Mourning for the one we have pierced--Thoughts on Zechariah 12:10 (not 10:10)

 

“I will pour out on the house of David

and on the people of Jerusalem,

a spirit of grace and prayers,

and they shall look on him whom

they have pierced and they shall mourn

as if for an only son, and they shall grieve

as one grieves for a first born…”

 

Zechariah 12:10

 

 The familiar passages of scripture, the ones we hear over and over again—year to year—are often the most comforting.  They show up, unannounced, like old friends or family –and (like family & friends) often just in time for the holidays.  And, we know them so well everything feels automatic.  We hear that familiar voice, the cackle of a familiar laugh, and we are suddenly transported. For instance, when my oldest friend (David) stops by for coffee, we almost immediately become a couple of 4^th graders again—talking about teachers and kickball, St. Jerome’s and Ridgecrest Elementary, trips to K-mart and T,G & Y. We don’t think about it, we just fall right back into the old days and ways without even trying. 

 

For me, it is he same with familiar sayings and bits of information.  I can’t help but see the number 714 without thinking of Babe Ruth.  That was how many homeruns he hit.  Until Hank Aaron came along, it was considered the unbreakable record in baseball. For me, it is still the most important statistic in all of sports history.  But is that because I see it through the lens of nostalgia? I read that number on a sheet of paper, a computer screen, and without thinking, automatically, I see Babe Ruth circling the bases on those impossibly twiggy legs of his. 

 

I read these words from Zechariah and I immediately think of the Stations of the Cross. I picture Jesus pierced by the Roman soldier’s spear.  And –to some extent—that is appropriate.  The words evoke that image, and they are often read as part of the liturgy during Lent,  often included as part of the Stations meditations we read, when we pray the Stations of the Cross.  But, the other morning when I was reading these words, for some reason I paused for a moment and wondered: Wait a minute!  Why? Why would the Israelites return from exile in Babylon, be restored to their homeland, have a spirit of grace and petition poured out upon them, and suddenly begin mourning? Who do they look at? Who have their pierced?  Not Jesus, because these words were written at least 300-500 years before He was born.  Who have they pierced, and who are they looking upon? 

 

You see.  When I automatically think of Jesus, I’m not really reading the words? I’m not really paying attention to the text (or the context).  In a sense, I’m only reading what I expect to read—not what is actually on the page. And that’s not actually reading. 

 

So I went back to the words on the page in my Book of Christian Prayer, and then I looked them up in my Bible. And when I did, two things stood out to me: first, the citation in my prayer book was wrong; probably a typo.  It referenced Zechariah 10:10-11a, however, the words actually come from Zechariah 12:10-11a.  That stood out to me, because it reminded me that even experts with all their degrees and training can make mistakes.  Can get things wrong. Second, rereading the words in my Bible, I found myself struck by the context of the exiles returning to Jerusalem.  God promises to smite their enemies and to pour upon them a spirit of grace and petition. So why does the author include those words about that pierced one and mourning as if for an only child?  It sounds like it should be a time for celebration and cheers of joy, prayers of thanksgiving. But Zechariah speaks of mourning as if for a first-born child. Why had I never noticed that before?

 

Because I was blinded by prejudice—by pre-judgement. I had already made up my mind what the words meant, what they prefigured, and so I didn’t actually read the words, I read only what I expected from them. Sometimes 714, is just a number—not a statistic.

 

But this year, reading these familiar words with new eyes, I was astonished by their power and beauty and profound and personal message.  And it all started with a bit of curiosity: Why do people who are being saved begin to mourn? And who, exactly, is this pierced one that they are looking at?  And suddenly I knew. They are morning not for an only child, but as if for an only child.  They are being blessed by God, and they are mourning because they know they do not deserve God’s grace. They are mourning because the one who saved them, the one who is blessing them, is the one they pierced—not with a lance, but with idols and betrayals and hypocrisy and sin.  And I was stunned.  Suddenly I remembered the times that I too had experienced kindness and generosity at the hands of someone I had betrayed or gossiped about, or just thought ill of. I felt again the shame and the sorrow of knowing my own failing, my own weakness and smallness. How little I deserved the generosity and kindness, and how ashamed (and yet grateful) I was to receive them.

 

And that image recalled to me the reason these words are so important to our reading for Lent, for Holy Week, for contemplating the Passion of Our Lord. Because they remind us, not just of the lance of the Roman Soldier, but of he lance of my own sharp tongue, the piercing lance of my own selfish heart, my self-serving pride, and of the one who poured out His blood for us anyway.

 

And so, today—as I write this—on easter Monday, I read these words and think not of Lent and the Passion, but of Easter and the Resurrection.  I look upon the one I pierced and see Him resurrected,  pouring His spirit upon me, upon us all, as He brings us forth from the exile of sin (and death), restoring us to life and opening for us gates of a new Jerusalem: His Blessed Kingdom.

 

Reading these familiar words, I had my eyes opened. I realized something about God’s word, that it requires vulnerability and curiosity—if we want to really read it, we have to open ourselves up to the risk of having our ideas and our hearts changed. A reading lesson for an old librarian—and a life lesson for all of us. Pre-judging something (or someone) can cause us to miss out on so much…

Palm Sunday 2023--Why should we expect anything different? Thoughts on the Passion from the Gospel of Matthew

 

“And many women were there, watching from a distance;

the same women who had followed Jesus from Galilee

and ministered to Him.” –Matthew 27:55

 

 My usually approach to contemplating scripture is to see what stands out to me as I read it—what troubles me, or confuses me; what makes me pause and wonder why.  And this morning as I was reading the Passion narrative from Matthew, there were a few bits and pieces that caught me off guard. First this passage about the women, which makes me think about how often it is the women who remain faithful, who stand up when there is trouble and never turn away: mothers, wives, sisters standing by the bedside of the dying, visiting the sick, holding the hand of the prisoner .  Why is that women are the ones who so often show this courage (or faithfulness)?  Is it because women so often go unnoticed? That soldiers and guards don’t feel threatened by their presence, don’t even acknowledge it often enough.  Them—they’re just women.  That humility and that invisibility, is it something that women learn early in life and is it that abuse or that bias that gives these women the courage to remain close to Jesus, after all the apostles (males) have fled in terror and confusion?

 

I wondered about that for a bit.  And then I wondered about an interesting image from the Garden of Gethsemane scene.  What caught my attention this time was the three disciples that Jesus took with Him when he went off to be alone: Peter, James and John (cf. Mt 26: 36-46).  The same three He took with Him when He was transfigured on the mountain (cf. Mt. 17: 1-8).  I also noticed another similarity. In both cases a cloud comes over Jesus. On the mountain it is a literal cloud (the presence of God), but here it is a figurative cloud—a sadness and anguish.  And reading this morning, I wondered: Was this moment not another kind of transfiguration? On the mountain the disciples witnessed the Godliness of Jesus through a transfiguration, and here they glimpse (perhaps only for a moment) the fullness of His humanity through His anguish. He tells the three, “My soul is sorrowful to the point of death…” And just like on the mountain, the three friends are found on the ground, there in fear and awe; here in the garden they are exhausted and have fallen asleep.  So again I wonder, why?  Is Matthew trying to tell us something with these parallels, or am I just misreading these stories through my own idiosyncratic lens? 

 

But then something else occurred to me.  The story itself: the Passion and death of Our Lord.  What does it mean to us? What does it teach us about the Love of God?  And what does it teach us about what we should expect from a Christian life?

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  sings the old hymn. And so we are reminded again and again of that call to follow Christ, and what it means to follow Him.

 

But still, we hear this same story year after year, over and over again.  For almost 2100 years, now.  And yet, we still seem to expect a different ending. Every year as we read this story—a kind of strange anticipatory hope comes over me, as if this time—perhaps—the disciples won’t flee, this time, the guards won’t abuse, this time the priests won’t spit, this time Pilate won’t give in, this time Judas won’t betray.  This time, things will be different.  This time victory won’t come in the form of a cross. But that is my way, that is our way; it isn’t God’s way.

 

“Take up your cross, the master said, if you would my disciple be…”  the old hymn sings. And yet we still look for another way, an easier way.  We look for a victory that feels more safe, that seems more comfortable, more to our liking—more victorious (by our standards).  But that isn’t the victory God chose, and it isn’t the victory He calls us to. 

Each time you look at the cross, you see the victory of Christ, the throne—so to speak—of God’s victory.  So why after hearing this story for 2100 years do we keep looking, hoping, expecting something easier, something different?  Why do we keep thinking we should be able to have victory without the cross? Hosannas without the Passion? 

 

Recently I read or heard someone talking about how anti-Catholic (or anti-Christian) bigotry was the last acceptable prejudice.  I don’t know if this is true or not, but the speaker seemed quite indignant about it. And this morning I am wondering –why not? If Christians are truly following their master, shouldn’t they expect to be rejected? Shouldn’t they expect that the only crown they will receive in this world will come with thorns, and it will be bejeweled only by the drops of their own blood.

 

Instead of demanding glory, or mercy or even respect, when faced with the brutality of sin, Jesus accepted the abuse and gave "[His] back to those who beat me/ [His] cheeks to those who plucked [His] beard;/ [His] face [He] did not shield from buffets and spitting." (cf. Isaiah 50:4-7). 

 

Why do Chrsitians imagine anything else? As Jesus warned us, if they treat the Master in this way, will they treat His servants any better? (cf. John 15:20) Instead of demanding respect, perhaps Christians should follow the example given in Isaiah; stop trying to protect our faces from the spitting and our backs from the beatings, and take up our Cross and follow our King--to His throne.

 

After 2100 years, there are still so many lessons for us to learn, and I fear—none of them will come easy.

 

I wish you a blessed Holy Week and I pray that you will find, as you take up your own particular cross, that you are not alone. There is someone’s shoulder lifting it right there beside you.

 

God Bless you, and I will see you the other side of Easter!

 

 

 

 

Not for death, but for the glory of God—thoughts on the Gospel for 5th Sunday of Lent

 

“This Illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God,

that the Son of God might be glorified through it.” –John 11:4

 

This Sunday’s Gospel is a lengthy section John 11, telling the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. There are so many elements in this story worth our contemplation.  The resurrection of Lazarus, coming out of the tomb still bound in burial cloths. What a striking image. Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus are models of faith and prayer, service and contemplation. The fact that Jesus waits 2 days before he responds to their plea is certainly something worth our attention.  What does that mean? Why would He do that? And there is, of course, Martha’s own confusion about the behavior of Jesus: 

 

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died…”  (cf. John 11:21)

 

How many times have we all felt that way? Asked almost that very same question: Where were you God, when my father died? Why weren’t you there to protect my husband, my wife, my child,  from cancer? From that car accident? From depression? From temptation? From all harm??

 

This chapter is so rich, in fact the readings for these past three Sundays have been so very rich; such fruitful food for prayer.  But, for me there was that strange and wonderful word from Jesus that comes early in the chapter:

 

“This illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God…”

 

And yet, Lazarus is sick, and Lazarus does die. His sisters and friends begin the process of mourning and burial for him.  They are not spared that suffering.  They must still endure it.  His death is real. Their grieving is real.  The suffering is real—and yet… there is something more: the glorification of Jesus that arrives somehow within the suffering, the grieving.

 

There are two things I am pondering about this reading today;

 

First, there is the reality of that suffering; the sorrow and mourning of Martha, Mary and their friends, as well as the actual suffering of Lazarus (unto death).  The fact that we have faith, or that we might offer up our suffering, does not in any sense diminish the pain.  It still hurts, still makes us question, challenges our faith and our heart and our soul—and may even cripple our bodies.  Being a “Christian” doesn’t spare you any of that human suffering; though it may give you comfort, it won’t take away the sting.

 

Second, that idea of Lazarus’s death being for the glory of God, and the glorification of Jesus.  That—I think—is what I am trying to get at when I talk of the value of need.  In this story Lazarus is facing the ultimate question, the ultimate insufficiency: death.  Lazarus cannot control death, he can’t work his way around it. Can’t, pull up his bootstraps and defeat it with gumption and positive thinking.  Like every single one of us, he is insufficient to that task.  And hence, his sisters calling out to Jesus for help.  They need help.  They cannot do this on their own. Their vulnerability overwhelms them.  And what does this vulnerability, this need do to their community?  It draws people to them. Friends, family, neighbors, come to offer comfort, to offer consolation, to share the burden of this suffering with Mary and Martha. They come to give of themselves, they leave the comfort and security of their own homes and lives and travel to be with Martha and Mary in their time of need.  And—in some small way—this self-giving, this coming together as community, this sharing of a burden, this entering into another person’s need, is a reflection of (or participation in) God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s compassion—God’s glory.  

 

And then, on a whole other level, there is Jesus coming to them, entering into their suffering, their need, and calling out of it life itself.  When Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, restores him back to life, He reveals something new about Himself to the people watching, even to His apostles standing nearby. He reveals to them His glory—the glory that shines from the very source of life itself: the Father.  But to us, today, who have heard this gospel reading all our lives, who have become overly familiar with the names and the events and just want mass to end so we can go get our coffee and doughnuts, what is Jesus revealing to us? 

 

I think it is Irenaeus who said: The glory of God is a person fully alive…

 

Jesus is glorified by restoring Lazarus to life, but He does this by entering into the sorrow and suffering of Mary and Martha and the mourners; by going to them, toward their need.  And He reveals the fullness of His glory by walking toward the cross, into his own suffering and passion and death—in order to meet us in our sorrow, our suffering, our need for salvation.

 

Walking away from church this morning, I was humbled by the power and mystery of this story, and by the question: How do I follow in His footsteps, unless I am willing to turn my face toward Calvary and walk always toward the cross?

 

Last, let me also say: finding a spiritual value in our insufficiency does not mean that we simply give in to any weakness or that we celebrate a weakness.  An addict or alcoholic may need their drug in order to avoid the pain of withdrawal; but real as that need may be, it does not mean that the best way to help them is to buy them a bottle of gin. A husband may say he needs his wife, but that doesn’t mean she must submit to him.  Helping others, entering into their vulnerability and need, does not mean becoming a doormat or enduring physical abuse.  It does not mean that we feed the addiction or sin of another. But it might look like sitting in silence with someone in their time of crisis, holding their hand, and wishing we could do more but knowing this is all we have to give.  There is a blessed humility in that as well. And God’s glory is revealed there, too.

 

Humbling ourselves, and truly entering into the suffering of another will often be uncomfortable, it will stretch our patience, our love, our faith even.  Like giving birth, it could even be painful at times, but it should always call us to come forth out of the tomb and into the light, where we can reflect the glory of God by becoming vulnerable and fully alive.

 

The work of God revealed—thoughts on the Gospel for the 4th Sunday of Lent (John 9:1-41)

 “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

--John 9:2

 How often do we ask: why?  Why has this befallen me? My spouse? My child? We search desperately for some meaning in the suffering we witness. Why did this happen? Where was God? Why did He let this happen?

 

And –on the other side of this coin—how often have people justified suffering or loss as God’s will.  The sentimental side of this might justify the death of a child by saying: God wanted her with Him in Heaven. 

 

But the truth of it is, we ache from the loss—and we are just trying to make some kind of sense of it; trying to tell ourselves a story that will bring some comfort.  And yet, no matter what story we come to hold as true, we still live with that ache, that loss, that emptiness.  It doesn’t go away, and neither does that question: why? Whose fault is it? My sin or my parents? My family? My society? Just who is God mad at? And why? What did we do?

 

But, what we hear in John’s Gospel for the 4^th Sunday of Lent is some assurance that God does not work that way. When the disciples see a man who has been blind since birth, they ask Jesus:  Who sinned? The man or his parents? Who is God punishing by making this man blind?

 

And Jesus tells them: Neither the man, nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him. (cf. 9:3) He wasn’t born blind as a punishment for his parent’s sin (or even his own).  God doesn’t afflict me with cancer because of some sin of my youth, nor to punish my parents for something they did.  God is not keeping a tally sheet of our sins: 37 mortal sins = stage 3 carcinoid tumor and chronic leukemia; 19 venial sins = blindness (or a club foot—depending on the season); 20+ venial sins = in-laws for the holiday weekend.

 

Earlier in John’s Gospel Jesus has already made things very clear: For God sent His son into the world, not to judge the world, but so that through Him the world might be saved. (cf. 3:17) Not to condemn, but that the work of God (salvation, mercy, love) might be revealed.  And here in this Gospel for the 4^th Sunday of Lent we read of the man born blind and the question comes up: why? Why did this happen? Is his blindness some kind of punishment? Does he (somehow) deserve it?  But Jesus says no to that kind of theology, that kind of faith. This man’s suffering does not come as a judgment from God. In fact, I think Jesus is telling us that the disciples are asking the wrong question.  When we ask whose to blame, we distance ourselves from the problem—from the suffering—from the person; we stand apart and judge.  Exactly what Jesus came not to do.  Instead, what Jesus does when He meets anyone afflicted by illness or demons (anyone in need), is to enter into their concern, their trouble, their need. Often asking them: What do you want me to do for you? How can I serve you? How can I meet you in your need?

 

In this Sunday’s story, Jesus immediately sets about the process of healing in order that the work of God might be made visible.  And I think that must be one of the most important lessons in this famous story.  Instead of letting Himself be drawn into a theological debate, or a theoretical discussion; instead of standing back and contemplating the situation, He enters into it and thus begins the process of making visible the work of the Father—mercy, healing, salvation, love.  What does that tell us about how we should live? What does that say to us about how we should see the people around us, their sufferings, their struggles, their need?  Not as an opportunity to make points, to show how smart or lucky or good we are—but as an opportunity to make the work of God visible; to reveal God’s love.  To die to ourselves (even if just a little bit) for the sake of another.

 

What does this look like in real life? For me, it looks like this: I carry a little extra cash in my wallet whenever I can and I give it to whoever asks. When I pull up to a stop light and someone comes to my car window with their sign or their paper cup, I don’t ask them what they will do with the money, or why they need it. I don’t ask who is to blame for the situation they find themselves in.  I just ask their name, and give them whatever money I have.  Then I ask them to pray for me, and assure them that I will pray for them as well. Another way it might show up in my life is through baking. I love to bake bread and take loaves to neighbors and co-workers who are experiencing some difficulty or hardship.  Some need.

 

And—as I have said before—doing even these small acts of love, of mercy, of compassion leaves me feeling blessed in ways that I can only explain by turning back to those words from today’s gospel: for a moment, something has been made visible, something I had not seen before, something I perhaps had not even noticed that I was missing. In the need of another, and the chance to serve them, I have glimpsed for a moment—the work of God made visible. 

 

That is what I think we are all hungering for—a glimpse of the transcendent, a glimpse of eternity beaming radiantly back at us—perhaps through the eyes of the blind, or the hungry, the weeping, the sick, the prisoner, the widow, the orphan or even the immigrant or the stranger.

 

And this is what I mean when I talk about a theology of need.  I think need is built into us. It is a way that we form connections and community. It is also the way we discover who we really are.  My need creates a space for you to be kind or generous, to become discover your gifts and strengths by helping another.  Your need does the same for me.  And as we reach out to help one another, as we move into the need of one another, we grow in love, we grow in humility, and we --if only for a moment—become more like Jesus. Through self-giving, we lay down our life for the sake of another, and by doing that we make visible the work of God, the love of the one who humbled Himself and took the form of a servant, the one who died for us on a cross—the one who came not to judge, but to save.