For nearly 2,000 years, we’ve talked about this day. We’ve argued over it, debated it, and some still deny it ever happened. I can’t even imagine how many sermons Easter has inspired. Today will be my 14th attempt to make sense of how God transforms our sorrow into new life. Our reading today comes from the Gospel of Mark. 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. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. But 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. But 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.” So 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. Of the four gospel accounts, Mark is the only one that comes to a screeching halt. No heavenly choir, no seaside breakfast, no grand entrance shouting “Here I am!” Just an empty tomb, three bewildered women, and a powerful invitation: Go and let the others know.
For Mark, that’s enough. Resurrection doesn’t need fanfare. It just needs to be lived. That’s exactly what Mary, Mary, and Salome do. Before the sun rises, they make their way through the dark to prepare Jesus' body for his final burial. Finding an open tomb and no body inside, they react just like any of us might. “They fled, trembling and bewildered, and said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” That’s Mark’s big finish. His story doesn’t end with clarity or certainty. But with the author pushing his pen our way as if to say, “Go and finish the story.” Because here’s the thing: Easter isn’t the end of the story. It’s the birth of something radically new. Resurrection is a birth announcement. A new life, a new way of living, born in the space between our messy, ordinary, sacred lives. I’ve been fortunate enough to have witnessed the birth of each one of our kids. I've also been called to sit by bedsides at the end of life. Neither events are neat and tidy. They’re full of sweat and tears. Grit and groaning. Both deeply human, deeply holy. Painful in their own ways. And that’s Easter – life conceived from death. Profound love born out of deep, raw anguish. It turns everything we know upside down. Leaving us to make sense of it. This is how John Chrysostom, the great preacher of the early church, describes it: “Hell took a body, and met God face to face. It took earth and encountered heaven. It took what it saw and was overcome by what it did not see.” While disciples locked themselves away in fear and despair, death desperately strained for the last word. But God spoke louder. And love won. Because, you see, in God’s kingdom, love wins every single time. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. How then, do we rejoice in a world that still honors death? And perceives love as a weakness. St. Augustine gently reminds us, “We are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song.” You see, we don’t just come together to celebrate Easter—we are called to embody it. We are resurrection people, called out of the tombs and hidden spaces to be the good news, to quote St. Francis, “using words only when necessary.” We are called to walk gently through confusion and fear, bringing the light of Christ into the darkness. That’s the call of the church. That’s Anamesa. To take what God has given to us and do likewise to one another in every space we enter. My favorite 13th Century German mystic, Meister Eckhart teaches us that “We are all meant to be mothers of God… for God is always waiting to be born.” Again, Easter is the birth of something new. Something holy, something beautiful, something brimming and bursting with life. God is always waiting to be born. And we, the Church, are the midwives. A community brave enough to sit in the messiness, breathing deeply, pushing bravely, delivering love into the world that tries to destroy it. I call this resurrection work. The quiet, unfinished story of God’s endless love that transforms the world around us moving us closer and closer to God’s Kingdom. This is the work we are called to do in the space between us and them, me and you, life and death. You see, with every offer of love given to someone, the Easter story continues. Like Howard Thurman wrote, “There must always remain in every life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful.” That place, for me, is Anamesa. I can’t promise you we will ever be polished or perfect, or if we’ll ever sing like angels. But in the last eight years, we’ve become a breathless and beautiful space. A place where love outshines fear. Hope overwhelms in welcome and joy. We aren't here to fix yesterday, but to simply show up to bear witness to what God is doing now. Because Easter isn’t confined to the past. It’s unfolding right now. In you. In me. In Anamesa. Each act of quiet kindness, gentle forgiveness, simple compassion, is Christ coming alive.Each time we feed someone who’s hungry, resurrection happens. Each time we comfort someone grieving, or listen to someone who’s hurting, or welcome someone who’s lonely Christ is born again and again. And so are we. Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection – a mini-Easter moment. It gives birth to something new, and transformational. Which is why I think Marks ends his gospel so abruptly. There’s no time to linger around an empty tomb. We have to go, picking up where Jesus left off, stepping into the mystery and being the presence of his awe. Jesus doesn’t just call us to the cross he sends us out beyond it, into new life marked by grace and love. His destiny is our destiny. His mission, now ours. We are his body. Easter is our birth. Eight years ago, we asked, “What if we built a community rooted not in doctrine, but delight? A community that isn’t seeking power, but presence? One that’s not about perfection, but people?” Today, we affirm it’s possible. We are building a community of love in the space between. It’s happening here. Right now. Every time we show up in awe…trusting love…becoming midwives of resurrection. So let’s not tame this Easter story. Or rush past the trembling and tears. Instead, let's live joyously, fearlessly, knowing the tomb is empty. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. Over and over again, in all that we do. This is the day the Lord has made. Life endures. Hope prevails. Love wins. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
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Unlike Mark who hurries to Easter, John lingers in this space for a while. He slows the camera down, zooms in on the quiet, more intimate moments. The washing of feet. The honest confessions. The prayers that stretch out like arms trying to embrace the world. More than a gospel, or timeline of events John’s writing a love story. One that begins in a rented room in a stranger’s home. One that invites us to sit down beside Jesus and feel what he’s feeling. Because this night, Maundy Thursday, is about the kind of love that doesn’t just feel Jesus’ compassion. It offers it. It kneels. It serves. It feeds. It speaks truth and grace. This is how John begins… 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. ... And during supper Jesus, ... got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. 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. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” ... After he had washed their feet, ... he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. ... Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me. The night begins with an act so stunning, it catches everyone off guard. Jesus gets up from the table, wraps a towel around his waist, pours water into a basin—and starts washing the calloused, cracked, dusty feet of those who he has spent three years walking beside.
This lesson he is teaching is not symbolic. Unlike his parables, it’s not a metaphor for anything. It’s just the way Jesus invites us to follow him as he wipes grime off the ones who still don’t fully get who he is. Peter, as Peter often does, protests. He states rather boldly, “No, Lord. You’re not washing my feet.” He can’t stand the idea that Jesus—their Teacher, their Lord—would do the work of the lowliest servant. But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Jesus could have taught them a theology on servanthood. But instead He says, “Let me show you how it’s done.” This is what love does. It stoops. It serves. It gets close enough to smell the sweat. And see inside the cracks in your heels. When he is done, Jesus turns to them—and to us— and says, “Just as I have done for you, go and do for one another.” If you want to makes the kingdom of heaven come alive go and live your life, as Paul describes, “in imitation of Christ.” Right after Jesus does this humble act, something holy happens. They eat. Not just bread and wine, but the fullness of a shared meal. A Passover supper, rich in memory and meaning. Somewhere between the dipping of bread and the drinking of the cup, Jesus tells them something extraordinary. He says, “I do not call you servants any longer… I have called you friends.” Friends. That word should stop us in our tracks. The very idea that Jesus, the Son of God, who walked on water and raised the dead, pulls us close and says: “You’re my beloved friend.” To be a friend of Jesus is to be not just seen, but known. Fully and completely. The good and the bad. And still be welcomed at the table Jesus calls them friends, even though he knows betrayal is coming. Peter will deny him. The rest will scatter. And Judas is already reaching for the bread with treachery in his heart. Still, Jesus doesn’t hold back his love for them all. He leans in. He gives the bread as a symbol of his body. He offers the wine as a reminder of God’s covenant and the blood he is about to shed. And, most importantly, he loves them to the very end. Nothing will ever be the same again. That’s the power of love. Real Love. The kind that comes from God. The kind that’s not transactional, but transformational. Not based on our worthiness, but rooted in God’s mercy and grace. So, in this room, around this table with his friends, Jesus gives them what is called the mandatum novum—a Latin phrase that means “new mandate” or “new commandment.” It’s where we get the word “Maundy” Jesus says: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35) Love as I have loved you. That’s the commandment that still hangs in the air every Maundy Thursday. It’s the one thing death cannot contain. Jesus says, Love is the greatest and second greatest commandment. All the other ones hang on this truth - Love God. Love One Another. Be the kind of love that shows up with a towel and a basin. That sets a table for both enemies and friends alike. That prays even for those who do you wrong. St. Augustine once said, “What does love look like? It has the hands to help others, the feet to hasten to the poor and needy, the eyes to see misery and want, and the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of others. That is what love looks like.” Jesus could have stopped there. And it would have been enough. But he gets up from the table, knowing what is coming and what he has to do. He leaves the room, and his friends follow. Together they walk to a garden to pray under the moon and stars. Yes, they pray. Jesus' prayer is a deep, aching, heartfelt prayer too. it's a prayer for his strength. His faithfulness. His courage. He also prays for his friends. For those of us who will come after. For you and me. He prays, “That they may all be one… that the love with which you have loved me may be in them” (John 17: 21, 26). On the brink of his own suffering, Jesus stops to pray for us. For our unity. For our love. And Peace. He prays for our capacity to live in the space between as a people who reflect the love of God. That kind of love isn’t soft or sentimental. It’s fiercely hopeful. It believes that even in a fractured world, even when betrayal is close and the cross is looming, we can still be a people who love each other well. Which brings us to this space where thousands of years later, we still gather at the table, still trying to live into that new commandment. But it seems ever more apparent to me that Christ’s body is more fractured and broken than ever. How we have forgotten the point of Maundy Thursday. It’s not to reenact a moment, but to reimagine what it means to love like Jesus in the here and now. To build a community of love, together, in the space between—between success and failure, between certainty and doubt, between your good days and your worst ones. That’s Anamesa. The sacred ground where God kneels with a towel, where Jesus calls us, “Friend.” Yes, this is a holy night. It’s holy because it teaches us how to be church. Not by programs or perfect theology, but by proximity and presence. By washing the feet of the ones who are hard to love. By opening the door for those who feel left out. Setting a table for the ones we’ve shut out. And by daring to call someone “friend” even when they don’t deserve it. Because that’s how Jesus loved. And he says, “Go do likewise.” As the mystic Julian of Norwich said, “The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love.” Let us go and rejoice together, washing, eating, sharing, praying, and showing up for each other in all the different ways we love God, love others, and serve both.
I have preached this story well over a dozen times. And still my favorite part is how Jesus chooses to rolls into Jerusalem on a borrowed donkey, because why not. He’s really not attached to owning things. They weigh him down. Of course, he’s also not into great fanfare and applause. But still the people give it to him - throwing him a parade.
Which is really more of a lampoon of another parade happening downtown. A Roman general, on a mighty warhorse, marches his soldiers through the Main Street of Jerusalem. Their uniforms covered in blood from an uprising nearby. More than a victory parade, it was a warning to anyone thinking about challenging Rome’s elite power. And then there’s Jesus in juxtaposition, quietly riding in without swagger or flex. He has no need to impress, because that’s not what love does. Still, the people, his people, wave palm branches, shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord – the king of Israel.” You could say it was a snub at Herod, the local king in Caesar’s pocket. But really this was a desperate cry for help. Hosannah literally means “God, help us!” They know the risk of shouting this in public. They know Rome is watching. But they are at the end of their rope. They’re tired of being occupied. Tired of the crushing grip on their throats. They’re tired of being tired. So, they show up. And wave Jesus in. Not because they’re certain he’s the one. But because they’re hopeful. Yet, what they hope for isn’t exactly what they get, is it? They want a powerful leader. Not powerless servant. They want a general on his warhorse. Not a pacifist on a borrowed donkey. They want Game of Thrones. But get Golgotha. The thing is, Jesus doesn’t come wielding power - but peace. His eyes are focused on a cross no one else can see yet. No one along that parade route gets it. Neither do his disciples. Or the Pharisees. No one gets it until after the resurrection, when the broken pieces start to form a picture of hope. That’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t always feel like hope when you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like disappointment. Or silence. Or plain old grief. Sometimes it greets you as loneliness. Sometimes, despair. Maybe you know this feeling when the job didn’t come through, the healing didn’t happen, the prayers get swallowed in silence. I’ve had those periods where it felt like God had ghosted me. It’s in these moments all I wanted to do was chuck my faith to the curb and walk away. It's in these times, when I’m tired and broken, I find myself at the end of my rope joining that holy choir screaming, “Hosannah!” And on a borrowed donkey, through darkness and chaos, hope unexpectedly comes. Because that’s what hope does. It always shows up. Because of that, we can rejoice. I got a friend who, since the pandemic, has had a rough go at life. He lost his job. But was able to find an addiction. And this led him to be estranged to his kids, it also brought him closer to his regrets and pain. When I asked him how he’s holding on. He said, “All I got left is hope, but that’s enough.” This optimism reminded me of something St. Augustine wrote: “Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage. Anger at the way things are. And courage to see that they do not remain as they are.” Whether it comes in loud and large, or silently in the dark shadows, hope always shows up - so we can show up to life transformed, made new again. Jesus doesn’t need a parade to prove anything or to threaten anyone. What he brings with him is something that’s more powerful than any promise given by any earthly king. That’s hope. To borrow from the psalmist, “Where does my hope come from? It comes from the Lord.” Knowing this and believing this Jesus is able to see the world with the eyes of a compassionate heart…the very heart of Christ. Through him, God hears our cries and comes to us, in the flesh, carrying peace instead of a sword. Offering grace instead of retribution. Forgiveness instead of revenge. In Christ, God pours love upon us whether we deserve it or not. This is what salvation looks like in God’s Kingdom. A hope that leads to healing. A love that moves us from death to life. This love, God’s love, has the power to change and transform everything. From the Roman centurion who watched Jesus die to Mary Magdalene who wept in the garden at the empty tomb. It even transformed Peter’s understanding of everything. And made him the rock Jesus said he would become. As Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The resurrection is God’s way of revealing to us that nothing that belongs to God will ever go to waste.” Sometimes this is hard to see or remember as we stare at the cross. But as I’ve been saying throughout lent…we don’t get Easter without Good Friday. The tomb can’t be emptied until the cross is occupied. The way to resurrection is through the cross we are called to carry. But under its weight, we have hope. If we’re going to follow this donkey-riding, cross-carrying, table-flipping Christ— then we have to step into that space between Palm Sunday and Easter where hope and heartbreak hold hands. This is what a community of love looks like. One that continues the journey Jesus began. A community that knows the cross isn't just something Jesus dies on—it’s something he calls us to pick up so we can participate in the salvation of the kingdom of heaven, here and now. To paraphrase Richard Rohr, “The kingdom of heaven isn’t a place you go to later—it’s a place you enter now. It’s a new way of seeing, acting, and being in the world.” Jesus says, “Let your light shine.” And, according to him, the way we do that, is to “Love one another.” And he tells us “There’s no greater love than to lay one’s life down for a friend.” To follow Jesus is to embody God’s love like he did. And become the living, breathing, walking “hosanna” to someone crying out in pain so they don’t give up hope. And let me tell you this, you won’t have to look very hard. Just as Jesus saw the faces of the broken and blessed who lined those backstreets of Jerusalem, if we open the eyes of our hearts, we will see people aching for salvation and healing. Queer folks and the marginalized tired of being oppressed and pushed down by power. Men and women, trapped in the various hells they’ve made for themselves. Brothers and sisters, neighbors and strangers, weary of the lies, worn down by the greed and selfishness that is suffocating so many of God’s children. This world is tired of being tired. It’s aching for the kingdom that Christ ushers in. A kingdom where "the first will be last, and the last will be first." Where the poor, the meek, the peacekeepers, the merciful, and pure at heart are called blessed. This is our call - our mission - as we build a community of love together in the space between what is and what can be. It’s not a call to be perfect, but to just be willing to participate – knowing the resurrection isn’t just a onetime event. It’s an on-going way of life. The Way of Jesus, who is the Christ. We can stand on the sidelines, waving palm branches. Or we can go out and love God, love others, and serve both. We can cheer Jesus on. Or we can embody his Christlikeness, making hope come alive all around us. If we can be such an intentional community – a place where hope is deeply rooted in Christ – then maybe, just maybe, the world will come to see what we already know. That God’s love has the last word. And that last word is resurrection. With this word, we have hope. When we have hope, we have all the power we need to transform death into everlasting life. It’s been a full week around here. The good kind of full. With so many old friends passing through, we’ve joked about putting up a sign: The Anamesa Inn – Where Love Finds A Home.
Sure, the usual rhythm of life gets a little interrupted when we have guests in town. But isn't that the point? To stop and enjoy the things and people you love. When I'm with people who’ve walked with me through the best and the worst, who’ve laughed loud and stayed close through sorrow, I don’t mind the disruption. I just make room. There’s a kind of longing joy that tends to show up when someone I love walks back through the door. The kind that lifts my face into a smile and throws my arms wide open in a way that says, “Welcome home.” Tomorrow is Palm Sunday — and that, too, is a homecoming. Jesus enters Jerusalem—not like a celebrity on parade, but like a familiar friend returning to the old neighborhood. Everyone is excited to see him. They throw cloaks like welcome mats and wave palms like they’re waving someone out of the rain into their home. It’s here something holy stirs: a hope-filled homecoming in the space between past and promise. That’s the kind of space we’re building here: a community that welcomes and wants everyone to feel at home. Where something warm is on the stove. And someone’s glad you showed up. A space where you hear, “Come on in. You’re just in time.” We know what Jesus will endure. But we also know what he brings: healing, hope, and a love that outlasts even death. No matter where you are, Jesus invitation to bring your joy, your grief, your questions, your need to belong. That’s our invitation as well. Like those who lined the streets, we’re always ready to welcome you. The porch light is on. There is coffee (or tea) in the pot. And there’s always enough room here to unpack your bags and rest. There’s no need make reservations. You don’t rent or earn your place here. You just simply belong, simply because you are.
Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain, but if it dies it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor. John 12:23-26 So far, Lent has taken us deep into the wilderness. And Jesus, as he tends to do, doesn’t hand us a map—he just invites us to follow. Carrying our cross. Not as punishment, but to remake us, transform us in ways that only love is capable of doing.
Now, Jesus interrupts our journey with a familiar parable about seeds. He essentially says, “You’ve got to die to yourself if you want to grow into yourself.” If you don’t know the things Jesus says, you might think this is a cryptic message about gritting your teeth and suffering through life. But like all his parables, it’s a metaphor. It’s about letting go. Dying to what doesn’t serve love, so something holy can live and grow in its place. Jesus isn’t trying to kill us or trick us. He’s leading us down, what Richard Rohr calls “the path of descent”— where everything false falls away so the true self can rise. And when we fall, it might seem like we’re being buried and cracked open in the dark. Yet, as every seed knows, this is where we fall into the heart of God. Into mercy, peace, and love. But for that to happen, something in us has to give. The part that needs to hold on and control everything. To be right. To win. To be seen. Jesus says, “Let that stuff go. And really live.” Because when we fall into the soil of God’s grace—surrendering like a grain of wheat—something miraculous happens. We rise anew. Alive in Christ. Bearing his good fruit. According to Jesus, the first step into this falling is to repent. Not a do this or else kind of thing…but true renewal. In the original Greek the word is metanoia—which literally means: change your mind. When we start thinking like Jesus, we start seeing like Jesus. And that changes everything. You see others the way he does. You respond the way he does—with tenderness and healing. With a love that gives life. That’s the hard, holy work of Lent. What Paul calls being “transformed by the renewal of your mind.” For this to happen, something has to give. Something has to die. We don’t get Easter without Good Friday. Before the tomb can be emptied, the cross must be occupied. Yet, no matter how wonderful the promise is, everything in us resists. Why is that? The ego is a master of self-preservation. It says: You’re only as good as what you produce. Your worth is based on how well you perform, how polished or powerful you appear. Jesus invites us let those thoughts die so something beautiful can bloom. Every year, sunflowers grow along the sidewalk around the corner. By mid-summer, they’re towering—six, seven feet tall—faces lifted up proudly to heaven. Come September, their petals fade. Leaves crisp and curl. And their golden heads droop. It looks like a little garden funeral. We know death is in the air. But we know those heavy heads are full of seeds. Hundreds of them. Each bloom letting go of its own beauty so an entire field can rise next season. That is how life works. And Jesus is inviting us into. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” While this is a foreshadow of what is to come - Jesus is also describing the shape of divine love. Love that doesn’t cling or hoard. Or stay shiny or safe. But the kind of love that cracks itself open and gives itself away. Love that whispers, “I’ll be less so others can be more. I’ll fall so someone else can rise.” Isn’t that what it means to love God, love others, and serve both? Jesus tells us that it’s in this giving we find our true selves. Our belonging with God. And each other. And it’s in this space we find who we really are. People who bear fruit. People who live rooted in grace, growing in love. Sometimes this looks like letting go of control. Sometimes it means staying in the hard place when everything in you wants to run away. But like James Baldwin wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” The ego will push back, resisting. It wants self-preservation. You have to constantly remind yourself what feels like dying is usually the beginning of something sacred. Because when we give our lives away in love, we don’t end up with less. We end up with more. More connection. More meaning. More kinship. All this leads to more joy, more peace, and more salvation. Jesus shows us how one life, given freely, can blossom into a whole field of blessing. That’s the invitation. It’s how God’s love works. Like the sunflower--one “yes” to God and suddenly your love multiplies. The sooner the false self relents, the sooner the true self can rise and get up to speed. Lent is a season of movement – dying, rising, and growing into our belovedness. Here’s the hard truth we all must face - death is inevitable. It’s embedded in our DNA. I’m not trying to be grim here, but let’s be real none of us wake up the same person as who went to bed. Your body is constantly changing. Skin cells die off. Blood renews. Hair falls and regrows (hopefully). The old dies so the new can emerge. Jesus is always inviting us to step into that newness. He reminds us that every day is a new chance to help someone. A new opportunity to forgive something; to carry one another; to plant seeds of kindness and mercy and peace. Each day is a new opportunity to build a community of love in the space between our waking and sleeping. A vibrant community that doesn't float above reality. But one that is rooted in the messiness of life. The early Church showed us what this looks like. The book of Acts tells us they "had everything in common." They shared meals with joy. And there wasn’t a needy person around them. (Acts 2:43-47). That’s what happens when people let go and fall into love. When our seeds die to individualism something holy begins to grow. Community. Kinship. Salvation. I recently went to an AA meeting to support a friend’s newly found sobriety. Around the circle, people admitted how hard it was to keep showing up. And yet, there they were. Because in that room, they belonged. Their stories were heard. Their lives were held. No one was without support. One guy summed it up best saying, “I used to be part of the problem. Now I’m part of a community.” That's the fruit of the gospel right there. Not perfection, but participation. Not polished saints, but wounded healers leaning in to carry each other. And that’s our call too. To be a community where love is lived out loud. Where our scars aren’t hidden, but lifted up as signs that grace is real and still working on all of us. Julian of Norwich wrote, “The love of God creates in us such a oneing that when it is truly seen, no person can separate themselves from another person.” That’s Anamesa. The Christ-soaked space where God meets us to love on us. And through us. We don’t do this alone. We have God’s Spirit. We have each other. We are given today to begin again. Not just with grand gestures, but with small deaths. Quiet surrenders. A kind word. A soft place to land. A voice lifted on behalf of someone who feels invisible. We are seedlings. God is the soil. Together, let us create a field of sunflowers—bringing the kingdom of heaven to life day by day. And believing in our hearts that “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
Some 30 years ago, I found myself in a dark place, praying that I would experience real love. Back then I didn’t know what I know now that God was already there, offering my heart what it had been longing for. It would take years of seeking and searching to realize God’s love isn’t some distant goal to strive for—it’s the very current that carries us throughout life. Lent is an invitation to stop chasing after what’s already chasing us. It’s a time to be still long enough to notice that God is sitting right here, within reach —waiting to be noticed, to be welcomed. I once had trouble seeing that, even though our reading today— one of the most well-known passages in the entire Bible —has been revealing this to me all along. “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. “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. . . . the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.” John 3:16-21 St. Augustine said, “God loves each of us as if there were only one of us.” Imagine for a moment, being the single most important object in God’s eyes. Waking up every day to be the recipient of God’s dotting and affection.
The Hebrew word for this is hesed (חֶסֶד), which is often translated as the steadfast love of God. But it’s a bit bigger than just that. Hesed is the cornerstone of God’s character -rooted in loyalty, grace, and faithfulness. Jesus says this is the way God operates - out of great love and faithfulness - simply because God can’t not love what God has made. Or like Richard Rohr says, “God loves things by becoming them.” That’s Incarnation. That’s Christ. The Son, which has been sent and given to us. In an interview Billy Graham confessed that every sermon he ever gave boiled down to a single verse—John 3:16. And within that verse, a single word: Love. “For God so loved…” And who’s the recipient of God’s affection? Not just the church. Not just good people or those who get their theology right. Jesus says, “God so loves the world." Everyone. Everything. Full stop! I think we’re given this particular passage during Lent as a way to help us realize that God is here, recalibrating the compass in our hearts so we can move through the world like Jesus—with his divine light and love filling the dark spaces we sometimes find ourselves in. That’s the job. That’s the calling of any and every Christian church. Just be like Jesus, the perfect embodiment of God’s hesed. Jesus doesn’t just talk about love from some safe distance. He walks it straight into the chaos of people’s lives—right into their pain, shame, and hunger for belonging. He meets folks where they are and invites them into something deeper: true spiritual enlightenment and transformation. While this popular passage is so well known, it does help us to see Jesus for who he is, and helps us remember who we are in God’s eyes when we get lost in the messiness of life. It keeps our eyes and focus on what is important, and who we can count on. It reminds us, also, that God loves us with both passion and a purpose. Jesus says, “God didn’t send the Son to condemn the world, but to save it.” How unfortunate that somewhere along the way religion has abused verses like this one to draw a line in the sand. But it's not a scorecard. It's not about who’s in and who’s out. According to Jesus, the Son wasn’t sent to divide us or shut the door on anyone. He came to redeem the world, to light our way back to God. It’s not believers vs. doubters because God’s grace and love has nothing to do with what we’ve done. It’s about what God has chosen to do through Christ. And continues to do through us. That’s what makes this gospel - good news. If we make faith about belief—real belief—then it’s got to be more than just something we confess. It must be something we embody! Real belief, true faith, is about stepping into the world the way Jesus did—with his heart on his sleeve, hands wide open. Salvation isn’t a prize for saying the right creed. Salvation is a life we live when we choose to love like Jesus, no matter the cost. If “God so loved the world,” then so must we. That’s the invitation. That's what it's all about. One doesn't find salvation from reciting a formula or getting all your theology straight. You find it by becoming. Becoming like Christ in the way we live and love and shine. It’s in the doing—not just the believing—that we remember who God made us to be: The beloved. If the Church is going to bear any kind of good fruit, it has to embrace and embody the spirit of God’s hesed, loving each other the way God does. Wildly. Liberally. Faithfully. This includes everyone. The good, the bad, and everything in between. St. Teresa of Ávila said it best, “It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” This is what God has done. Soaking the world in Christ - Gods love incarnate. No matter how many cracks or callouses are on our hearts, through Christ God has already forgiven, already saved, already made peace with us. But even Jesus knows not everybody’s ready to embrace what God has to offer. Imagine someone coming into your bedroom in the early morning and flipping on the lights. You groan and quickly hide your head under a pillow. Sometimes that’s what grace feels like. Too bright. Too soon. We hide from it knowing it exposes our messiness. And that’s scary. But Jesus shows us there’s another way to wake up. With a Christ soaked heart. He offers us his light — to guide us, not blind us. To inspire us into action, not annoy us or shame us into something else. God wants more than just to hear you say you believe. God wants us to show the world why you believe all this to be true. Jesus says, “you are the light of the world.” He sends us out there to shine for others to see that God is right there, right next to you, waiting to be welcomed in. Jesus sends us into the messiness and darkness to be the visible presence of God’s love - in the flesh. We're not just being saved from something but for something. For healing. For shepherding. For being the presence of God in the flesh. For building a community of love that embodies and mirrors Christ. This isn’t done with lofty words or creeds. But with tenderness, and mercy - in the many ways we love God, love others, and serve both. Greg Boyle writes, “There’s nothing more essential or vital than love—and its carrier, tenderness—practiced in the present moment.” We profess our faith by being tender in a world that isn’t. Being patient and kind in a world that rushes and wounds. By becoming the rich soil for the fruit of God’s love to grow. While Lent is a time to look deep within yourself it’s a time to look at those around us and ask, “Who needs God’s gentleness today?” Or “Whose darkness aches for Christ’s light?” And “How can I be the one who carries it into the space between?” This doesn’t necessarily take grand gestures. Sometimes the holiest acts are the smallest things we offer someone. A kind word. A shared meal. A moment of listening when the world won’t stop talking. Every act of love, no matter how big or small, is a steppingstone that leads others to God’s heart. If God so loved the world, let us go and love one another like that. If God doesn’t condemn but saves, shouldn’t we do the same? Let’s leave here today committed to live like we believe what scripture declares:" that God’s love erases all deficits. All boundaries. All nationalities, political preferences, and religious differences. Let’s take up our cross— with relentless love and unshakable light— to build a community together that looks like heaven breaking into earth. Jesus says, “The kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21). Let us go and live that reality knowing the way we love is the only statement of faith we need to make to bring God’s holy kingdom come to life.
Lent is like that. It’s about locating and dealing with the deeper, more difficult things that need our attention. While it can be easy to clean out the junk on the surface - those smelly old sponges and leaking cleaning products buried underneath the sink - getting to the real problem often requires help. That’s where Jesus meets us, in these difficult spaces, doing his best work. Last week we talked about the cost of following Jesus. Today we’re looking at the cost of building a community of love in his name. Which, as we will see from our reading, is more than just making multiple trips to Lowe’s. The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves and the money changers seated at their tables. Making 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. He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” It’s hard for some people to read this because it makes us see Jesus as… well, human. The real, messy, unpredictable one who throws fits, and flips tables. We like our Jesus calm and measured. One who cradles lambs, smiles gently, and says, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” But John gives us this wild, whip-wielding Jesus and it messes with our heads a little. Because, let’s be honest, even though Jesus is human we don’t love the idea that he acts like us. Jesus is supposed to be the grown up in the room. He's the mature one, the patient one. The Divine one, for crying out loud! We’re supposed to be like him. Not the other way around, right? All that is true. We are to be like him. But Jesus gets frustrated. He gets righteously angry. And we should be happy about it because it means he cares deeply about what God wants. Which also means he cares deeply about you and me, too. Jesus isn’t indifferent to suffering. He’s not numb to injustice. He is, as Scripture says, "God with us." He sees the world as it is and longs for what it should be. So, if Jesus—God-in-the-flesh—gets angry at a broken system, then don't you think that maybe we should get angry too. Righteously speaking of course. My wife were having a great discussion one day about the state of the church. She asked, “Do you think any of us would recognize Jesus if he was here today?” It's one of those questions I’m sure we’d all like to answer, “Yes. Of course.” But would that be true? How many times have we walked pass him without saying hello? How many of his “excuse me” or “can you help me” have fallen on deaf ears? If Jesus walked into most churches today, would he be welcomed and embraced? Or would he be asked to leave. Would he ever make it through the front door or be shut out completely? I know a lot of churches that would turn him away because he's homeless, or a foreigner, or worse...a liberal. While it's easy to poke fun of those places that "seem to get it all wrong," we all have to look in a mirror and ask, if Jesus walked into my house, or my church, what would he turn over? And while you ponder that question, remember this simple truth: Jesus wasn’t crucified for being nice. They killed him for calling out the systems that protected the powerful and crushed the vulnerable. And I hate to say it but not much has changed in these last 2,000 years. It's as if everything Jesus said just vanished like vapor in the wind. We still create churches that come with very specific terms and conditions. We still raise up leaders who tell us who's in and who's out. We bury our heads when they make scapegoats of people for who they are, or where they're from. We allow their systems to marginalize people because it makes us look better. In other words we still create structures and laws that clash with what God wants. And this is exactly why we need Jesus to come inside and do a little house cleaning. As John tells us, Jesus enters the Temple and sees a mess. This isn’t just the physical mess of animals and money changers. It’s something deeper. The system meant to connect people with God had lost its way. It had become exclusive, boxed-in, more about control than communion. Jesus says, “Tear it down, and I will rebuild it in three days.” He’s not just laying the groundwork for Easter, he’s teaching us something important that must happen first. We have to tear down and clean out all the crap that stopping us from living out God's will for us if we want to see the kingdom of heaven come to life. Restoration begins with demolition. John's gospel tells us that Jesus starts in the Court of the Gentiles. This was a place outside the Temple that was designed so everyone - no matter who you were or were you came from - could come and meet the one true God. While only Jews were allowed into the Temple, everyone was allowed into the Court of the Gentiles. When Jesus goes there, instead of finding an open and inviting space, he sees barriers have been put up. People were being kept out. Worship had been commercialized. The sacred had been sold for profit and personal gain. Jesus sees all this and does what he does best—he disrupts and dismantles our systems of power. With righteous fury, Jesus clears the clutter to make space for God’s holy reign. He begins here because he knows God’s kingdom isn’t about exclusion or gatekeeping. It’s about gathering and embracing. Restoration begins with tearing down the walls and making room for everyone. Years ago, I worked at a record store when CDs were becoming popular. Joe, the owner, needed to do some remodeling to make space for the extra merchandise. Joe asked this guy named Billy Roppel, to take down the back wall. Now, Billy was a giant hulk of a human. Muscles from the ears down. One part punk rock. One part wrecking ball. He didn’t bother picking up a sledgehammer. He had no need for it. Instead, Billy just threw his entire body into the wall - smashing holes through the drywall. And ripping out wooden studs like twigs. To those who had no idea what was happening, I’m sure it looked like total chaos and destruction. But to the rest of us, it was nothing less than pure poetry. Joe needed that space so something new could be built. And Billy was more than happy to help. It’s the same with Jesus in the Temple. He’s not being reckless or belligerent. His actions are intentional and restorative. He’s not having a tantrum. He’s making room. Jesus knows that God is building something new. Something for everyone! And he is more than happy to help. That’s why this story is perfect for Lent - that special season where we all do a little spiritual house cleaning and renovation. It’s a time to take an honest look at the clutter in our lives—the stuff that’s keeping us from honoring God’s love and justice—and start flipping some tables. If we’re being honest, we all have hidden wounds, secrets we avoid, unresolved pain we’ve buried. Our pride, our fears, our need to be right can harden us, and keep us from healing. The thing is, Jesus didn’t come just to make a difference. He came to make us different too. He calls us to repent, to change the way we think. When we remodel our lives to think like him, we begin to see the world with his eyes and heart. We begin to love like he loves; with compassion, mercy, and grace—so that others might see Christ in us. That’s hard to do when you’re locked away in a box, or buried behind a bunch of stuff. Lent invites us to take a hard look within ourselves to name the walls Jesus wants to tear down. And to clear space so that God’s love has more room to work. We are the body the Christ, a part of that holy restoration. But if we’re not careful, we may wake up to find our sacred spaces filled with cattle, coins, and moneychangers—things that do not belong. Which is why it’s good for us to invite Jesus in to do a little remodeling, so we can have the room within our hearts to welcome him in the other. Jesus didn’t come to build an exclusive club. He came to build something better. A kingdom where the outcast are honored. A kingdom where the poor are lifted up. A kingdom where God’s love is the only law that matters. This is our work too. To join Jesus in this kingdom building remodel.
May we use this time to examine our hearts. To sit in prayer, asking God to make us more open, more accepting. More patient with ourselves so that we might be more gracious to others.
Shane Claiborne wrote, “The church is not a group of people who believe all the same things; the church is a group of people caught up in the same story, with the same Jesus.” Let us stand together in the space between, and continue what Jesus began to build. Not walls, but bridges. Not exclusion but embrace. A kingdom in the space between hurt and healing, fear and faith, rejection and welcome—where love does its best work. As we will discover on Easter, God’s love is the only structure, the only law that cannot be destroyed. Jesus is that love, the Christ incarnate. Given to the world to restore us all to our rightful place as God’s beloved children. And, if you ask me, that’s the kind of love worth flipping a few tables.
The cross is the visible reminder of what Jesus went through, and what he calls us to do.
On this second Sunday of Lent, we step out of the wilderness and follow Jesus to a place just as dangerous. Life itself. Lent is a time we move forward with Jesus, without hesitation or trepidation. The disciples would eventually follow Jesus to Jerusalem, where he will be put to death by a legal execution. This is not what the Twelve had in mind when they dropped everything to follow him. Luckily, we know how the story ends. But before we can get to Easter, we too have to keep walking with Him. And this, according to Mark’s gospel, is how we are to do it. Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes and be killed and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” He called the crowd with his disciples and said to them, “If any wish to come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? .... Mark 8:31-38
Fresh off Peter’s bold declaration that Jesus is the Messiah—Jesus takes a deep breath and says something that knocks the wind out of everyone: “The Son of Man must suffer.”
And just like that, all their triumphant hopes come crashing down. Peter, bless him, pulls Jesus aside and basically says, "Hey man, you're the Messiah! You don’t suffer. You win!" And Jesus just tells him, "Get behind me, Satan." But can we blame Peter? We all want a strong, victorious Messiah. Not a suffering one. We want a champion, a victor, not a loser. We also want discipleship that’s all Easter and no Good Friday. But Jesus says, "If you want to follow me, then you got to actually follow me." Deny yourself. Pick up your cross. And start walking. Not exactly the best recruitment strategy. But that’s the call of discipleship. Eugene Peterson stated plainly: “We want to follow Jesus, but like Peter, we also want to tell Jesus where to go. Jesus does not need our advice; he needs our faithful obedience.” Despite what modern Christianity often markets, discipleship isn’t about how well we win. Jesus is more interested in how well we lose. He tells us, “Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” This goes against everything we’ve been told and taught from the world. That’s the paradox of spiritual growth and transformation: you can’t find your true self without denying or losing, your false self. Like we touched on last week, we have to face the beasts in our lives, then leave them in the wilderness and move forward in life to live out your Christlikeness. That means following the one who is the Christ who showed us there’s no resurrection without the cross. Discipleship isn’t about winning or losing; it’s about surrender, letting go of the things that are holding you back from being who God made you to be: a beloved child. The way of Christ isn’t about getting ahead—it’s about moving forward to where God needs you to be. It’s about emptying yourself of ego and pride and taking what God has to offer—even if it’s the cross. Because, like Greg Boyle reminds us, “The Risen Christ isn’t found in the dead. Resurrection locates us in the here and now.” Christ is the foundation of life. He comes alive day after day, second-by-second through you and me. We are resurrection people. But you don’t get the joy of Easter without the suffering of the cross. The good news in this is Jesus doesn’t tell us to go find a cross. He says, pick up the one you already have. Yours might be a disability, chronic pain, depression, or conflict in your family or workplace. Too many in our country bear a cross simply because of … the color of their skin or the person they love. Some crosses are heavier than others, or more difficult to manage but Jesus says, “Pick it up and walk with me.” His yoke is easy. His burden is light. So what’s stopping you? Is it a cross of shame, guilt, fear anxiety? Is your cross telling you, you’re not worthy or strong or faithful enough? Have we forgotten that Christ didn’t come to make your cross heavier. He came to redeem and heal and transform you into who God wants you to be: The Beloved. Today is 3/16…and like John 3:16 teaches us God didn’t send the Christ to start a new religion. Christ was given to us so we could start a new life. And not just any life, but an abundant life. The kind that lives on forever. To receive such a gift, something has to give. Jesus asks, “What good is it to gain the whole world but forfeit your soul?” What good is our faith—this church—without the cross? The very thing Paul calls “sheer madness to world… but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God” (1 Cor. 1:18). And what is that power if not Love? Love claims us, names us, sustains us. It picks us up when we fall and welcomes us home when we stray. God’s love comes to us in the flesh through Jesus—who, as Peter boldly declared, is the Christ, the very love of God incarnate. And the cross is proof of just how far God is willing go to love us. But how far are we willing to go to love God, love others and serve both? Love is the cross we are called to carry. It is the way of Jesus, the way of God. And we must surrender anything that keeps us from loving. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” This isn’t the comfortable Christianity we prefer. It isn’t prosperity gospel or easy good news. It’s a call to sacrifice, one Bonhoeffer knew well as he took up his cross and followed Jesus—even to his death—resisting the rise of Nazi Germany. Let go of your old self. Pick up your Christ-like self. And go share love… even if it costs you everything—it’s in losing ourselves in love, we are found. In Christ, God sets the compass of our hearts. And Jesus leads us in the direction we must go. Down a path that embraces and embodies the very heart of God. Which means we have to let go of whatever is holding us back from receiving this gift. We have to give up that which isn’t divine love. Because, to love like God, which Jesus embodies, requires a shift, a sacrifice. Love makes us surrender the need to be right, to be better than, to win. It reshapes us, rewires us. It teaches us to let our hearts lead. That’s the way of Jesus. For two thousand years, the Church has stood on Peter’s truth: Jesus is the Christ. Our job is to bear witness to that—not just with our words, but with every fiber of our being. Not by making the right theological arguments, but by living like Jesus lived. With tenderness. With courage. With a love so big it makes people stop and want to follow. Jesus says it like this, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). That’s discipleship. That’s following Jesus’ lead. Lent is a time for us to contemplate deeply what Jesus is asking of us. Let’s enter every space knowing we are called to make a sacrifice too—giving ourselves in holy acts of love, showing compassion and mercy for those in need of it; demanding justice that calls for equality, and leads us all to peace. Jesus calls us to be the light of the world, a light that shines for others. And when we live in each other’s light, darkness cannot overcome it. As we build a community of love in the space between, we build together knowing that in the losing, the suffering, and the surrendering, we find God, we find ourselves, and we find Easter. This is resurrection- the mark we leave behind to let the world know who we are. The visible presence of Gods love that not even the sting of death can destroy. Work Cited Boyle, Gregory. The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. New York: Avid Reader Press, 2021. Peterson, Eugene. A Year With Jesus: Daily Readings and Meditations. San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2006. Lent reminds us that the wilderness isn’t optional. It’s part of the deal. Not because God wants to make things hard on us— but because the wilderness strips away the noise. It forces us to confront what we really believe.
In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove upon him. And a voice came from the heavens, “You are my Son, the Beloved;[a] with you I am well pleased.” And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tested by Satan, and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels waited on him. - Mark 1:9-13 - Every year, lent kicks off with one of the three gospel stories of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. Mark’s gospel is by far the shortest. He doesn’t waste any time. The action moves quickly - which seems so counterintuitive to the slow, contemplative nature of the season.
Yet, these four, fast verses give us plenty to think about. Jesus gets baptized. The heavens tear open. God declares, “You are my beloved Son.” And then--boom—off he goes into the wilderness still dripping wet. No party. No reception. God has no time to waste. And if we blink, we might miss some crucial clues to understanding faith. For example, before Jesus does anything noteworthy—before he preaches, heals, feeds, or saves anyone—God names him and claims him. “My son, the beloved.” This isn’t so much about revealing who Jesus is, but who God is. The one whose loves us for no other reason than - as Richard Rohr points out - “God can’t help but love the things God makes.” That includes you and me. Which tells us before we do anything, God claims us and names us, “Beloved.” This is the foundational truth of our faith. Because we belong to God, we can face the challenges that lie ahead. Without this knowing, without this belonging, the wilderness will eat us alive. Yet how many of us go through life not believing this truth? Greg Boyle has written extensively on gang members who have been through more wilderness than most of us can imagine. Each one believes the same thing: that they’re unlovable. They don’t see themselves as good enough or worthy enough to be a part of God’s family. Henri Nouwen wrote,“Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the Beloved.” We might think we’re not good enough, or do enough to earn favor with God. We tell ourselves we need to do more, be more, achieve more. But God says, “No. You’re mine. That’s enough.” Salvation, true healing and transformation, isn’t about having it all together or proving yourself. It’s simply trusting, as Boyle tells the homies, “God is just too busy loving you to have any time left for disappointment.” (Boyle) But here’s the thing…Once you realize that, buckle up. When Jesus realized his belovedness, the Spirit immediately drove his soggy self into the wilderness. Again, God doesn't waste a second. One moment, Jesus is floating in the Jordan, basking in divine love. The next, he’s wandering in the desert, hungry, exhausted, face-to-face with every doubt and temptation. Maybe you know what that’s like. In the morning everything is fine, perfect even. Then by noon, you’ve lost your job. Or received an unexpected diagnosis. I’ve been there. One minute I’m killing it in seminary. The next cancer was trying to kill me. There wasn’t any time to think or ask God, “why me.” We were just driven into the wilderness without passing go or collecting $200. Lent reminds us that the wilderness isn’t optional. It’s part of the deal. Not because God wants to make things hard on us— but because the wilderness strips away the noise. It forces us to confront what we really believe. Do I actually trust God enough to do what God is calling me to do? You see, the wilderness doesn't create the lies we tell ourselves. It exposes them. And when they’re out in the open, God can transform them. God doesn’t waste a second of our life, or anything we go through. As Rohr tells us, “The wild spaces of the wilderness is where we unlearn the lies we have believed about ourselves.” And that’s what makes this particular space both sacred and scary. To truly understand who we are, we have to spend time in the wilderness confronting the wild beasts that come to harm us. And I’m not talking about hyenas or lions. But fear, addiction, anger, guilt, or shame we carry. Our first thought isn’t to face these things, but to run away from them. To distract ourselves. Stay busy. Numb the pain. But that’s not what Jesus does. He stays. He doesn’t avoid the beasts. He sits with them. And something amazing happens. Jesus goes into the wilderness fully human. And in facing it all - his doubts, fears, hunger, struggles - Jesus walks out ready to live his Christ nature. Having been emptied of the human mess, he makes space for his divine self to emerge. What then does that say about the beasts we face? That hidden secret? Or bitter grudge? Lent is a time to confront them head on. It’s a season to fast from our old identities and behaviors. And feast on the truth of our divine nature. This is how habits are broken. And newness begins. We belong to God. That’s enough. This doesn’t mean it will be easy, or without its challenges. To embrace our new identity, the old must go away. And loss, no matter how big or small, can be hard to navigate. But when we sit in the wilderness, when we stop running away from the beasts, we realize we’re not alone. God is with us. Just as God was with Jesus - through the wilderness and grave - there are angels caring for us. This could mean celestial creatures sent by God. Or it could be the Christ within me, caring for Christ in you. Teresa of Ávila wrote, “Christ has no body on earth but yours. He has no hands, no feet on earth but yours, Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world, Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good, Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.” Just as we receive God’s grace and love, we are also called to offer it to each other. We might not have halos and wings, but together, we can be a community of love that ministers to those struggling with their demons. When we lean on one another, knowing and belonging, then we not only find our salvation but we also become a part of God’s healing and restoration of the world. This was something Greg Boyle did with Homeboy Industries. He created a radical new community that redeems, restores, and transforms gang members into beloved children of God. Isn’t that what we’re called to do? Be little angels helping people who are spiritually lost to find love, belonging, and healing? Every act of goodness, mercy, love shown towards another is more than just a window into heaven. It’s an open door out of the wilderness and into God’s heart. Jesus doesn’t stay in the wilderness. And neither do we. He steps out tested, yet unshaken. The beasts don’t break him—they reveal him and his true identity. Jesus emerges ready, clear on who He is and what He’s here to do. And that’s the invitation of Lent. A call to the wilderness—not to suffer, but to be transformed. Not to prove ourselves, but to strip away every lie that tells us we aren’t enough. And to listen for and rely on the only voice that matters—the one that has been speaking over us since the beginning: You are my beloved. That is enough. God doesn’t waste a second of our life. And neither should we. Instead, let us step into it. Own it. Let it shape who we are - a community that loves God, loves others, and serves both. Let‘s be a people who walk with Jesus to the cross knowing that, as Easter morning will reveal, love breaks through the darkness of death. And always comes out victorious. And that is enough.
Why do humans like to play dress up? Do you think it matters to God what we wear? No, it doesn't. And…well, yes, it kind of does. No, because what truly identifies us isn’t something we put on, but something we live out. And well, yes, because how we live actually matters. Like we learned last week, it’s about living out God’s will - with mercy, justice, humility. What matters to God isn’t our shirt or shoes it’s our actions, from what we say to what we do. Paul gives us this encouragement. Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power; put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil, for our struggle is not against blood and flesh but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on the evil day and, having prevailed against everything, to stand firm. Stand, therefore, and belt your waist with truth and put on the breastplate of righteousness and lace up your sandals in preparation for the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Pray in the Spirit at all times in every prayer and supplication.... - Ephesians 6:10-20 Does living out your faith sometimes feel like suiting up for battle? It seems that way for Paul.
Yet, his aggressive language doesn’t sound very Christlike, does it? No. And…well, yes. No because it doesn’t sound very gentle and tender. And yes, because it’s a call to always wear the fierce, unshakable love of Christ, like Jesus did. Even if you’re dressed in the Emperors Clothes, you’re always wearing something. I’m not just talking wardrobe. Some days, I wear frustration. Other days it’s insecurity, worry, or I put on the armor of self-protection. But how often are we dressed like Jesus? Not sandals and tunics, but in compassion, mercy and grace? The kind of spiritual attire that can transform and heal the world. That’s the challenge of following Jesus. It requires a willingness to suit up in faith, and get out there to love God, love others, and serve both. And as Paul writes, this takes putting on “the whole armor or God.” To lean on God’s strength and power as our own. It’s the spiritual attire that relies on God’s heart. It’s the kind of power and strength Jesus knew we’d need when he said, “anyone can love people who love them back. I want you to love those who don’t love you back.” But here’s the thing. You don’t just pick up God’s armor and battle evil instantly. Loving the way Jesus calls us to love takes practice. Lots and lots of practice. It takes wearing your faith over and over again. Think about something you wear every day; something you don't’ even think about when you put it on. Imagine doing the same with compassion. Wearing it daily, letting it shape you, until love is just second nature. In this crazy metaphor, Paul describes everyday clothes for people who want to look like Jesus - starting from within one's self and moving outward towards others. How then should we dress? Paul says put on the belt of truth. This isn’t about being hip and trendy, but honest and real. It's about seeing others as they really are—not as labels or categories but as beloved children of God. When we wear our beloved truth out into the world others will be able to see their true worth in God’s mirror. And know what God is calling them to do. What's God calling us to do? God wants us to strap on the breastplate of righteousness. This isn’t about putting on a holier-than-thou attitude or even a sunday hat and gloves. It’s about living in right relationship—with God, with others, with ourselves every day. of the week. Last week we heard from the prophet Micah who told us what God's righteousness is about. Or at least the kind of righteousness we can actually live out if we are willing. And that is, to be merciful, just, and humble. As most of you can imagine, wearing such a breastplate can protect your heart. But at the same time, it also exposes your heart. Therein lies the tension of faith. In the space between life and death there is joy and sorrow. No one will escape this world without experiencing both. Go through enough of these battles, and cynicism or bitterness become your go-to sword used to harm or cut people out of your life. But Jesus shows us a different way. Where we think with our heart and love with our brains. Jesus shows us how to see others for who they truly are and love them without terms or conditions. Dress your heart like Christ, and everything changes. “As for shoes,” Paul writes, “Put on whatever makes you ready to proclaim peace.” The world tells us that peace comes through power. But Jesus says it comes through compassion, mercy, justice, and humility. Imagine what that will do to dismantle the industrial war complex. Imagine what that might do to international relationships. Again, wearing out truthfully and authentically isn’t easy. Many of us struggle to show our heart because it makes us visible and vulnerable. Like i said, that’s the tension we must hold. When you live in a right relationship with God, and others, the world will notice - and not always kindly. My father-in-law used to say, “Why do bagpipers march when they play? Because it’s harder to hit a moving target.” Paul says, put on your feet whatever it takes to get out there and teach peace. He and Jesus walked the same paths as we do. The same path that every saint has wandered down as well. Steep ones, narrow ones, one’s littered with the sharp edges of old wounds and resentment. But each one kept on walking even as others took shots at them. So shield yourself with faith, put on your helmet of salvation and get out there! Bring the good news of God’s peace and healing to a world in dire need of it. Get out there and let the light and love of Christ shine through you, so people can see their true belonging in God’s heart. And find their seat at God’s table. Faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about leaning into love even when we don’t. St. Augustine said it like this, “Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.” When we wear out Christ like our favorite shirt, Christ becomes more visible to us. And more real to others. With Christ as our clothing, everything changes. Including you and me. Because that’s what love does. It changes us for the better. And leaves no one behind. So no, it doesn’t matter if you dress like a goth or a golfer, we are all called to put our arms through the warm sweater of God’s love. For the onus is on us. “Love is a battlefield,” according to Pat Benatar. But love is the way to true spiritual awakening and healing. A battle worth fighting for. So, dress accordingly. Take the only weapon you need, which according to Paul, isn’t even a weapon. It’s the sword of the Spirit, “which is the word of God.” That word carries not just promise and protection, but hope and grace, peace and salvation, healing, and transformation. The Word of God has a name: it’s Christ - made manifest in Jesus. Which tells me Jesus’ words matter. And so do ours. If Jesus tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves, shouldn’t we be doing that? If Jesus says do not retaliate but turn the other cheek, why do we still fight back? If Jesus tells us to pray for our enemies, perhaps we should give that a try instead of trying to kill or dominate them? We have a choice. We can be like the Pharisees who cared more about looking righteous than being righteous. Or we can be like Jesus who, through all the ways he showed love, lived out the will of God in real time. Through him, God’s love stripped death of all its power. So it is worth remembering what Jesus says, that “it’s in all the different ways you show love to each other, that the world will know who you belong to.” So it’s not what we wear, but how we wear it, how we proclaim it, using the Word of God as our script. The world has enough warmongers. What it needs, now more than ever, is more love makers. People whose actions speak louder than anything printed on a t-shirt. People who will help us build a community of love in the space between. As we finish Ephesians, and begin our journey towards the season of Lent, let me remind you that we don’t go into the wilderness alone. Just as the Spirit was with Jesus, God’s Spirit is with us always. When we gather together, armed in that Spirit, something beautiful happens. The Word of God is proclaimed. The love of Christ is seen. And the Spirit of that love pierces very heart of everyone we welcome. And when we wear our love like Jesus - boldly, fiercely, without hesitation - we become a community that welcomes everyone with justice, mercy, and humility so everyone can see their own belovedness in God’s loving arms. And where no one has to play dress-up to earn a spot there. |
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