"Christ the King and Refugees" - John 18:33-37

John 18:33-37

Then Pilate entered the headquarters, summoned Jesus and said to him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered him, “Do you ask me this on your own, or have others told you about me?”  Pilate said to him, “I am not a Jew, am I?  Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me.  What have you done?”  Jesus said to him, “My kingdom is not of this world.  If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews.  But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”  Pilate said, “So, you are a king, then?”  Jesus said to him, “You say that I am a king.  For this I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.  Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

I heard a story at a retreat a couple of weeks ago about the horrors and persecutions heaped upon Tibetan monks at the hands of the Chinese. The story goes that an invading army would quickly sweep into Buddhist monasteries to destroy and decimate both the people and the place, as an exercise of fear, power, intimidation, terror, and control. In one instance, every person was either destroyed or fled just before the army arrived – everyone, that is, except one particular monk – the oldest and wisest of the monks in that temple.

Curious about this old, odd, singular remnant, the army’s general went to the temple to see for himself what kind of man this monk was to have stayed put. The wise, esteemed, gentle, poised, peaceable monk was justifiably, righteously indignant in the face of his enemy. When the general wasn’t greeted with respect or treated with the deference and submissiveness he was used to, he was furious. "You fool!" he shouted, and grabbed his sword. “Don't you realize you are standing before a man who could run you through with his sword, without blinking an eye!?"

The old, wise, master of monk – despite the threat – was unmoved. He replied, calmly, "And do you not realize, that you are standing before a man who can be run through with your sword, without blinking an eye?"

All of this strikes me as the same conversation that takes place between Jesus and Pontius Pilate. Pilate, like the Chinese military general, is the one with the force of all the world’s power at his fingertips. He has the choice to please the angry mob outside in the public square and send Jesus to be crucified. Or he has the power to release him, to set him free, which – even he admits – the evidence seems to suggest would be the right thing to do.

Of course, we know the choice Pilate made. Pontius Pilate “runs Jesus through with his sword,” as it were. Jesus is sentenced… beaten… whipped… flogged… crowned with thorns…crucified…murdered…without blinking an eye. Jesus lets it happen. He goes “uncomplaining, forth” as the old hymn suggests.

And what does this mean for you and me? What does this mean for our life of faith in the world? What does this mean if we’re to “belong to the truth,” as he says, and truly follow Jesus?

Strange as it sounds…as hard as it seems…as impossible as it may appear…as counter-intuitive as it is…I think it means we’re called to this same way of life, as Christians.

This “Christ the King” we celebrate in Jesus is not meant to look like any other king or ruler in the world as we know it. The King we worship in Christ did not and does not rule like any other king on earth. The King we follow in Jesus, did not and does not lead us in the ways of this world. Where the world casts judgment, Jesus extends grace. Where the world is proud, Jesus is humble. Where the world is afraid, Jesus is faithful. When the world excludes, Jesus welcomes. Where the world is hostile, Jesus extends hospitality. Where the world fights, Jesus bears peace. Where the world doubts and despairs, Jesus hopes and brings joy. Where the world seeks death, Jesus offers himself and new life in spite of it.

At the same retreat where I heard the story about the Buddhist monk and the military general, it was also suggested – to a room full of pastors – that if we aren’t preaching and teaching about Jesus in ways that make our people want to crucify us every once in awhile, we should probably consider the value, validity – the faithfulness and Truth of our message. So sharpen your pitch-forks and light your torches…

I think Jesus would welcome Syrian refugees – and that he would want us to do that, too.

Now, this is just a very timely example. It may even be too close for comfort and too hot a topic and exactly why I said to get your pitch-forks and torches ready. And I understand the desire and need for caution and care, because I’m afraid, too, by what recent events have cast upon the prospect of this proposal.

But if Christ the King Sunday, means anything, it is a call and command to radical humility and grace and mercy and welcome and vulnerability, too – even to the point of death. (I know, right?) But the cross of Christ the King was dangerous, and risky, and terrifying, and unfair, and illogical, and unprecedented – just like all the reasons I hear for keeping the refugees out, and for keeping ourselves safe, and for protecting our own interests, and for letting the terrorists have it, too. (It’s dangerous, risky, terrifying, it makes no sense, it’s too much to ask, right?) And believe me, this is easier to preach than to practice for me. It’s hard to swallow and difficult to sell – just like the discipleship “Christ the King” calls us to.

And all of this is as practical as it is holy. Because until there are more safe people on the planet than scared people, none of us will know real, abiding peace, anyway. Until there are more full bellies than empty ones God’s kingdom won’t thrive for any one of us, anyway. Until there are more homes than there are homeless…until more of God’s children feel hopeful than they do helpless…until justice sings louder than injustice screams…the reign of God is only a dream; something up there and out there and off in the distance, in a galaxy far, far away.

But Christ the King came to bring the Kingdom – and he wants us to follow his lead. So maybe you’re not down with the refugees yet. And maybe it’s too soon to forgive the terrorists. And I’m not sure any of us is or should be ready to fall on a sword or climb onto a cross.

But let’s not deny that that’s what Jesus did and what he would do again. Let’s not deny that that’s what Jesus would have for this world as we know it. Let’s not deny – but let’s aspire to and practice – that kind of kingdom-living in whatever small or large ways we can manage: where grace wins; where love rules; where fear doesn’t govern our choices; where mercy and justice and forgiveness are the order of the day; and where the reign of God is here and now, in as many ways as we can make it happen, not “then and there” in all the ways we pretend we can’t.

Amen

"Death Sucks" – John 11:32-44

John 11:32-44

When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, "See how he loved him!" But some of them said, "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?" Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone."

Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, "Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days." Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, "Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me." When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him, and let him go."

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Death sucks. And if you’ve never heard a minister say that, it’s about time you did.

Or, allow me to put it another more eloquent and powerful way. It comes from the beginning of a poem that was written by Erin Walker, Pastor Fred Hubert’s granddaughter, for his funeral service yesterday. She writes,

“Another soul has passed,
causing everyone around them to feel like crap.
No longer is there laughing,
instead it’s replaced with crying.
You will be greatly missed,
we all just wish
that there was more time.”

A grandparent, a sibling, a celebrity, a long-lost friend, or a pet… an unexpected accident or a long-awaited end to suffering; death is all its forms is agonizing, heartbreaking, terrifying, and earth-shattering. Which is why, in most of my pastoral care and funeral preaching, I make a point of encouraging and affirming the natural process of grief.

This can come across as a radically counter-cultural message because over the course of our lives we’ve been fed the lie that grieving is a sign of weakness. This message gets communicated in subtle and often well-intentioned ways.

My wife’s grandmother’s funeral was the first time my boys saw an open casket at a funeral. Kyle, my three-year-old saw it and stood there trying to make sense of it. Then, slowly, he started to walk backwards, one step at a time, eyes still fixed on the face of his great-grandma. Other people saw this too and swooped in to rescue him, saying things like “That’s not really great-grandma” and other well-meaning sentiments. They meant to comfort him but what they were doing was robbing him of the chance to grieve.

There are other subtle ways we subvert the grief process. Think about how often you hear people say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. My funeral should be a party and everyone should be happy because I’ll be in heaven.” I’ll be honest…I just hate it when I hear that. Don’t tell me not to be sad when you are gone; because the truth is I will be sad when you die. I will miss you terribly. Please don’t make me feel guilty on top of my grief!

Grieving is part of what makes us human. We’re genetically hard-wired to grieve over people and things that we have lost.

Grieving is not a matter of flipping a switch or burying our sadness over the sands of time and hoping it either rots or grows into something beautiful without needing to be tended. Instead, grieving is a gut-wrenching series of complex emotions that must be acknowledged and shared.

Have you ever known someone who wouldn’t let themselves grieve? Someone who never let on that they were feeling sad or lonely or confused? Someone who tried to keep their head up and pretend as if nothing happened? Perhaps either they didn’t want others to think they were weak or they simply wanted to show others that grief can be dealt with privately, so as not to burden others.

In my experience, it’s only a matter of time before people like this let all their suppressed emotions come out in unhealthy and unproductive ways like addiction or outbursts of misplaced anger and violence. Often when people suppress their grief they also suppress their other emotions – ending up feeling nothing – going through life numb to sorrow or joy – completely apathetic to the joys and the struggles of their neighbors.

Today’s gospel story from John paints a beautiful picture of healthy grief. Any of us who has ever felt that God was entirely absent in tragedy can sympathize with Mary and Martha’s claim, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It is a fascinating statement in scripture because it is simultaneously an indictment of Jesus’ inaction, as well as a confession of faith in Jesus’ power. Mary and Martha have not lost faith in their savior, they are simply disappointed in his tarrying and lack of immediate action.

We curse God when tragedy strikes, not because we fear God doesn’t exist at all, but rather because God apparently failed to show up in time.

Mary and Martha’s faithful questioning of God’s decisions and lack of action is a beautiful antidote to the common refrains of “Everything happens for a reason” or “God’s timing is different than our timing” that we absent-mindedly toss around in tragedy. These are two of the most unhelpful things we can say to anyone who is enduring tragedy. People who are living in the emotional ruins of tragedy need to be able to lament and complain and be heard. Only then can we direct them to the source of hope, comfort and understanding.

Jesus listens to Mary and Martha’s confession and upon being invited to visit the tomb of their dead brother, Jesus weeps. This is the shortest verse in the Bible but it is also one of the most important verses because it speaks to the truth that God identifies with us and feels our hopes and hurts. Through Jesus, God knows what grief feels like. Through Jesus, God knows what death feels like. Through Jesus, God weeps as we would at the passing of a loved one.

Jesus’ tears give us permission to bring our prayers of lament and petition before God, to lay all our doubt, fear, and anger at God’s feet, and trust that God will listen. God has been there. And, as Jesus points out, God is able to do something about it.

Death may have had its say; but, as we heard in today’s gospel text, death doesn’t have the last word.

In the midst of death, God is at work creating life. God, through Jesus, gives life to Lazarus. God, through Jesus, gives spiritual life to his people. God gives life to the crucified Jesus. And God, through the resurrected Jesus, gives the free gift of grace and life to all who desire it.

Time will not heal your wounds. Only grieving will heal your wounds. Because it is through grieving, by acknowledging and sharing our sadness and fear, that we realize God is with us in our pain. God does not stand in a distant land of healing and joy and beckon us to come; not does God point to that place and tell us to journey there alone. Rather God is with us the whole time, in the darkness and the light, in the pain and the comfort.

Pastor Mark and I want to hear your stories about those people, things, memories, and ways of life that have passed away. We want you to grieve with us. We want to be people who you can come to and say, “death sucks.” To which we'll respond, "It certainly does; I couldn't have said it better myself."

Amen.