Stay Connected (Reflections on Easter 5, Year B)

 

“Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.” (John 15:4) 

It’s been all about connection these last thirteen months, hasn’t it? How do we stay hooked up when we’re told to keep our distance, when we cover our faces with masks, when our churches and schools and neighborhood watering holes have been shut down? 

Let’s hope that vaccinations and good pandemic practices will bear some fruit soon, because—believe me, I know—we’re all pretty tired of this situation. I think one of our most basic human desires is to be connected, to abide with one another in some way, to be part of the larger whole. Even the snarkiest of introverts wants to have a good conversation at some time, right?[i] All of us want to find some kind of Crazy Glue to stick us to other people—be it through blood ties, similar interests, religious beliefs, politics, or whatever. We humans are always finding a way to stretch the definition of family and create unique and cozy little clans. It’s what we do. 

It really sucks when those pods in which we find so much comfort are split apart. Fortunately, we’ve had the internet to help us slog through this drizzly, depressing COVID morass. When folks can’t come to church, Facebook Live has enabled us to bring church to them. Imagine how delighted your pastor is to see that a bunch of members I only expect to see at Christmas and Easter are now watching church at home online in their pajamas![ii] This phenomena is not unique to our congregation. At last week’s Southeastern Pennsylvania Synod Assembly, Bishop Pat rejoiced that churches all over the five county region are suddenly reconnecting with long-lost Gen-Xers and Millennials whose butts, for whatever reasons, would not normally find repose on our church pews. 

What’s even cooler is that we’ve been able to keep connected with distant friends. Those who prayed and sang with us every week but now live in different parts of the country are still tethered to this worshiping family via the internet. We now have it within our power to branch out across the miles. 

I don’t know what church is going to look like in America in the next few years, but I am optimistic that American Christianity will not shrivel up into a pathetic, decaying demise as long as we have the ability to stay connected. We now have the means to overcome Sunday youth sports, gig economy schedules, the burdensome cost of maintaining physical buildings, and changing local demographics. Technology has granted us the ability to transcend time and distance. The only questions are: Do we have the desire to connect? And do we desire to connect with Christ? 

In this Sunday’s Gospel (John 15: 1-8) Jesus reminds us that apart from God we can do nothing. One of the biggest lies our culture and our sinful nature love to tell us is that we are self-sufficient. We just love to flatter ourselves that we don’t really need connection. We love to think we’re so friggin’ special we don’t require something as quaint as the church to connect us to the Eternal. Once we get that notion into our heads, the con game of our own merit and ability, we cut the wire which connects us to the source of power. We soon neglect fellowship with others, prayer, and knowledge of Scripture—all the things which energize our spirits. 

One of the dumbest things we can do is cut ourselves off from the Vine. I’m not just saying this as a self-serving preacher trying to salvage an anachronistic institution. Lonely people die faster. Martin Luther believed that isolation was the place where the devil attacks. When we get the idea it’s all about us, that we’re self-made and independent, it will be easy for us to dismiss our fellow creatures. We’ll curl into ourselves and say, “I’ve got mine. If you can’t get yours then it’s too bad for you.” I think a lot of bad public policy in this country comes out of selling people the snake oil that says “You’ve got the right to be free and independent. No one should tell you what to do. You’ve earned everything you’ve got, and you don’t need to share it with anyone.” 

But the truth is, we’ve never really “earned” anything. Everything is a gift from our gracious God. Jesus came to teach us about loving one another, about the first willing to become the last, and about seeking the lost and the lonely. Jesus came that we might be one—that we might not only feel but celebrate our interconnectedness. That means staying connected, and branching out, too. Praise God that our technological world has given us the tools to fulfil what we’ve been taught by Christ. 

Of course, I should end this essay by noting that there are some branches which do, from time to time, get cut off. Some connections can be harmful for us, and some connections are intended to be temporary. In the First lesson for Easter 5, we see that great story of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. The Holy Spirit sends Philip to the Ethiopian, and just as quickly snatches him away again to branch out somewhere else. God puts people in our lives for different reasons and different seasons. Nevertheless, if we are connected to Christ, we are always connected to our family—near or far, on earth or in heaven. And that’s nice to know.

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[i] I mean, what good is it being aloof and judgmental if you can’t tell somebody about it?

[ii] By the way, you pajama-clad worshipers, you can make your offering online, too. Just go to www.faithlutheranphiladelphia.org  and click the “Give” button on the toolbar.

Grace By Way of Sin (Reflections on Easter 3, Year B)

 

“…repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations…” (Luke 24:47)

After twenty-two years of teaching confirmation classes, I sadly confess that I have not yet unearthed the pedagogical Rosetta Stone which will enable me to translate Luther’s Second Use of the Law into a language comprehensible to middle-schoolers. They have no trouble understanding the First Use—that God gave us the Law to keep us from cutting each other’s throats—but the idea that the knowledge of sin can lead us back to the grace of God is something thirteen-year-olds don’t seem to want to grasp. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to grasp the knowledge of sin. I can’t say that I blame them. I’ll admit in theory that I’m as guilty of sin as everybody else, but actually enumerating my faults and taking hard look at my character is not at all pleasurable. 

Recently I noticed that someone had clicked on an old post I wrote back in 2018 for my “Old Religious Guy” blog. It was a eulogy I’d written when I learned that an old and, alas, forgotten friend had died. I hadn’t seen my friend Patrick since 1994 when I moved to Philadelphia, and, as things happen, I just lost touch with him. One day I took it into my head to “Google” him, and I learned he’d died about a dozen years earlier. As I thought about our friendship, I realized what a lousy friend I actually was to him. I started to recognize my condescension, my judgmental attitude, and how often I’d joked at his expense. I didn’t like realizing that. The really rotten thing is he’s not around for me to ask his forgiveness. 

As I think about it—and as I dwell on the lessons in the RCL assigned for Ester 3 this year—I’m reminded of the first of Luther’s  95 Theses: “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, ‘Repent,’ he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” I’m sure it’s good for my soul to recognize the micro-aggressions I committed against my late friend. I suspect the people of Jerusalem acted much the same way towards the lame man at the Beautiful Gate mentioned in our First Lesson (Acts 3:12-19). “Poor slob,” they must’ve thought. “Obviously God despise him or he wouldn’t have been born lame.”  “Sucks to be him,” they might say to themselves as they tossed him a few pitiful shekels and strode on their way into the temple. 

Then along comes Peter and John, and the man is miraculously healed in the name of Jesus Christ. Suddenly everybody is paying attention to this formerly forgotten man, and Peter has the opportunity to take them to task—not for neglecting or despising the poor and the lame, but for rejecting the Author of Life, Jesus Christ. But Peter, so it seems, is a soft-hearted guy. He’s willing to bet that this bunch acted out of ignorance (v.17), and he encourages them to repent and know the forgiveness of God’s love. 

The problem, of course, is that we need to repent honestly and truly before we can know the peace that comes from forgiveness. Sometimes our ignorance is bliss. We can blithely go our way thinking we’ve caused no hurt, minded our own business, and haven’t contributed to anyone’s pain. We’re happy to be ignorant of our own arrogance or neglect. 

I think at times that our sinner’s tendency towrds subtle, smug, self-justification in our individual relationships is just a microcosm of everything that’s playing out in the streets of America this year. Wounded and neglected communities are responding with violence and anger to what they’ve perceived as a callous disregard for their humanity. Unless there is some kind of recognition, confession, and contrition there will never be any peace in this land. 

In our Gospel Lesson (Luke 24:36b-48) as well as in the First Lesson, we are reminded of the most important principles of our faith. Jesus died and rose so that repentance and forgiveness may be proclaimed. It is the knowledge of sin which brings us back to our need for grace. The knowledge may be painful, but the grace is healing.

The Power to Share (Reflections on Easter 2, Year B)

 

“There was not a needy person among them…” (Acts 4:34) 

It’s pretty amazing what a group of folks led by the Holy Spirit can do. When I read the First Lesson assigned for Easter 2 in the RCL (Acts 4:32-35), I’m always blown away by the selflessness of those early Christians. In our current climate, however, I imagine there might be some who would view this passage with alarm and think the Bible is preaching socialism. To my way of thinking, the Bible is preaching the power of faith in the resurrected Lord. 

If ever an Easter message were needed, this would be the one, I think. Haven’t you noticed how the church was always full on Easter with folks you hadn’t seen since Christmas showing off their finery? Then, the very next Sunday—as if the story of the resurrection was no more impacting than an installment of Game of Thrones,—the church emptied out again. What a shame that so many people don’t come back to hear what faith in the resurrection is capable of doing. 

We’ve all heard of the faith of the early Christian martyrs who were willing to become lion chow in the Roman arena rather than forsake their belief in Jesus Christ. I don’t know if we concentrate enough on the other sacrifice these nascent believers made—the sacrifice of their possessions, status, privilege, and security. If you ask me, I think it’s one heck of a testimony to the power of Jesus’ influence on them that they were willing conform their lives so closely to his. You have to admit, it was a pretty big ask. I mean, would you be willing to do it? To give up all you had and trust yourself to a sharing community in the hope that no one would ever go without? 

In case you haven’t noticed, sacrifice has been a big part of our American national conversation this past year. Since March of 2020 we’ve been asked to do things and go without things we’d rather not do or rather not sacrifice. Many of us have done it in the spirit of supporting others and the society as a whole. Often, our better nature wins out. 

Here’s an example: A few years back my old buddy from the Midwest, Rich, was working in the media department of a community college. He was chosen to be something of a shop steward for his public employees union. When the college had to make some cutbacks, they asked the union members to take a voluntary pay cut. This proposal was about as popular with the workers as passing gas in church; nevertheless, Rich encouraged the union members to accept the cut. How? He pointed out that, should the college not reduce its payroll, some employees would have to be let go. “How’d you like it,” Rich asked, “if you ran into one of your former co-workers at the grocery store and he was paying for his stuff with food stamps? How good would you feel about your decision then?” The image of a co-worker reduced to public assistance made the situation real for union members, and they voted that each should sacrifice some so that some didn’t have to lose all. 

I’m not proposing that we should all sell our possessions and create a commune. But I am asking us to consider what a resurrection faith really means, and how such a faith should play out in our world. Thomas, in our Gospel lesson (John 20:19-31), demanded proof before he was willing to commit himself to believing. Are we asking for proof that our sacrifices in Christ’s name will accomplish what we want them to accomplish? Do we doubt the God who raised Jesus from the dead is capable of caring for us should we risk a bit of what we have in order to aid others? 

The story we read in Acts should make us look with awe at the Early Church and yearn for the kind of zeal which created a community dedicated to compassion, a community that desired service to other human beings more than it feared privation, a community which could step out of the constraints of its culture and create a new way of seeing the world. 

Of course, many in that community of disciples saw the resurrected Jesus in the flesh. Blessed are we who have not seen, and yet have come to believe the awesome things our God is capable of doing through us. 

Christ is risen. Alleluia!

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.