Midweek Lenten Lament for War

Luke 19:41-44

As [Jesus] came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

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This lament from Jesus, the first in our series for these midweek Wednesdays, feels like he could be sitting on a hill or a bridge or by the roadside somewhere in Kyev or Lviv, Ukraine, this morning.

“…your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you … hem you in on every side … they will crush you to the ground, you and your children with you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another…”

“If you had recognized this day the things that make for peace!”

But, “…you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

Jesus’ lament is particular, of course, to the people of Israel in the First Century. He wasn’t in Ukraine. He was somewhere between the Mt. of Olives and Jerusalem. And the prediction which inspired his lament came to pass: Jerusalem was surrounded and besieged, the temple was toppled, lives were lost, families were destroyed, and more – all as part of the war between the occupying Romans who took what wasn’t theirs; occupied the land of another; laid waste to a people and a place as a show of power and in the name of empire-building.

It sounds familiar, right?

It’s familiar because it’s not unique to Rome and Russia, of course. If you spin a globe like a roulette table in Vegas and drop your finger blindly at any point thereon, you’re likely able, with a little research and some honest history, to find a time when that land once belonged to… was inhabited by… was called “home” to someone other than whoever is living there at the moment. And there was likely violence, bloodshed and war connected with that transfer of ownership.

This would be a good time to remind ourselves and each other about the indigenous, native peoples who lived on the land we call home at Cross of Grace, here in New Palestine, these days. As an expression of gratitude, repentance and lament, let’s acknowledge and give thanks for the Lenape tribe of Indians. Indiana means “the land of the Indians,” of course, and the Lenape lived in east central Indiana, in this neck of the woods, alongside the likes of the Shawnee, the Miami, and the Potawatomi, too. This was holy ground to those children of God, long before people who looked like me forced them to give up their homeland and migrate, like so many refugees, to places like Kansas, Oklahoma, and beyond.

Which is to say war is so much a part of the human condition, it touches every one of us in some way or another. Whether we read about the horrifying accounts of it in Scripture, do a deep dive into our nation’s history and origins, or research the leaves on our family tree, our connection to humanity’s “warring madness” – for better and for worse – impacts each of us personally, spiritually, cross-culturally, and more.

And that grieves the heart of God, as Jesus himself showed in his lament over Jerusalem way back when.

And I don’t have an answer to any of this tonight, of course. I’m a “beat your swords into plowshares” and “turn your spears into pruning hooks” kind of guy. I’d melt every gun down into a gardening tool, for that matter, if they’d let me, because I think that’s what Jesus would do. I’m a “turn the other cheek,” “love your enemy,” “blessed are the peacemakers” sort of soul, too, because … well … Jesus.

But none of that makes for a winning political platform for our kind of Christian nation these days and it is – sadly and shamefully – seemingly impractical in light of current events.

So what’s a believer to do?

As wars and rumors of wars rage... As nation rises up against nation… As widows and children become refugees and aliens… As brother rises up against brother… As neighbors destroy neighbors… As homes and hospitals are obliterated… As life after life is lost… As ego and pride and fear and greed rule the day where humility and faith and generosity should lead…

All I know to do sometimes is lament… to cry out… to grieve… like Jesus did – like the heart of God still does, I believe – for the state of things and for our inability to repair what is broken or restore what is lost...

…because we fail to recognize, this day … still … the things that make for peace.

Since yesterday was International Women’s Day – and since March has been deemed Women’s History Month – it seems appropriate to share what some of us learned in our study of Rachel Held Evans’ book, Inspired, recently. Rachel Held Evans struggled with the prevalence of war and violence in the Bible; with all of the bloodshed and genocide to be found there and very often claimed in the name of and at the pleasure of the God we worship. It challenged her faith mightily – as, maybe it should all of ours. But Rachel Held Evans learned not to just dismiss or condone, rationalize or ignore the ugliness of all the war in our faith’s story. She let it get her attention and make her uncomfortable enough to wonder more deeply about it.

Rachel Held Evans learned to pay attention to the people in the stories who didn’t behave “according to the script,” as she put it. And she specifically tells of the young women of Israel who publicly grieved the unjust sacrifice of Jephthah’s daughter in the book of Judges. (Some of you will remember that the girl was sacrificed because her daddy won a war against the Ammonites.) Anyway, the young women of Israel made a public practice and display of lament for the murdered girl, which became an Israelite tradition for women to go out for four days every year thereafter to commemorate the death of Jephthah’s daughter.

Rachel Held Evans says, “While the men moved on to fight another battle, the women stopped to acknowledge that something terrible had happened … and with what little social and political power they had, they protested – every year for four days. They refused to let the nation forget what it had done in God’s name.” (Inspired, p. 74)

So, I decided that women of Israel are like that Ukrainian woman who so defiantly, bravely passed out sunflower seeds to Russian soldiers. The sunflower has long been a symbol of peace and unity for Ukraine and the woman told the soldiers to put the seeds in their pockets so that when they die in Ukraine, at least a sunflower will grow from their dead, buried bodies.

Or maybe the women of Israel are like that other Ukrainian grandmother who took down a Russian spy drone with a jar of pickled tomatoes.

I don’t know.

I just know it feels like there’s not much we can do sometimes, but plant seeds, throw tomatoes, and lament. But lament isn’t nothing … it’s a deliberate, faithful grief over what has been lost; a sadness for what we haven’t been able to change; a frustration over what is yet to come; and an expression of solidarity with the suffering, even in spite of our own apathy and complicity in it, just the same.

And I hope some measure of our “Lament for War” – past, present and future – will help us, not just recognize, but celebrate and engage the things that make for peace, instead … until we learn to work for and walk alongside and do the bidding of Jesus, the Prince of Peace; so that we will not learn war any longer; so that we will, indeed, lay down our weapons or turn them into gardening tools; so that we will love our neighbors – and our enemies – as ourselves.

Amen

We watched the video below as we lit candles as an act of prayer and lament for the war in Ukraine. The audio is from a performance by the Kyev Symphony Chorus, conducted by Matthew McMurrin, in 2012, at Northland Church in Longwood, Florida.

Water, Wine and Waiting on a Miracle

John 2:1-11

On the third day, there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples were also invited. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” She said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

Now, standing there were six stone water jars for the rites of Jewish purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to the servants, “fill them up with water.” So they filled them up to the brim. Then he told them to draw some out and take it to the chief steward, so they took it. When the chief steward tasted the water that had become wine and did not know where it had come from (though the servants who drew the water knew), he called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first and the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have saved the good wine until now.”

Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

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You know it’s a popular moment or miracle in the life of Jesus when it becomes a meme on the internet. Jesus may or may not have known it way back when, but this is how you know you’ve made it big in the 21st Century.

Anyway, he wasn’t at the grocery store, of course. He was with his mother and his disciples, enjoying himself at a wedding reception, in a place called Cana, where apparently, they knew how to party – so much so, that they ran out of wine. And, even though he tells his mom the time isn’t right when she expects him to do something about it, the time apparently comes, because Jesus goes ahead and does what it seems Mary thought he would or could or should do something about, right from the start.

(We really don’t know if Mary even had a miracle in mind. If she was anything like my mother, she was the one who drained the last bottle or jar or wineskin, her glass was empty, and she needed a refill. So, maybe Mary just thought Jesus could make a run down to the nearest vineyard and pick up a few more bottles, or jars, or wineskins of Merlot.)

Whatever the case, Jesus responds, however reluctantly, by taking some pretty hefty jars of water and turning them into some pretty hefty jars of fine wine – to the surprise and delight of his disciples, his mother, the caterer, and the groom, himself, I imagine – even if none of them know exactly what in the world had happened. And John sums it all up, by saying, “Jesus did this, the first of his signs in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory. And his disciples believed in him.”

You get the impression that, when Jesus tells his mom that his time had not yet come, that Jesus wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to do what he did. And it makes me wonder why. And even though he did end up performing that miracle, I can’t help but wonder, not only why, but why the wait, and what took him so long to pull it off, anyway.

Because, Jesus had gone his whole life, up until this point – as far as our Gospels tell it – without doing much of anything that would identify him as the Son of God. As far as we can tell, other than impressing some folks in the Temple as a middle-schooler, Jesus went all the way from the manger as a baby, to the Jordan River as a grown man, to this wedding in Cana of Galilee, without giving anyone any good reason to see him as any more or better or different than that carpenter’s kid next door. So what was the hold up? What took him so long? Why the wait, I wonder?

Which is just what I’ve struggled to stop wondering about a lot, lately. So soon after Christmas and into another new year that feels a lot like – too much like – the last couple of years, I just keep thinking and wondering about signs – and miracles, really – that could change the state of things for some people and places – for a world, really – that could use a miracle, right about now.

I watch the news and I think about the unsettling fear that continues to have its way with anyone who’s paying attention to North Korea’s missile tests or to the escalating tension between Russia and Ukraine these days. I want God to “judge between the nations” and “arbitrate for the peoples.” I want God to “to beat swords into ploughshares” and “turn spears into pruning hooks”; for people to put down their swords and their guns and to stop learning and teaching war any longer – all miracles the prophet Isaiah promised an awfully long time ago. And it would be nice to see some of that “vindication” Isaiah was talking about this morning, too.

(It doesn’t seem like too much to ask after all this time, but it feels like we’ve run out of wine, and that Jesus is still waiting for his hour to come.)

And forget about turning water into wine, really. That’s nothing compared to what I’d really like to see. That’s nothing compared to what so many need right now. Let’s see the poor get rich. Let’s see the hungry eat their fill. Let’s see the blind regain their sight, the deaf hear, the lame walk. Let’s see some binding up of the broken-hearted. Let’s see some justice roll down like water on this Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, finally. Or make it wine, if that’s your thing, Jesus. I’ll take what I can get if these promises and prophecies would just pan out somehow.

(But again, it feels like the wine’s run out – that so many are thirsty – and that Jesus is just waiting.)

And the truth is, it’s a lot more personal and closer to home than that, isn’t it? Let’s see the chemo work, for Christa and Beverly and Beth Ann. Let’s see Dick get back on his feet again. Let’s put a stop to the substance abuse and the depression, the job loss and the suicide that’s hurting so many of those we know and care about. Let’s see a cure for COVID-19. Let’s put a stop to the physical, emotional, financial, cultural, global tragedy of this pandemic, for God’s sake. Let’s see all of this mourning and suffering and struggling and death, even, become joy and comfort and new life, for crying out loud.

(Life these days doesn’t feel like a party and we’re out of more than wine, Jesus – we’re out of patience and answers and strength and faith a lot of the time, too, if you want to know the truth.)

And all of this makes me frustrated and angry and sad. It makes me skeptical, and cynical, and scared, too. But it reminds me, again, about why Jesus might have been reluctant to reveal his glory that day at the wedding, in the first place.

Because, as much as we’d like to see those kinds of miracles whenever we’d like to see those kinds of miracles, I think we’re called to remind ourselves that if we could demand them, or see them at will, or have them doled out at our command – than they wouldn’t really be miracles, would they?

So I think we’re called to remember that Jesus was about so much more than magic tricks and that these kinds of miracles – the water-into-wine kind of miracles, I mean – are nothing compared to what Jesus really showed up to reveal.

See, I’m convinced Jesus didn’t want people following him just for the show, or for the quick fix, or for the chance to get some face-time with a super hero, either. He didn’t want people following him or having faith only when the good wine was flowing freely. Jesus knew that life in the world wasn’t always going to be a party and he wanted us to trust that there was, and that there would be, and that there is good wine yet to come; that God’s grace is always enough and that it would never – ever – run dry, no matter how empty our glasses may seem, or how much more we long for on this side of eternity.

There’s no way it was a coincidence that the miracle in Cana happened “on the third day,” as the story goes. Because that points to the real miracle of God, in Jesus, which is the heavy lifting of his death and resurrection – that Easter miracle of miracles that shines light into darkness; that changes trial into triumph; that comforts the lost; that gives hope to the despairing, and that brings new life from all manner of the struggle and sadness and death that surround us.

Our place in this Gospel story may not be with the bridegroom and the wedding guests that day in Cana – the ones who benefit from the miracle. We may not be able to connect with Mary, either – the mother of Jesus, who requests more wine and gets just exactly what she asks for. And our place certainly isn’t to stand in the shoes of Jesus and work God’s kind of magic in the world, according to our will.

So I think our common ground with this story must be to do the work of the servants who were working and the disciples who were invited to wedding that day – the ones who drew out the new wine, the ones who refilled the empty glasses for those who were thirsty, the ones who surely had a taste of it themselves, just to see if what they were hearing was true.

Like those servants, you and I are called to look for and dole out the goodness of God’s abundance wherever and whenever we can find it; to pour out the grace that God brings whenever we receive it. And like those disciples, we’re to look for that glory, whenever it’s revealed in the world as we know it, and to believe it when we see it … because we do see it … in the love and kindness and generosity of others; in this water; in the bread and wine at this table; in the forgiveness of sins and in the promise of life, everlasting.

So, like everyone at the party – when our glasses or our hearts or our hopes or our lives, even, seem empty – no matter what – we’re invited to remember and to believe and to live like the good wine of God’s love is always on the way.

Amen