A major storm moved into the area. Massive flooding was expected. One homeowner, a devout man of faith, said to himself, “I could leave now, but I believe God will protect me.” The rain fell in torrents; the waters rose. The flood waters lapped at the man’s foundation, but he said, “I trust in God. He’ll save me.” A neighbor pulled up in his four-wheel drive vehicle, opened the door and said, “You better get in. The roads are almost impassable.” The man said, “Thanks, but I’m putting my trust in God.” The neighbor nodded and drove away.
The water continued to rise, ruining his carpets. A man in a canoe paddled by and yelled for him to grab a few things and get into his canoe. The man yelled back, “No thanks, I’m going to be alright. God’s gonna to save me.” The man paddled away. The water was now at the second floor of the house where the man had climbed to safety. He heard a roar outside. A motorboat cruised up next to the upstairs window. “Hey buddy, grab onto this rope and we’ll pull you aboard!” “That’s okay,” the man yelled, resolute in his faith, “I’m putting my trust in God. He’ll save me.” The motorboat was nearly out of sight as the man climbed up on top of his roof as the water continued to rise.
As he held on to the chimney, a helicopter appeared out of nowhere and a rope ladder descended toward him. “Grab hold! We’ll airlift you out of here!” The man screamed, “No, I’m putting my trust in God! He won’t let me down!” The helicopter departed, the waters rose, the man drowned. At the gates of Heaven the man confronted God. “What happened back there? I trusted in you completely. Why didn’t you save me?!” God said, “I tried! Four different times!” The man did not recognize the “time of his visitation.”
In our text today, Jesus speaks twice about Jerusalem’s failure to recognize. They did not recognize the things that make for peace. They did not recognize the time of their visitation.
It was a ripe moment, an opportunity to know God’s presence, and to walk in God’s paths of peace. The people thought they recognized God’s presence; they thought they recognized Jesus as “the king who comes in the name of the Lord.” But they did not recognize Jesus as the “Prince of Peace.” Instead, they thought Jesus would be like King David, a warrior mighty in battle, able to slay Goliaths with a single stone, able to defeat the legions of Rome and restore Israel’s sovereignty.
On his procession into Jerusalem on a donkey, they praised him as king rightly, but for the wrong reasons. Jesus was a king, but his sword was love, his scepter was justice, his kingdom was within and amidst, his shield was vulnerability, his power was grace expressed in amazing generosity.
When Jesus did not hold up to their kingly expectations, they turned from him, and turned against him.
We too can fail to recognize this Jesus in our midst. We too want him to be kinglike, a powerful God, a deliverer, a protector – so that we will not suffer hurt, loss, pain, or shame. As a pastor I have had many conversations with parishioners that is some form of: “If I truly believe in Jesus as Lord and Savior, try to follow him, and be a good person, then he should protect me. He would not let this kind of thing happen to me!” Like the man waiting for God to rescue him from the flood waters, it’s as if we expect the “grand rescue” and thereby miss the times of our visitation.
Jesus is not a Warrior King sworn to protect us. Jesus is a Prince of Peace who would teach us to recognize the things that make for peace. Little things really. And isn’t our world in dire need of recognizing the things that make for peace?
I have lived long enough now to see that God does not remove the cup from us. God our king will not ride in and save the day. Rather, God walks into the dark with us – even the shadows of death, as the Psalmist writes, even into the dark tomb Jesus faced – and brings us through. Not unscathed, but transformed.
In my prayers I have stopped addressing God as “the Almighty.” It’s not that I don’t believe God is powerful. I still believe in lightning bolts! But God’s power is not like a mighty king wielding unyielding force. Jesus revealed the heart of God to be love and unimaginable grace. Love and grace are powerful, but in a decidedly un-mighty way. Here’s the difference: power triumphs and wins, dominates and oppresses. Love empowers and liberates, dies and rises, again and again.
The fluctuation of the crowds allegiance, from praising Jesus as the king who comes in the name of the Lord, to cries of “crucify him,” demonstrate an allegiance to power, not to love.
It is at the last supper, in the garden of Gethsemane, and during his trial and crucifixion, that we learn of the things that make for peace, that we learn of love. Jesus did not rise from the dead because of power, but because of love. Love’s nature is to die and rise again. As Christians we do not align ourselves with power; we align ourselves with love and its dying and rising.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so clear on this as I am today. Because we think God is the greatest-beyond-the-greatest, we ascribe to God all these superlatives: omnipotence, omniscience, etc. But Christianity is rooted in one thing: God. Is. Love. And all these other things – omnipotence, omniscience – are determined by the nature of love. And because of Jesus, that Love is revealed as dying and rising. What that means – practically – is that marriages can die and rise again, commitments can die and rise again, justice can die and rise again, hope and faith and love can die and rise again.
This season of Lent began with Ash Wednesday. At that service I said, “Receiving ashes is a way of saying that I will let the way of the cross, dying and rising, work in my life.” The spiritual life, symbolized in Jesus’ death and resurrection, is a journey of dying and rising. The spiritual life is Love’s dying and rising in us. Easter is love’s outcome. But Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are love’s path. If we want to experience love’s resurrection, we must walk love’s path through the last supper, through the garden, through Good Friday.
We are invited to pick up the cross: the process of dying and rising, though we cannot ever be in control of what the rising will look like. Like my own story of dying and rising. Okay. I wasn’t dying literally, but it surely felt like I was dying.
It was Easter morning 1985 at SCPC. I was the seminary intern at the largest church I’d ever served. It was packed! I was leading the Psalter reading and I was working on my presence, my connection to the congregation. I read my first line, and they followed with their line. I read my second line and made eye contact with the congregation. After they read their line, I looked down and in a split second I knew I was lost. I read the next line my eyes fell upon.
But it wasn’t mine, it was theirs.
They, in an act of corporate grace, read their next line. I, now completely discombobulated, read their line – again! They, realizing I was a complete dufus, read my next line. I, realizing what happened, read their line – we had switched places. I was dying. I was so humiliated. I thought, “I’ll never get a call as a pastor now!”
You could hear it coming. It started low, a few murmurs, a few giggles, and by the time I read the last line – which should have been theirs – I ended it with a thank-God-this-is-over “Amen!!” I sat down red-faced, horrified, humiliated. The congregation responded with howls of laughter cascading through the sanctuary! The pastor, who was supposed to do whatever came next, could not get out of his chair he was laughing so hard. Tears of laughter were running down our faces.
Something happened because of my failure. The mood had changed for the better. All the anxiety about, “We have to be perfect! It’s Easter Sunday!” turned into a euphoria of freedom. Afterwards the choir director came up to me and said: “Tim, thank you for screwing up! I was so nervous about our Easter anthem, but when you royally messed up, I relaxed and it all went without a hitch!”
Two years later I’m working on my PIF – a Personal Information Form that would go to Pastor Nominating Committees looking for a pastor. I had read my friends’ PIFs. Their cover page, a one-page letter to get a PNC’s attention, was filled with awards, experiences, summa cum laude’s, etc. I didn’t have that kind of resume. I grew up in the Church of God for goodness sake. So I decided to try something different. My cover letter told the story of my complete failure at Easter, and how it led to a great deal of life and joy.
The chair of the PNC at Lafayette Orinda Presbyterian Church, a 2000-plus member church near San Francisco, already had three candidates, and he was looking through the final stack of PIFs. He had done this so often, he could glance at the cover letter, and say, “Nope, nope, nope, too full of themselves.” Then he came upon my cover letter. He stopped. He said to himself, “This guy is honest, and he’s not tooting his own horn. He’s telling the story of his own failure, which led to good! We could use some of that humility around here.” He called me, and asked if I’d be their 4th candidate. My Easter failure resulted in my first call as a pastor.
Love. It doesn’t conquer. It dies and rises, again and again and again. Amen.
