This Palm Sunday I want to suggest that a way to enter more deeply into the events of Holy Week is by considering the notion of power—what power is, and what it is for; especially in terms of the story we just heard.

Remember, all of this happens during Passover time in Jerusalem—a time for Israel to remember the mighty acts of God through which the nation was delivered from bondage in Egypt, and given its land and its mission. It was a time to look back on the days when it seemed the power of God was shown in clear, unmistakable ways. It was also a time of deep longing, of painful memories, and of vaguely formed hopes. For Israel was again in bondage—a client state of Rome, ruled by a royal puppet, occupied by a Pagan army, taxed beyond endurance. The people of Israel wanted power; power that would give them a way out.

This was the atmosphere as Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem with palm branches and cries of Hosanna. (Remember, ‘Hosanna’ means ‘save us’; not ‘hurray’, or ‘yippee’, but ‘save us’.) The crowds saw in Jesus someone who might have the power they wanted: the power to overthrow Caesar, the power to take them out of the mess they were in, the power to put them somewhere else. That was what they wanted, that was what they expected; that was what the Messiah was for.

So they welcomed him, and they watched him, and they looked for signs of his power. Nothing special here. We all know what it is like to crave the power to fix us, to protect us, or to get us out of here. And we know how we greet the person, or the scheme, or the program, or the product, that we think just might do that. We know about that.

Yet one of the great paradoxes of the story of our faith is that this allure of power is constantly confronted by the mystery of sacrifice. It is an abiding theme, a sort of point/ counterpoint throughout scripture. And it reaches its highest point today—the allure of power; the mystery of sacrifice.

The first test—the first confrontation between power and sacrifice—is in the Garden of Gethsemane. Here, Jesus is met with the power of force, with swords and clubs; and here he is given an opportunity to make that power his own. Someone draws a sword, a blow lands, and the issue is concrete.

Remember, all those people who were shouting ‘Hosanna’ wanted and expected a savior who would fight—who will carve for them a way out of their troubles—even if the carving is through human flesh.

And to this Jesus says ‘No’. This is a big no. It is said, not as tactical decision made while facing a superior force, but as a witness to the Father’s will for all humanity. Jesus will not give the word to fight.

In response to Jesus’ witness against violence, there was no miracle. The soldiers did not change their minds, the disciples were not inspired or made noble.

Instead, the disciples fled, and Jesus is taken prisoner. Power won that round. No doubt the people were disappointed.

The next test, the next coming together of power and sacrifice, is at the trial. Here Jesus stands before the High Priest and then before Pilate. He faces the power of the religious authorities and the power of Caesar—the power of systems and of institutions. Here again Jesus is given opportunity to make this power his own. The Council, the High Priest, and Pilate all question Jesus, they all want answers, they all want Jesus to use the weapons of argument, debate, coercion and wit, the tools of their trade.

Instead, the great rhetorical genius of Jesus, a genius that has so often silenced opponents and escaped the cleverest traps words could devise—that genius stands mute. Jesus presents to his accusers exactly what he presented to his captors, simply himself. He stands before them silent and powerless, and they choose. The allure of power, the response of sacrifice.

Again there was no miracle. Peter denied him, the High Priest handed him over to Pilate, who tried to give him back to the Crowd. But the crowd, so in love with power, choose Barabbas. Now that made sense. Barabbas was a fighter, a rebel who had drawn blood in an insurrection—someone who had shown some spunk. Of course they chose Barabbas, whose ways they could understood and whose style they could admire.

As for Jesus, that crowd—which suddenly had for itself the power to kill—shouted ‘crucify him’. Jesus had again failed to rescue them, he had failed to show them the way out. And there was no miracle, and they crucified him. Power again is met by sacrifice.

The final moment of confrontation between power and sacrifice comes on the cross. The soldiers, the crowd, and the chief priest all give Jesus one last chance to accept and use power. They shouted, "Come down now from the cross", "save yourself...so we might see and believe."

Because there was still the power of magic, of some supernatural cavalry, with bugles sounding and flags waving, coming over the hill at the last second to make it all alright. So the wags at the foot of the cross waited, and watched and laughed. And nothing unusual happened.

Jesus, deserted by his friends, rejected by his people, cast out by the religious establishment, condemned by the Government and executed by the military, cried out in the midst of an unnatural darkness. And the sacrifice was complete. Power had been rejected, and the result was the ultimate sign of weakness, a fresh corpse. There was no way out; and it was all over.

The harsh, and frightening, and inexplicable mystery of sacrifice is that it is only and precisely at this moment, and not a second before, that something new begins to happen. It is only and precisely at the moment of death, when Jesus’ life and fate are totally joined to our life and our fate, it is only when all of the world’s power to hurt and destroy have been used with its greatest success—it is only then that the curtain of the temple is torn. It was only then that everything that separated the life of humanity from the presence of God was destroyed forever.

Only at that moment of death, of total weakness, could the first eyes be open. A pagan Centurion, the battle hardened veteran of much death, sees in the dead man the truth no one else had grasped. The crown becomes quiet, and is no longer proud of itself; someone named Joseph offers his own tomb.

And gradually those puzzling words of Jesus begin to make sense. "When I am lifted up from the Earth, I will draw men to myself."

We all know what happens next. The world in all its violence and all of its power has spoken—and in answer there is silence, the mystery of sacrifice. This was on Friday. The only Friday we call Good. A Friday that continues to challenge our illusions of power, our visions of victory, our values and our hopes; a Friday that speaks loudly to our desire to find a way out of what it means to be a human being. For Jesus did not offer those crowds in Jerusalem a way out of what they did not like. He does not offer that to us. There is no way out—but there is a way through, a way through even the worst.

After sundown that Friday, all of creation waits, and rests, through the last Sabbath of the old covenant; until the edge of dawn on the first day of the week, when creation is made anew, and God says, once more and for all eternity, let there be light.

But before that, the very early church had a slightly different perspective—one that came from its Jewish roots, and one that is still very strong in Eastern Christianity. You see, Israel had never chopped up in chronological order its Passover celebration of the Mighty Acts of God. That is, there was not one celebration of Pharaoh’s letting the people go, another celebration of the pillars of cloud and fire, a third of crossing the Red Sea, and so on—even though these each happened on different days. Instead, for eight days, Israel celebrates Passover, and the whole holiday marks the birth of the Jews as a people and their emergence as a unique nation in history, devoted to God’s will. Even though there are differences in emphasis during the days of Passover, every day celebrates the whole thing. Several historical moments, one theological event—the redemption of Israel—and one extended celebration.

That’s how we first understood Easter. Easter was celebrated during what is called the Triduum, the great three days—from Thursday evening, (that’s now) through Saturday evening and Sunday morning.

The Triduum is about several historical moments—from Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem through the resurrection—but one theological event—the salvation of the world. They were all tied together with one extended celebration. It was one symphony with several movements; a single event, with many facets.

So, tonight’s service was seen as the beginning of Easter worship. In fact, the penitents, those who had been expelled from the Church for notorious sin and were going through their Lenten Penance to be restored to full fellowship, these folks were re-admitted to the Eucharist on Maundy Thursday. Otherwise, they would have missed Easter.

I say all of this to offer a slightly different way of looking at this day—and at the institution of the Eucharist and the arrest of Jesus, which are the major themes of tonight’s service. What we remember today are really parts of a single theological and spiritual event—God’s great act of redemption. The Last Supper, the arrest and trial, the crucifixion, Jesus’ death and burial—these are not separate from, or a prelude to, the resurrection—admission tickets to the main event; and neither the crucifixion nor the resurrection itself is the one saving event. (That’s just one of the places Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ gets it wrong.) Instead, the events of Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are, together, what it looks like for God in Christ to accomplish the salvation and renewal of creation.

All together, these make up the great saving acts of God in history whereby darkness is overcome by light, life triumphs over death, and the forces of evil are vanquished. It is only when we look at all of this together that we begin to see what it means for the way of the cross to become the way of life, and for Jesus to triumph over every evil.

From now through Easter Sunday, we will be looking at, and remembering, and celebrating, one theological reality, one symphony. We need to hear all of it if we are to understand what’s going on.

That’s because there is a pattern to this, a pattern that is powerful and important, a pattern that reflects the whole of God’s relationship to His world; a pattern that still echoes. I talked about this a little, with a different emphasis, last Sunday.

The pattern is this: God speaks, humanity responds, there is silence, and God says the final word. It is the ancient pattern of creation, sin, judgment, and redemption that is at the heart of so much of the Biblical story; and it reaches its zenith here—it is the pattern of the Great Three Days.

On Maundy Thursday, God speaks; God makes very clear who he is, and what he is like. At the heart of this is the Last Supper, where Jesus gives us the Eucharist. In doing that, he reveals what it means to be the Son of Man, and to be the Messiah. "This is my body that is for you", "This cup is the new covenant in my blood." The key to greatness with God is not power as we know it; it is not victory as the world counts it; it is not might or majesty or the defeat of enemies; it is not signs; and it is not wisdom. It is loss and sacrifice. It is the faithful surrender of everything that is precious. This is not what was expected, or what was hoped for.

On the night it all begins, Jesus gives the disciples, and us, a parting gift—a continual way into his presence and into his life. While the Eucharist has many parallels with the Passover meal we just heard about in Exodus, it is still an odd gift. Jesus does not leave lands conquered, or books written. He does not leave a long list of commandments or a new social order.

Instead, Jesus leaves himself, body and blood—the stuff of his sacrifice, the sign of both his presence and of his defeat.

Just to make sure we get the point, Jesus then speaks of a great contrast. On the one hand, he says, is the way it is with the world and the leaders of the world. The great ones have power and they rule by might and by force. But not so with you, the Lord says to those who follow him. Not so with us. This is all renounced, and the real leaders will be servants, young and insignificant. Greatness with God is like this, like table servants, Jesus says, not like that, not like the kings of the world.

This is the first movement of the Great Three days. God speaks, God makes himself known. With this, the symphony of Easter begins. At the end of this service, we begin to hear what humanity has to say back. As if in direct response to the Lord’s words about greatness and the kings of the gentiles, Roman soldiers and Temple authorities speak for the world, and for humanity. They say what it is that the world has to say to a God who offers only his body and blood; who refuses armies; and who offers instead of conquest the vision of one who serves.

The arrest and the nasty business tomorrow, the great silent rest of the last Sabbath of the Old Covenant, and the resurrection itself, all flow as a response, a counter-point, really, to what is made known at the Last Supper. God speaks, humanity responds, there is silence, and God says the final word. One symphony, several movements. One great event, several moments in time. In order for us to begin to grasp what Easter Sunday morning is all about, we need to listen closely tonight and tomorrow; and we need to hear it all.

So what I want to do is say a few things about the cross, things which are true and important—things which might enrich your silence a little by giving some specific focus and content to your thoughts and reflections. I’m not going to try to unpack, explain, analyze or defend any of these. I’m just going to mention them. Listen; and see if something leaps out at you—and if it does, take hold of it and chew on it for a while. Make it a part of your silence on this quiet day. Try to see if it makes any difference, if it matters.

The structure of what to say comes from a wonderful old collect I have always loved. It used to be used during Eastertide but they moved it to the summer. It begins "Almighty God, you have given your only Son to be for us a sacrifice for sin, and also an example of godly life..." The two basic things about Jesus, and the two basic things about Good Friday, are given in these opening words. Jesus is a sacrifice for sin, and Jesus is an example of godly life. The cross also is these two things. The cross is a sacrifice for sin; the cross is an example of godly life.

First, the cross it is a sacrifice for sin. Our words, our language, do not do a very good job here. What it means is this: At the cross the world changed, and creation was transformed.

At the cross, the ancient and festering wound which separated God from humanity was healed, and healed once and for all. That wound isn’t there any more. Here the world is reconciled to God.

Just to make sure we get the point, John’s Gospel says that Jesus was crucified at exactly the time the Passover lambs were being sacrificed. Jesus is a sacrifice for sin, and what we witness today has taken away the sin of the world.

This power of sacrifice has to do with something we all know. We all know that when we have done something really wrong, when we have really blown it, then something needs to happen, something more needs to be done, in order for things to be right again, in order to restore some sort of balance that we have upset, in order to repair something that we have broken.

That’s not theology, but that points to the reality. And the cross is what the reality looks like.

Behold, the lamb of God. First, this is a sacrifice for sin.

Second, Jesus, and the cross, are examples to us of Godly life. Remember, this is the way of life. The cross does not teach us how to die. The cross teaches us how to live—how to live as we are created to live, how to live in such a way as the world will be mended. This is what it means to live. It takes some silence to see that.

Pontius Pilate was right. Ecce homo, Behold the man. This is what full humanity, complete humanity, really looks like. What it means to be fully a human being we can learn only from looking at the cross.

(That doesn’t mean we should also be nailed to a cross; but it does mean that we can only learn what full humanity does mean by looking at this cross.) And we can only learn the deepest woof and warp of our lives by looking here. After all, this is the image we are created in.

In exactly the same way, this is what love looks like. We really need to hear this. We get all sorts of pictures of what love looks like, rated everything from G to X, but we almost never come face to face with the foundation of it all. All true love looks like this, at least from the inside, as it ever so slowly becomes true love.

All of our cultural frenzy about love and being loved and loving needs the corrective of Good Friday. Yes, ‘God is love’. Yes, ‘all you need is love’. (St. John and the Beatles can agree on a few things). But this is it. This is what it is. Anything else is something less.

There is power with the cross, also. Behold your king. Behold the one with clout, the one who changes things, the one who matters. Power looks like this. Real power still and always looks like this.

"Almighty God, you have given your only Son to be for us a sacrifice for sin, and also an example of godly life:" Sacrifice, reconciliation, humanity, love, power. The cross reveals, and the cross is, all of these. And that is just a beginning, a beginning of words, the weakest sort of beginning for this day.

Take a piece of this and work on it for a while. Ponder and wonder and see if it makes more sense if you use fewer words, and more time. Gaze in wonder, and awe, for today we see the salvation of the world.
 

The Lord is Risen Indeed!

This is our day, the Church’s day. On Easter we celebrate that central, decisive act of God which is the absolute center of our faith. As the Psalmist says, "On this day the Lord has acted, we will rejoice, and be glad in it".

On Easter we celebrate the ongoing source of our life and our faith—the continuing presence of the resurrected Jesus. || And there are at least two sides to that. On the one hand, Easter is about Jesus. It is about a man who was dead and suddenly is alive—alive in a new and special and wonderful way. Alive as no one had ever been alive before.

Easter is the vindication of Jesus—Easter shows that the cross, which had seemed to be both failure and defeat, is instead neither. By the resurrection God proclaims that the life, ministry, suffering and death of Jesus are the way, indeed the only way, to the fullness of new life. God shows both that the power of obedient, self-giving love is the greatest power in the universe; and that the mystery of sacrifice is the secret heart of all creation. Christ is risen—and even death is powerless over such love and such sacrifice.

All of this is real. All of this is historical. It all happened a long time ago—under Pontius Pilate. And today we remember that, and today we celebrate that.

But the historical part is always the easy part. That’s because history is conveniently distant. History can be appreciated without personal involvement; it can be celebrated without changing us. It is not that difficult for us to be a people who celebrate Easter.

On the other hand, what is harder, and more important, is for us to become an Easter People—a people for whom what we remember today gives shape, hope, strength, and direction to the whole of our lives. For that to happen, Easter needs to be about us, as much as it is about Jesus.

One way that Easter is about us is that the Resurrection means that Jesus continues; his life and his work are not just things of the past. All that Jesus did and stood for during his earthly ministry continue, and are part of the present in a unique way. After all, Jesus does not continue the way the teaching and example of a great historical figure, like Socrates or Ghandi, continue.

Instead, the very same life that Jesus lived continues to be lived, and the very same work that Jesus did continues to be done, and Jesus himself continues to be present. This is what we are about; this is what the Church is about.

For we are his body, and his life is our life, and his ministry is our ministry. The Resurrection is about us—and it shows us that what it means to be Baptized People is to be nothing less than the re-presentation of Jesus to our world, and to our communities, in our generation.

This is what Paul is talking about when he says to us "you have died, and your life is hid with Christ in God." It is a good thing on Easter morning to be reminded that we have died—that we have been baptized into Christ, and so our lives are no longer our own. Instead our lives are so wrapped in His life that who we are only becomes clear as Christ’s life is made real in us.

We have died; and we have been raised with Christ; and our life is to be found in the life of the Risen Lord.

Easter is about us. Another important part of what that means is that we, like him, should be found among the living—and not among the dead. That is not as easy as it sounds.

If you want to have just one thing to take home from this Easter sermon, let it be this question: Have you ever thought about the love it took for Jesus to walk out of that tomb and return to Jerusalem? [Have you ever thought about the love it took for Jesus to walk out of that tomb and return to Jerusalem?] We will never know what happened behind the stone on Easter morning. That is a private moment between The Father and the Son. But that is not the greatest wonder of Easter. The greatest wonder of Easter is that there was enough love in that man Jesus to move him to return; to return to the place of his pain and his humiliations, to return to the people who had deserted him, and denied him, and ridiculed him, and hurt him—when he had dared to make his offering of himself.

Remember, it was quiet, and it was safe, in the darkness of that cave, under the shroud, behind the rock. No one could get at Jesus anymore; and the pain was finally over. Among the dead—hidden and quiet, protected and safe—that must have been a very tempting place to stay. They had hurt him; they had done their worst; and their worst was very, very bad.

Still, the Father wanted him to go back. The Father willed that Jesus be found where life is—out there, away from the shroud, past the stone, among the people who had hurt him so badly.

And on Easter we celebrate the love that led him back. Not back in wrath, seeking justice (or revenge) but back with words like "my peace I give to you" and "receive the Holy Spirit."

The love that allowed Jesus to remove the shroud and walk past the stone and enter our world in peace—that is the love we are given; that it is the love we are called to share, to re-present to the world.

That is the love in which our lives are hid. That is the love where our lives, and the hope of the world, can be found.

Easter is about us. It is about us as individuals, and it is about us as a church. The love of Jesus that brought him out of the tomb, this love is ours by gift. This love calls us to be a forgiving and a caring people, a people who choose not to hide among the dead, but to come out, in peace, to a world that desperately needs the very love it so violently rejects. This love is given to us, that we may reach out our own wounded hands in blessing and in service—and so continue Christ’s life, and thereby discover our own.

We know how hard this can be. We all have our caves, we all have our places among the dead, where we hide from life and from each other. We each have our hurts and our wounds and our marks that would keep us apart, and hidden. But Easter rolls away our stone, too; and calls us to follow Christ—to rise, and to go out into the light, and so discover the life we are given to live, and the life we are called to share.

We do not do this alone, nor do we do it through our own strength. We dare not. Instead, we do this because Christ is risen, and is alive in our world, and in us.

Easter is about Jesus, and Easter is about us.

Alleluia, Christ is Risen!

The Lord is Risen indeed, Alleluia!