Month: April 2019

“Modern attempts to get away from the sheer historical facts of the Resurrection are, at best, based on a total misunderstanding. The whole Bible proclaims the need for, and the achievement of, a salvation that will remake creation (not one that will ignore it or escape from it), and it is just such a salvation, at once supernatural and historical, that was won on Easter Day. If the Resurrection narratives are [merely] a subtle way of convincing us that God still loves us, or that there is a life (albeit, a non-material one) beyond death, they must be reckoned among the oddest and most ill-conceived stories ever written.”

[Michael Sadgrove (b. 1950) & N. T. Wright (b. 1948), “Jesus Christ the Only Saviour”, in The Lord Christ [1980], John Stott, ed., vol. 1 of Obeying Christ in a Changing World, John Stott, gen. ed., 3 vol.,    London: Fountain, 1977, p. 73]

The above selection from Christian Quote of the Day came through on Easter morning. It addresses the very issue I plan to raise in this post and flows from the previous post on the meaning of the cross. Before I get to that there is this odd thought that came to mind this morning while reading the Daily Office relating to the Gospel of John.

All four of the Jesus stories (Gospels) assert that the discovery of the Resurrection occurred on the first day of the week. If all one reads are Matthew, Mark and Luke then that assertion just seems like a bit of historical grounding. But what, in the mode of multiple layers of meaning, if there is more significance to that Sunday timing than historical grounding? John wrote his Gospel quite some time after the first three were in circulation. An ancient document which may be the earliest to describe the books of the New Testament (the Muratonian Fragment) has this to say about the fourth Gospel: “to his fellow disciples and bishops, who had been urging him [to write], he said, ‘Fast with me from today to three days, and what will be revealed to each one let us tell it to one another.’ In the same night it was revealed to Andrew, [one] of the apostles, that John should write down all things in his own name while all of them should review it.”

John included several episodes not found in the earlier Gospels: the wedding at Cana, the Samaritan woman and the raising of Lazarus being some of the best known. He also gave greater significance to the Resurrection being on the first day of the week, though in a roundabout manner.

John opens his Gospel echoing the opening verses of Genesis. But that is not the only Genesis reference. If he opens with the first day of creation, he reaches a climax when Pilate brings Jesus, beaten bloody, before the crowds, with the words Ecce Homo, “behold the man.” This event occurs on Friday, the sixth day of the week. In Genesis 1, the sixth day of creation concludes with the creation of humankind. We move from the beginning of the glory of humanity bearing the Imago Dei, to the brutalized Incarnate God whose scarred body illustrates the rage and loathing of a broken humanity who has failed its attempt at self-deification. Ecce Homo indeed. In the waning hours of that Friday, Jesus is crucified. In his dying he takes on himself the full weight of our fallen nature, the very nature that had nailed him to the cross. Taking on that burden, he dies. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

And on the seventh day God finished his work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all his work that he had done. (Gen 2:2) On the seventh day our crucified humanity lays in a tomb. John’s Genesis pattern may seem completed at this point. Certainly, the Genesis creation story linked to the Jesus story seems to bookend the whole story of God’s creation.

Yet there is still a Genesis link to come. On the first day of the week, in Genesis the beginning of creation, Jesus rises from death. It is not a resuscitation of a corpse. This Risen Jesus is quite corporeal, eating with his disciples, inviting Thomas’ touch. But he has also appeared in a locked room. In Luke’s story he vanishes after blessing and breaking bread with two disciples in the village of Emmaus. This embodiment seems something altogether new. And that is it, the significance of the Resurrection on the first day of the week is the announcement of a new creation. It is a theme picked up by Paul in his writings, a theme which has echoes in the prophetic writings. The Resurrection is a vindication to be sure, but it is more. The Resurrection is the defeat of death to be sure, but it is more. The forgiveness of sins, which Paul ties inextricably to the Resurrection (And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins. 1 Corinthians 15:17) frees us from the chains of our past sins to be sure, but it is more. The Resurrection is the inauguration of the new creation. And in Christ we participate as part of that new creation. To leave that out, to confine the Resurrection to vindication or victory over death or forgiveness is to miss the ultimate consummation of the work of Jesus. For Christ is risen, the new creation has begun, and this is a life worth exploring. Alleluia.

What just happened? I write this on the morning of Holy Saturday, though it started a few days ago. Perhaps that opening question might have been asked by Jesus’ disciples in the shock following his traumatic reversal of fortune. That Jesus was dead was not in doubt. That he had died at the hands of the gentile occupying army was not in doubt. That at some point in his death throes he had claimed the Father had forsaken him was not in doubt. What his death meant may not have been asked on Holy Saturday, but it has been asked ever since then.

The arguments over the significance of Jesus’ death spring, in part, from the assumption that any event or story can have only one layer of meaning. For instance, the story about Jesus meeting with the unnamed woman at the well in Sychar has a coded meaning hidden in her background of having had five husbands and living with someone to whom she was not married. The story is the story of Samaria itself and part of the story behind the hostility between Jews and Samaritans. But it is certainly possible that the story in the 4th chapter of John’s Gospel is both an accurate account of an historical encounter and a parable of the history and redemption of Samaria.

That same possibility hangs over the various theories of the meaning of the death of Jesus. To that collection I want to add one more. Well, probably not “add” as I’ve no doubt that many have been down that path before me. Perhaps it is more accurate to say “highlight,” as I’ve not heard or read it explored in recent memory. This particular understanding incorporates several bits of the New Testament story without, I hope, doing violence to any of them. In particular I’m looking at Philippians 2:5-8; Hebrews 2:17 and 4:15; 2 Corinthians 5:21; Matthew 26:39 and several references throughout the Gospel of John.

In the Christian story we declare that God took on human nature in Jesus of Nazareth. And that immediately creates some problems. How would that function? It’s hard to keep one’s balance with that kind of declaration. We tend to slip over on the human side with fudging on divinity citing a high degree of “god consciousness” as an explanation for Jesus teaching and impact and dismissing extraordinary works of power as the credulous records of an ignorant age. Or we slip over on the god side with what I’ve come to call the “Clark Kent Conundrum.” Jesus looks human, but he’s really not. Strange visitor from a distant planet; faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound… and of course standing for truth, justice and the American way. I lifted the image from Fr. Robert Capon who was fierce in his insistence on the full humanity of Jesus without compromising the divinity. In that, Capon is right in line with Paul in Philippians:

Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:5-8)

This same assertion is reiterated by the author of the letter to the Hebrews:

Therefore he had to be made like his brothers in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people. (Hebrews 2:17)

The author here adds another function to the self-emptying of the eternal Word, the function of high priest. He has a great deal more to say about this high priestly role (as will I in other posts) but the one additional comment relevant is a couple of chapters on:

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. (Hebrews 4:15)

It is that exception, “yet without sin” that opens another view to the cross. After all, because of that exception Jesus is not sharing our full human experience. From his earliest days, he does not experience that awareness of isolation and alienation that haunts the human psyche. His awareness of and contact with the Father is unbroken. How can Jesus be my truly human savior until he knows my truly human darkness?

For a long time, Paul’s assertion about God making Jesus to be sin did not sit well with me. I was fine with Jesus carrying my sins. I was fine even with Jesus paying the price of my sin. But to be sin? “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (2 Corinthians 5:21) Unless, of course, that was to be his final experience on the cross. For Jesus to experience the alienation of sin is a frightening thought for any Trinitarian. It means that there was a break within the very essence of God. Assuming that to be the case, it also made more sense of Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.

The agonizing prayer that “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.” (Matthew 26:39) I had always understood to be referring to the suffering and death on the cross. It seemed odd that one who knew the Resurrection was coming should have been so fearful as to ask for a reprieve if such a thing were possible. But if the cup referenced by Jesus was not the physical challenge but the taking on of the full alienation of sin, then it makes (to me) better sense.

Finally (for the moment) there is the cry of dereliction: “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” from Psalm 22. That would seem to mark a moment of sudden disconnection. If the Incarnation of the Word required a full immersion into our full humanity, this moment could also be considered the ultimate completion of that Incarnation. It also gives a slightly different twist to our interpretation of the word tetelestai most often rendered as “It is finished.” But tetelestai can be read other ways and in this context perhaps we should read “It is accomplished.” I am not suggesting that this view of the meaning of the cross is either original or superior to any other. I do suggest that this understanding may be a perfectly legitimate layer in the multiple layers of meaning of the cross.

I used to think that Palm Sunday got pretty short shrift in the Episcopal Church. Over forty years ago, in the revisions for the current Book of Common Prayer that were completed when I was in seminary, we combined Palm Sunday and Sunday of the Passion onto one Sunday observation. That made the service both long and disjointed. In our past we observed Passion Sunday two weeks before Easter and Palm Sunday the next week. But there were some peculiarities.

In our former liturgies, on Passion Sunday we didn’t read any of the Passion Gospels that describe the arrest, torture and execution of Jesus. Instead we read of a confrontation between Jesus and the religious leaders which concluded with him declaring “before Abraham was, I am.” To these authorities that statement would sound like Jesus would be claiming to be God. Not surprisingly their reaction was to look around for stones to throw at him. He manages to escape. And that’s Passion Sunday?

Then there came Palm Sunday, today, the Sunday before Easter. But did we read about Jesus riding into Jerusalem? Nooooo. We read the passion from the Gospel of Matthew. The whole blessed thing. Over three pages of small print. A very cursory review of our former liturgical practice indicates that the story of Palm Sunday was never read at all in our Sunday services. Our changes have made a step toward giving the Palm Sunday story its due, but only a small step.

The current liturgy for Palm Sunday begins with an acclamation and a prayer, followed by the Palm Sunday stories from either Matthew, Mark or Luke. Then follows a prayer over the palms followed by the palm procession. Most Episcopal churches use the hymn “All Glory, Laud and Honor” but stop in the midst of the hymn for this prayer:

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

At the conclusion of the procession the service drops any focus on the Palm Sunday story and focuses instead on the Passion, including the reading of the Passion Gospel. Since the great majority of the service is the Passion, it’s hardly surprising that, over the years, most of my preaching on that day focused on the Passion as well. But in so doing I’ve neglected an important opportunity to tell part of the Jesus story that is often overlooked. It is overlooked in part, because it contradicts the narrative of religious culture that has been part of Christianity for centuries.

The scene that Jesus is acting out is almost familiar to his followers and the citizens of Jerusalem – almost familiar but with a twist. He is riding into Jerusalem and the crowds hail him as the son of David, declaring their hope that Jesus is the coming king, the long promised Messiah. But. Had they been paying closer attention they might have noticed that he’s not been following the script of kingship.

He’s drawn huge crowds, but he hasn’t assembled troops. He’s performed amazing miracles that can only be done with the power of God, but he hasn’t called down fire from on high to destroy the Roman occupying forces. He’s brought healing to many but at least one of the healed was the enemy, the servant of a Roman soldier. He’s taught about God’s kingdom, declared that this long awaited kingdom is at hand, but he’s peppered his teaching with troubling directions about blessing those who curse us and loving our enemies. He’s been to Jerusalem a couple of times but does most of his ministry in Galilee.

When he finally does make his move in Jerusalem he rides on a donkey. When a king comes riding to take charge of an enemy occupied city, he rides a warhorse. Jesus rides a donkey. In so doing he is channeling a prophecy from Zechariah: in which the king enters Jerusalem in humility and there is a promise of peace to the nations. Jesus is sending a message in all that he does. The kingdom of God doesn’t operate in the way human governments and rulers operate. God’s approach to power is not our approach to power.

There are two types of kingdom in contrast here: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Caesar. These kingdoms are based on quite different – and contradictory – principles. Caesar’s way is the way our world works. Sadly, Caesar’s way is all too often the way the Church works. But the Caesar way is not the Jesus way. The Jesus way makes no sense in Caesar’s world. The Jesus way meets with incredulity, scorn and anger in Caesar’s world.

It is the Jesus way to which God calls each and every individual as an apprentice. It is the Jesus way into which God invites apprentices to be a Christian community. It is only the Jesus way that lasts, it is only the Jesus way that at the end of the day, wins.