Luke 19:28-40

After Jesus had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying,

“Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden.

Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’ ” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them.

As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus, and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it.

As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. Now as he was approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”

Why do we do hard things? Why do we voluntarily endure pain, like summiting mount everest, writing a novel, or finishing all the New York Times games, including Sudoku! I don’t understand for the life of me why people run marathons… 26.2 miles? Hours of running just to run? And people pay money for that?! Why do we choose things that will undoubtedly bring us pain?

Most of us are wired to pursue pleasure and avoid pain. We tend to choose activities with low cost and high reward. Effort is hard; pain isn’t fun—so we try to reduce both whenever possible.

We say we want things to be easy. But strangely, we often value the things that cost us something—things that ask more of us than we thought we had. We want some place or thing to pour our effort into. But why?

There are a few theories. One is called the Effort Paradox. Ian Hutchinson wrote about it in The Atlantic recently. While effort is typically something we shy away from, it can paradoxically draw us in and enhance the value of what we’re doing.

Hutchinson gives the example of the Comrades Marathon - a 55 miles race in South Africa.

But here is the kicker, you have twelve hours to complete it. Right at the twelve hour mark, a group of people link arms and block the finish line! You’re not even allowed to complete the hell you’ve put yourself through. And yet, those who don’t finish often come back year after year—because the effort itself is satisfying.

We see this paradox elsewhere, too. Kids at play make up extra rules or obstacles, just to make the game harder—and more fun.

Now Hutchinson admits the appeal of hard work varies among people. Some are motivated by the joy and purpose derived from tackling difficult tasks. But the Effort Paradox doesn’t explain which hard things we choose, or why. Yes, effort can make us feel good and imbue a sense of value. But is that enough to explain the hard things we really choose? Things like parenting. Marriage. Leading a team. Starting a business. Caring for a dying parent. The pain isn’t part of the appeal—so why do we stay in it?

This is where our friend David Brooks offers a deeper take. He asks: how do people endure the most severe challenges and overcome the most alluring temptations? It’s generally not through heroic willpower and self-control. If those faculties were strong enough, diets would work, and New Year’s resolutions would be kept. No, we tend to endure great pain only when we are possessed by something more gripping, namely love.

When something or someone seizes us, we can’t help but fall in love. And love demands devotion. It animates us — but it also conquers us. It calls for persistence, obedience, and sacrifice.

This is not just why folks get married but how they stay married. It's why you make a third breakfast for your toddler after he fed the first one to the dog and threw the second one across the table.

It’s why after decades you continue in the same vocation, no matter how maddening it may be at times. It’s this kind of love—not satisfaction from a completed task—that makes hard things meaningful. And paradoxically, Brooks argues, the more we embrace difficulties in this life, rather than avoid them, the more meaningful, passionate, and purposeful this life becomes.

So all week I kept asking myself: what seized Jesus? What love compelled him?

Because that’s the only way to make sense of what he does. Why would Jesus willingly make his way into Jerusalem? Why does he choose the pain that lies ahead? He doesn’t just allow it—he pursues it. Why is he determined to face death?

All week as I read the text, it just made little to no sense to me. Why would anyone get on a young donkey that has never been ridden and ride it down the side of a mountain? Have you ever ridden a horse or a donkey downhill? I have. It’s terrifying. And that was on a trained animal!

Jesus zigzags an untrained donkey down a steep slope to the very city where he knows he’ll be crucified, all while seemingly celebrating the ceremonial chants of his kingship? What kind of king chooses this? What kind of God volunteers for death? Why would anyone, Jesus included, go through such effort? And, is there any effort greater than bearing the sin of the whole world with open arms? Than defeating death once and for all?

It can’t just be about grit. This isn’t the kind of effort that brings satisfaction just because it was difficult. No, it has to be something else. It has to be that for some reason Jesus is captivated by love, a deep irradiating love for you, me, and all the world. A love that is beyond our logic of pleasure and pain. A love that is so animating and self-denying that it demands devotion and obedience, obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. That’s what Palm Sunday is all about. It’s not just the triumphal entry, but the choice to love us all the way to suffering and death. It’s a celebration of such all-consuming love.

This Holy Week, allow yourself to be consumed by that love. Let this story, which is about to unfold over the next few days, grip you. Let it captivate you, whether you’ve heard it eighty times or it’s your first. Brooks says, “The capacity to be seized is a great and underappreciated talent.”

So be seized—by this God in flesh, riding on a donkey to his death in order to give you and me life. Don’t turn from the pain thats coming. If anything lean into - ponder it, see it for what it is - effort! Effort on your behalf. As one psychologist wrote, “effort is one of the things that gives meaning to life. Effort means that you care about something”. And it is Jesus' effort that gives meaning to our life, to your life.

All through Lent, we try our best to do hard things, painful things; not because we want the satisfaction of doing something difficult, but because the effort is a sign of devotion, an outpouring of love. This week, take your practice one step further. If it’s fasting, add a day, if it’s not eating something, remove something else. If it’s prayer, add more time.

If it's generosity, give even more. And if you didn’t start a practice—don’t worry. It’s not too late.

Come to the prayer vigil. Make Maundy Thursday a priority—hear again the Last Supper and Judas’ betrayal. Witness the pain of Good Friday. Feel it. It will make Easter Sunday all the more joyful!

We do all of this not so that we will be loved, but to see and experience just how much you are loved already. Maybe—just maybe—you’ll begin to feel the devotion that led Jesus to his death.

Yes, I’m asking you to voluntarily choose pain this week. But paradoxically I think it will make the week all the better. As C.S. Lewis said “When pain is over, it is over, and the natural sequel is joy.” The same is true for this week. There will be pain. There will be death. And there will be resurrection. But let’s not skip over the first two.

Why do we do hard things? Because love demands it. And this week, Love rides in on a donkey, walks through betrayal, bears a cross, and cracks open a tomb.

Let this love seize you.

Amen.

John 12:1-8

Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served and Lazarus was seated at the table with Jesus. Mary brought a pound of costly perfume, made of pure nard, anointed Jesus feet and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

Now Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him) said, “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he used to keep the common purse and would steal from what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought to so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

If you’ve been around for any number of the many funerals we’ve had at Cross of Grace in the last few months (many of you know we’ve had too many funerals around Cross of Grace in the last few months), you know that Pastor Cogan does a very deliberate, careful job of inviting and encouraging those gathered to act on their grief. I mean, he goes out of his way to encourage those who are grieving and celebrating the life of someone we’ve lost to do something about that sadness – to send a card, a note, a text; to make a phone call or an appointment for lunch; to tell the stories, to share the memories, to let others who are grieving know that you’re grieving, too.

It is worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral instruction. It’s how we grieve together, love one another, give thanks for and celebrate a life well, even after the big day of someone’s funeral – a day that can’t possibly contain or cover or resolve all of the grief we carry for those we’ve loved and lost.

And I think that’s something like what Mary is up to with Jesus this morning, only in a pre-emptive sort of way.

As the story goes, Jesus returns to Bethany – where he had been before and where he had gotten into trouble for raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. And, when “raising the dead” was added to the list of things Jesus could do – people kept following him and believing in him and wanting to see more of him. And all of this worried the powers that be, so they made plans to kill Jesus because of it. They’d even given orders for anyone who knew where he was to hand him over. So, when Jesus returned to Bethany – the scene of his crime as it were – trouble was brewing.

Which is what makes Mary’s anointing so remarkable.

It was like his days were numbered, and she knew it. Like, the end was near. Like his diagnosis was terminal. Like it was time to say and to do what needed to be said and done, before it was too late.

I think, like Pastor Cogan’s encouragement at a funeral service, Mary’s anointing was a worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral example of how to love one another, to give thanks for, and to celebrate a life well – on this side of a loved one’s grave.

It’s remarkable because there was plenty of other important work to be done. Maybe they should have been hiding Jesus away somehow, not calling attention to him by dousing him with perfume. Maybe they needed to devise a scheme to get him out of town or to plan his defense. They certainly didn’t need to be wasting their time and money on nard and anointing – as far as Judas was concerned, at least.

And isn’t that always the case? Aren’t we often too busy, too distracted, too much in denial about our own mortality – or about those that we love – to say the things we wish we had said? To do the things we pretend we can put off until tomorrow? To offer the forgiveness? To make the amends? To say the hard thing? To take the trip? To make the change? To take that leap of faith, convincing ourselves there will be time for that when … when we graduate; when the kids are older; when the nest is empty; when we’re finally retired; when we have more, or make more, or when… when… when…

But Mary and Jesus show us a different way. We may never know all that was running through Jesus’ mind as he readied himself for Calvary and for his own crucifixion. Was he full of fear or faith? Was he anxious and exhilarated? Was he full of doubt or determination? Was he at peace, calm, having second thoughts, resigned … some combination of all of these things?

Whatever it was, it makes me wonder about what he longed for most, in his most human heart of hearts, in those days before his dying. And I imagine he wanted the same things we would each long for if we were given enough advance notice of our demise: to be with the people we love and with the people who love us back; to say and hear and share all the things we hope we’ll have the courage, the faith, the time, and the words to say.

Which is why, I imagine, Jesus appreciated Mary’s anointing, like he did. She wasn’t trying to fix things or postpone the inevitable or make plans or busy herself with distractions. All she wanted to do was honor her teacher… to worship her Lord… to love her friend in a way that was deep and real and as true as could be.

Mary shows us something like what each of us would, could – and maybe should – choose for ourselves – or for those we love the most – if we are fortunate enough to have the chance for a last hurrah, a final goodbye, or time to think and pray and plan for our final moments with them.

So, what if we readied ourselves for the last days of Jesus’s life – for his entry into Jerusalem, for his last meal, his last words, his last breath – all of which we will regard through worship – and by way of at least one more funeral for Jerry Mielke – in the days ahead … what if we readied ourselves with a little Lenten discipline that hits more close to home?

What if, in honor of Mary’s expression of love, devotion and gratitude to Jesus, we not wait to do something like it … something kind, loving, generous and full of grace for someone we love – even if they’re not knocking on heaven’s door?

What if Mary’s moment with Jesus is an invitation for us not to wait until we can’t wait any longer? What if Mary’s anointing is a call for each of us to do NOW, what Pastor Cogan will remind, invite, and encourage us to do at the next funeral, and the next, and the next, and the one after that, too, I hope.

Let’s let Mary’s anointing be an invitation to say the thing now; to send the card, the note, the text; to make the phone call or the appointment for lunch; to tell the stories, to share the memories, to offer the gratitude before we can’t do that any longer.

Let’s be more generous. Let’s forgive like we mean it and let’s be forgiven like we deserve it, in a way only God’s grace can manage.

Let’s share moments of grace with no expectations and no strings attached and I’ll bet you three hundred denarii it will lead to joy. I’ll bet it will lead to peace and hope and all kinds of other good stuff, too. Because when we share that kind of love and devotion with another, Jesus comes to life among us, and our mortal selves put on immortality, in this life, on this side of eternity, and we stir up the power of God in our midst and we get a glimpse of the kingdom and of resurrection and of new life, on earth as it is in heaven.

Amen

Why We Do Hard Things

Anointing Now