Holy Week: Wednesday, a stay at home day

 One of the twelve went to the chief priests

   in order to betray Jesus. (Mark 11:12)

Jesus and the disciples decide to stay home. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday have been exhausting days. Jesus relaxes at the home of Simon in the village of Bethany just east of Jerusalem on the other side of the Mount of Olives. Lazarus, Simon’s son, and Simon’s two daughters Mary and Martha live there as well. It must have been quite an estate to accommodate Jesus and the twelve—maybe a vineyard with worker’s quarters made available for Festival guest. Anyway, Simon’s home was their home.

Lazarus was Jesus’ friend (philos). The week before, Jesus had raised him from the dead. Those who saw it said, “See how much Jesus loves (phileō) him” (Jn 11).  Jesus wanted his friend around. It was his last miracle until the Big One that comes from the Father. There are no miracles or signs during Holy Week—just Jesus riding on a donkey, entering the city, messing with the temple, and arguing with the religious powers. Arguments, storytelling, and persuasion have run their course. Talk will now turn to violence.

While Jesus was enjoying Simon’s hospitality, “a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment. She breaks the jar open, and pours the precious ointment on Jesus’ head.” The disciples fuss about it and “scold the woman.” Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing.  …Wherever the Gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her." That must be why the story of Jesus’ anointing is told in all four Gospels. You can’t tell the Gospel story without telling the story of the anointing.

Meanwhile, maybe during the anointing hubbub, Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, slips away and enters the city to meet with the chief priests in order to betray Jesus. Maybe he doesn’t like what he sees; or, maybe it is just the money. Whatever the reason, it puts in motion what has to be put in motion.

Meanwhile, back at Simon’s house, the unnamed woman, one suspects it was Mary of Bethany (John, writing later, confirms, 12:3), continues her extravagant anointing fit for a King—for her King. The Hebrew word “Messiah” and the Greek word “Christ” means “The Anointed One.” Somehow, she knows. Who would have thought that it would be Mary of Bethany who anoints the Anointed One? We will see her again, along with other faithful women, bringing spices to the tomb hoping to anoint him still.

 

Holy Week: Tuesday, a long contentious day

 When Jesus came to Jerusalem,

   the chief priests, and the scribes and the elders,

   confronted him. (Mark 11:27)

The religious powers are ticked at Jesus for what happened Monday when he messed with their temple. When Jesus dares to show up the next day, they have at him. Jesus hangs around—he shows up, answers every accusation, and every challenge, and every question. By the end of the day, “no one ventured to ask Jesus any more questions” (Mk 12:34).

When the chief priests, scribes and the elders confront Jesus about that Monday thing, he responds with a story about a farmer who had two sons. The farmer, as Jesus tells it, “went to the first and said, 'Son, go and work in the vineyard today.' He answered, 'I will not'; but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, 'I go, sir'; but he did not go.” Then Jesus asks “Which of the two did the will of his father?" They get it right: "The first." Jesus then says to them, "Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you” (Mt 21:28-32). Or again, Jesus will say, “the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom” (Mt 21:43).

Those who control the temple do not control God. God remains free from all the powers to form a Kingdom of His Own taken “from every nation, tribe, people and language” (Rv 7:9).

Towards the end of this contentious day, a particular scribe—a singular individual, who was taken by how Jesus answered the manipulative questions of the powers, comes to Jesus with his own simple and honest question: “Which commandment is most important of all?" He asks, Jesus answers, “’…Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ And, second is this, 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no other commandment greater than these. On these two commandments depend the whole Law and the Prophets.’” Jesus likes him: “You are not far from the kingdom of God” (Mark 12:28-34 & Mt 22:32).

I'm glad he asked the question? Without his question, we would not know. Jesus likes honest questioners. Maybe that’s why he adds “with all your mind” to the Shema’s “heart and soul and strength” (Dt 6:4-5). Jesus would often ask, “What do you think?” He likes how this scribe thinks—how he questions with an open and honest mind.

Holy Week: Monday, a tumultuous day

 The fig tree withered away

    to its roots. (Mark 11:20)

Like many of your Monday mornings, Jesus’ Monday does not go well: “When they came from Bethany, Jesus was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether perhaps he would find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. He said to it, ‘May no one ever eat fruit from you again.’ And his disciples heard it” (Mk 11:12-14). It’s not my favorite Jesus story. It wasn’t the fig tree’s fault: “It was not the season for figs.” Jesus seems a bit testy this Monday morning; and, his disciples noticed.

Moving on from the fig tree, Jesus and the disciples make their way to the temple where they cause a ruckus “driving out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple, and overturning the tables of the money changers…” The religious powers notice: “The chief priests and the scribes kept looking for a way to kill him” (Mk 11:15-18). A pretty rough day. The temple fairs no better than the fig tree. Maybe that’s the point.

Palm Sunday: The Crowd

 When Jesus entered Jerusalem,

   the whole city was stirred up. (Matthews 21:10)

The whole city, from top: Caiaphas the high priest; to bottom: the children singing Hosanna, were “stirred up.” When the chief priests and the scribes heard the children singing their loud Hosannas, the religious leaders became indignant. In between, the regular folks, vacillate between the children’s Hosannas and the religious leaders’ indignation. There is something volatile about this stirred up crowd. Today, on the first Sunday of Holy Week, the crowd welcomes Jesus into the city joining with the children singing, “Hosanna to the Son of David; Blessed is the One who comes in the Name of the Lord” (Ps 118:26 = Mt 21:9). Jesus goes along with it allowing the crowd to sing His praise and receiving their loud Hosannas.

But, the crowd is fickle. In a few short days, the chief priests and the elders will stir the crowd up into a mob crying out, “Crucify Him!” What turns their loud Hosannas into “Crucify Him”? How did the welcoming crowd become such an angry mob? By Friday, even Jesus’ disciples will abandon him. Only a handful of women followers stick with their Palm Sunday Hosannas. Maybe marginalized people know what it is to be betrayed and shouted down. They remain on Jesus’ side. As Jesus taught: “Many who are first will be last, and the last will be first” (Mt  19:30). We do well to be leery of stirred up crowds.

 

 

Lent #13: The City

 When Jesus saw the city,

    He wept over it. (Luke 19:42)

Since we were thrown out of the Garden, humans have longed for a city that works: “Cain was building a city” (Gen 4:17). Jesus arrives at his destination, sees the city, and weeps. There’s a city just over the hill and across the bay from us that we call, or used to call, “The City.” Since the sixth grade, when my family moved to Santa Rosa, The City was something magical to me—full of marvels and wonders. When I was fourteen, my parents took me and my sister to The City to watch the Giants play ball at Seals Stadium. My father, pointing out to center field, leaned over and said to me, “Son, that’s Willy Mays, number 24.” It was the first time I remember my father taken by something, or someone, that was not church related—this city, this ball park, this wonder out in centerfield; all worthy of our admiration, apparently.

When Linda and I got married, we moved from Santa Rosa to The City. Linda worked at Third and Market, and I, at night, sorted packages for United Parcel Services on 17^th street while attending Simpson College during the day.  On weekends, the one time we had together, we explored the city discovering our own mystical places, like this little bluff down the hill from the Legion of Honor and across the Presidio Golf Course. It was our secret picnic place from which we could view the Pacific Ocean on our left, the Bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge. It was, as the columnist Herb Caen used to write, “The city that knows how.”

Today, when we cross the bridge and make our way up Market Street, like Jesus, we weep. The city that knew how, like all cities, even Jerusalem, eventfully loses its magic. It doesn’t know how. “And so,” the writer to the Hebrews tells us, “Jesus suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood. …For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come” (Hb 13:12&14). That’s The City that awaits us—eternally magical.

 

Lent #12: Destiny

 Jesus set his face

   to go to Jerusalem. (Luke 9:51)

Near Passover, while ministering in his native territory of Galilee, “Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem.” There was no stopping him. It was his appointed destiny. He takes the direct route that leads through Samaria—about a four day journey. He had been that way before when he met the woman at the well who asked him about Mount Gerizim and how “you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.” The question of which mountain, among other things, caused centuries of a deep division between Jews and Samaritans. Jesus assured her that “a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem” (Jn 4). That time has come.

Right off, Jesus and his followers get hassled in a Samaritan village “because Jesus was heading towards Jerusalem.” They resented Jews traveling through their land towards Festival in Jerusalem. James and John told Jesus to “call fire down from heaven to destroy them.” But, of course, “Jesus rebuked them, and headed toward the next village” (Lk 9:51-56). Along the way Jesus told the story of the “Good Samaritan.” A little further along, at another village, Jesus healed ten leprous Samaritans.

Jesus’ destiny has to do with those whom James and John thought worthy of destruction. Jesus’ journey towards Holy Week has to do with God’s love for all people: “Red and yellow black and white, they are precious in His sight,” as the song goes.

Lent #11: Heavenly Treasures

 Store up for yourselves

   treasures in heaven;

where moth and rust do not destroy.

    and thieves cannot steal. (Matthew 6:20)

I thought of this while reading William Berry’s list of ten “dominate traits of mainstream society.” Here’s the tenth:

Marriage without love; sex without joy; drink without conviviality; birth, celebration, and death without adequate ceremony; faith without doubt or trial; belief without deeds; manners without generosity…

It caused me to think, as most things do, of the Book of Ecclesiastes (9:7-9):

Eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has long ago approved what you do. Let your garments always be white; do not let oil be lacking on your head. Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your fleeting life that are given you under the sun, because that is your portion.

Maybe that’s what Jesus has in mind when he speaks of heavenly treasures: To eat with enjoyment; to drink with a merry heart, to dress up from time to time, and to love those whom we love. I just finished a call with a guy friend; and, I can’t believe this, but I think it ended with “I love you.” Thieves cannot rob us of such treasures.

Lent #10: The Complex Good

Astonishingly, each of us

   hear in our own

   native language. (Acts 2:-8)

Adam, our youngest grandchild, proudly showed us, via video, his model of mission Santa Barbara and told us the story about how the mission taught the Native Americans how to farm and raise cattle. It was a good story. I wonder how long schools will allow such “good stories.”  The San Francisco School board recently removed “mission” from Mission High School; because “All California missions are sites of slavery and colonization.”  

Those in power to do such things tell us that our good stories are actually bad stories—so hurtful that even the word must now be erased from our schools and streets. This side of Eden, there are hurts and vanities in every human story. Maybe “good” is not the best word. When a political leader addressed Jesus as “Good teacher;” Jesus would have none of it: “Why do you call me good?” Jesus responded, “No one is good except God alone” (Lk 18:18-19—a theological nightmare, but that’s Jesus). For us, as our Lord teaches, “good” is always a “complex good” (Lewis).

During Lenten Season, some years back, Linda and I took a road trip to visit Rachel’s family in Austin. We took the I-40 route so we could stay a few nights in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A few hours out from our Santa Fe destination we pulled into Navajo Nation to eat and play a few slots at their Casino. The next morning, waking up in Santa Fe, we walked through the old town and ended up meandering into San Miguel Chapel, a mission church like Santa Barbara, yet near two centuries older—the oldest church in the U.S.A. Native Americans were all about preparing their beautiful church for Holy Week. Their art and song, worship and praise came out of their honored culture. It is a complex good; but it struck me that day in San Miguel Chapel, that there was immeasurably more Native American goodness in that church than we ever experienced the day before in that Navajo Casino.

Maybe we can ask the powerful to be tolerant of fourth grade mission projects. They will discover soon enough that all stories are complex.

 

Lent #9: Training

 

Physical training is

     of some value. (First Timothy 4:8)

 We get our word “gymnasium” from the Greek word "gymnasia" which  the N.T. usually translates as “training.” While the Apostle doesn’t want us to overrate physical training, it is of “some value.” Each of our children had their children, for the first time during pandemic, take to the court (volleyball) or to the pool (swimming) or to the links (golf) or to the field (football) to compete for their school. There’s something beautiful about it—the putting on of the school uniform and taking the court/pool/links/field to put their training to the test—to represent their school.

Youth has something to do with it. Linda and I try to exercise just so we can continue to make it out the door. It’s the beauty of youth that takes our breath away—how their bodies work with such grace and ease. As the wisest of mortals observes: “Enjoy your youth, and let your heart cheer you… Banish anxiety form your mind, and put away pain from your body; for youth is fleeting” (Ecc 11:9-10).

Lent #8: Getting Along

 Do not pronounce judgment before its time,

    when the Lord comes… (First Corinthians 4:5)

Lent is a time to see if we can forgo something, like food, for example. It’s not that food is bad—it’s good. But, sometimes we forgo something good in hopes that it will reveal something better. Forgoing judgment came to mind. Making judgments about things is like food, we need it to live. But sometimes we over judge something, like over eating or over drinking, and we make things worse.

When the Apostle Paul gets in a fuss with Apollos, with church folks picking sides, he suggests they forgo making judgments and see how things turn out. I’ll let Paul speak for himself (1Cor 4:4-6):

I do not even judge myself. I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby innocent. It is the Lord who judges me. Therefore do not pronounce judgment before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then each one will receive commendation from God. I have applied all this to Apollos and myself for your benefit, brothers and sisters…

Maybe forgoing judgment, particularly of another, will grant surprise benefits for ourselves and for others.

 

Lent #7: Repentance

 The Comforter will convict

      the world of guilt and sin. (John 16:7-8)

Among other things, like contriteness and forbearing, Lent is a season of repentance. My professor friend brought it up in relation to racism—seen and unseen. It seems the more people are told to repent, the less they are inclined to acknowledge any need for repentance. It is something you can’t talk people into.

Even the best of us have a hard time repenting. We can’t help but fudge. “We’re actually not that bad;” we think to ourselves. Or, I’ll want it known that it’s not altogether my fault. And other forms of “slip sliding away,” as Paul Simon sings it. True repentance is a gift of the Holy Spirit. As Jesus promised: “The Comforter will convict the world of guilt and sin” (Jn 16:7). That’s comforting.

Lent #6: Wound

The wound of my people,

   wounds me as well. (Jeremiah 8:21).

 My ATF (Actual Theologian Friend) suggested I read The Hidden Wound by Wendell Berry. The suggestion came after my reading of White Fragility when I complained that I’m too fragile for such shrilled pronouncements. My ATF was right—Berry is the one for me. “Wound” is a good word. It’s a Bible word—a Lenten word.

It’s Berry’s literary tone that draws me in. Like the Prophets, Berry speaks to us poetically: “The wound that hurts the daughter of my people/wounds me as well/Is there no balm in Gilead?/Is there no physician there?” (Jer 8). Our national wound of slavery hurts us all. The wound is too deep to be healed in any mechanistic way—by some sort of political policy or by a training certificate. Whatever we say or do seems trite: “They heal the wound of my people superficially” (Jer 8).

Even the Prophet hesitates to provide a solution: “Is there no balm in Gilead?” Berry takes us to a spiritual place that begins with lament: “My heart is wounded within me” (Ps 109); and moves to confession, “Her wounds are ever before me” (Jer 6). Somehow, the Cross gets us to healing: “By his wounds we are healed” (Is 53 = 1Pt 2:24).