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JESUS THE GRILL MASTER

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The Third Sunday of Easter
May 4, 2025

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread.  Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish.  (John 21:9, 13) 

It’s been over forty years now since Hollywood first released the remarkable movie, “Sophie’s Choice.”  The film is based on a 1976 novel by William Styron, and stars Meryl Streep, who won an Oscar for her portrayal of Sophie Zawistowska.  The story goes that Sophie is a beautiful, young Polish woman who ran afoul of the Nazi occupying forces in World War Two, and was taken to Auschwitz.  Somehow she managed to survive the death camp, even though every other member of her family perished.  At one point in the picture we learn the reason for its title, “Sophie’s Choice.”  Upon arriving at Auschwitz with her two young, terrified children desperately clinging to her legs, Sophie was made to choose between her little boy and her little girl: which would live and which would die?  If she failed to choose, they both would die.  In one hurried and horrible moment she made the choice that her little boy would live.  The little girl was pried from her arms and taken away screaming.  As it turned out in the end, both died anyway.

The film shows Sophie bravely trying to build some sort of life in Brooklyn in the years just after the war.  The trouble is, she can’t escape the haunting memories of her old life, no matter where, or with whom she tries to flee.  She can’t forget, she can’t forgive herself, she can’t distract herself for long from the remorse over the choice she was forced to make.  In the end her final choice is to take her own life.  Who can blame her?  The regret was simply too much to bear. 

Today’s reading from the Gospel of John (21:1-19) has reminded of the movie, Sophie’s Choice.  Why?  Well, if you stay with me for a few moments, I’ll tell you why.  The 21^st chapter of John is one that puzzles Biblical scholars, but I believe that if we look at it as a two act drama in four scenes, it all hangs together.  Act 1 might be entitled “On the Water,” and we can call Scene 1, “A Night of Fishing.”  The setting is the Sea of Tiberius, otherwise known as the Gulf of Mexico.  Forgive me, I couldn’t resist.  It was otherwise known as the Sea of Galilee until the Romans renamed it after their dear leader.  The time is some weeks, if not more, after the first Easter Day.  Following their experiences of meeting the risen Jesus that John describes in chapter 20, the disciples appear to have returned to their old routines.  Peter declares that he’s going fishing, so he pushes out into the deep.  They toil all night and catch nothing.  So ends Scene 1 of Act 1. 

We might call Scene 2 of Act 1 by one of two names.  It could be “The Appearance of Jesus,” or “The Miraculous Catch of Fish.”  In either case, the disciples on the water hear a man on the beach instructing them to let down their nets on the right side of the boat.  Obediently, they cast their nets, and suddenly have a huge catch of fish, one so large that it threatens to swamp the boat.  It’s here that they recognize Jesus as the man on the shore.  As the others continue hauling in the catch, Peter leaps from the boat and swims to shore.  So ends the first act. 

Act 2 might be called “On the Beach,” and Scene 1 would be entitled, “Jesus Grills Fish.”  When all the disciples finally arrive on shore, they find that the man – that Jesus – has started a charcoal fire.  He is already grilling some fish and toasting some bread, all of which he shares with them.  Strangely, even though they know it’s Jesus, they still aren’t sure.  Perhaps they were too busy counting all the large fish they had caught – 153 in all.  Scene 1 of Act 2 ends with John’s observation that this was the third time Jesus was revealed to the disciples after the resurrection. 

Finally, Scene 2 of Act 2 would be called “Jesus Grills Peter.”  Seriously.  Jesus grills Peter.  Jesus is the grill master in John 21.  After breakfast, still on the beach, presumably in the hearing of the others, Jesus grills Peter with a series of repetitive questions, beginning with “Do you love me more than these?”  Two more times Jesus asks Peter essentially the same question.  After the third rendition, Peter is hurt, or grieved, as if Jesus didn’t believe him.  Nevertheless, Jesus brings the conversation to a close by saying, “Follow me.” 

As I mentioned earlier, these two acts and four scenes of John 21 puzzle the Biblical scholars.  They note, rightly, that John seems already to have brought the Gospel to a rousing finish at the end of chapter 20.  Even though all the earliest copies of John and references to it include chapter 21, still, they say, it appears to be a later addition to what was an already completed work.  What is more, they note that John appears to have borrowed and altered the story of the miraculous catch of fish from Luke (5:1-11).  In Luke it is a pre-resurrection event, while in John it is a post-Easter occurrence.  If the miraculous catch happened twice, why, they wonder, were the disciples so slow to recognize Jesus the second time around?  After all, they’d already experienced two previous resurrection appearances.  Were they ever going to catch on and understand?  For these reasons and more, if you go to the land where Biblical scholars dwell, you’ll hear a vigorous debate over how seriously we should take chapter 21 of John. 

So how seriously should we take John 21?  My answer would be very seriously.  And I might add, very gratefully.  This past Lent, for our Wednesday evening Bible study we chose 1^st Corinthians, and used a commentary by the noted New Testament scholar, N.T. Wright.  It is entitled, 1 Corinthians For Everyone.  But it’s the subtitle that interests me: 20^th Anniversary Edition with Study Guide.  Yes, the author finished the book twenty years ago, but with new inspiration and fresh information, the same author updated it and provided a study guide.  John 21 is almost like a study guide for life in Christ.  I can imagine Peter sitting down with John, some time after John thought he was done writing, and Peter explaining, “Here’s how the risen Jesus went to work rehabilitating me.”  Write this down as a study guide for ongoing life in Christ.

To be sure, after Easter Day, Peter needed rehabilitating.  He needed to be put back together.  Witness how aimless he was when we find him today: back to his old trade of fishing, as if he’d never met Jesus.  But the risen Jesus had great expectations for Peter as a shepherd of the Christian flock – if not the head shepherd, the rock upon whom he would build his church, even the first Pope.  By the way, have you seen the movie, Conclave?  You really should before Wednesday.  I won’t spoil the surprise ending for you, other than to say that they choose a Pope, as they will seek to do starting this week.  Say what you will about the Roman Catholic Church, the Protestant Reformation, and our place in it, we should all be invested in the choice of a wise and godly Pope.  Look at it this way: no serious scholar would doubt the historic connection between Peter and Rome.  Had something powerfully real not happened on the seashore, no conclave would be meeting this week, or ever.  Sophie Zawistowska is a character of fiction.  Peter was not.  Peter was a real, rough-and-tumble person.  If Peter were to fulfill whatever the calling was that Jesus imagined for him, Jesus himself would have to heal him.  You see, Peter suffered from regret and remorse that resulted from a choice he made.  Indeed, here is where John 21 reminds me of the movie, Sophie’s Choice.  We know what Sophie’s choice was.  What was Peter’s choice?  The charcoal fire is the key.  Follow the aroma of the charcoal fire to learn about Peter’s choice. 

Where does the charcoal fire take us?  The only other time that John (18:18) specifies a charcoal fire was at the home of Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas, who was the high priest.  It was to the home of Annas where the arresting authorities first took Jesus and subjected him to the corrupt trial.  Peter followed at a distance.  Inside, the interrogators beat, mocked, and questioned Jesus.  Outside, Peter waited with some others, warming himself by a charcoal fire.  While there, beside the charcoal fire, three times different people accused Peter of knowing Jesus.  Three times Peter chose to deny it.  Keep in mind that at least three other times, Peter had declared that he would never forsake Jesus.  Peter imagined himself to be the number-one overall draft pick of the disciples.  But in a crucial moment, the harsh reality of his performance on the field told a different story.  We can imagine that no one felt worse about it than Peter.  Peter was ashamed of himself.  For all of Peter’s bravado, for all of his declarations of loyalty to Jesus, not once, not twice, but three times he denied even knowing him.  Are you not one of his disciples?  I am not.  I am not.  I deny it.  The charcoal fire takes us right back to the moment. 

What is exciting to me about John 21 is how Jesus methodically unwinds Peter’s guilt and shame.  Amidst the familiar aroma and crackle of the charcoal fire, Jesus counters Peter’s denials, one by one, with the question, Do you love me.  Then, with each of Peter’s affirmative answers, Jesus gives him a new commission, thus renewing his confidence in him.  Feed my lambs.  Tend my sheep.  Feed my sheep.  Do you know the expression, “You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube?”  Well, on one level, you cannot.  You cannot put the toothpaste back in the tube.  You cannot pull back the email you never should have sent.  You cannot unsay the hurtful words you never should have spoken.  What choice do we have then, but to live with the guilt and shame?  What we can do is choose life.  We have the choice of accepting the gift that Jesus gave to Peter: the undoing of guilt, the unwinding of regret, the offer of forgiveness.  It’s true.  By the power of the Spirit, the risen Jesus can go to work cleaning up the messy remorse of any guilty soul.  The Psalm (30:3) we recited today says it well: You brought me up, O Lord, from the dead; you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.  Peter had dug himself into a hole, and it was caving in on him.  Peter was going down to the grave.  But Jesus brought him up from the dead.  Jesus restored his life. 

How does it happen?  Did Peter’s restoration occur all at once, so that when the curtain came down on Scene 2 of Act 2, the drama was over and guilt never pricked his conscience again?  Did he truly leave it all behind by the shore of the lake?  Likewise, in the reading from Acts (9:1-20) we heard about Saul of Tarsus, soon to be Paul the Apostle.  Was Paul’s transformation on the Damascus Road complete, so that he never looked back?  I am not doubting the possibility of sudden, dramatic, and permanent transformations, but the Scriptural record of these two is that their restoration was ongoing.  They remained works in progress in the hands of Jesus for the rest of their fruitful lives. 

The same is true for you and me.  Jesus has high hopes and expectations for us, as he did for Peter and Paul.  The gift on offer today is a new beginning.  It is rehabilitation in Christ.  It is a fresh start on the road to growing into the full stature of Jesus, so that he can bring to completion his purposes through us.  Jesus calls to us from the shore – from another shore and in a greater light.  He speaks to us through this community gathered in his name, through the Word, and through the Sacrament. 

When you come forward today for Communion, receive the bread as a gift, in the open, extended palm of your hand.  Know that the one who gives it is the Lord – the same Lord Jesus, who multiplied the loaves for the five-thousand in the wilderness.  It is the Lord, who gave bread to his disciples on the beach.  It is the Lord, who on the night before he died said, “This is my body given for you.” 

Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your hearts, by faith, with thanksgiving. 

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THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
Easter Day + April 20, 2025

The women were terrified, and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?  He is not here, but has risen.  Remember how he told you.  (Luke 24:5-6)

Where were you exactly one year ago today?  Where were you on April 20, 2024?  Do you remember?  I can tell you where I was: London.  Stacie and I had flown over a few days earlier because I was to preach at St. George’s Church, Hanover Square on Sunday, April 21^st.  But on Saturday – one year ago today – England was pausing to celebrate the nation’s patron saint, St. George.  Our host, the Rev. Roderick Leece, being the Rector of St. George’s Church, had all sorts of official, civic duties to fulfill.  He would lead a ceremony at the Statue of the Fallen Soldier, then lay a wreath at Westminster Abbey.  Roddy invited us to tag along, and he encouraged me to wear my clerical collar so I would look the part by his side.  It was all very proper and dignified.  When the moment calls for solemnity, the British know how to stand still and be quiet better than anyone. 

Throughout the day Stacie and I noted the differences between the great cities of London and New York.  In London, seats on the Underground cars are upholstered.  No so in New York.  On the London sidewalks, when people see a priest approaching them, they don’t cross to the other side of the street, as they do here.  At one point I even commented how nice it was to walk through the city and not be assailed by the stench of weed every step of the way.  I spoke too soon. 

Later in the day we were strolling through Hyde Park, London’s equivalent to Central Park.  Off in the distance we could see that a huge crowd had gathered on a large, grassy area.  What looked like clouds of incense hovered above the multitude.  Clearly, we were stumbling into some sort of mystical moment, but what could it have been?  A breeze blew in our direction and removed all mystery.  The clouds of incense weren’t incense at all.  Cover the children’s ears, now: it was marijuana.  The skunky aroma gave it away.  Suddenly, the crowd began shouting, hooting, and hollering.  I looked at my watch, and sure enough, it was 4:20 pm on 4/20.  In fact, if you look at your watch right now, it is 4:20 pm on 4/20 in London at this very moment.  Do you know the Happy Hour saying?  “It’s 5:00 somewhere.”  Well, apparently, it’s 4:20 pm somewhere too.  So that’s where I was, one year ago today: in the midst of a rowdy festival I didn’t expect.  It was the high, holy moment of International Weed Day.  Standing there in my clerical collar, somehow I don’t think it would have gone over well had I posed the angels’ question to the crowds: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” 

Don’t get me wrong.  I rather like that Easter Day and International Weed Day coincide this year.  It won’t happen again until 2087.  You see, the revelers on the lawn of Hyde Park and other places like it are not completely off the mark.  They seek redemption and release, as do we.  They seek love, joy, peace, and transcendence, as do we.  What we would say to them, however, is that Easter is the day of greater promise and possibility if you are looking to take hold of the life that really is life.  Easter is the highest feast of the Christian year.  For us, no other day compares.  Why?  Because the Christian faith begins not with the birth of Jesus, not with the teachings of Jesus, not with the death of Jesus.  The Christian faith begins with the resurrection of Jesus.  Without this mighty miracle of God, the disciples of Jesus would have remained scattered, his teachings forgotten, his movement ended, his birth never recorded.  Death would have erased from history any memory of Jesus.  But because of what God did on this day everything is changed.  To cut to the quick, here we are, still talking about Jesus. 

This year we are hearing the Gospel of Luke’s version of the first Easter morning.  Luke describes how at least four women brought spices to the tomb of Jesus.  Their aim was to complete the Jewish burial rites that they could not finish on Friday evening because of the Sabbath.  Little did they know that they were stumbling into an experience that they could not have imagined.  When they arrived at the tomb they found that the large, circular stone that was supposed to be sealing it already had been rolled aside.  They went into the tomb – which would have been a small cave dug into a hillside – and could not find the body of Jesus.  The tomb was empty.  Luke reports that two men in dazzling clothes – possibly angels – stood beside them and asked, “Why do you look for the living among the dead.”  The angels went on to explain that Jesus was not there, but risen. 

The four Gospels all report the Easter morning experience, but with slightly different details.  All agree, however, that the immediate reaction of the women was not Easter triumph and Easter joy.  It was fear, confusion, and grief.  When they went to tell the others, the disciples rejected what they had to say, considering it an idle tale.  It wasn’t much better for Peter.  At least he went to the tomb to check out what the women had to say.  Yes, he was amazed when he saw the empty tomb.  How amazed?  “Then he went home,” is how Luke records Peter’s somewhat underwhelming response.  Even the later appearances of the risen Jesus were met with more confusion and disbelief.  The immediate friends and disciples of Jesus didn’t recognize him.  Then they did.  Then he would vanish.  Now you see him, now you don’t.  The earliest witnesses chose a specific word to describe what had happened to Jesus: resurrection.  They did not proclaim the immortality of Jesus’ soul, or the resuscitation of his corpse.  Rather, it was the resurrection of his body.  The choice of the word resurrection reveals their confusion. 

How about you?  Does the message of Easter confuse you?  Here you are in the midst of a great celebration, and if you are honest, it’s all a bit confusing.  Perhaps you’ve stumbled into this moment merely by accident of birth.  You grew up in a marginally Christian home, but never really put together that all the nice things we say about Jesus depend on his overcoming the grave.  Yes, it all rides on Easter, or it doesn’t ride at all.  Without the resurrection, Christianity is an idle tale.  Or, you look at the world as it is, and cannot reconcile the resilience of evil with the Easter proclamation.  On Palm Sunday a Russian missile slammed into a Ukrainian city square, killing 35.  In New York City last week, a helicopter fell out of the sky, killing six.  At Florida State University just a few days ago, a shooter opened fire, killing two.  The resilience of evil.  The signs of a world gone awry.  Jesus lives?  The victory of life is won?  It can be hard to see it. 

Many of you know about the GO Project, a ministry founded over fifty years ago by Grace Church and Grace Church School.  The GO Project provides tutoring and social services to public school students and their families who are falling through the cracks.  A few months ago I had the opportunity to visit a Saturday GO Project class in session.  The students were 3^rd graders, learning how to tell if something is alive or not.  The teacher would point to any common thing – a chair, a potted plant – and ask the students to assign it to one of three categories: living, not living, or not sure.  The questions to ask, so the teacher explained, are: Does it move on its own?  Does it eat?  Does it need air?  At length the teacher held up an eraser from the white board behind him, and asked the three questions.  To each one the students replied with increasing certainty: NO.  Finally, they all agreed that the eraser was not living.  One 3^rd grader even pronounced it dead. 

Let’s play a game.  Let’s have some good, clean 4/20 fun.  Suppose this Easter, in the privacy of your own thoughts, you try to fit Jesus into one of the categories: Living, not living, or not sure.  I mean, Jesus on April 20, 2025: living, not living, not sure?  Without doubt, by the end of the day we call Good Friday, Jesus was not living.  No longer would his body move on its own.  No longer did it require food.  No longer would it breathe the air.  Jesus was dead.  The Romans knew how to kill people.  If the Easter message is true, then something dramatic, something substantial, something earth-quaking  had to happen in history.  So, can you reasonably declare that Jesus lives today?  Or might you quietly settle for the safe answer: not sure? 

Perhaps we need to go back to school, and brush up on some history.  Remember how the 3^rd grader told you that the eraser was dead.  One fact that the eraser cannot remove from the white board of history is that within days after Jesus died, his followers had regrouped, and continued to gather in his name.  What is more, the eraser has not been able to remove from the white board the central message of what this ongoing and growing community proclaimed.  The fact of history is that they had one thing to say: Jesus lives.  He is risen.  I have seen the Lord.  He breathed on Thomas.  He ate broiled fish in our presence.  He moved about from place to place in a mysterious way.  He appeared to five-hundred people at one time.  Had the tomb not been empty, and had the appearances not been a shared public experience, the earliest Christians could not have carried on for long saying what they did.  Had they just made up a nice story about how Jesus would live on in their hearts, the eraser would have removed their sentiments from the board.  But the eraser could not erase the history.  Death could not erase Jesus. 

The only sufficient explanation for the history that followed the death of Jesus is resurrection – a word that the earliest Christians chose deliberately.  Jesus emerged from the tomb not for more of the same old mortality, not eventually to die again.  No, God raised Jesus as a new creation, with a new kind of life, and a new kind of body.  We heard the prophet Isaiah (65:17-25) foretell in today’s reading that God is going to deliver the life we are all seeking.  God had been promising all along that the wolf would dwell with the lamb, that people would not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity.  Let me say this carefully: Jesus didn’t come back from the dead.  Rather, Jesus went through death, and came out the other side, and for a time appeared to humanity, so that by the grace of God we could glimpse life in the new creation.  Whether you call it the new creation, or call it resurrection, it is the type of life we all yearn to live.  It is the greatest, grandest truth in the universe, even though sometimes it is hard to see. 

Some years ago my extended family and I ventured on a trip to Alaska.  One day we took a river boat tour through Denali National Park.  It was a perfectly sunny, summer day.  We saw lots of things we would definitely categorize as living: bears, eagles, and mosquitoes that were practically the size of bears and eagles.  The one thing we did not see, however, was Mt. Denali.  We asked the boat driver, “Where’s Mt. Denali?”  He pointed his arm and said, “It’s right over there.  You can’t see it because of the haze.”  I looked to where he pointed and could see nothing but blue, hazy sky.  Imagine: we were essentially at the base of a 20,000-foot mountain, the largest mountain in North America, and we couldn’t see it. 

Later that day we returned to the lodge where we were staying.  The place has a lovely porch overlooking the mountain, and sure enough we could finally glimpse the snow-capped peak.  We pulled out our cameras, and posed ourselves with the top of Mt. Denali in the background.  Guess what?  We took many lovely photos of family members in various configurations, but Mt. Denali does not appear in any of them.  Today’s camera apps might be better at capturing the image, but we had no luck in those earlier days of digital photography.  Mt. Denali is most certainly there at every moment, all 20,000 feet of it.  Clouds and haze, smoke and mist can hide it from our sight, but cannot erase it from the board. 

Easter is like Mt. Denali.  Easter is the greatest, grandest truth in the universe, but it eludes capture.  Tears and grief, war and violence, hate and cruelty obscure our vision.  But Easter is always there.  Now you see it, now you don’t. 

Today is April 20^th, and it is 4:20 pm somewhere.  It is Easter somewhere.  It is Easter here.  It is Easter now, from this time forth, even forever.  Death has been swallowed up in victory, and our song of triumph has begun.  Alleluia. 

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INSTEAD OF ME

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
Good Friday + April 18, 2025
Personalities of the Passion: Barabbas

But you have a custom that I release someone for you at the Passover.  Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?  They shouted in reply, “Not this man, but Barabbas.”  Now Barabbas was a bandit.  (John 19:40) 

Last month I received an email from the Rev. Roderick Leece, the Rector of St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, our companion parish in London.  If you recall, Roddy was here back in February to preach, and in his sermon he explained that St. George’s Church soon would be celebrating the 300^th anniversary of their magnificent building’s consecration.  Well, the anniversary occurred in March, and the Rev. Harry Krauss was able to fly over and represent Grace Church.  The substance of Roddy’s email was that Harry behaved himself reasonably well, and should not be blamed for the explosion and blackout at Heathrow Airport, that occurred right about the time he landed. 

In his email, Roddy also wrote that someone else who claimed to know me visited St. George’s Church the same weekend.  The visitor was a classmate of mine in seminary, but today he holds the title of “Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar.”  The news sent me immediately to a framed photograph of my class, and there he was in the row behind me.  In May of 1989, after our graduation ceremony, forty-six people gathered on the steps of the seminary chapel.  We surrounded the Dean and smiled for the camera.  Looking at the photo all these years later, I thought to myself that “Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar” is probably the most exotic title that any of us has ever held.  I mean, it would be one thing to be the Bishop of Zanzibar.  But to be the Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar makes it sound all the more mysterious and intriguing. 

Also, as I scanned the photo, I began wondering about the others. What became of all those people who were eager to make a difference in and through the church?  As far as I know, the Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar is the only one to have worn the purple.  One classmate has been the rector of the same church for over thirty years.  Another is a seminary professor.  Many have retired after years of faithful service.  Others have died.  Some stumbled along the way and were deposed from the ministry.  Others could not abide by changes in the Episcopal Church and renounced their orders.  As for what became of me?  Of course, I’ve remained true to my original calling: to be a simple country parson, preaching short sermons in humble surroundings. 

Whatever became of Barabbas?  Such was my question when I began scanning the metaphorical photo of people surrounding Jesus during the last week of his mortal life.  What we can know of Barabbas requires a degree of speculation, but since all four Gospels mention him, we are on safe ground to follow some clues.  We might begin with his name.  Scholars of antiquity tell us that Barabbas wouldn’t have been a given name.  In fact, some early manuscripts of Matthew refer to him as “Jesus Barabbas,” Jesus being a fairly common first-century Jewish name.  What Barabbas meant was “Son of Abbas,” or “Son of a father.”  That Jesus Barabbas’ father was called Abbas suggests the elder was an official teacher of the Jewish Law – perhaps a Pharisee.  It could be, then, that Barabbas was a clergy kid of sorts, who took his father’s devotion to the next level and turned it into zeal.  Barabbas aligned himself with the Zealots. 

Barabbas wanted to make a difference in the kingdom of God, so he joined a faction of Jewish nationalism that would stop at nothing to purify the people and rid them of the Romans.  The Zealots: murder, robbery, and insurrection were all acceptable options to achieve their aims.  The Gospel of John states it bluntly: Now Barabbas was a bandit.  Barabbas, who had everything going for him, lost all perspective between right and wrong, got caught up in a riot, and committed a murder amidst the mayhem.  The long arm of the Roman law reached out, arrested him, and condemned him to death.  When Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John introduce him to us today, we can presume that he is in a prison, anticipating crucifixion, which is how the Romans dealt with enemies of the state.  To be sure, Jesus Barabbas had a cross with his name on it awaiting him. 

On the day that would become the first Good Friday, another Jesus – this one called Jesus of Nazareth – joined the ranks of Roman criminals.  We’ve heard how the enemies of Jesus brought him to Pilate’s headquarters, accusing him of blasphemy and plotting an insurrection.  The accusers demanded a sentence that only the Romans could issue: death.  We get the impression that Pilate was annoyed by the interruption to his morning.  On the one hand, he didn’t agree with the charges against Jesus.  On the other hand, he didn’t want to risk another riot in Jerusalem.  Thinking he might placate the angry crowd, Pilate called on the Passover custom of releasing a prisoner.  “Do you want me to release for you Jesus Barabbas, or Jesus of Nazareth,” is how he might have phrased the question.  As the world knows all too well, the crowd chose freedom for Barabbas, and crucifixion for Jesus.  The two of them changed places.  Barabbas was supposed to be the one on the cross that stood between the crosses of two other bandits, who were likely his accomplices.  Jesus died the death intended for Barabbas.  Thus, no person in all of history would be able to say, as directly as Barabbas could say it: “Jesus died for my sins.  Jesus did this for me.” 

Did Jesus die for Barabbas?  Did Jesus really offer his life as a willing substitute for Barabbas?  Some would say no.  It was a fluke, an accident.  Barabbas merely lucked into being in the right place at the right time.  What is more, Jesus never volunteered to die in place of Barabbas.  He was a victim of circumstance, that’s all.  So goes the thinking of those who don’t fully understand what Jesus was doing in Jerusalem.  Why did Jesus go to Jerusalem at all?  If Jesus truly wanted to make a difference, he could have stayed in Nazareth, where he was probably making a go out of working in the family carpentry business.  But in Nazareth, Jesus the observant Jew, would be immersed in the rituals of his people, and he would study the Scriptures.  All around him would be speculation about the coming of God’s Messiah.  When would God send the redeemer to rescue the Jews from oppression?  What sort of mighty king, or warrior, or prophet would be the one who came in the name of the Lord? 

The genius of Jesus is that he recognized something no one else did.  The Messiah would not be a triumphant warrior, but a suffering servant.  In the prophecies of Isaiah (52:13 – 53:12), Jesus would read of a mysterious figure, sent from God, who would offer his life for the sins of the people.  The death of the servant would restore fellowship with God.  Not only did Jesus make the connection between the Messiah and the suffering servant, he had come to the agonizing conclusion that his great vocation would be to fulfill the prophecies.  His mission and ministry would be to lay down his life as an offering and sacrifice to God.  It had to happen in Jerusalem, so Jerusalem is where he went.  Once there, he didn’t have to go to the Garden of Gethsemane, where he knew Judas had lined up people to arrest him.  But Gethsemane is where he went.  At Pilate’s headquarters, had Jesus spoken one word in his own defense, Pilate would have released him.  But Jesus spoke no such word.  He was obedient to his calling – obedient unto death.  Yes, he died for the sins of Barabbas, and not for his only, but for the sins of the whole world. 

How is it that the death of Jesus makes it possible for us to have reconciliation with God?  One of the main ways of explaining what is called the atonement is that on the cross, Jesus took our place.  Jesus, our substitute, paid the price.  The saying is true: there is no free lunch.  Likewise, there can be no free forgiveness.  Someone always has to absorb the cost.  Someone has to foot the bill.  Jesus, the Lamb of God, takes away the sins of the world.  Bear in mind that essential to this idea is the Incarnation – that God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself.  Indeed, without Christmas, today would be called Bad Friday, not Good Friday.  But that’s another sermon for another day –  a day about eight months from now. 

In the meantime, perhaps sermons and systematic theologies don’t move your heart, least of all cause you to tremble.  But if a human face would aid your understanding of how the death of Jesus saves us, look no further than Barabbas: the man who lived because Jesus died instead of him.  This brings me back to my original question: whatever became of Barabbas?  In 1961, a major motion picture about Barabbas tried to answer the question.  The movie starred Anthony Quinn, Jack Palance, Ernest Borgnine, and other Hollywood stars.  The film delivers everything you could want from a mid-20^th century Biblical blockbuster, and it still claims an 89-percent approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes.  Yet it’s all a work of creative speculation.  The truth is, Barabbas walked away from Pilate’s headquarters, and disappeared from history.  What did he do with his new lease on life?  Did he go back to his old ways?  Did guilt overwhelm him?  Did he join the Jesus movement, rise to an exotic ecclesiastical office, and perhaps wear purple?  We don’t know what became of him.  We’d like to think that he amended his ways, and lived a life of gratitude for the gift of life that Jesus had given him.  It’s no guarantee that he did. 

Perhaps you know the story that a former Cardinal Archbishop of Paris told on himself, about himself.  How did he rise to claim his important ecclesiastical title?  He explained that many years ago, on a Sunday afternoon, three brilliant graduate students from the Sorbonne stepped into the rear of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  Being staunch atheists, they were amused by the pious people kneeling in prayer and subjecting themselves to ritual of so little rational merit.  One of them offered that for twenty francs he would line up at a confessional booth and once inside, pretend to be a penitent sinner asking for God’s forgiveness.  The others agreed, and the game was on. 

When it was finally the brash young man’s turn to kneel in the booth, he spun for the invisible priest a tale of sordid thoughts and acts.  Then he concluded with mocking reverence, asking the question: “Now Father, what must I do for penance?”  The wise old priest, discerning that a fraudster was on the other side of the screen, said to him, “This evening, when the crowds are gone I want you to come back to the cathedral and kneel before the crucifix.  You are to look at the figure on the cross and say aloud ten times: ‘You did all this for me and I don’t give a damn.’  After ten times, your penance will be complete.”  The student left the booth triumphant.  His friends laughed and laughed as he told them the whole story of the sham.  Nevertheless, they insisted that in order to earn his twenty francs, he had to go back and do as the priest directed. 

Later that very evening the student returned to the cathedral.  He knelt before a large crucifix in a chapel, looked up at the figure hanging on it, and said: “You did all this for me, and I don’t give a damn.”  Five more times the student confidently repeated the phrase: “You did all this for me, and I don’t give a damn.”  By the seventh and eighth repetitions he was averting his gaze.  Finally, the tenth time through he looked back up and said,  “You … did all this … for me …?”  He could not continue.  The shock of possibility that it all might be true flooded his soul.  The moment changed his life forever.  The sight of Christ on the cross sent him in a direction he never would have imagined. 

As for you and me, we look on Jesus today and, if we dare, allow the shock of possibility to enter our souls.  He hung and suffered on the cross for us, in our place, to atone for the sins of the whole world.  By God’s grace, this day might change us forever. 

In mock acclaim, O gracious Lord,
they snatched a purple cloak,
Your passion turned, for all they cared,
into a soldier’s joke.
They did not know, as we do now,
that though we merit blame
you will your robe of mercy throw
around our naked shame. 
(F. Pratt Green, 1903-2000)

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FORTRESS AROUND YOUR HEART

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
Palm Sunday + April 13, 2025

“Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”  (Luke 19:38)

Over the past few weeks, many people have looked at the state of the world, and they have been inclined to throw up their hands in despair.  The stock market, the climate, the nastiness, the measles: that does it.  “Calgon, take me away,” cried the woman in the bubble-bath commercial of old.  Every so often, however, history records the deeds of someone who decides that retreating into a bubble-bath is an insufficient response to the woes of humanity. 

Take, for example, Mathias Rust.  In 1987, Rust was a 19-year old West German citizen who cared passionately about world peace.  He was deeply disappointed when a summit meeting between the Russians and the Americans failed to achieve any reduction in nuclear arms.  Thus he determined that he himself would have to do something about it.  Rust was an amateur pilot, so his plan was to fly himself to Moscow, come face to face with the Russian President Mikhail Gorbachev, and personally deliver a 20-page peace manifesto that he’d written.  The only problem: making an unauthorized, solo flight to Moscow would be suicide.  Moscow was one of the most heavily defended cities in the world.  The Russians were known to shoot down any planes that strayed into their air space, including a Korean Airlines jumbo jet full of passengers a few years earlier. 

Nevertheless, Rust concluded that undertaking his mission was worth risking even life itself.  So on May 28, 1987 he turned his rented, single-engine Cessna toward Moscow.  Deeper and deeper he flew into Russian airspace.  Along the way several MiG fighter jets checked him out, but remarkably never fired.  After five hours Rust had miraculously slipped through all air defenses, and approached Moscow.  He circled the city until he found Red Square.  Muscovites on the ground looked up, and saw through the mist a small private plane descending from the clouds.  It was an odd sight, to say the least, as ownership of private aircraft was extremely rare in  Soviet Russia.  Some thought it might be Gorbachev himself.  But no, it was Mathias Rust.  He came in low looking for a place to land so as not to injure any pedestrians.  With each pass he drew more and more attention from excited Muscovites below.  When he finally touched down, he taxied his little craft essentially to the steps of the Kremlin.  He climbed out of the cockpit and received the welcome of a crowd that gathered around the plane to cheer and greet him.  It took over two hours for the police to figure out that something was amiss, and come to arrest the pilot.  The flight of Mathias Rust to the very heart of Moscow stunned the world, and some say it hastened the demise of the Soviet Union. 

Or take, for example, Jesus of Nazareth, who in or about the year 29 AD was a 33-year old itinerate preacher throughout the region of Galilee.  When Jesus entered Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday, the city was a heavily defended, hostile place.  Jerusalem was occupied by the Romans, the undisputed superpower of the world at the time.  The Romans had a means for dealing with insurrectionists.  It was called crucifixion.  They would line the roadways outside the city with crosses to make a public example of guilty rebels.  As Jesus drew near he might well have passed by the dead and dying victims of Roman justice.  Jerusalem was also the seat of religious power, with a huge Temple hierarchy that was heavily invested in maintaining the status quo, even if it meant colluding with the Roman occupiers. 

Jerusalem was a tinderbox of revolutionary fervor.  It was the time of Passover, when the population of the walled city would swell from fifty-thousand to as many as two-million pilgrims, many of whom were inclined to throw up their hands in despair over the state of the world.  The Romans, the taxes, the crucifixions, the nastiness: that does it!  Hosanna, Son of David, take us away!  They were looking for a messiah to spark the rebellion that would save them.  It’s no wonder that when Jesus drew near and saw the city he wept over it, saying, “Would that even today you knew the things that make for peace!  But now they are hid from your eyes.” (Luke 19:41-42) 

In 1987, when Mathias Rust flew right through the Russian air defenses and touched down in Red Square, he did so not in a stealth bomber, not in a supersonic fighter jet, but in an unarmed private plane with a top speed of 140 mph.  It’s not that the authorities didn’t notice Rust.  They did.  They tracked him on radar, they pulled up alongside him, they tried to contact him on radio.  Some say the military was skittish about shooting down another civilian plane, and causing more international outrage.  Likewise, the Gospels tell us that when Jesus entered Jerusalem he did so not in a war chariot, not astride a mighty steed, but riding on a donkey.  It’s not that the Romans and Temple officials didn’t notice him.  They did.  On the long journey to Jerusalem the Jews had sent delegations of Scribes and Pharisees to monitor his progress, and hopefully trick him into saying something that would be cause for his arrest.  But the soldiers and Temple guards were skittish about seizing the popular preacher in public, fearing that doing so might incite a riot. 

Somehow, Jesus managed to pass through the midst of them every time, especially on this day when he arrived at the gates of the city.  Later he would clear the Temple of the money changers, hold court there with his teachings, and by week’s end come face-to-face with the local ruling powers: face-to-face with the Roman governor Pontius Pilate, face-to-face with the puppet king Herod, face-to-face with the High Priest Caiaphas.  Fearsome figures, indeed. 

What were they thinking?  What did these two high flying daredevils hope to accomplish?  Mathias Rust said he wanted to build an imaginary bridge between East and West.  He wanted to come face-to-face with Mikhail Gorbachev and speak to the world leader of the things that make for peace.  To get there he chose to ride a humble little airplane because that was all he knew how to fly, and nothing else was available to him.  Was he idealistic?  Of course.  Rust himself thought he had about a 50-50 chance of getting through, which were odds no bookmaker would have given.  He never did get a meeting with Gorbachev, but the Russian President used the incident to clean house, and fire the recalcitrant members of his military who were stuck in Cold War ways.  Thus, it can be said that Mathias Rust’s mission was more successful than he ever could have hoped it would be.  As for Rust himself, he was convicted of malicious hooliganism, and spent 15 months in a Russian jail before being sent home.  Later, he had run ins with the law back in Germany before settling down as a Yoga instructor and a financial analyst.  So end the comparisons between Mathias Rust and Jesus! 

What about Jesus and his mission?  What was he thinking?  With Jesus, we encounter not an idealist who gave himself a 50-50 chance, but rather a realist who seemed to think he had a 100-percent chance of being nailed to a Roman cross.  What is more, he chose a humble beast to ride into the city not because nothing more impressive was available, but instead for its symbolic value.  The Gospel writers reveal how Jesus took great care to secure the particular donkey he rode in order to fulfill the ancient prophecy of Zechariah (9:9): Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!  Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem! 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.  Jesus didn’t come as an idealistic emissary of peace, but as a king making a royal claim in the face of Pilate, Herod, Caiaphas, and all who cheered him.  But what kind of a king?  Did he want to wield Pilate’s temporal power?  Did he want to wear the robes of the Temple High Priest, or the crown of the King of the Jews?  I don’t think he did.  “My kingdom, “ he would say to Pilate, “is not of this world.”  Ultimately, the defenses that Jesus worked to slip through were not the visible battlements, barricades, and checkpoints of a city, but rather, the fortress around the human heart. 

Palm Sunday should worry us.  Most of the time we in the church tend to think of ourselves as co-pilots with Jesus on his mission to bring peace and reconciliation to the earth.  I would say that for fifty-one weeks of the year, the metaphor works.  Fifty-one weeks, mind you, not fifty-two.  Holy Week turns the tables on us.  On Palm Sunday we look up and Jesus comes with clouds, descending through the mist of time.  Suddenly, Jerusalem is us.  Jerusalem is the inner depths of the human heart, yours and mine.  The heavily defended fortress that Jesus is circling is us.  At the beginning of the service the procession of palms went around and around the church.  If our liturgical action means anything at all, it is to signify Jesus, the Messiah’s, circling and searching our souls for a place to land. 

Many people these days have no desire whatsoever to wave him in, any more than Pilate or Caiaphas wanted Jesus in Jerusalem, any more than the Russians wanted Rust in Moscow.  Many people – sadly, not here today – want nothing to do with God.  Sometimes they make an understandable point.  Here comes God the omnipotent who allows the wicked to prosper and the innocent to suffer.  Here comes God who is love, but God who is also silent when his children call, and absent when they need him to intervene.  God, if there is a God, they say, has some explaining to do.  As God’s promised Messiah, Jesus owes us no explanations.  He has no apologies to make.  Yet we can’t get God completely off the hook for the way things are.  Oh, you say, sin is the problem – not God.  Adam and Eve obeyed the serpent and disobeyed God and that’s why God’s perfect creation went awry.  Yes, but who put the serpent in God’s perfect garden in the first place?  Life is a game we’re forced to play but cannot win.  Is it any wonder, then, why people are hostile to God, and would sooner shoot him down – or nail him to a cross – before allowing him to touch down and taxi close to their soul? 

About the time when Mathias Rust made his notorious flight, and Calgon was running its bubble-bath commercials, one of the most popular singers of the day was a British musician named Gordon Sumner.  If the name doesn’t ring a bell, it’s because even Gordon Sumner’s mother called him Sting.  In 1985 Sting released an album that included a song entitled, Fortress Around Your Heart.  The song is Sting’s autobiographical lament over the failure of his first marriage.  He seems to recognize how his own actions hardened his ex-wife’s heart against him.  And so he sings:

And if I built this fortress around your heart,
encircled you in trenches and barbed wire,
then let me build a bridge,
for I cannot fill the chasm. 
Let me set the battlements on fire. 

 I may be stretching things a bit here, but it seems to me that a similar dynamic might have been in the forefront of Jesus’ thinking.  The human heart has a fortress around it, and it seems to many that God himself has had a hand in building it.  But Palm Sunday can be a new beginning between you and God, if you drop your defenses and wave him in. 

Consider that the one who entered Jerusalem came to build a bridge between God and God’s people, so that they and we, then and now can proclaim, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

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CITIZENS OF HEAVEN

The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The Second Sunday in Lent
March 16, 2025

Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us … Our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.  (Philippians 3:17, 20)

In today’s reading from his letter to the Philippians, the Apostle Paul urges us to observe – even imitate – those who are living Christ-like lives.  Who are they?  Well, with all the modesty he could muster, Paul admitted that one of them was himself.  “Join in imitating me, because I am imitating Jesus,” might be fair paraphrase of what he meant.  “Hey, look at me,” he might have added. 

Someone else who comes to mind is closer to home for us, and a good bit more contemporary than Paul.  In fact, we have a magnificent portrait of her hanging in the reception room.  Of course, I’m talking about Catherine Lorillard Wolfe.  In 1846, when Grace Church opened the doors of this building for the first time, Catherine was 18-years old and lived at 744 Broadway.  Her father was on the vestry of Trinity Church downtown, but with Grace Church now only two blocks away, he decided to transfer the family membership to this parish.  Thus began a remarkable record of Christian service through the church.  When her parents died, Catherine inherited enormous wealth from both sides of the family, and she took great pleasure in sharing her bounty.  In her own words, she regarded her inheritance as a sacred trust “to be administered in the fear of God and for the benefit of humanity.”  She built churches, hospitals, and schools throughout the world. 

Catherine had two favorite charities: the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Grace Church.  Listen to a partial list of what she did for us.  She gave all the funds necessary to build and furnish the Parish House on the north side of the church, and the chantry on the south side.  Both buildings are still in constant use today.  The high altar, reredos, and Te Deum stained glass window at the east end of the church were her gift.  The first chancel organ came from her, as did the land on 4^th Avenue upon which Grace Church School buildings now stand.  Perhaps most noticeable of all, when it was time to replace the old wooden spire with one made of stone, she gave the crucial gift to make it happen.  Still today, the spire points to the skies, and reminds us that our citizenship is in heaven.  “Look up,” is what it insists to all who pass by on Broadway.  Apparently, one day in the early 1880s, Henry Codman Potter, the Rector of Grace Church, was telling a fellow rector all that Catherine Lorillard Wolfe was doing here, including the spire.  The other rector sighed, and then he declared, “How I wish I had such a wolf in my fold.” 

In today’s reading from the Gospel of Luke (13:31-35), we encounter not a wolf in the fold, but a fox in the hen house – not someone building up the kingdom of God, but someone devouring God’s people.  Luke writes: Some Pharisees came and said to Jesus, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”  He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.’”  When Jesus called Herod “that fox,” it was not a compliment.  But why the name calling, and who was Herod, anyway?  Note well, the Herod whom Luke writes about today was not Herod the Great, King of the Jews when Jesus was born.  No, today we meet Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great.  Herod Antipas was never granted his father’s title, King of the Jews.  Instead, he was the Tetrarch of Galilee, in charge of the agrarian region well north of Jerusalem. 

In the Gospels, Herod Antipas comes across as a self-serving, corrupt, and even debauched individual.  Three incidents give us progressively deeper windows into his soul.  The first would be his treatment of women.  Herod was married to an Arab princess, but he took an unholy liking to his half-brother’s wife, a woman named Herodias.  With his heart set on his sister-in-law, Herod divorced his wife and sent her back to her kingly father.  Then he began wooing Herodias, eventually convincing her to leave her husband – Herod’s half-brother – and marry him.  Guess what Herodias’ ex-husband’s name was.  Would you believe Herod II?  You need a scorecard to keep them all straight, and I’m only skimming the surface. 

The second window into the soul of Herod Antipas concerns John the Baptist, a cousin of Jesus.  John was a Galilean prophet preaching in the wilderness, and when he learned of the illicit union between Herod and Herodias, he railed against the whole family.  Herodias didn’t like it, so she devised a scheme to get rid of John.  To celebrate his birthday, Herod hosted a lavish banquet in his own honor, and invited many guests.  Herodias had a daughter from her previous marriage, a young woman named Salome, presumably the niece of Antipas, and now his step-daughter.  Herodias arranged for Salome to do a provocative dance at the banquet.  All the men were gratified, most especially Herod Antipas: her uncle, now her step-father.  How sick is that?  As a reward Herod promised to give Salome anything, up to half his kingdom.  Herodias advised her daughter to ask for the head of John the Baptist on a platter.  Herod gave the order and John was slain. 

The third widow opens only briefly, but perhaps the view it provides of Herod’s soul is the most telling of all.  It occurs later on in the Gospel of Luke (23:6-12), at the trial of Jesus after his arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane.  You may recall that the Roman soldiers first brought Jesus to Pontius Pilate for questioning, but when Pilate learned that Jesus was a Galilean, he sent him over to Herod, who was staying in Jerusalem at the time.  Herod was surprised, but pleased.  He’d long heard about Jesus, and hoped that one day the miracle worker might perform a little magic show just for him.  You see, once again from Herod’s point of view, life was all a great quest to fulfill his own desires.  Thus Jesus, brought before him, was merely an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.  But when he questioned Jesus at length, Jesus spoke not a word.  He refused to dignify the questions with a response.  I was amused by one commentator, who stated the obvious about the passage: “It’s a bad sign when Jesus says nothing.”[1]  It was a sign that Jesus did not like Herod, “that fox,” at all. 

This brings me back to today’s reading from Philippians.  When Paul encouraged his readers to find good Christian role models to observe and imitate, clearly, the likes of Herod Antipas were not on his list.  Herod was no citizen of heaven.  He was a fickle, corrupt, narcissistic creature of the earth.  Herod was an embarrassment to the Jews, whose calling it was to be a light to enlighten the nations.  We can only imagine how deflating it must have been to have a person of such low moral character as their government official.  Beware of following the example of Herod and others like him, warned Paul in the strongest possible terms: Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; their glory is their shame; their minds are set on earthly things. 

Likewise, witness how decisively Jesus moved on from Herod, as if not to grant him rent-free space in his mind: Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way.  Jesus had a mission to fulfill, and it was not to die in Galilee under Herod, as did his cousin, John the Baptist.  It was to go to Jerusalem, confront the ruling powers, and offer his life there.  He said, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  How often have I desired to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”  The image of the protecting mother hen was a scene that would have been familiar to many in the agrarian Galilean countryside.  Then as now wild, hungry foxes seek to ravage barnyard chicken coops.  If a fox breaks into a hen house it’s a terrifying sight.  Apparently, a mother hen will try to shield her chicks from the fox by gathering them under her wings.  The chicks are hard to corral, and the hen will invariably die in the effort.  She stands firm against the fox, and gives her life for her young. 

Jesus knew that he was going to die in Jerusalem.  Mother hens seldom, if ever, survive when the fox attacks.  Her only instinctual hope, I suppose, is that if the fox takes her it will leave her young alone.  Jesus seems to have understood that his death would be saving in a similar way.  By going to Jerusalem he would absorb into himself the full blast of what sin could render.  When he stretched out his arms on the hard wood of the cross, he would offer himself, in obedience to God’s will, a perfect sacrifice for the whole world.  St. Paul would go so far as to suggest that we join in imitating those who live according to the cross of Christ.  Look to those who are offering themselves, not serving themselves.  Look to those who aspire to be citizens of heaven.  Look not to those who are base creatures of the earth, gratifying their own lust for power. 

“Join in imitating me,” said St. Paul, who implied that he was imitating Jesus.  Or, if St. Paul is too remote a figure for you, join in imitating Catherine Lorillard Wolfe, who gave generously of herself to build up the kingdom of God and benefit humanity.  But even she, whose blessings we still enjoy today, lived long ago, having died in 1887.  Someone else, then, whose story is familiar to many people still alive today, is Jonathan Daniels, who was an Episcopal seminarian and civil rights activist.  He, too, can show us what it looks like to be a citizen of heaven.  Just sixty years ago this month, on Sunday, March 7, 1965, Daniels witnessed on television the violent suppression of peaceful marchers on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.  Later that evening the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. went on air and urged students to come to Selma and join the non-violent protests against racial segregation.  By the next Thursday, Daniels was on the bus headed south, and he was there on March 17 – sixty years ago tomorrow – for the successful march across the bridge. 

Jonathan Daniels recognized that one march across one bridge was hardly the end of the struggle.  Thus, he stayed on in Alabama, recruiting African Americans to vote for the first time, integrating churches and stores, and exposing the injustices that were all too common in the deep south.  In August he was arrested with a large group of others who were picketing a whites-only store.  For nearly a week they were held in squalid conditions, until finally being released into the brutal heat of the Alabama summer.  Daniels and three others walked to a local store to buy something cool to drink.  As they approached the screened door, Daniels was with a young Black woman who had also been detained – 17-year old Ruby Sales.  Before opening the door a man on the other side leveled a shotgun at them, and threatened that if they came in, he’d blow off their heads. 

Instantly recognizing the gravity of the situation, Daniels pushed Ruby Sales out of the way, and she fell to the ground.  The man inside the store fired the gun through the door, and Daniels took the full blast of the shotgun to his chest.  He died instantly.  He gave his life so that another might live.  Like a mother hen standing between the fox and her brood, he absorbed the evil into himself. 

Jonathan Daniels, Catherine Lorillard Wolfe, St. Paul the Apostle – each of these in his or her own way aspired to be citizens of heaven, even in the time of this mortal life.  They are worthy of observing and imitating.  My prayer is that the Spirit of the living God who dwelled in them, also burns brightly in us and shines through us.  Let the spire of our magnificent church ever raise our sights and standards, so that we too may follow Jesus, along the way that leads to eternal life. 

[1] Leslie Weatherhead, Personalities of the Passion, Hodder and Stoughton, p. 52.

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THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
The First Sunday in Lent
March 9, 2025

After his baptism, Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.  (Luke 4:1-2) 

Some time ago I was reading a psychology journal that included the case study of a man who is now in his late 40s.  Robert’s most vivid childhood memory is of a rainy Saturday afternoon when he was eight years old.  He was an only child, and none of his friends were around, so he was stuck in the house all day.  His parents had argued that morning, and stormed off in their own directions.  Now his mother was upstairs, and his father was off somewhere in the car.  From Robert’s point of view, it would be just another day for him to occupy himself.  His parents frequently fought, and were too distracted to pay much attention to his schedule. 

Robert – or, Bobby, as he was known in those days – decided to play basketball.  He would be Magic Johnson, and his opponents would be the dining room chairs.  To inbound the ball, Bobby bounced it off an empty section of dining room wall.  Unfortunately, he mishandled the pass.  The ball slipped through his fingers and shattered an antique vase on the dining room table.  Bobby’s mother heard the crash, rushed downstairs, gasped in horror at the broken family heirloom, and proceeded to give him the tongue-lashing of his young life.  Bobby spent the rest of the day quarantined to his room.  He remembers his parents revving up into another argument over dinner that very night.  Just a few days later his mother and father explained to him that they would be getting a divorce. 

Bobby began assembling the facts of his newly-fractured life as well as any eight-year old could piece them together.  Despite the assurances of his parents, his school counselors, and his relatives that everyone loved him, he quietly came to a terrible conclusion that he could not shake from his mind: he was the cause of the strife.  His misbehavior, his parents’ hushed conversations behind closed doors, pictures of his parents as a happy young couple before he was born, and finally, symbolically, the smashed family heirloom could not lie.  The story of his life was that he was the difference-maker, and not in a good way.  He was to blame for the breaking of his home. 

Today’s passage from the Gospel of Luke reads almost like a case study in a psychology journal.  The person working to sort out the story of his life would be Jesus.  We tend to think that Jesus had his life all figured out, right from the start, almost as if, as a newborn infant, he thought to himself, “Aha, I’ve tricked them all.  They think I’m a baby, but I’m actually God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, of one Being with the Father.”  In truth, the Gospels give us a much more realistic narrative of a long, slow process by which Jesus came to grips with his identity.  Just before today’s reading, Luke describes Jesus as about thirty years of age.  What was Jesus doing before beginning his public ministry?  We don’t know.  The best assumption is that he was working in the family carpentry business in Nazareth.  There he would be immersed in the rituals of his people, and he would study the Scriptures.  All around him would be speculation about the coming of God’s Messiah.  When would God send the redeemer to rescue the Jews from oppression?  What sort of mighty king, or warrior, or prophet would be the one who came in the name of the Lord? 

The genius of Jesus is that he recognized something no one else did.  The Messiah would not be a triumphant warrior, but a suffering servant.  In the prophecies of Isaiah (52:13 – 53:12), Jesus would read of a mysterious figure, sent from God, who would offer his life for the sins of the people.  The death of the servant would restore fellowship with God.  Not only did Jesus make the connection between the Messiah and the suffering servant, he was coming to the agonizing conclusion that his great vocation would be to fulfill the prophecies.  His mission and ministry would be to lay down his life as an offering and sacrifice to God. 

We can imagine the internal, external, and ongoing voices trying to lure Jesus off his divine path, to tempt him with a different story for his life.  Internally, he would wrestle with the wisdom of giving up his perfectly good life.  Why not stay in the carpenter’s shop and make useful things?  Or become a baker and feed people loaves of bread.  Externally, the voices of his people would speak common, worldly sense: that only military might or political skill could oust the Roman occupiers and bring glory back to Israel.  Why not try on the robes of worldly authority to see if they fit, and muscle the kingdom of God into being through force of will?  Or, if a public death is the Messiah’s fate, why not throw yourself from the pinnacle of the Temple in a spectacular gesture no one will miss?  Now that would be a death worth remembering.  “If dying is what you want to do, get on with it,” is how the temptation might have run in his mind.  Such were the inner and external voices that tempted Jesus.  In teaching his disciples who he was, and how he came to embrace his role as the Messiah, he would ascribe the tempting voices to the devil.  Yes, he would resist the wiles of the devil.  But Luke implies that the temptation to take on a different – dare we say, wrong – story for his life was ongoing.  The devil departed until an opportune time.  The devil would return. 

So, here we are on the First Sunday in Lent, once again in heart and mind going off into the wilderness with Jesus to square off against the devil and temptation.  The Gospel of Luke presents us with a portrait of Jesus that is more human, more down to earth than what we see in Matthew, Mark, or John.  Thus, in Luke, Jesus is not only our savior, but also our example: not only our redeemer, but also our pattern.  In his struggles we see our own struggles.  In his temptations, we see our own temptations. 

What do you make of the devil?  Well, you can make of the devil what you will, but I see our ancient foe as a worker of deception – a twister of the truth – who ruins lives with a cunning manipulation of the facts.  Think of the devil as any or all of the voices that tempt you to make the wrong assumptions about yourself, and buy into the wrong story of your life.  What Jesus resisted in the desert was believing the wrong story for his life.  What Robert, as an eight-year old, had no power to resist was assuming that all the family strife was his fault.  It was not the truth.  It was a lie.  Yet once it attached itself to him it worked secretly and silently to unravel his life, almost like a virus brings down a computer.  In later years Robert was conflicted by an inability to trust on the one hand, and the fear of being deserted on the other hand.  It was only after his own marriage failed that Robert realized he was possessed – actually possessed – by the wrong story.  It was time to change the narrative and resist the devil’s deception. 

All of us can fall victim to the wrong stories for our lives.  What wrong stories?  My guess is that from the devil’s standpoint, any old wrong story will do, just so long as it prevents you from growing into the full stature of Christ.  You may think too lowly of yourself, as one unworthy of God’s love, forgiveness, or even attention.  Everything is your fault.  Such voices deflate any notion that we are children of God with a divine purpose and calling.  You may think too highly of yourself, as one smarter, holier, and frankly just more valuable than the average garden variety sinner muddling through life.  Nothing is your fault.  Such voices inflate our egos, as if we ourselves arose from the dust of the earth, and may be able to cut a deal so as not to return. 

How do we resist the errant voices that lead us astray?  Perhaps an example from nature may prove instructive.  The clam is a mollusk with two identical shells that it holds together with one, large powerful muscle.  The major predator of the clam is the starfish.  Muscle for muscle, the clam is the stronger of the two creatures.  The starfish has no muscle as strong as the clam’s.  Nevertheless, the starfish has five arms, or legs, or appendages with many smaller muscles that it alternately rests and exerts when taking hold of a clam with its suction cups.  At first the clam easily resists the pressure on its one large muscle.  It is low-level, but unyielding.  In time, the clam grows exhausted and unable to hold its shells closed any longer.  The starfish wins, merely by its constant assault.  Likewise, the barrage of lies that sin, the world, and the devil tell have the tendency to exhaust the powers of truth that try resist them.  We see it happening on every level of society, from international affairs to our own private spiritual struggles.  The more you hear something, the more it must be true, no matter how outrageous the claim. 

What the Christian faith says is that the way of the clam is not the way of Jesus.  To put on the full armor of God requires something completely other than one, big muscular effort.  We become conquerors not by our own strength, but only through Christ, who loves us.  Jesus didn’t go out into the wilderness under his own steam, but rather “full of the Holy Spirit,” and “led by the Spirit.”  We, too, have access to the Spirit, who gives us power to become children of God. 

One way we encounter the Spirit of God is through the gathered community of God’s faithful people.  In today’s Old Testament reading, we heard in the book the Book of Deuteronomy (26:1-11) how Israel was about to enter the Promised Land.  Before proceeding, Moses had many instructions to the people for how to remember the truth of who and whose they were, and how to counter the delusions they might be tempted to believe about themselves.  Tell and re-tell the true story of how you came to possess the land, charged Moses.  Remember that your forebears were drifting nomads: A wandering Aramean was my ancestor.  Remember that you found yourselves enslaved, oppressed, and humiliated in Egypt.  Remember that it was the Lord who heard your cry, rescued you, and brought you out of there.  It is not by your own strength or force of will that you have come into this place, but by the grace of God.  It is a free gift.  Here then, for a people much tempted to forget the Lord – much tempted in the direction of self-reliance – was a call to remember God’s version of the story.  The grace of God was the story of their life. 

Indeed, God’s version of my life, and your life, is what we seek to hear during Lent.  We hear it in the rituals of this gathered community.  We hear it in the Word spoken by the prophets in the Scriptures.  We hear it in the Word made flesh, Jesus himself offered to us in the Sacrament of bread and wine.  Being restored to the image of Christ doesn’t happen all at once.  For us, and for Robert, it is a lifelong process.  The devil does, indeed, return at opportune times.  But those who call on the name of the Lord, and rely on his strength, will be saved. 

Welcome to Lent.  We talk about giving things up during Lent.  I would suggest that a spiritual need for all of us would be to give up some of the wrong stories we carry with us – to give up the inflated views of ourselves, or perhaps the deflated views of ourselves, and allow the truth of God’s love and grace to supplant them.  I read recently of a young woman who had been going to therapy for years, apparently accomplishing very little.  She came to think of herself as psychologically incurable, which became a strange sort of comfort because at least it made her something.  Finally she went to a new therapist who said to her, “For me, you are a new client, and I don’t believe you are as sick as you think you are.  Let’s begin today.”  Sadly, the woman didn’t go back because she didn’t want to give up the story of her life she’d come to believe, no matter how wrong it was. 

Whoever “they” are, they say that the best time to plant a tree was twenty-five years ago.  The second best time is today.  Likewise, the best time to call on the name of the Lord might have been yesterday.  But the second best time is today. 

Let’s begin today.  Let’s begin this Lent.