reminded me of a veil covering the face of a bride. The veils I had seen never covered a girl’s eyes. So, they concealed neither excitement nor fear. But what could Jerusalem have to fear? Even if the Romans were in control, hadn’t God promised a deliverer? Hadn’t God assured David that, even if his descendants suffered, a redeemer would arise to free Jerusalem and Israel once and for all?

Occasionally, I asked when this Messiah would come, and my father’s answer was always the same: “In God’s time.”

         “Yeah,” I wondered. “But when?”

         From our hilltop perch, we also heard the ceaseless drone of evening activity rising over the walls. With ten times more people in that one place than I had seen altogether in thirteen years, Jerusalem seemed bigger than life, and I wanted to get there quickly and stay forever.

         My father seemed to sense my eagerness, and while I think it made him proud, he also seemed wary of my naïveté.

         “Gypsies,” he said in a low voice, and pointed down toward the valley.

         I looked and saw no less than twenty groups of people camped out by the stream. Itinerant merchants, the gypsies were surrounded by skinny cattle, spotted sheep, and hundreds of crates of doves and pigeons.

         “They come every year to sell their pitiful animals for sacrifice,” my father said. “Don’t be distracted by them. We’ll buy ours at the temple. They’ll cost more, but they’ll please God more than anything we could buy down there.”

         I nodded in what I hoped would be seen as troubled understanding.

         Having traveled for almost three full days from our home in Hebron, we were tired. So, my father began to lead us the final steps into Jerusalem where we would stay with an old family friend.

Along the road from Hebron, we had met many other pilgrims coming from other towns and villages south of Jerusalem. The closer our expanding traveling party got to the city, the closer we all became. I began to understand that the journey itself was holy. It was a time of joyous remembering, anticipation, and community. For many, the journey was almost as important as Passover itself. In fact, my father refused even to live near Jerusalem because of the importance of the pilgrimage itself.

         In Jerusalem, my father’s friend welcomed us warmly. The next day we did nothing but rest and visit. Then, early the second morning, my father woke me and said that we had to go the temple to buy our animals for the sacrifice. We also had to exchange our Roman denarii into Tyrian drachmas in order to pay the temple tax because the authorities did not accept currency engraved with Caesar’s image.

         As we walked the dusty, canyon-like streets of Jerusalem, a sense of belonging washed over me. I thought of my many ancestors who had lived and worshiped in, or just passed through this place. I remembered stories of faithfulness and treachery, of joys and hardships. I felt that at any moment I might and catch a glimpse of Moses finally resting here, or Jeremiah speaking some painful truth to a lost and disoriented people. Or maybe even of Adonai, disappearing around a corner somewhere. Only the presence of so many Roman soldiers kept my imagination in check.

         As we approached the temple, my steps slowed and shortened involuntarily. I had imagined this moment for the last couple of years, but as I stood there, next to the temple, gazing up and down its long, high walls, I struggled to breathe. God lived here. From deep inside, in the Holy of Holies, God spoke to the priests. Awe-struck as I was, I still wondered—to myself—if even such a magnificent building as this could really hold the One who had created the heavens and the earth.

         Just outside the temple gate, a large crowd of people had gathered. Drawn by their animated conversations, we walked toward them. At the center of the crowd stood a man who appeared to be a little younger than my father. We couldn’t hear him well, but he was clearly upset. The crowd was agitated, as well. Some were angry, some perplexed. I craned my neck trying to get a better look over the hedge of men surrounding the man. His hair was short and wiry, his beard thick and stringy. And between the two, his eyes flashed with astonishing intensity, a passion like I’d never seen. As if he knew I were looking at him, he glanced my way, and, for a moment, his eyes caught mine. I seized in my tracks, as if immersed in a cold river. It scared me, but when that man’s eyes met mine, I felt very much as I had felt just a few minutes before when I approached the temple for the first time.

         We asked someone what was going on. He said that he wasn’t sure, but an odd rumor had been circulating about the man. The story was that he and his friends had just been to a wedding up in Cana. The host had run out of wine in the middle of the celebration. He was about to suffer serious embarrassment when this man bailed him out. At his word, six jugs of water had become wine. 

My father’s eyes turned dark and lifeless, and he gave a snort of both disgust and laughter.

         We learned that the man at the center of attention was a Galilean rabbi named Jesus. No one told quite the same story, but there was talk of people calling him things like “Son of Man,” and “Lamb of God.” The only thing we heard for sure was someone saying to Jesus, “Please. Just don’t cause a scene.”

After a while of standing there with all the other spectators, my father turned us back toward the temple. Passover was coming, and we had a lot to do.

         We entered through the main gate, and inside the walls, the temple felt like another world. People milled about in a single mass like a flock inside a holding pen. Jewish leaders wearing splendid robes sat beneath colorful awnings. Other men who looked more like my father and me shopped for sacrificial animals, bargaining for fair prices.

Inside the temple, I began to feel more harried and anxious than excited because I saw more in the way of commerce than holiness. It helped to see that my father had been right about one thing. The animals on sale in the temple were beautiful. Surely, they were more worthy sacrifices than anything the gypsies had to sell. We bought a pair of solid white doves in a small crate, then walked across the courtyard to exchange our currency.  

         At one of the money changers’ tables, my father counted out his drachma carefully to be sure that the bankers didn’t cheat him. They had tried once before. And right then, as my father was counting his money, that’s when it happened.

         A sandaled foot flashed in between my father and the tables. As one table slammed into another, both of them fell, and a shrill chorus rang out when hundreds of coins bounced and rolled across the stone floor and through the legs of dumbfounded onlookers and oblivious beasts. Completely surprised, the money changers stared in disbelief at the one who had interrupted their business with such sudden fury.

It was Jesus.

With those same piercing eyes and that same extravagant passion, Jesus stared at the money changers. And while his gaze did seem to paralyze them for a moment, he didn’t threaten anyone. So, I couldn’t tell whether his was a passion of anger, or love, or both. He was certainly not caught up in some indifferent middle ground. So, I couldn’t tell whether it was his composure or his heart that was breaking.

         This was not how I imagined my first Passover experience would go. Then Jesus turned and looked at me again, and while I wanted to run, I froze, again. When Jesus looked at the crate of doves in my hands, I felt my grip loosen and the box begin to slip.

         In his right hand, Jesus gripped five or six leather cords, tied together at one end into a kind of flaccid whip. He raised his arm high into the air and hit the stone floor with the leather cords, but it was his words that cracked like a whip. It was his passion that demanded attention.

         “Take this stuff away!” he shouted. “And stop making my father’s house a flea market!” And with that, he began to herd the cattle and sheep out of the temple.

         A group of temple authorities stood their ground and challenged Jesus saying, “What gives you the right to do this?”

         Dragging the leather cords behind him, Jesus walked up to them, looked them, one by one, in the eye, and said, “Tear this place down, and in three days I’ll have it standing again.” After being momentarily stunned, the men then began to look at one another and to laugh nervously.

         “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years,” one of them said. “Longer than you’ve been alive! And you’re going to build it from scratch in three days?”

         A snicker began to make its way through the crowd, but Jesus didn’t so much as blink.

         Everything having been thrown into question and chaos, my father grabbed the doves from my hands and hurried us out of the temple. 

         It would be a long time before I would begin making sense of what I’d seen and heard; but even that day, I knew that Jesus’ heart was breaking. And when it was finally and fully broken, something would happen.

Something extraordinary.

Something that would take a lifetime to believe. And even longer to understand.