Fools for Christ

It seems appropriate that the first Sunday after Easter was April Fool’s Day. After all, it was a cheerful Christian missionary, not some grouchy atheist, who first called Christ followers “fools for Christ” (1 Corinthians 4:10).

 I have frequently felt a little foolish right after Easter. For much of my active career in ministry, I suffered from what I call PED, or Post Easter Depression.

 It’s a common ailment among pastors. On Resurrection Sunday, we proclaim that the resurrection of Jesus makes all the difference in the world and changes everything – and the next morning we discover that for most of the world, nothing has changed in the slightest. Most of the world simply does not care.

 We proclaim, “Christ is risen!” The world shrugs and says, “So what?” It’s deflating. It’s depressing. And I suspect that pastors aren’t the only ones who suffer from it.

 I’m sure everyone remembers the day after a special loved one died. That morning, you saw life radically differently than you did 24 hours before. But it quickly became obvious that most of the world did not know about your loss, or much care about it either.

 Our sadness in death is mirrored by our gladness in the Resurrection. We have a great message for the world – and the world doesn’t much care to hear it. We shout, “We’ve got good news!” And the world yawns. “Heard it all before. Tell me something I haven’t heard.”

 The very word “gospel” means “good news.” This is the kind of news that if it were printed in a newspaper and tossed onto your driveway, the impact would shatter the pavement. This is weighty news. This is news so weighty, so significant, so life-changing, that no matter how many times we announce it, it’s always news – and it’s always good news.

What’s good about it? What makes it news, rather than “olds”?

Let’s start with the micro view – that is, our personal view. Consider the perennial questions. Who are you? Why are you here? What is the meaning of life?

Trust me, you are here for a reason. You’re not an accident. You’re here on purpose, and you have a purpose. You’re not here just to take up space and look pretty and get a sugar high on Easter candy. You have a higher calling. You have a holy calling.

God is calling you to live for God’s glory by becoming the best you that you possibly can be – and you can’t be that person by serving just yourself. You can achieve your full potential only when you serve others. You are here, then, to love and to be loved and to make a difference in this world.

That’s the micro view. For the macro view, let’s turn to this big, fat, scary book we call the Bible. It has two parts. Part One is a whole lot fatter than Part Two. The plot keeps thickening in Part One until it comes to what appears to be a dead end.

Your individual story is in here. Your individual story is the same story that’s told in Genesis chapters two and three – you know, that embarrassing episode with a garden and a talking snake. And that, in turn, is the same story that’s told in all the rest of the chapters of Part One – only now the protagonist is a people called Israel.

Sadly, it’s mostly a story of failure. Israel is charged with being God’s light to the world, and Israel just isn’t up to it because, as a representative of all of us, and just like the best of us and the worst of us, Israel is just so human.

Part One ends without resolution. It’s like a musical chord that hangs in suspension, waiting for the next chord to resolve the tension, only the musician stops playing, and the resolution never comes.

Part Two provides the resolution. Part Two says, “Surprise!” and wraps it up. Part Two says that there is a character in Part One who was there all along, only you didn’t recognize him because he worked behind the scenes, as kind of a stagehand. (I’m mixing metaphors here, you see.)

In Part Two, the stagehand takes center stage, and he wraps things up in a most unexpected way. Like a masterful musician, Jesus resolves the suspended chord.

Jesus is the answer to Israel’s yearnings, and the answer to ours as well. Jesus called his people to a new way of being Israel, and he calls us all to a new way of being human. Jesus sums up Israel’s story, and he makes our lives add up, too.

Here’s the good news as proclaimed by that bandy-legged squirt of a guy named Paul, in one of his letters to some Christians in the ancient city of Corinth. Paul says: “I passed on to you as most important what I also received: Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and he was buried, and on the third day he was raised in accordance with the scriptures” (1 Corinthians 15.3-4).

It all happened “in accordance with the scriptures,” Paul says. That’s the way it had to happen to complete the story of Part One in this big book, though nobody quite expected it to happen this way.

Looking back, it makes sense. Looking forward, you just can’t see it. It’s a mystery that’s been hidden for the ages, Paul says in another letter (Romans 16.25). But it’s not a mystery you’re going to figure out on your own. The answer has to be revealed. The author of the mystery has to reveal what’s been going on all this time.

What God has been up to is rescuing a world that has gone way off course and can’t find its way back, just as each of us has gone way off course and needs to be brought home safely. The Bible’s story is about the rescue and renewal of all creation, and my story and your story are about being rescued and renewed in the process.

We are rescued, yes, from the clutches of what we call sin and freed by forgiveness to be renewed and to become the loving people we were created to be.

How does the Resurrection of Jesus accomplish this? By six o’clock on the evening of what we (strangely) call Good Friday, Jesus was dead and buried. No doubt he was dead. Roman soldiers were trained killing machines.

Jesus was dead, and there was no hope for his recovery because, as everybody knows, dead people just don’t come back. Cry for them all you want, it doesn’t happen.

Except that this time it does happen. And it’s not that his body is re-animated or resuscitated. Let’s get our “R” words right. He is resurrected. He comes back in a new body that is somehow very much like his old body but also very different.

This is the first time it ever happened. But we are assured that it will happen again, at some future time, when all who trust in God are raised with Christ to new life. And we won’t just be re-animated or resuscitated. We also will be resurrected in bodies fit for eternity. That’s our personal stake in this story. Because he lives, we also shall live.

Jesus’ death is important, oh yes. As the Suffering Servant of God, he bears the consequences of our sin. But without the Resurrection, his death would have no meaning. Good Friday makes sense only in light of the Resurrection. Without the Resurrection, Jesus might be just one more of the millions of people who are ground into the dust every year by the tyrants of this world. By raising Jesus from the dead, God completes the story of Israel and fulfills the story of creation and brings salvation and hope to our broken world.

If Jesus is alive today, we ought to be alive as well. Just the way the birth of a baby changes everything in a household, so the resurrection of Jesus gives each of us an opportunity for new birth, a chance to be changed with all of creation, and a chance to give glory to our creator by living according to the master plan, in love and peace and joy.

See, we need to do more than simply believe the good news of Jesus. We need to be changed by it. We need to become good news people. Everything about us ought to be shaped by the good news. We ought to be living, breathing evidence that Christ is alive, and that his living in us changes everything about us and is changing every thing every where all at once.

It's news so good is sounds foolish, news so good that we fools for Christ will keep proclaiming it until all the world understands.

Maundy Thursday

It’s Holy Thursday -  or, as it’s still often called, Maundy Thursday.

 The word “Maundy” comes to us from the Latin word mandatum, meaning commandment. This refers to the new commandment Jesus gives his disciples at their Last Supper, the commandment to love one another.

 The story we’re exploring comes from several scriptures. Rather than reading each individually, I’ll weave them together into one narrative.

 Let’s begin by looking at the setting of our story. So many times we leap right into it without regard to its context. But context is everything. Call this ..

 Scene 1, Prelude.

 It’s the morning of Thursday of what we call Holy Week. Holy Week began last Sunday with what we call Palm and Passion Sunday – the day we celebrate Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem and look ahead to the grim events of the rest of the week.

Jesus knows how dangerous it is for him to be in Jerusalem. Both religious and civil authorities are out to get him, and he plays a deadly game of cat and mouse with them all week.

He shows up in the daylight, when he is surrounded by adoring crowds, and the authorities are afraid of moving against him for fear of causing a riot.

But before nightfall he fades into the darkness. He retires for prayer on the Mount of Olives on the city’s east side, and spends the night there or in the nearby suburb of Bethany.

This is where several friends live, including Lazarus, whom he raised from the dead only a few months earlier. He is safe here.

Tonight will be different. Tonight is the Feast of the Passover, the annual celebration of God bringing Israel out of bondage in Egypt. Tonight Jesus will dare to stay in the city after dark. He is ready to confront the powers of evil that are allied against him.

Scene 2 – Meal prep

(Mark 14:12-16)

He has made secret arrangements for the Passover meal. Now he needs to set the plan into motion. Why the secrecy? Because he knows that one of his 12 closest disciples is planning to betray him, and there are things he must do before that happens.

So he turns to two of his closest disciples, Simon Peter and John, and he tells them to go into the city and prepare the Passover meal.

‘Where?” they ask.

“You’ll see a man carrying a jar of water. Follow him.”

Usually it’s women who carry water, so this fellow will stand out in the crowd, though not enough to arouse suspicion. He leads them to the house of a woman named Mary and her son, John Mark. They have a large second-story guest room that Jesus has chosen for his Last Supper with his disciples.

No one but Peter and John will know the location, though, until Jesus leads them there for the meal. He’ll be safe from arrest as long as he keeps Judas at his side.

Peter and John may supervise preparations for the meal, but they can’t do it alone.

Somebody has to take a lamb to the Temple for sacrifice. Given the thousands of pilgrims in the city for the festival, that will involve standing in line for hours with a restless lamb that grows increasingly agitated at the smell of blood and gore.

Then, when the lamb is slaughtered, it has to be brought back to the house and roasted.

Other dishes must be prepared as well. Probably we should imagine a whole crew of people – mostly, if not all, women – working in a first-floor kitchen throughout the day to make sure everything is done on time.

These women are not casual acquaintances. They are among his most local followers from Galilee, and several of them have contributed to his ministry from their own pockets.

Among these are several women named Mary: Mary Magdalene; Mary the mother of James and Joseph; Mary the wife of Clopas; plus Salome, the mother of James and John the sons of Zebedee.

When the male disciples go into hiding, these women will be with Jesus when he dies, and several will journey to the tomb to anoint his body on Sunday morning.

Tonight, they work to prepare his last meal.

When the hour arrives, Jesus and his 12 disciples assemble in the upper room.

We’re all familiar with Leonardo’s famous painting where everyone is sitting on chairs or stools on the other side of a very long table. That’s an artistic composition, and a very good one, but I can assure you that it’s not even close to the way it happened.

Most tables in those days were much lower to the floor, perhaps only a foot or so high.

Diners did not sit on chairs or stools. They would lie on a rug on the floor and recline next to the table on their bellies or on one elbow.

Three tables would be arranged in a U shape. Those serving the meal would serve from inside the U, and those eating the meal would be arranged outward in a kind of fan shape, with their feet facing outward.

We might think that Jesus has the place of honor at the top of the U, but it appears that it’s customary for the host to recline on one side of the U.

If you read the account in John chapter 13 carefully, you can see that Judas and John are reclining on either side of Jesus, and Peter is way over on the other side of the U. Peter is so far away from John that he has to pantomime the question, “Who is Jesus talking about?”

Scene 3 – Opening words

(Luke 22:14-16)

As they gather at the table, Jesus says: "I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. I tell you, I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God."

Whatever does that mean? Until it is fulfilled when and how? The disciples don’t know, and we ought to be careful claiming that we do.

All we can be sure of is that when those days are fulfilled in the kingdom of God, we want to be there.

Scene 4 – Foot washing

(John 13:4-15)

The Seder is an order of worship for the Passover meal. It is roughly sketched in the book of Exodus, and it was developed and expanded for 600 years before the time of Jesus. On the one hand, the Seder is very stable and doesn’t change much. On the other hand, participants are free to make their own innovations, and there are many local variations.

In other words, we sort of know how Jesus celebrated with his disciples that night, and we sort of don’t know.

In modern versions of the Seder, at some point early in the meal, the leader or host of the Seder goes around the table with a basin of water and a towel, and he washes the hands of every participant.

Jesus does something similar in his role as host of this meal, but what he does is so astonishing and so revolutionary that after 2,000 years of thinking about it, we still fail to fully comprehend it.

He gets up from the table and removes his outer robe, so that all he’s wearing is a loincloth – the first-century version of boxers or briefs.

He ties a towel around himself and pours water into a basin. Moving around the table, he washes his disciples’ feet, one by one, and dries them with the towel he’s wrapped around himself.

At upper-class dinners, this is the job a servant does as the guests arrive. A few people wear shoes, but most people in this time and place wear sandals because they’re just more comfortable in the heat than shoes, and feet are easier to clean than shoes.

But feet are ugly and dirty and smelly, just not pleasant at all. That’s why washing them is left to servants. Well, where are the servants in the upper room? Why didn’t Peter or John think of this detail ahead of time? Maybe they could have hired somebody to do it. Or maybe Jesus told them to just skip it; he’d take care of it himself.

We don’t know whose feet he washed first, John or even Judas, because they were closest to his place at the table. But when he gets to Peter, Peter is shocked. He says, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?"

Hear that? He doesn’t say, “Teacher” or “Master.” He says, “Lord.”

Jesus answers, "Right now you don’t know what I’m doing, but you’ll understand later."

Peter objects, "You will never wash my feet."

Jesus says, "Then you can have no part of me."

Peter says, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!"

“Not necessary,” Jesus replies. “Just your feet. Otherwise, you’re clean.”

But then he adds, cryptically, “Not all of you are clean, though.”

Soon he’ll announce that one of them will betray him, and the room will erupt with denials and questions, and Peter will motion to John, “Who’s he talking about?”

But now they’re about ready to eat. They have clean feet, and they’re still not quite sure what just happened.

Jesus sets aside the towel, puts his robe back on, and reclines in his place at the table. He asks, "Do you understand what I have done for you?

You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right; that is what I am.

So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another's feet. See, I’ve set an example for you. You should do to each other what I have done to you.”

Have you ever done that? Have you ever been part of a foot washing ceremony on Holy Thursday or another occasion?

You may have been brought up in a church tradition where foot washing was as normal as a Sunday potluck. More likely you were brought up in a tradition like United Methodism, where we talk about it sometimes, but we rarely do it.

Twenty years ago, in another church, I led a group of friends through a 28-week small group experience called Companions in Christ. Guidebooks for it are still available through the Upper Room publishers.

After 28 weeks of meeting together once a week, we were a pretty tight group. I thought we were ready for just about anything. But several people looked ahead in the guidebook, and they saw the suggestions for a closing session. It included personal sharing, holy communion – and foot washing.

 Several people told me that we if were doing a foot washing, they would not attend.  So we concluded our small group experience with personal sharing and holy communion, but no foot washing. I have not proposed doing it in any church since then.

 What is it about foot washing that disturbs so many people? Sure, feet are gnarly and ugly and smelly, even if they’ve been clad all day in the most expensive walking shoes on the market.

I once knew a woman who was so revolted by the sight of bare feet that she had one of two reactions: scream and run, or dissolve in a fit of giggles. Few of us probably have that kind of extreme reaction – and yet we are revolted by the very idea of foot washing.

I have done it in public several times. Once, in a church setting, I washed Linda’s feet because I knew no one else would volunteer. The other times were at men’s retreats. Once I washed the feet of a close friend, and before I was done we were both in tears. Other times I washed the feet of men I barely knew, and it seemed not to affect either of us emotionally.

If you watched the Super Bowl on TV, you probably saw one of several religious-oriented commercials, including the one that’s part of the “He gets us” campaign designed to make Jesus more relatable to modern audiences.

The ad pairs apparently unlikely people in a foot washing: a White cop washing the feet of a Black youth, for example, or an anti-abortion protester washing the feet of a pregnant woman about to enter an abortion clinic.

It concludes: “Jesus didn’t teach hate. He washed feet.”

You might think that would be an innocuous message, but in today’s hyper-sensitive and totally bonkers political climate, the message was so provocative that it was almost incendiary.

Some folks complained about it being “woke,” whatever that means. Others thought it reflected some kind of foot fetish. Both responses show how ignorant of Christian basics many people are.

The reaction to this ad suggests a deeper message in the act of foot washing. When you wash a person’s feet, you become a servant to that person, and that person is placed in a position of great vulnerability. It’s as if social roles are reversed, and power dynamics are inverted.

It’s said that you can choose your friends by the way they treat your server at a restaurant. If they treat your server poorly, they won’t be a good friend to you or to anyone else. So look out.

Scene 5 – First and last

(Mark 9:35)

Then, too, recall something Jesus once said. He said, “If you want to be first, you have to be last, and servant of all.”

Scene 6 – Love one another

(John 13:34-35)

There are two more key events in the narrative of this meal. One is the institution of Holy Communion. The other is the “love one another” command.

The gospel of John is the only one that mentions Judas leaving in the middle of the meal, going off to set up the arrest of Jesus. He leaves right after Jesus says, “One of you is going to betray me,” and everybody else wonders who that might be.

We know Judas leaves before Jesus announces the “love one another” command. But John’s narration doesn’t include the first communion, so we can’t be sure whether Judas leaves before or after it.

Does Judas share in this most holy event? Or is he absent when it happens?

What you believe may reflect your personal theology more than any historical consideration. Does Jesus offer these signs of grace to Judas, even knowing that Judas will betray him? Or does Jesus delay this act until after Judas is gone?

Are there limits to God’s grace? If there are, what are they – and who sets those limits?

Keep that in the back of your mind as we move to our next event.

At some point after the foot washing, Jesus gives his disciples a new command. It’s not really new. It’s been part of his teaching from the start. What’s new is the way he phrases it and the emphasis he puts on it.

“Love one another,” he says. “As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."

Now there’s a new question that’s similar to the previous Judas question.

When Jesus says, “love one another,” to whom and about whom is he speaking? Is he speaking solely to the now 11 disciples and saying that they should love one another chiefly – and possibly even to the exclusion of others?

That is, is Jesus saying that followers of Jesus should love only other followers of Jesus, and not Jews or Muslims or Hindus or none-of-the-aboves?

Or is Jesus being much less exclusive and meaning that we ought to love everyone? Isn’t that, after all, what he said in his Great Commandment? Remember it? Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your spirit and all your mind and all your might – and love your neighbor as yourself.

Which way is it? Some churches insist it’s the first way. Love others who are just like you because they are just like you, and shun all those sinful folk who aren’t like you. I hope you understand that those churches are profoundly and sinfully wrong.

Scene 7 – Who is my neighbor?

(Luke 10: 25-37)

In the gospel of Luke’s version of the Great Commandment story, once Jesus delivers the commandment, a lawyer has a question. It’s not really a question. It’s an attempted dodge – and Jesus will have none of it.

The lawyer asks, “And who is my neighbor?” Who is the one I’m supposed to love as well as I love myself? The lawyer wants Jesus to narrow it down to just a few – members of his family, his political party, his bridge club; folks like that, folks like him.

Typically, Jesus answers by telling a story. It goes sort of like this.

On the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, a Hasidic Jew is attacked by robbers and left for dead. Three potential helpers come along.

The first is a Republican. He takes one look at the poor guy lying by the road in a pool of blood, and he says to himself, ‘No way am I getting involved in this,” and he keeps on going.

Now along comes a Democrat. He takes one look at the poor guy lying by the road in a pool of blood, and he says to himself, ‘No way am I getting involved in this,” and he keeps on going.

Finally, along comes a migrant worker with expired papers. He takes pity on the robbery victim, patches him up and hauls him to the nearest aid station.

Which one of these three was a neighbor to the robbery victim? The one who showed mercy, of course.

In the eyes of Judeans and Galileans, he was a Samaritan, a detested foreigner. Yet he alone showed mercy. He alone acted as a loving neighbor.

So Jesus concludes: “Go and do likewise.”

Maudy Thursday is about the official institution of this command: Love one another.

That means that whoever you’re stuck with at any given moment, whether you like them or not, Jesus says you ought to love them as fully as Jesus loves you and as fully as you love yourself. That’s whoever you are stuck with in an elevator, in line at the grocery store, whoever and whenever: love them, want what’s best for them.

 You can try to dodge that if you like. You can try to kill it with a thousand qualifications. But deep in your heart you know the truth of it.

 Love others as I love you, Jesus says. No exceptions.

 To demonstrate, he offers another illustration. He offers a faith act that we have turned into a separate meal called Holy Communion, or Eucharist, or the Lord’s Supper.

 Scene 8 – Holy communion

(1 Corinthians 11:23-26)

 The earliest narrative we have of this event comes not in the gospels but in the Apostle Paul’s first letter to the church at Corinth.

 Paul says:

 I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, "This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me."

 In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me."

As often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he returns.

And so Christians have done ever since, especially on this holy night.

After the meal, Jesus and the 11 sing a traditional hymn. It was probably part of Psalm 118. It has the frequent refrain, “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His steadfast love endures forever.”

 Then they go to the Mount of Olives for prayer. Judas knows this is where they’ll go, so that is where he’ll lead the soldiers to arrest Jesus.

 Jesus knows they’re coming. At some point he can probably see them moving up the hillside, their torches shining in the darkness.

 Now is a moment of decision. It’s still possible for him to drop over the other side of the hill and disappear. It would be fairly easy to elude capture, as he has eluded capture several times before. But it is not to be. Though he has prayed for release for the ordeal he knows is coming, he will not run from it.

By 9 o’clock tomorrow morning, he’ll be raised on a cross to die. To some, he looks like just another victim of the way religion and state often conspire to eliminate opposition. But we Christians have always seen a deeper meaning in his death, and his ultimate triumph over sin and death. It is the clearest revelation that we have of the great loving heart of God.

Tomorrow, on Good Friday, we hear more of the story – and on Sunday morning we hear the exciting conclusion. 

(A message delivered March 28, 2024, at Paola United Methodist Church, Paola, KS.)

Spring break

Last week, Linda and I enjoyed a spring break vacation with our older daughter and her family, including boys ages 2 and 9. We visited the Grand Canyon and other sites in Arizona.

 Here are a few mostly impersonal notes from the trip.

 At the canyon’s visitor center, a very entertaining and informative film told us that the canyon is etched a little deeper each year – about the depth of a sheet of paper, or .004 of an inch. At that rate, it has gotten .2 inches deeper, less than a quarter of an inch, since I first saw it 50 years ago. It didn’t look any different to me!

It’s still a place of incredible beauty and mystery. It beggars description. Any photo you take of it turns out to be disappointing because it fails to convey the sheer majesty of the place. Disappointing, that is, unless there are human faces in it. The faces of loved ones give you perspective on the canyon in the background.

What you see in the canyon changes every few feet that you move along the rim and every time the light changes. Magnificent!

The weather was cool, hovering around 60, but a brisk wind made it feel a lot colder. Spring break is apparently a popular time to visit, because by the end of our visit the park was packed. We had arranged to go our separate ways for a bit and then meet at the coffee shop for something warm to drink. I stood in line outside for 10 minutes waiting to get inside. At that point we were reunited, and we abandoned the idea of getting refreshments.

To get to the park, we drove about two hours north from Flagstaff. We arrived about 9:30 a.m., which we were warned is about as late as you can get there and still find a parking space. There are four or five stations at the south entrance, which is the most popular and the most crowded. Cars were backed up five or six deep at that time, but we had to wait only a few minutes to get through.

When we left the park around 3 p.m., cars were backed up nearly a quarter of a mile. Though the park is open 24 hours a day, the visitor center closes at 4. When we left, parking lot #4 was so jammed with cars parked in marked slots and willy nilly everywhere else that we had trouble picking a path out of the lot.

We had forgotten to bring our America the Beautiful lifetime senior pass to national parks, so we had to pay $20 at the gate for a one-year pass. Still, that’s a considerable discount from the basic $35 entrance fee. Age bestows few benefits, but a senior parks pass is one of them.

At the most popular overlooks, a sturdy fence keeps you from falling in. But elsewhere along the rim trail there’s nothing to keep you from toppling over if you’re not careful. We were surprised to see people venturing way out on rock formations. I’m not sure the view is any more spectacular out there, but the footing sure looks more precarious.

One fellow was walking along the paved rim trail while reading from his phone. He appeared oblivious of the people around him – and, of course, the beauty of the canyon just a few feet away.

Similarly, when we visited the Children’s Museum of Phoenix, I noticed a young dad with a baby in a backpack. The baby was napping, and he was occupied with his phone. He was playing a game of chess. Considering the loud turmoil surrounding him, I’m astonished he could concentrate at all.

To return home by air, we had to drive south from Flagstaff to Phoenix. Naturally, there was a snowstorm that day. Five inches of snow were on the ground when we left, and it continued to snow for an hour as we drove south.

Happily, road crews had done a good job of plowing and treating the interstate. Visibility was terrible and we moved at 40-50 mph for much of the way. Then we drove through rain for an hour or more. By that time, we’d reached a point where the grades are steep for 20 miles or so. I was happy the roads were only wet, not snow-covered, at that point.

Once we got into Phoenix, traffic slowed to a crawl. Apparently the evening rush starts at 3 p.m. and goes on forever. Yuk!

The worst traffic we encountered was in Sedona, infamous for its gridlock. It seems that the city never developed many secondary through roads, so all side roads feed to a single through road. Nice place to visit, but it’s hard to imagine living there.

Our rental car was a Chevy Malibu. It’s called “midsize,” though it seemed small to me, and when we got home and I got behind the wheel of my Honda CRV, I was amazed by how big the steering wheel felt. The Malibu was so low I had trouble getting in and out, but it drove well, even in the snow.

Generally, the less said about the electronic displays, the better. But I did like the large digital mph display. Why it is then duplicated by a hard-to-read and less accurate circular display, I cannot imagine. (I’m told that the Malibu is not being made for 2025 and will be redesigned for future years. Go for it, Chevy. I was happily surprised by the quality of the one I drove, but I was not tempted to think of buying one.)

Finally, a more personal note: Traveling with family is great fun, and ultimately the finest way to go.

Flashlight faith

God calls us to follow even when we can’t clearly see the path ahead.

 (A sermon delivered March 17, 2024, at Spring Hill United Methodist Church, from the Ephesians 2: 1, 4-5, 8-10.)

 We are nearing the end of our Lenten journey preparing us for the joyful season of Easter.

 Lent is a journey of transformation, from captivity to sin to freedom in grace. The journey always begins with repentance, turning away from who we were, toward who we hope to become. The point of repentance is not to make you feel bad but to change you.

 Even if you can’t feel it happening, every day of Lent can involve some movement, large or small, toward greater wholeness and closer relationship with God.  Whether you recognize it or not, you are on a similar spiritual journey every day of your life.

 I believe that a “golden thread” runs through your life. That golden thread is called grace, and It’s woven throughout your story, and it stitches your story together into a coherent whole. You may not recognize it at first, but it’s there.

 To show you a bit how this works, I’ll briefly explore a familiar moment from the life of John Wesley, the chief founder of the Methodist movement.

 I’ve got a new book out about it. It’s titled Change of Heart: A Wesleyan Spirituality. I’ll be happy to sell you a copy, at a substantial discount from the cover price, but my purpose this morning is not to sell books, but to sell that change of heart that God wants to make in each of us.

 If you look on the south side of our worship space you’ll see two faces that also are on the cover of my book.  This is the only church I know that has both Wesley brothers so prominently displayed in its sanctuary. That’s John Wesley on the left, Charles on the right.  John is the sterner of the two, Charles the more congenial.

My book has a lot of their biography in it, certainly more than I first thought would be necessary.

But the more I looked at their lives and their theology, the more I realized that so much of their theology grows out of their biography; the story of the golden thread running through their lives; the story of their personal experience of God through daily events, through reflection on Scripture, and through inspiration of the Holy Spirit.

I’ll focus on John this morning. His change of heart involves moving from the false gospel of personal moral striving to the real gospel of God’s grace.

He grows up surrounded by a theology of grace, but like many others of his day, he completely misses the experience of grace. And until he actually experiences God’s grace first-hand, he is one confused and miserable human being.

Early in his life, he is certain that growing in Christ involves moral striving.

Like a lot of people, then and now, he pictures God as a loving ogre – that is, someone who loves you only if you do the right things. This is the kind of heavenly taskmaster that’s just waiting for you to make a mistake so it can clobber you – a giant jerk in the sky who likes to dish out painful lessons to stimulate your spiritual growth. That kind of monster is far from the God of the Bible – although, sadly, many people still suffer from ordering their lives around that awful illusion.

When the young John Wesley starts attending Oxford University, he is convinced that he must earn his salvation by being as good a person as possible.

He checks his spiritual temperature constantly, and he keeps a meticulous record in a journal. If he’d had a computer, he would have kept a spreadsheet with all the virtues listed, and several times a day he would check boxes “yay” or “nay” and 1 through 10 for how well he’s doing right then.

Even some of his friends think he’s a bit looney. But somehow he remains open to hearing the voice of God in his life, and several experiences convince him that there is a better way.

 Looking back, he sees that God works in his life “by degrees.” Several events are pivot points for him, points of repentance and conversion to a new way of thinking and living.

 And isn’t that the way it is for all of us? Looking back on your own life, can you see a straight path of spiritual growth – or, for that matter, a straight path for any other kind of growth?

 Don’t you see, as the writer Anne Lamott says, that we don’t move to faith by one giant leap of faith but by a series of staggers from one safe place to another. We don’t have leaps of faith so much as we have smaller staggers of faith.

 You can see some of that in the famous Aldersgate experience that we Methodists make so much of.

 John Wesley is 35 years old at the time, and in a state of great spiritual distress.

 In 1736, he and Charles sail off to America. They’re going to provide spiritual guidance to the English colonists in Georgia, and they’re going to convert the Indians.

 But neither the white settlers nor the Indians care much for their message. Charles is forced to leave when his health breaks. John flees just ahead of a mob that might string him up if they catch him.

 He is devastated. On the ship over, he befriended some other missionaries, German Lutherans called Moravians. He’s astonished by the depth of their faith, and he desperately wants the certainty of salvation that they have.

 “The faith I want,” he says, “is a sure trust and confidence in God that through the merits of Christ my sins are forgiven and I am reconciled to the favor of God.”

Back in Britain after the disaster in America, the brothers find themselves still out to sea, as it were. They both preach salvation by faith alone, not salvation by works, as most other preachers do. Salvation by faith alone is a long-established doctrine of the Church of England, but it’s not in style right then, and John and Charles get into deep trouble for preaching it.

In fact, they are barred from preaching in most churches. It gets so bad that John isn’t even allowed to preach in the church where his father had been pastor for nearly all of John’s life – so he preaches in the church graveyard, standing on his father’s gravestone.

It’s not so much what you preach, one friend says. It’s how you preach it! You’re so unconventional! You’re so emotional! You stir people up!

On the evening of May 25, 1738, John Wesley is the one who is stirred up.

He has a rough day spiritually, one of those days that you know must be preparing you for something – but it’s just as likely something bad as it is something good.

He’s in a small group on Aldersgate Street studying the book of Romans. About a quarter before nine, while they’re discussing the change that God works in the human heart through faith in Christ, God reaches out and touches Wesley’s heart.

 Suddenly, he recalls later, “I felt my heart strangely warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone for salvation, and an assurance was given me that he had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death.”

 He likely knew this all along, intellectually, but he’d never felt it. He’d never experienced it. Now, suddenly, he realizes that God not only loves everyone, God loves him specifically. Christ died not only for the whole world, but also specifically for John Wesley. And he can live in the confidence not only that God loves him but that God wants what is best for him.

It is a liberating experience. It changes everything. Of course, change of such depth takes awhile to sink in fully, so it’s months before he truly lives out his newfound sense of God’s grace. But he gets there.

And so can we, if we hang in there faithfully, rolling with the inevitable punches of life and looking to Jesus, the perfecter of our faith, as a guide to all things.

It takes John Wesley nearly half his life to learn that the grace that Jesus offer is not something you earn. It’s something you’ve given. It’s free to you, though it cost God dearly to offer it to you.

Truth is, you can’t make God love you any more than God already does. At the same time, you can’t make God love you any less than God already does.  God loves you, period. Loving is what God does because, as the first letter of John says, God is love.

Rudy Rasmus, a United Methodist pastor in Houston, has a wonderful way of putting it. He says, “God loves you, and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.”

Do you believe that? If you believe it, I’d ask you to turn to a neighbor near you and say, “God loves you, and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.” Now turn to another neighbor say, “God loves you, and there’s nothin’ you can do about it,”

 Does hearing that make you feel good? It ought to. Does telling that to another person make you feel good? It ought to.

 That little saying captures much of the heart of the gospel. But there’s a vital piece still missing. God surely loves you, and there’s nothing you can do to make God love you any more, or any less.

But you can grow closer to this loving God. You can grow closer to being the loving person God created you to be, by allowing God to change you from within, by daily putting on more of the likeness of Christ, by daily allowing yourself to be transformed into the image of Christ, who is the perfect image of God the Father.

It can be a long and sometimes painful journey. So often we fight it, clinging to a cherished past and turning away from an uncertain future.

The journey is hard because faith is a living thing, a breathing thing. Some days you feel fit to run a marathon or climb a mountain. Other days, you just can’t catch your breath. Some days you feel right on course. Other days, you wonder if you’re even going in the right direction.

. . .

I have reached that point in life where I don’t like to drive at night.

I’m sure some of you share the feeling. It seems like I’m always driving ahead of my headlights. They just don’t provide enough light for me to see the road far enough ahead for me to feel comfortable.

But I’ve learned that in many aspects of my life, I don’t need to see that far ahead.

Some 30 years ago, I decided to abandon my career as a journalist at The Kansas City Star and follow God’s call into ministry.

It was a scary time for both Linda and me, and for our two daughters, too. We weren’t at all sure how this was going to work out.

In more recent years, there was a time when Linda was working half-time in pastoral care at Church of the Resurrection and quarter-time as pastor of the United Methodist church in Linwood – and oh, yes, she was also completing her master’s project in seminary.

It was a tough time. We weren’t sure it would ever end – and if it did, how it would end. But we made it – not because we could see all the road ahead, but because we let God guide us day by day and step by step.

There’s a song in our hymnal by Michael W. Smith and Amy Grant. It’s titled, “Thy Word.” It’s inspired by Psalm 119, verse 105. In King James language, it says, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.”

God provides just enough light to guide our steps on the path ahead. No more, no less, just enough light for us to walk in faith.

I’ve heard it called “flashlight faith.” You know how narrow a beam of light that a flashlight throws. You can’t see much – just enough to pick a path to where you’re going.

But that’s enough, isn’t it?

I don’t need to see all the road ahead. I don’t need to see what’s over the hill or around the curve. I just need to see where I’m walking now. I just need to see where my next staggering step will take me.

God will order my steps and be with me every step of the way.

As Saint Patrick said, Christ with me and within me, before me, behind me, beneath me, above me, on my right, and on my left.

Flashlight faith is good enough. It will get you where you need to go. Because God loves you, no matter what. Because you are God’s masterpiece, created in Christ for all the good works and all the good things God has in mind for you.

Don’t ever forget it. Live it, one step at a time. I invite you: Let’s stagger into God’s future together, shall we?

Ephesians 2: 1, 4-5, 8-10 (NLT)

            Once you were dead because of your disobedience and your many sins.

            But God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so much, that even though we were dead because of our sins, he gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead.

            It is only by God’s grace that you have been saved!

            God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God.

            Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.

            For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

A Jesus like me … sort of

From left: Tall Jesus, Pretty Jesus, Hot Jesus

You have to be very careful, especially in these touchy days, portraying Jesus visually.

  Witness the uproar in Seville over a Spanish artist’s painting of Jesus for a poster celebrating Easter.

  According to the Associated Press, “The poster by internationally recognized Seville artist Salustiano García Cruz shows a fresh-faced Jesus without a crown of thorns, no suffering face and minuscule wounds on the hands and ribcage.”

  Some critics say the Jesus shown in the poster is simply too handsome or too sensual. Others call the image effeminate or homoerotic.

  I agree it may be a bit much, but it shows a risen Jesus, not a suffering Jesus, and it’s a healthy contrast to some of the other grisly stuff we see this time of year.

  Images of Jesus are visible in parades throughout Seville during Holy Week, but most follow traditional conventions. This one, of course, is fully traditional in the sense that Jesus is European. How could he not be, when the artist used his own son as a model?

  (Follow that logic through. God’s Son, artist’s son. Get it?)

  Interestingly enough, I found a somewhat similar Jesus for sale at a Catholic store here in the states. This one is a statue, and it’s 10 feet tall.

  Both “Pretty Jesus” and “Tall Jesus” remind me of a Jesus portrayed in the movie “Son of God,” starring Diego Murgado.

  When I showed photos of this Jesus to my youth group at the time, the kids dubbed him “Hot Jesus.” They liked him a lot but agreed that he was somewhat over the top.

  Hot, pretty, or just tall, images of Jesus are always popular, and always controversial. We like our Jesus to be just like us. Nothing wrong with that. We just need to remember that Jesus also is just like others, and they are not at all like us.

  That’s why we can have European Jesus, Black Jesus, Asian Jesus, Native American Jesus and Mediterranean Jesus – and though the Mediterranean version may be the most historically accurate, the others also are relationally on target.

  While you may cringe at the Jesus who is not like you, you should not throw stones just because he’s different. Remember, as alike us as Jesus was (and is), he also was (and is) visibly unlike us.