Trembling and Bewildered? (Reflections on the Resurrection of Our Lord, Year B)

 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.” (Mark 16:8) 

It’s not hard to relate to the ladies who went to Jesus’ tomb on that first Easter, is it? I mean, once you’ve watched someone die a horrific death, it’s going to be pretty hard to believe they’ve come back to life—even if some guy who looks for all the world like an angel is telling you that this is the case. Mark tells us that these women were sized with “terror and amazement” when they found the tomb empty and got this piece of news. 

As always, and in the spirit of academic geekiness, I had to look up “terror and amazement” in my Greek Bible. The words Mark actually uses are tromos (tromos in Greek spelling)[i] and ek-stasis (ek-stasis) which literally translate as “trembling” and “bewilderment.” Ek-stasis, however, can also imply a trance-like state, a state in which your senses freeze you to the spot. Now Mark just told us that the women weren’t frozen. In fact, they couldn’t get out of that tomb fast enough! I don’t think they were afraid for their lives, I just think they were afraid the news was too good to be true. News that good had to be emotionally paralyzing. What if they’d just hallucinated it? After all, how can life come from a bloody and degrading crucifixion? It probably didn’t make any kind of sense to them. Better say nothing until they figured it out. 

But if we know nothing else about God, it’s that we really know nothing about God. God just keeps surprising us with stuff we never expected. God loves to keep us trembling and bewildered. 

One of God’s best promises—one that is always counterintuitive to our puny way of thinking—is that whenever things look their crappiest, something jaw-dropping may be about to happen. 

A few weeks back I heard an amazing story on NPR’s On Being[ii] series. Rabbi Ariel Burger told a story illustrating the message of Easter—how God takes on our wounds and gives us life in return. It seems that Burger’s son had a friend named Mason who was visiting historic Jewish sites in Poland. Mason disappeared for a day to make a visit to an elderly gent outside of Warsaw, and, upon his return, told young Burger the purpose of his visit. 

Mason’s Polish grandparents had been married just three weeks before the Nazis had them deported to Auschwitz. Every night Mason’s grandfather would go to the fence which separated the men’s side of the camp from the women’s and see his bride. He’d often bring her an extra piece of bread or a potato or anything he could save or smuggle. 

Unfortunately, the young bride was soon transferred to work on a rabbit farm outside of the camp. The Germans were using rabbits to experiment on so they could find a cure for typhus. The Polish gentile who ran the farm noticed that the Nazis fed and cared for the rabbits better than they cared for their Jewish slave laborers, so he began to sneak food to the prisoners. 

One day Mason’s grandmother cut her arm on a piece of barbed wire. The cut became infected, and the Nazis had no intention to sacrifice antibiotics on a Jewish slave laborer. Realizing that this could be a fatal wound, the rabbit farmer cut his own arm and placed his wound on that of the young woman, thereby infecting himself. He told the Nazi doctors that he was one of their best mangers and, should he die from his infection, the Nazis’ research project would suffer. The Germans gave him the antibiotics which he shared with the young prisoner. He took her wound upon himself and, in so doing, saved her. Six decades later her grandson would track down this selfless man and tell him, “Thank you for my life.” 

This story is a metaphor for our Easter salvation. Christ shared our wounds and gave us his life—eternal life. So today we gather to say, “Thank you for my life!” The miracle of our faith is not that a human being was like God, but that God was willing to become so human for our sake. 

Today we rejoice that God in Christ transforms our longing into hope because God in Christ brings life out of death. Even a pandemic can mean a transformation into something new and unexpected, the reality of which we are yet to understand. Like the women at the tomb we may fear good news and stand trembling and bewildered today, but God’s Good News will always find a way. 

Christ has died, but Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

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[i] You don’t need to know that. I just think it makes me look smart when I write it in Greek.

[ii] Of course, Rabbi Burger wasn’t intending to preach the Christian Easter story, good Jewish scholar that he is. Still, I don’t think he’d mind a Lutheran Christian appropriating this tale. It’s a good tale and can enlighten anyone. If you want to hear him tell it, you can click on the link here: Rabbi Burger.

Growing Down (Reflections on Maundy Thursday)

 

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14)

The homeless man wore a cap identifying him as a Vietnam veteran. His face and knuckles bore the dirty red scabs of a recent fight, and, I’ll confess, I was a little bit frightened as he held my hand with a grip like a trash compacter. His eyes looked like they were getting moist as he thanked me for the cup of coffee and the sandwich which I and other volunteers from Grace Lutheran Church of Yorktown Heights had brought to this homeless encampment under the portico of a skyscraper off Columbus Circle in Manhattan.

“I can’t believe you people came all the way down here just for us,” he said. “Can I ask you something? Would you go over there and give Charlie some soup? I don’t think he can walk.”

Charlie was lying on a piece of cardboard from an old appliance carton and wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag. He looked like he was 100 years old, his face dirty and unshaven. He could barely sit up to take the soup I offered. I remember thinking, “This guy is going to die out here on the streets.”

It was well after 1 AM, and I and the other volunteers had other stops to make that night. We were participating with an organization called Midnight Run which brought food, clothing, and blankets to the homeless of New York City during the wee hours when traffic was light and the police looked the other way. My vicariate congregation had been involved in this ministry for several years, but this was my first time encountering the people who had been forgotten by everyone but the God who created them.

It was eye-opening. Just as eye-opening as my pre-seminary experience as a Los Angeles middle school teacher had been. That was the first time that I really encountered poor people—people whose reduced circumstances included a singular lack of hope. Maybe that was when I began to grow down.

Grow down? Aren’t we supposed to grow up as we get older? The psychologist James Hillman[i] suggests that our culture always tends to think of progress as rising higher, yet he maintains that real growth is a downward movement—a movement out of the realm of ethereal comfort and into the earthy practicality of this world. We learn to live by getting our hands dirty, by touching and seeing, and knowing a bleaker side of mortality. We grow by challenging ourselves to love the uncomfortable, the unpleasant, and the frightening parts of humanity we’d rather not think about. 

Our whole Christology is based on the idea that Jesus grew down. We confess in the Nicene Creed that “For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven, was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and became truly human.” Born into a peasant’s life, suffering persecution and death, Jesus joined himself with us. In the Gospel lesson appointed for Maundy Thursday (John 13:1-17,31b-35), we hear the story of how he descended voluntarily to take on the task of the slave or of the least-regarded member of any household—the one charged with the indignity of washing the dirty feet of others. 

He also charges us—the church—with the responsibility and the command to grow downward and know him by embracing the least and the lowest. After my experience with Midnight Run, I discussed my participation with a classmate who was also serving in the Metro New York Synod. Norm rolled his eyes with exasperation. “I wish I could get my congregation to be involved, but all they think they need to do is write a check. They think that’s loving the poor. They don’t actually want to encounter the poor.” 

And maybe this is our problem.  Do we in the American church really want to get our hands dirty? Do we only want comfort? Or are we willing to grow down into incarnational ministry? Are we willing to talk about unpleasant subjects? Would we march with Black Lives Matter, or discuss racism, sexual misconduct, and poverty? Instead of writing the check, are we willing to volunteer at the food cupboard and listen to the stories of those who need our assistance? Or do we just want to be above it all? 

I’m proud of the work my congregation does, but I have to acknowledge how few people actually do it. We have sheltered homeless families through Interfaith Hospitality Network, but always with the same handful of volunteers. We have grown food for the hungry in our garden, but only a small number of folks have done the planting and tending. 

I don’t know if the church can grow or survive without a willingness to grow down. It’s not enough to be alone in the garden with Jesus. Sometimes we need to stand at the foot of the cross.

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[i] See James Hillman The Soul’s Code: In Search of Character and Calling (New York: Warner Books, 1997)

Humble (Reflections on Palm Sunday, Year B)

 

“…he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:8)

 I like to think of myself as a good citizen of our Republic, and I’ve done my best to stay involved. Since moving to New Jersey I’ve had the honor of meeting all of the gentlemen who have represented me and the other folks in the New Jersey 3^rd Congressional District in the House of Representatives. I have to say, I really liked all of them—even the guys I didn’t vote for. They seemed like pretty nice fellows to me. But my current Congressman, Andy Kim, comes to my mind today as I think about the symbolism of Palm Sunday.

My wife Marilyn and I had the pleasure of meeting Rep. Kim a few years back at a pancake breakfast fundraiser for one of the veterans’ organizations Marilyn supports. He dined at our table with one of his staffers and his young son, Austin. I had most of my conversation with the staffer (whose name I have forgotten—I guess it’s the fate of congressional staffers to be anonymous) as Mr. Kim was busy—as a good dad should be—making sure Austin enjoyed his pancakes and syrup without creating the sort of ungodly mess young boys are wont to create. The Congressman struck me as sincere and affable.

 But it was January 6^th which really impressed me. After all of the events of that terrible day, after the violence and the screaming and the barbaric assault on American democracy, after 500+ legislators had left the US Capitol, after one o’clock in the morning, Andy Kim was seen on his hands and knees in suit and tie picking up trash on the floor of the rotunda. I’m sure there are some who would think that janitorial work is beneath the dignity of a member of the US House of Representatives, but Mr. Kim reminded me that those whom the voters exalt to office are actually called to be servants. Their greatest strength will be found in their willingness to be humble.

 It’s the humility of Christ which Saint Paul stresses in the epistle lesson appointed for the Palm Sunday (Philippians 2:5-11), and it’s Christ’s humility we see in the Palm Sunday gospel (Mark 11:1-11). Yes, there is much pomp and pageantry involved in the story which begins our Holy Week observances. Jesus enters King David’s capitol city and is met by cheering crowds who see him as a new David—a hero and conqueror who will restore their nation to its former greatness. They even reenact some of the rituals performed in the past when one of God’s righteous heroes triumphed over an enemy. They throw their garments in Jesus’ path as was done when King Jehu overthrew the wicked King Ahab[i]. They wave the palm branches as was done for Simon Maccabee when he expelled the idolaters from Jerusalem[ii]. Yet for all of this fanfare, Jesus’ arrival is accomplished in a rather modest way.

 Jesus fulfills the prophecy of Zechariah 9:9, “Lo your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” In the next verse the prophet proclaims that this king will do away with the instruments of war and “shall command peace to the nations.” If you think about it, the idea of a grown man riding on a baby donkey seems really silly—and that’s the point. Jesus has not come to this place, the place which will be the site of his execution, to die gloriously in battle or to reign as a victorious and mighty king. For all the regal trappings, the Messiah enters meekly on the same sort of animal upon which might ride a small child.

 According to Mark, Jesus does not hold a rally or give a speech when he arrives. He goes quietly to the temple, has a little look around, and then leaves the city to spend the night in near-by Bethany. If ever a Bible story had an anti-climax, this would be it.

 I’m sure the crowds of Jesus fans who met him were disappointed. I suspect I’d be too if I were there. I really love theatricality and pageantry. I love soaring high cathedral ceilings, grand liturgical processions, magnificent chancel choirs singing thunderous praises, and all the other ways our tradition goes about trying to capture the majesty of God. Yet I know all we do falls short of God’s reality. I wonder if the key to a relationship with God is making peace with our own inadequacy.

 We are in a culture which worships victory—victory over others. We have March Madness and the Super Bowl and all manner of competition. Nevertheless, the higher we go up the mountain, the less room we have to move horizontally. When we’ve risen to the top, we want to stay on the top, and this is an invitation to stress and disappointment. In humility there is freedom because there is honesty. We may covet strength and dominance, but Jesus comes teaching peace and understanding. He is not a king to crush enemies, but, rather, an example to teach us peace with ourselves.

 I think the rabbi on the baby donkey is a symbol of how God would like us all to be: humble. That is not to say we should be humbled, for the God who loves us enough to go to the cross does not wish us to be ashamed. He asks only that we be contented with the servanthood to which we are called. 

The gloss in this week’s Celebrate insert says it better than I can: “Following Christ’s example, we do not seek personal status or glory but care for others as God cared for us in Christ’s death.”

 A blessed Holy Week to you all. Stay safe!

[i] See 2 Kings 9:13

[ii] See 1 Maccabees 13:51 if your Bible has the Apocrypha in it.

It's Greek to Me (Reflections on Lent 5, Year B)

 

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” (John 12:32)

 I never imagined I’d be preaching on the Gospel passage assigned for Lent 5, Year B (John 12:20-33) as often as I do, but—given my serendipitous career as the pastor who is called upon to bury every deceased “Christmas & Easter” Christian and semi-agnostic in Northeast Philly and Lower Bucks County—I’ve become quite familiar with this text. It’s the passage used in our Lutheran Occasional Service Book for prayers at graveside. I suspect this is because of the image of the grain of wheat “dying” when it goes into the earth.

Whenever I read this passage by someone’s last resting place, I feel compelled to make a tiny apology for the word “hate” used in verse 25. Jesus seems to be suggesting that it’s a pretty cool thing to “hate” your life. Now, I’ll grant that life hasn’t exactly been jolly since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, and some of you might have been tempted to say that you hate your lives right now. After all, a lot of the fun stuff has been removed. We can’t go to restaurants like we used to, we’ve had stay-at-home orders, we’re sick of the kids being home schooled, sick of wearing masks, sick of not going to the mall or the movies or to church like we did in the good ol’ days. You might hear this passage and think, “Heck! I hate my life right now. Guess I’m going straight to Heaven when I die! Good for me!” 

You would be missing the point by that interpretation. This passage is tricky because our evangelist, John, speaks Aramaic but is writing in the universal language of his time, Greek. I guess everyone in the ancient Mediterranean world spoke a little bit of Greek. It was how you got by. Unfortunately, although the Greeks had about four different words to express different aspects of “love,” they only had one word, miseo (misew for all you Greek scholars out there!), which meant not to love. It could mean to despise intently, but it can also mean just “who cares?” We could read verse 25 as “Those who are all into worldly things will miss out, but those who put this world in proper perspective will know the joys of eternity.” If COVID-19 has taught us nothing else, it might just be that we’ve learned the difference between what’s important and what’s just piddly little stuff. 

Jesus knows when the Greeks show up, the game is almost over. “Greeks,” by the way, does not necessarily mean people from Greece. As I said above, lots of folks spoke Greek back then, so what John might really mean is “non-Jewish folks.” When Jesus gets famous even among the gentiles, the Jewish and Roman authorities are going to get nervous and will want to put a stop to him. Jesus knows the cross is near and, using the metaphor of the grain of wheat, he tries to explain that some things have to die before they can really achieve their purpose. We need the fact of loss in order to appreciate having. Another way I’ve always looked at this is learning doesn’t start until the lesson is over. That is, if you’ve got the teacher standing next to you, you don’t know what you know. You can always copy the teacher or ask him/her for help. It’s only after the teacher has left that you’ll understand what you’ve really taken to heart, what has taken root in you, and what is bearing fruit.

 I really dig that John tells us in verse 27 that Jesus’ soul is troubled at this particular moment. Gosh: if I knew I was about to be arrested and hung on a cross, I’d be pretty troubled myself. Even though Jesus seems a little more God-like in John’s Gospel than in the synoptics, I appreciate this very human detail. The coming moment will be painful and hard to bear, but through it God will be glorified. Jesus will connect all people through his suffering, for every last one of us—of all nations, races, occupations, genders, lifestyles, cultures, etc.—will feel at one time or another the pain Jesus is about to feel. We’ll all know loneliness, disappointment, desertion, betrayal, helplessness, scorn, physical pain, and impending death. It will be the same for all people.

 John never tells us if those Greeks ever got their meet ‘n’ greet with Jesus. We know, however, that the whole world would come to know Jesus on the cross. On the cross was the ultimate union of God and humanity. Still, you’ve got to hand it to those curious Greeks. They heard about this Jesus guy, and they wanted to see him. So do we all. The cool thing is we can see Jesus around us all the time. Jesus joins us in our pain, but we join him in his love, his forgiveness, his sacrifice, his praise of the Father God, and his ultimate healing nature that is a foretaste of our own resurrection. Whenever we see such things in our brothers and sisters, we’re seeing Jesus. I always figure that my job as a Christian is to look for Christ in others and, by my own submission in the face of my own often troubled spirt, to show Christ to others.

 May Christ dwell in you, and may you know his love today.

Meghan, Harry, and a Snake on a Stick (Reflections on Lent 4, Year B)

“And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (John 3:14) 

So last week the American media went bizzaco as the celebrated Oprah Winfrey aired her tell-every-embarrassing-detail interview with the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. This begs the oft-asked question: Why should anyone in America actually give a crap about an excessively privileged young couple and their progeny who have no government function and no real impact on any of our lives? 

I really had to think about this one for a moment. Of course, we all love the idea that there are real, live princes and princesses in this world. As I thought about it, however, I started to conclude there might be something of real significance here. These kids were chased out of the land where they had planned to live because intrusive scrutiny, judgmental badgering, racist innuendo, and voracious fault-finding of the tabloid press made their lives unbearable. This, in turn, begs the question: Why would so-called “journalists” indulge in such a feeding frenzy of criticism and gossip mongering? Answer: Because people will pay to read it. 

This is all just one more petty example of our collective sin. We see a flaw in someone, and then we start looking for more flaws so we can feel smugly superior and indulge in a sense of self-righteousness without seeing either the hurt or the humanity. We as human beings have been doing it for centuries. We did it to Jesus when he hung helpless on the cross.[i]

 We see it also in the First Lesson appointed for Lent 4, Year B (Numbers 21:4-9). God’s Chosen People are throwing a bust-out “Dump on Moses” party, whining and complaining and taking a bath in self-righteous indignation. In a way, you can’t blame them for being frustrated. They’ve been wandering a long time in a totally lousy environment, and arriving in a livable homeland isn’t even a blip on their radar. They have to fight the hostiles constantly. Even the non-belligerent locals won’t let them drink from their wells or pass through their lands, forcing the Israelites to make boring and sweaty detours to avoid getting their butts whooped by stronger tribes. Their high priest just dropped dead on Mt. Hor, and they might be wondering if they’ll live long enough to see God make good on the promise to bring them back home. To top it all off, the food really stinks. 

So what do they do? They find someone to blame. In this case, it’s God and their prophet, Moses. You can bet that one Israelite really got his shorts in a knot over something, and then complained to another. “Yeah, Bro,” his friend would reply. “You’re right. This whole situation really sucks, and it’s all Moses’ fault! If he was a better prophet, we wouldn’t be stuck out here. And God sucks, too. A really first-class God wouldn’t treat Chosen People like this.” Of course, these guys forget that they’ve been delivered from slavery and they’ve been provided food and water every day of their lives. No, they just want to find someone they can look down on. So let the grumbling begin. The people can now massage their own frustration by gossiping, judging, and fault-finding at someone else’s expense. I’ll bet they enjoyed it, too.[ii] 

So what does God do? God give s them a punishment that fits their sin. If they want to poison their community with their mouths, God will send them some real poisoned mouths in the form of venomous snakes. This may seem rather vindictive on the Almighty’s part, but I see it as a reminder that sin has consequences and God never protects us from the fallout of our own stupidity and disobedience. If we indulge a desire to judge and denigrate others—whether racially, politically, socially, or for any other reason—we are going to reap what we sow.

 But there’s also good news here. God is gracious and merciful, and gives Moses a suggestion to fix things. When the crybabies figure out God’s not happy with them, Moses makes a bronze snake and puts it in a stick so they can see the thing that frightens them. They can also see a mirror of their own behavior. No real repentance can come until we’re able to see and know ourselves as sinners. 

Perhaps you’ve found yourself getting frustrated while wandering in this COVID-19 wilderness and you’ve begun unloading on someone else. I don’t have a snake on a stick to show you, but I can point to Jesus on the cross—the ultimate “celebrity” victim of a critical and thoughtless humanity—and remind you that he’s there for you. When we see him lifted up on the cross, we are reminded of his great love for us, but we should also reminded of our own tendency toward mockery and cruelty. When we see Jesus crucified we need to remember this is our pain because this is our sin.

 The purpose of God’s Law is always to bring us back, by the knowledge of sin, to our need for grace. In times when we let our frustrations turn us into poisonous serpents, we might do well to review Luther’s explanation to the Eighth Commandment:

 We are to fear and love God, so that we do not tell lies about our neighbors, betray or slander them, or destroy their reputations. Instead we are to come to their defense, speak well of them, and interpret everything they do in the best possible light.[iii]

 Or. Maybe we should just take a breath and recall that our walk with God will never be about what happens to us, but truly about how we embrace it. I hope I can embrace any frustrations I might have by obeying the dictum Rabbi Ariel Burger learned from the great Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel: Never allow anyone to be humiliated in your presence.[iv]

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[i] See Matthew 27:38-40, Mark 15:27-32, Luke 23:35-38

[ii] I know I would.

[iii] See Luther’s Small Catechism.

[iv] See a review of Burger’s book on Wiesel’s teachings by clicking Elie Wiesel.

Zeal for the House (Reflections on Lent 3, Year B)

Jan Sanders van Hemessen "Christ Driving the Money Changers" (16th Cent.)

 

“Jesus answered them, ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.’” (John 2:19)

 I have to give a shout-out to my esteemed colleague, Pastor Daniel Eisenberg of St. John’s Lutheran in Philadelphia who gave me this really whacky illustration for the Gospel lesson for Lent 3, Year B (John 2: 13-22):

 Try to imagine we’re all in church on a post-COVID Easter Sunday morning. We’re all just as happy as a poodle with a pork chop. No more masks or social distancing. We have a full church. Here we are: singing our favorite Easter hymns, smelling the flowers, dressed in our finest spring fashions, and delightfully full from the annual Easter pancake breakfast. Just as we get to the second verse of “Jesus Christ is Risen Today,” Jesus suddenly bursts in and starts yelling at us. “Just what the freak do you people think you’re doing?! Is this really what’s important to you? Seriously..??!!”

 Before we can stop him, he begins to kick over the pots of Easter lilies. He throws the candelabras and the communion chalice off the altar and starts tossing the paraments around the room. He knocks over our electric piano and chases the musician and the Praise Team out the side door with a whip he’s made out of the cincture of his robe.

 How would you react?

 If anyone but Jesus did that, we’d certainly have the police on their butt in no time flat. And even if Jesus himself did this…well…we might consider converting to Unitarianism.

 If you can imagine this illustration, you can imagine how outrageous Jesus’ behavior would be to the people who witnessed it firsthand. You’d have to ask what it was that got this guy so p.o.’d. In the Synoptic Gospels, Jesus claims that the authorities have turned his Father’s house into a den of thieves.[i] That is, he’s concerned that the buying and selling involved in the purchase of sacrificial animals was yet one more exploitation of the poor—a greedy rip-off by the guys in the upper percentile which jacked-up the prices and manipulated the rate of exchange.

 But: John’s Gospel shows Jesus having a different concern. He’s not so much bothered by the oppressive thievery as he is by the impiety of it all. He knows that to prepare for the Passover, the folks had to make a ritual sacrifice of an animal without spot or blemish.[ii] The temple priests were all too happy to sell Passover pilgrims a “perfect” critter for any budget—a cow for the rich, a sheep for the middle class, or some birds for the poor working stiffs. But Jesus wasn’t impressed with any of it.

 The love of God made perfect in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ is not transactional, and any emphasis on the form blinds us to the purpose. If you’re focused on buying the perfect lamb, you’re forgetting that the Lord your God has already done a mighty act for you. You might be tempted to forget that God doesn’t need any favors from you in order to love you and find you worthy. You might be more focused on yourself than on the abundant grace of the living God.

 How does your heart feel when you remember that someone loved you enough to die for you? That’s the point. Not he pancake breakfast or the lilies or the church music. When Jesus gets all funky in the temple, his disciples remember the words of an old song, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”[iii] But just what does that mean? What is God’s house? Is it just a building where we gather, or is it the place where we encounter Christ? And does that have to be anyplace specific?

 At our last Church Council meeting, some expressed concern about the lack of in-person worship because of the pandemic. It was even suggested that some parishioners might stop making their offerings if they didn’t “get something” in return. I certainly understand that this fear is not without foundation, but I must remind everyone that the church is not a marketplace. We contribute nothing to our salvation. The disciplines of Lent call us to return to the grace of God, not just to a building.

 The temple in which Jesus made such a fuss would be torn down a few years after his crucifixion and never rebuilt. It was just a building. The temple of Christ’s body would be raised form the dead and would become our hope, our faith, our truth, and our joy forevermore. This temple does not require walls or perfect liturgies. We enter into it every day with believing and trusting hearts. The sacrifices we make are not made for Christ, but for others because of Christ.

 This time of pandemic has been a test, but one which we will pass.  Let’s keep our eyes trained on what God has already done as we worship in spirit and truth.

 Stay safe  everyone.

[i] See Mt. 21:13, Mk 11:17, and Lk 19:46

[ii] See Lev 23:12, Num 6:14, etc.

[iii] Psalm 69:9