For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scholar? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of the proclamation, to save those who believe. For Jews ask for signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength. (1 Corinthians 1:18-25) Before we get into this, I want to share a true story about a guy named Carl who thought he was clever and wise. Thought he could pull a fast one, dating two women at the same time. He even created a foolproof system, so they’d never find out. Go to the same restaurant and order the same thing. See the same movie. Buy same concessions. He even bought the same cards and scribble the same sappy words into them so he wouldn’t slip up. Clever, right? Until it wasn’t. Because one of the women was actually wise. She eventually caught on. When she found the other woman, she didn’t get mad. She got clever. Together, the two hatched a plan to catch Carl red handed. They meet him at the airport as he returned home from a business trip. Each one holding up a sign that said, I love you, Carl. Right there, in terminal B, Gate 4, all of his wisdom was exposed for what it really was. Foolishness. Turns out, sometimes what looks wise can collapse under its own weight. But sometimes what feels foolish, can end up saving lives. Take vaccines as an example. Who would have thought it wise to inject themselves with a little bit of the very disease they’re trying to prevent catching? It sounds crazy but it works. It saves lives. Paul reminds us that it’s the same with the Cross of Christ. Who would have thought an instrument of death would be the very thing that saves you. But that’s the wisdom of God, whose “foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and whose weakness is stronger than human strength.” Only God could strip the cross of all its power. Only God could take Rome’s most brutal symbol of death and transform into the world’s greatest sign of hope. It sounds foolish to some, but to us being saved by it, it’s the power of God at work in our lives. We might be scratching our heads wondering where Paul came from with such logic. He got it from Jesus who turns the world upside down in the most right-side-up way possible. He said things like, “Whoever wants to save their life must lose it.” “The first will be last, and the last will be first.” “The greatest among you must be a servant.” Jesus never said, “Win at all costs.” Or “Get revenge.” He flips that script and says, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.” That was pure foolishness to those in power. But to everyone suffering under poverty and oppression… the things Jesus said brought them hope. In fact, Jesus’ own life was, and still is, a holy paradox. A king born into poverty. A savior who doesn’t slay enemies but forgives them. A God who doesn’t demand sacrifice but becomes the sacrifice. This doesn’t make sense to the Romans, or to the religious leaders, or to the crowd shouting “crucify him.” It doesn’t always make sense to us, either. The cross still looks like weakness in a world obsessed with power. But to us who are being saved by it? It’s the very wisdom of God. And the way I see it…this wise foolishness is our proof of just how far God is willing to go to rescue, redeem, and love us. This love, God’s love, is stronger than death, wiser than empires, deeper than our logic. So, Paul tells us not to boast in our intelligence, brilliance, or strength. Instead, boast in the Lord. Boast in the cross. Boast in this beautiful, upside-down love that chooses mercy over might, forgiveness over revenge, and community over division. Love is the foolishness of God. Love the wisdom of the cross. And with this cruciform Love we can build a community of hope together in a world drowning in despair. Paul calls us to see the world according to God’s logic. Where our weakness is God’s strength. Where our confusion is God’s wisdom. Where in Anamesa, God’s love isn’t a joke…but the very heartbeat of all we are. And what we are called to proclaim. In God’s love, we build this community not with brilliance or bravado, but with foolish things. Kindness when someone is cruel. Forgiveness when it’s easier to stay mad. Showing up when we want to turn away. When we live in such foolishness, death actually loses its sting. Fear loses its grip. And God’s love rises up victorious. It shouldn’t surprise any of us then to know that the foolishness of love is the cross Jesus calls us to pick up. It’s how we are to follow him - loving God, loving others, and serving both. This is Christ crucified. The very good news we’re sent to proclaim. But how do we share this news if we don’t quite have the words formed? Let me share another true story that happened back in 2006, in Pennsylvania when an angry young man walked into a one-room Amish schoolhouse and executed five schoolgirls and wounded seven others before turning the gun on himself. Instead of responding to his violence and anger with more of the same, the grieving community chose to show the world the wise foolishness of cruciform love. While the blood of their children was still wet on the floor, members of that Amish community walked to the shooter’s home, holding their own grief in one hand and grace in the other. They went there not to retaliate, but to forgive and embrace his family who were also in shock, and suffering loss. And if that wasn’t enough, the entire community showed up at this man’s funeral. They even took up a collection to support his widow and children. Foolish, the world said. But to us being saved, it looked an awful lot like Jesus. Because what seems foolish, God makes wise. What seems weak, God makes strong. Through suffering and pain, God’s hope and glory is revealed and proclaimed. As we leave here today, may we all be wise enough to do such foolishness, in the name of the One who walked out of a tomb and into our lives, still bearing the wounds of love. And may we carry that love into every space we enter, and every soul we encounter. It might sound foolish to some. But to us who are being saved it’s the power of God’s love that comes alive, made manifest in us. With it, we have hope. As Paul will write later in this letter, “Faith, hope, and love abide; these three. And the greatest of these is love.”
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Then, out of the blue, another kid comes up to him. No hesitation, just walks right over with a smile and strikes up a chat. Just like that, the nervous kid’s face lit up, and they’re off—chatting like old pals as they began to toss a ball to each other. Talk about a sacred and holy Anamesa moment. Leaning into that space between the unknown with open arms and an open heart. As I walked away I began to think about that famous passage in Hebrews that reminds us why welcoming others is so important. It says, “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Hebrews 13:2). Joy always starts with a welcome invitation. Recently, a man I met in the same park, accepted my invite and join us for church service in my backyard. Michael, as I would learn, is a "walker." Or what some would call a "vagrant" or the latest coloquial version, "unhoused." He and I had spent a bit of time getting to know one another after my dog began sniffing him while he was sitting and praying.
Michael has come a few more times. And every morning he and I (and my dog) meet in the park to chat about life, discuss scripture, teach one another, and as he likes to call it, "just gaze in the same direction." Welcoming and entertaining angels. A holy and sacred moment in the space between.
Mother Teresa once said, "If you want to see the face of God, look no further than the person next to you." Welcome is vital power we all possess. It has the ability to unlock doors, flip on light switches, make friends, build communities, create peace, end wars, and so on. Whenever we show it, or step into it, the presence of God comes into focus. No longer are their Jews and Greeks, men and women, slave and free, rich and poor. Just one body, Christ's body, revealing God's glory in the flesh. Because my dog fearlessly walked up to a stranger and showed him love, I met a friend. Because I took the time to sit with him, others in the park began to take notice. They too began to get to know Michael. And more began to notice. Soon, someone began bringing him breakfast in the morning. Others, a cold beer in the afternoon. Many more, offering a smile wave, a quick hello, and even an invitation to join church. Because we welcomed him, Michael is telling everyone at the park about his experience at Anamesa. He doesn't like the term "evangelical" but he does giggle when I call him my own "John the Baptist." And that makes sense. They both live in the wilderness, on the fringes of life, relying on the providence of God, who shows up for him in the face of so many. Just like God shows up for me in him. Like his archangel namesake, Michael truly is a blessed child of God. I have no idea how well that T-Ball team did, but I suspect that new friendship has continued. I would confidently bet those two boys are still talking, still tossing the ball, and still welcoming new friends onto their team. That's how it works in the space between. Every handshake, every smile, every “good morning” become the very building blocks of fellowship and love - the very community we are seeking to build. But more importantly, when strangers become friends, the gospel is lived out. It's in these sacred moments between the seconds of our life, the heart of Christ beats. And the life of his Body comes alive. It begins with welcome. It begins with us. When our willing heart takes the first step to make someone feel welcomed to experience God’s endearing love in the flesh. Whether it’s an angel or a beloved child of God, by breaking through that space between nervous uncertainty and welcome, hearts grow. And so does Anamesa.
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.
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.” |
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