The Promise

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April 30, 2017 - 3rd Sunday of Easter

Acts 2:14a, 36-41

^14aPeter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them,

³⁶“Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.”

³⁷Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?” ³⁸Peter said to them, “Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. ³⁹For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.” ⁴⁰And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.” ⁴¹So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added.

 Sermon: “The Promise”

“Teach your children how to forgive, make your homes places of love and forgiveness; make your streets and neighborhoods centers of peace and reconciliation.  It would be a crime against youth, and their future, to let even one child grow up with nothing but the experience of violence and hatred.”

These words were spoken by Pope John Paul II at mass in Drogheda, Ireland on September 29, 1979. They are a challenge for all adults to not pass on the hatred of the troubled past to the next generation. But even more than that, they are a promise to those children, that they will know a kinder, less violent world than those who came before them.

As I read and re-read our text from Acts this week, one line from Peter’s sermon kept coming back to me: “For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.” These words are especially wonderful, because in the Greek it doesn’t just say ‘sons;’ Peter is careful to use the word for both genders of children: girls and boys alike are equally entitled to this promise.

But what is this promise? In a word: forgiveness. Peter begins his sermon by "cutting people to the heart." His delivery is blunt, speaking of Jesus’ murder by saying, “this Jesus whom you crucified.”

He’s not allowing them to gloss over their complicity in the death of Jesus. But – and this is really important – he’s not denying his own complicity, either. History has taken these words of Peter as an excuse for incredible hatred and harm. Blaming Jews for Jesus’ death has been used a theological rational for everything from distrust to prejudice to the Holocaust.

What a twisting this is of Peter’s words! After all, he was a Jew, speaking to his own people, not an outsider condemning another racial and religious group (a very important distinction).

And he didn’t just name complicity – like Pope John Paul II would later do, he also named a promise, not just for them, but for their children, girls and boys alike. The promise of forgiveness, freely given and received from God.

Now, there are some preachers who would at this point make this a sermon about praying a short prayer and accepting Jesus into your heart. But here’s the thing: Peter wasn’t just preaching to the hearts of people. His Lord had been killed by a collusion of state and religious power. So, he was also preaching to the heart of systems of injustice. To neighborhoods ravaged by violence. To households in which children grew up hating and fearing the other just because they were other. Yes, he may have wanted people to personally accept the promises Jesus had for them, but this is much farther reaching than any individual: 3,000 people were baptized. That’s even more people than live in Cameron!

Just as violence and hatred are a communal act, so forgiveness and repentance are, too. Let us never think the gospel is just about my “personal relationship with God.” It is also always about my relationship with my neighbor, especially the neighbor I have a tendency to label, judge or hate.

When power is wedded to that hatred, we all know what happens. History has shown it, though it’s been downplayed and hidden. But the truth always prevails.

Such is the case in the film The Promise. It tells the story of the Armenian Genocide in the early 20^th century, a period of 3 years in which 1.5 million Armenians were murdered by the Ottoman Empire and its successor state, Turkey. Turkish authorities have denied this genocide, calling the death of so many Armenians mere collateral damage in a civil war.

The Promise is a love story by nature, but its deeper purpose is to viscerally depict a terrible historic reality: that Armenians were exterminated by their own government. It might come as no surprise that this movie was written and directed by Terry George, a Belfast boy whose been a part of numerous films about the Troubles, as well as Hotel Rwanda, shedding light on that conflict. His mission is to tell the ugliest parts of human history, and he did it again here. It seems odd to name such a movie The Promise.

What promise could there be in the face of genocide and violence? The same promise Peter spoke of: repentance and forgiveness. A wound that is constantly covered up or ignored will never heal: it must be exposed to the light, given air, and treated directly.

While most documents the Ottoman had relating to the Armenian Genocide were destroyed or hidden away, a telegram has been discovered by Turkish historian Taner Akcam from July 4, 1915. On official Ottoman letterhead, it asks whether deported Armenians have been ‘liquidated’ yet.

In an interview[1], Akcam was asked a blunt question: “You are Turkish. You are not Armenian. Why have you devoted your life, your career, to studying the Armenian genocide?” He replied,  “I'm an historian. It is my job to educate [a] new generation on violence in the past so that this should not happen again in the future.”

I have a good friend and colleague, Rev. Julie Hoplamazian who is Armenian. For her, denial of the Armenian Genocide is denial of her own story: she lost much of her family. Medz Mayrig, her great-grandmother survived through the kindness of a Turkish family who took her as a slave girl, and later she was able to escape to the States. Most were not so lucky. Despite warning after warning from journalists and missionaries, the world failed to respond.

My friend writes, “Sadly, the lesson was not learned; this mistake of history was repeated just a quarter century later. In a speech authorizing the invasion of Poland and the ruthlessness with which his soldiers were to act, Adolf Hitler said[2],  'I have issued the command...our war aim does not consist in reaching certain lines, but in the physical destruction of the enemy...Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?' Justifying his evil genocide with the assurance that history would not speak of it, Adolf Hitler succeeded in killing 6 million Jews during World War II."

We have to speak of it, to remember in order to forgive and be set free from our patterns of violence, because genocide still happens[3]. In Syria. In Sudan. In the Democratic Republic of Congo. In Ethiopia. In Burma.

If this season of Easter is anything, it is a promise that just because crucifixion is the way of the world, we don’t have to ignore it, or be complicit in it. Peter named Jesus’ violent death that he could then name the promises of repentance and forgiveness. Jesus didn’t rise again because he was bored in that tomb. He rose because he refused – and refuses still – to let violence and hatred reign. He rose because he wants better for the children of this world than genocide. (After all, he was nearly a victim of it through Herod.)

If we claim to be an Easter people, as we should, then our faith can’t just be about our private souls. It has to be about communal salvation as well – doing all we can to ensure that every child is saved. Because it’s not enough to say the promise is just for us…what a cheapening of God’s grace that would be!

This promise is for every child of God, to know a life without threat,

a home of peace and forgiveness, 

and a church that never forgets them.  

Alleluia! Amen.

---

[1] http://www.npr.org/2017/04/24/525441639/recently-discovered-telegram-reveals-evidence-for-armenian-genocide

[2] http://www.armenian-genocide.org/hitler.html

[3] http://www.genocidewatch.org/alerts/newsalerts.html

The Weight of the Wait

"History" by Sue Gough

April 23, 2017 - Second Sunday of Easter

“The Weight of the Wait”

John 20:19-31

19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

Sermon: “The Weight of the Wait”

Punctuality has never been my strength. I think it all started at the very beginning of my life: I was born a twin, but even then I was late, arriving several minutes after my brother. And I kind of feel like I’ve been trying to play catch up my whole life. I suppose I should introduce myself: I’m Thomas, sometimes called “the Twin”, always called “the doubter.”

Here’s the thing: I don’t actually mind being called a doubter. What I mind is when people say it as if it were an insult. Doubt and faith are two sides of the same coin. I wasn’t asking for more proof than the other disciples…they’d already had it. I was simply asking for what they’d been shown already. And, it might be good for you to know that Jesus didn’t even say the word “doubt.” That word is distazō and doesn’t actually appear in this story in its original language. Jesus used another word instead: apistos, meaning “unbelieving.” This word is a much kinder one than doubt…after all, how many of us, on hearing incredible or shocking news, involuntarily gasp, “I can’t believe it!” Unbelief is the valid response to the unbelievable, the incredible. That word is also not an insult.

Now, after getting that doubt elephant in the room addressed, I’d like to share with you a part of my story people seem to miss because they’re way too fixated on that “D” word.

After Jesus was killed, all the other disciples were locked in a room, afraid that what happened to him would happen to them. I wasn’t. I didn’t care about what might happen to me (after all, you may remember that when my friend Lazarus died, I told everyone we should go, that we might die with him). What I cared about was finding Jesus (you’ll also remember that when Jesus said he was going away, I pressed him, saying “we don’t know the way to where you’re going” and he said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”). I wanted to find Jesus, and so I didn’t go and lock myself away like the other disciples. I suppose I should have known that Jesus would find us first.

And so, I was late to the resurrection party, surprise, surprise. When I did get there, the faces of my friends were glowing with a holy joy: “He’s alive!” they said. “We’ve seen him!” I was so tired, I just slumped down right there and cried. I felt a perplexing mingling of relief and deep sorrow. Thomas, the twin. Too late again.

Then comes the part of my story everyone seems to miss, a part that has shaped my faith in significant ways: I had to wait for a week before Jesus appeared to us again. 

A. 

Week.

I want you to just for a moment picture the person you love most in the world. Now imagine that they were stolen away from you. You finally get word that they’re okay, but you can’t see them. You can’t touch their face, or hug them, or hear their voice. All you can do is wait.

Knowing Jesus was likely to appear again around us disciples, I stayed in that locked room for a week straight. I ate there, I slept there, I barely looked after myself in brief snatches, rushing back into the room in case I missed him again. The weight of that wait was excruciating.

But you know that, don’t you? You’ve waited, too, I can see it. Some of you wait for a child or grandchild to come back to you, emotionally or physically. Some of you wait for healing, for life to feel whole and normal again. Some of you wait for things to get just a little less hectic, so you’re not flitting from crisis to crisis. Some of you wait to be shown God’s purpose for your life, a reason for getting up in the morning. Some of you even wait for the eternal glory of heaven. The waiting time is excruciating.

But time is a funny thing. Even against our wills, time works the waiting into a rhythm all its own. We begin to form patterns, like I did (check the door, water the plants, sweep the floor, pray) and through what I can only call the grace of God, the waiting becomes a holy thing all its own. Now, don’t mistake my meaning here – holiness is rarely comfortable and cozy. The waiting is still excruciating, but even in that anxiety, holiness creeps in, surprises us.

What I mean is, Jesus’ resurrection hope started coming to me, even before he appeared in the flesh. I began to find joy in my little routine everyday, to feel that even though there were so many things beyond my control, I could keep that plant alive, that floor swept, my friends safe.

The ache of grief in the pit of my stomach softened, and though it was still there, I could breathe. The waiting taught me patience. Not some super pious patience towards time itself; no, it taught me first to be patient with myself, with others, too. In the times of waiting, we have to be gentle with ourselves and others, extra kind, and celebrate those small victories of doing the best we can with what we have.

Perhaps waiting is so weighty because it’s actually the best thing for our faith. It’s our best spiritual exercise for a healthy soul. (And like most exercise, we’d really rather not have to do it!)

By the time Jesus did come, a full week later, it didn’t shock me. I knew he would come when he was ready. He came straight to me, seeing the toll the waiting had taken on me, and without me even asking, said, “Thomas, see, touch, believe.”

I did, and could see that though he was alive in every sense of the word, he, too bore the wounds of waiting. Waiting for humanity’s lust for violence to stop. Waiting for his followers to get out from behind their locked doors and actually do all he told them to do. Waiting to be reunited with the Creator and the Spirit.

Unbelief left my vocabulary for a time, though of course it creeps in every now and then. But it wasn’t just touching him that did that; it was also the waiting that did that. Because life doesn’t just come in the grand moments of glory and delight; it mostly comes in the small, less glamorous moments of waiting.

So, friends, let me, Late Thomas, encourage you: you can never really be late for the resurrection party. It’s never too late to experience life. And no wait is too weighty for God to come and meet you in it, to form your faith through it, yes, faith in God, but mostly, faith in yourself.

Whatever it is you wait for, embrace that holy, uncomfortable time. Seek out and create small signs of resurrection even in the waiting. And cling to the promise that, eventually, when he is ready, Jesus will come to you, perhaps when you least expect it. He probably won’t apologize for taking so long (though we wish he would). But he will instead say this, “Peace be with you.” And it really will. Alleluia! Amen.

The Resurrection Road

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April 16, 2017 - Easter Sunday

Luke 24:13-35

13 Now on that same day two of the disciples were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14 and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. 15 While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16 but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. 17 And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad.

18 Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” 19 He asked them, “What things?”

They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20 and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. 21 But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22 Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23 and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24 Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.”

25 Then Jesus said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26 Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” 27 Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

28 As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29 But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. 32 They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” 33 That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34 They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” 35 Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Sermon: “The Resurrection Road”

“The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.”

It’s fun to start a sermon on such a nerdy note: I could tell which of you lit up at this little Tolkien poem. I’m in good company.

The Road goes ever on and on…roads are so important, and not just in this book (Tolkien), but in this one too (Bible).

Especially in the New Testament, we find that some of the most significant events happen on a road.

Of course, there’s the road to Jericho. We’ll call this ‘The Violent Road’, a place Jesus used to answer that question we should always be asking ourselves: “and who is my neighbor?” We know it as the parable of the Good Samaritan, making it about the hero of the story, when of course, that road was really all about the victim: that man who was mugged, beaten, and left for dead. Few people ever discuss the road itself, asking what conditions have created such a violent path. Martin Luther King, Jr. did speak about this road, though, the day before his own violent death, saying, “On the one hand we are called to play the good Samaritan on life's roadside; but that will be only an initial act. One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life's highway.” 

From the Violent Road to Jericho, we journey onwards, coming to another in scripture, famously termed the Via Dolorosa, the Sorrowful Road. This is, of course, the road Christ walked to Golgotha, to the cross. This road has been a place of great significance for Christians, especially for our Catholic friends. The fourteen stations of the cross are found upon it, two with their roots in scripture: Simon of Cyrene carrying the cross for Jesus for a time, and Jesus addressing the mourning crowd to weep not for him, but for their children. The other stations of the Sorrowful Road have more mythical roots, but that doesn’t mean they’re insignificant. It’s a good time to draw on the wisdom of Mark Twain who wrote, “Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.”

We have such powerful stories of Jesus’ stops along this Sorrowful Road: from Jesus’ mother Mary embracing him, to a woman Veronica wiping his sweat and tear-stained face (and the handkerchief that is said to miraculously still bear the outline of his face), to multiple falls under the weight of that sorrow, to his state execution on the cross, and finally, to the tomb.

After walking this heavy road, we might want to just cozy up in our hobbit holes with a cup of tea and a comfy chair, and not journey on any further. But other roads beckon…

There is the Damascus Road, what we will call “The Salvation Road,” where Saul meets the blinding grace of God. Jesus took his sight to help him see for the first time his own hypocrisy and sinfulness. He was not the pure soul he thought he was; he was a persecutor, with a heart full of violence and malice. Jesus made him utterly dependent on those he had persecuted, needing the help of a former enemy – Ananias a follower of The Way – to bring his sight back (showing how reconciliation really is the heart of the gospel). Saul became Paul, and was baptized with the grace of God, and the grace of forgiveness from his former enemy. You might just say that Christianity as we know it wouldn’t have happened, had it not been for that road.

But then, we’ve left out the most important road of all, our final journey this morning: the road to Emmaus. We’ll call this “the Resurrection Road.” Two disciples walked that dusty road to Emmaus. We know one of them was Alphaeus, also know as Clopas or Cleopas, father of James. The other isn’t named, but some[1] have surmised that the second disciple was a woman, Alphaeus’ own wife, Mary, who on that first day of the week, a work day, would have traveled back to Emmaus with her husband, rather than be left behind. This also fits with their later reporting to “the eleven.” For the sake of a good story, let’s say it was Alphaeus and Mary.

They walked that Resurrection Road, but they didn’t know that was its name. You see, they thought they were still on the Via Dolorosa, after all, tears kept them from clearly seeing the stranger who suddenly walked along beside them. They didn’t realize that the resurrection had happened, that even the dust clinging to their weary sandals had been already redeemed by the life-giving work of their Lord. 

The risen Jesus patiently walked with them, listening to their grief and sorrow. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he explained to them all that the Messiah had to endure. But grief doesn’t always listen to logic; grief listens instead to another language: hospitality. (You see, there’s a reason casseroles hold such healing power in churches!)

These disciples were heartbroken, yes, but they weren’t rude. They invited this wise stranger to stay with them. Then it was Jesus’ -- that holy guest’s -- turn to return the favor, and he blessed and broke bread with them, as we’ll soon do. Suddenly, their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and recognized that they’d been walking on the Resurrection Road all along, without even knowing it.

What roads are we walking on today, I wonder? Maybe you feel like you’re trudging along on the Violent Road, watching helplessly as people get hurt and oppressed again and again.

Maybe you feel like you’re painfully plodding along the Sorrowful Road, that Via Dolorosa, and barely able to continue carrying your own cross of illness or financial worry or grief or loneliness.

Maybe you feel like you’re blindly blundering down the Salvation Road, unable to see what’s ahead, but trusting that Jesus is guiding you as real as a hand holding your own.

…Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

Whatever road we’re on, they do all join a larger way, where many paths meet. That larger way is the Resurrection Road, and like Alphaeus and possibly Mary, we don’t always recognize that we’re walking on it. But there is a way to clearly plant our feet on that Resurrection Road, and that way is hospitality: to invite the stranger in, even and especially in times of threat and violence, like what the disciples had just witnessed. We welcome the other, not because they’ve earned it, but because there is only one answer to that Emmaus Road question, “And who is my neighbor?” Everyone.

If we long for our feet to find the Resurrection Road, as we should, it begins and ends with hospitality. That road beckons to us, never ending, continually calling us from our distracted, destructive wanderings onto a better path that leads to life and redemption for all, even the dust beneath our weary feet.

No matter how lost, no matter how sorrowful, no matter how blinded by hatred, no matter how numbed by violence, we can always step onto that life-giving road.

We take that first step as those first followers of The Way did, by saying to the stranger, the wanderer and the refugee, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”

And, just like that, the road goes ever on and on. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Amen.

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[1] http://globalchristiancenter.com/christian-living/lesser-known-bible-people/31284-two-on-the-road-to-emmaus

enjoyLENT: The Joy of the Cross

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April 9, 2017 - Palm/Passion Sunday

enjoyLENT: The Joy of the Cross

John 19:28-30

28 After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” 29 A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. 30 When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

Hebrews 12:1-3, 12-13

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, 2 looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.

3 Consider him who endured such hostility against himself from sinners, so that you may not grow weary or lose heart.

12 Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, 13 and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.

Sermon: “enjoyLENT: The Joy of the Cross”

When I was a child, I asked my mom if I could join the Brownies. I didn’t care about badges or meetings…I honestly thought you just got to eat brownies together every week. (Needless to say, I was pretty disappointed.)

My delight in sweet treats has been a long time in the making (or baking). This is probably why I’ve become slightly obsessed with the Great British Baking Show, where amateur bakers with jolly accents make all sorts of delectable creations, from a tent in the middle of the English countryside. The mixers get going, the ovens get warming, and I get hungry. My baking fondness is not just because of my incurable sweet tooth, though.

I love baking because it’s one of the few things in life where the results are clear. You put ingredients together with as much precision as you can muster, and if you’re lucky, you might just have something edible to show for it. They are transformed into a deliciously new creation, and you feel like you’ve really accomplished something, start to finish (or at least tried to). There is joy in seeing something through to the end.

Maybe this is what the writer of Hebrews was trying to convey when they wrote about Jesus enduring the cross, and used, of all words, “joy” to describe his passion. It doesn’t make sense to talk about the horror Jesus experienced on the cross as joy. What could be joyful about religious and political power colluding to crucify the very son of God?

Perhaps we find a clue in the final words the author of the gospel of John tells us Jesus said, “It is finished.” Jesus took a last mouthful of wine, letting his final experience with humanity be compassion and not hatred, and said those words with his final breath: It. Is. Finished. Such joy those words hold! He saw it through to the very end.

Because he wasn’t just saying this life was finished – no, so many other “it’s” were also finished on the cross:

Sin was finished. Though it still clings to us closely, we are never powerless against it. Jesus made it possible for us to choose selflessness instead.

Death was finished. Though we will all die, that is never the end of our story.

Hatred was finished. Though the powerful will crucify those who dare to speak out for the least and the lost, hatred will never have the final word. Jesus punctuated that sentence with love, forever.

Violence was finished. Though the story of Cain and Abel gets replayed in myriad ways again and again, Jesus’ nonviolent endurance of the cross mocked violence itself, and showed there is always another path to take.

In that moment, it was all finished: sin, death, hatred, and violence.

Once again, Frederick Buechner names this moment better than any other, writing:

According to John, the last words Jesus spoke from the cross were, "It is finished." Whether he meant "finished" as brought to an end, in the sense of finality, or "finished" as brought to completion, in the sense of fulfillment, nobody knows. Maybe he meant both.

What was brought to an end was of course nothing less than his life. The Gospels make no bones about that. He died as dead as any person. All the days of his life led him to this day, and beyond this day there would be no other days, and he knew it. It was finished now, he said. He was finished. He had come to the last of all his moments, and because he was conscious still, alive to his death, maybe as they say the dying do, he caught one final glimpse of the life he had all but finished living.

Who knows what he glimpsed as that life passed before him. Maybe here and there a fragment preserved for no good reason like old snapshots in a desk drawer: the play of sunlight on a wall, a half-remembered face, something somebody said. A growing sense perhaps of destiny: the holy man in the river, a gift for prayer, a gift for moving simple hearts. One hopes he remembered good times, although the Gospels record few: how he once fell asleep in a boat as a storm was coming up, and how he went to a wedding where water was the least of what was turned into wine.

Then the failures of the last days, when only a handful gathered to watch him enter the city on the foal of an ass, and those very likely for the wrong reasons. The terror that he himself had known for a few moments in the garden, and that finally drove even the handful away. Shalom then, the God in him moving his swollen lips to forgive them all, to forgive maybe even God. Finished.

It is finished. But, are we finished with sin, hatred, death, and violence? Do we respond to the suffering of another by lifting a sponge of wine to a parched mouth, or do we mock along with the cynical crowd?

This week, as you know, I’ve spent a lot of time with Juanita. After her accident, that first night, she had to keep very still, and couldn’t have much water because she might have needed surgery. All she could have was a little spongeful at a time, loving put to her lips by her son, Eric. It was only a small thing: that little sponge filled with cold water.

But it was everything to her. And all the pain, all the fear, all the anxiety, was relieved just for a moment, with that little act of human compassion.  She closed her eyes in bliss, tasting each precious drop. And slowly, but surely, she has begun to heal.

Sometimes it seems like sin, hatred, death, and violence are not finished. Sometimes it seems like Jesus’ death on the cross was so very long ago, and is so very removed from our lives. It can feel like perhaps it mattered then, long before we were even a thought in our parents’ minds, and perhaps it will matter in the future, when we see him, but now? Does the cross matter right now, we wonder?

But then, a little sponge of water meets weary lips, and we’re right there with Jesus again: remembering that each time we resist violence with kindness, each time we choose selflessness over sin, each time we bring life to another human being, each time we channel all our energy into loving, it is finished.

Sin, hatred, death, and violence: finished, and we don’t have to eat that bitter, burned bread any longer.

Because Jesus did that for us: showed us all that the final taste at the cross, and in any place of suffering, would never be violence, and would forever be compassion. How sweet was that sour wine!

What better news could there be? What more reason for joy do we need? It is finished. Thanks be to God! Amen.