Luke 23:32-43 "Choose Love"

        I am told that if you look not too far outside the walls of Jerusalem, you will behold a sight that will haunt you for a long time, if not forever.  It is about 250 yards northeast of the Damascus Gate.  This gate is one of the main ones into the Holy City.  It might even be the gate through which Pontius Pilate would enter Jerusalem in one of his grandiose processions designed to both honor him and to show off Roman military might and finery.

         If you look off in that direction, you will see a rather large cliff, maybe 60 feet high.  It is ancient and gray and is embedded with rocks.  In that cliff are three large indentations. Using your imagination a bit, you can almost see the face of a skull carved into that rock face:  Two empty eye sockets and a gaping mouth. 

         At the foot of the hill is a fairly level place, perhaps once used for a garbage dump.  But even then, there would be room for a tall, wood-hewn cross, room enough, in fact, for three of them.  This was likely a place of execution, a place of crucifixion.  This is likely Golgotha, the Place of the Skull.  This is likely where Jesus was torturously killed.

          Crucifixion may well be the cruelest form of human capital punishment ever devised.  Though the Romans did not invent it, they certainly perfected it.  Though death was its ultimate outcome, it was not its only purpose.  Crucifixion was also designed to inflict unimaginable pain and the utmost of shame. 

         It was not used for Roman citizens but was reserved for those non-Romans found guilty of sedition, treason, and not operating in the best interest of the Roman Empire of which they were a part – even if not by choice.  Crucifixion was also used to send a message:  Don’t mess with Rome.  Consequently, crucifixion was the go to instrument of death when someone like Pontius Pilate thought it prudent to destroy movements such as the populist one he and too many others feared that Jesus was starting.

         It was to this place – Golgotha – that, according to tradition, Jesus carried the heavy top bar of his cross, with the help of Simon of Cyrene.  Beaten, whipped with the requisite 39 lashes, sporting a split upper lip, Jesus walked what should have been a brisk ten minute jaunt from his place of sentencing to the scene of his execution –ten minutes if you were just taking garbage to the dump.  But, of course, he was not doing that, and there was also all the people crowding and jostling each other on either side of the dirt road.  It took quite a bit longer, much to the chagrin of the soldiers trying to keep things moving along at an orderly pace. 

         Some of the people stood in silence, their eyes following the painful procession.  Others shook their heads sadly and whispered among themselves:  “So sorry.”  “So sad.”  “He was so young.”  Some of the women wept and wailed at his anguish.  Jewish leaders who had infiltrated the peasant crowd had incited others. With their sharp tongues, they mocked and jeered him.  “He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One.”  Their bloodthirsty mantra spread through the crowd.

         Upon reaching the Place of the Skull, with the deathly voids of the eye sockets staring down mercilessly, the Roman soldiers stripped Jesus bare naked and then placed the cross bar that he and Simon had been carrying on the top of the upright, vertical beam. Then a couple of the soldiers lifted Jesus onto the cross. There was a small saddle of wood where they put his buttocks.

         Then the soldiers took some ropes and tied Jesus’ body to the cross, so he would not fall off as they completed their grisly work. It is said that heavy ten-inch spikes were driven into his wrists and into his feet, securing the former to the cross piece and the latter to the bottom of the cross.

         And there Jesus hung in agony – stark naked, shamed to the max.  There the curious watchers and soldiers alike made fun of him – and there was so much to make fun of. The satiric placard nailed at above his head - “King of the Jews” – said it all. 

         After all, here was a man who could no longer control his bodily functions or get rid of the flies that congregated around him. Here was a man with not a shred of honor left. “Save yourself if you are King of the Jews,” the soldiers yelled up to him.  Because there was no way he could get down, Jesus and the two robbers who hung with him could be there for days until they died of exhaustion and suffocation.

         Surely the evidence was in.  As Anglican priest Tim Chesterton noted, “How can a man hanging on a cross be God’s Messiah, the chosen king of God’s people Israel? After all, the generally accepted model for the Messiah was King David, the great warrior king from a thousand years before the time of Christ, the one who defeated the Philistines and established Israel as a great power. During the reign of David Israel finally got some respect from her neighbors! David was ruthless toward his enemies; we’re told that on one occasion he lined up the Moabite men and put to death every third one of them, just to put the fear of Israel into them. On the ‘David’ model, the king’s victories over his enemies are signs that God is with him, but only a false Messiah would be executed by his enemies!”

         Most everyone milling about scorned Jesus and hurled insults at him – even one of the criminals hoisted up next to him.  “Life is pretty tough on Messiahs these days, eh? How about a little miracle, Galilean? Some king of the Jews you are…. Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

         And through it all – the pain, the mockery, the shame, the catcalls and jeers, the presumption of guilt, of misrepresenting himself as the Chosen One – Jesus said only two things:  “Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” and “I promise you that today you will be in Paradise with me.” 

        Imagine:  The first person Jesus welcomes into God’s Kingdom is the one who feels that he himself deserves capital punishment for his crimes.  How wide is God’s mercy!  How wide is God’s forgiveness!  How wide is God’s love!

         As Biblical scholar Gilberto Ruiz wrote, “Whatever evil or crime one has done is no barrier for acceptance into Jesus’ kingdom. Even those carrying out the crucifixion and the mockeries can be forgiven by Jesus.  And though he responds to the second criminal’s request, Jesus ignores the calls to save himself, because it is through the cross that he comes into his kingdom, where those deemed unrighteous may share in the salvation of the righteous. His reign is not a death-dealing system intent on punishment, but a “paradise” that “today” extends even to those whom we do not think deserve it.”  Jesus’ love always surprises us. 

         And so the cross becomes the symbol of the church.  It lies at the heart of our Christian faith.  More than an instrument of death, more than an instrument of suffering and shame, the cross is a symbol of the power of love.  The cross is a symbol of the inclusiveness and expansiveness of God’s love and of the love we are called to share with one another.

         Jesus chose love.  He always did – even when life was dealing him the worst.  Jesus always chose love.  It is as composer Mark Miller recognizes, “ When it would be easier for him to appease with the powerful religious leaders and Roman backed authorities he chooses love. Even as his friends disappear and the crowds that once shouted “hosanna” turn on him with shouts of “crucify,” he chooses love. Even after betrayal and humiliation, even when he is dying, he chooses love.”

         He chooses a love so powerful that forgiveness is offered to all…even to us…even down through the ages, even today. Forgiveness is offered to each one of you and your family and friends and neighbors and coworkers. All that is left is for you to forgive the ones in your life who need forgiving and to forgive yourself as well.

       Jesus chooses love and, in doing so, also shows us how far God is willing to go to free those caught in the web of injustice, to ensure that the hungry are fed, and the naked are clothed, and the poor are cared for, and the sick are healed – and reminds us that we too are called to birth and nurture justice into a world so in need of it. 

       We always have a choice, you know.  Every day we have a choice.  Do we choose exclusion over inclusion?  Do we choose fear over hope?  Do we choose war over peace?  Do we choose looking the other way over promoting justice?  Do we choose love?

       Everyday we have a choice.  And so on this fourth Sunday of Lent, I challenge you to make this choice a daily spiritual discipline.  After all, it is the challenge of being a 21^st century disciple.  It is the challenge of a faithful life. 

       This week, when you look yourself in the mirror each morning, take a moment to really open your eyes and see who is there and say aloud this affirmation:  “Today I choose love.”

      

                                

Matthew 25:31-46 "Choosing Sides"

         According to author JK Rowling, at the beginning of a school year each new student at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would individually approach the front of the dining hall and sit on an old three-legged stool, the stars of the nighttime sky dancing gently overhead on the ceiling.  An ancient and worn-out pointed hat was placed gently upon his or her head.  The student sat very still with wide-open eyes as the hat swayed and shook and finally blurted out the name of one of the four Hogwarts’ houses: Griffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw.

         For those of you who have read the Harry Potter books or seen the movies, you know that it was the Ritual of the Sorting Hat, and it placed each student in the most appropriate house for his or her temperament, strengths, and weaknesses.  And not a single student really knew the precise reason for his or her housing assignment.

         This parable about the sheep and the goats could be Jesus’ version of the Sorting Hat.  It appears near the end of the Gospel of Matthew, just before the events of Holy Week begin to unfold. 

        Jesus is on the Mount of Olives overlooking Jerusalem, the Holy City.  He has been talking with his followers, knowing in his heart of hearts what is likely to happen in the next few days and taking this one final opportunity to proclaim the Gospel truth. 

         He has taught Peter, James, John, Judas, and the others in parables about wise and foolish maidens and faithful and unfaithful servants.  He has told them about giving migrant laborers those gold coins we call talents and seeing who would bury them and who would invest them.

         And now in the gathering dusk, Jesus tells his final story.  It forms a bookend of sorts, coupled with the Beatitudes (or Blessings) by which he began his ministry.  According to this Gospel writer, it was also on a hillside - way back when. 

         Blogger Ray Stedman describes the poignant scene this way:  Jesus stood “ in the midst of a tiny band of forsaken men, and looking out over a city where even at that moment his enemies were completing the plans for his arrest and execution. When Jesus uttered these words, by every human appearance he was defeated. The powers of darkness were triumphant, the shadow of the cross was falling across his pathway, the crowds that once had followed him had long since gone, his friends were fearful and powerless, and one of them was even then set to betray him. Yet as he surveyed the centuries he saw the light that was yet to come, and without uncertainty in his words, in that hour of triumphant evil and seeming human defeat, he declared, "When the Son of man comes in his glory...he will sit on his glorious throne. [And] before him will be gathered the nations."

         Throughout his ministry, Jesus declares often what it will take to make God’s dream for the world a reality. In doing so, he talks a lot about life on this earth now, much more than he talks about the hereafter.  He talks a lot about justice and mercy.  He talks a lot about the forgotten ones, the ones who wander about this world having been chewed up and spat out by the rest of us. 

         Sometimes Jesus is fairly cryptic and we, like his ancient disciples before us, scratch our heads quizzically and wonder just what we are supposed to do with his mysterious and nonsensical words.  At other times, he is much clearer. But nowhere – certainly not in the Gospel of Matthew – nowhere is Jesus more explicit about God’s expectation for us than he is in this story that makes us feel so uncomfortable that we may actually squirm when we hear it, this parable of the sheep and the goats.

         In it, Jesus tells us that we are put on a team.  We are either a sheep or a goat.  And whichever team we end up on, we will be surprised. 

         Those of us who have lived lives of justice, actively and consistently making the world a better place for those less fortunate than we, not to earn stars in our crown or grace points in heaven but only because we saw a need in the world and chose to respond, he will say, "I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me."

         And when those folks express surprise and ask when they ever had the opportunity to do such things for him, he will answer them, "As you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me." This is the sheep team.

         And to the others who will look equally surprised, he will say in these words we cannot quite expunge from the backs of our own minds even now, even today: "I was hungry and you gave me no food, thirsty and no drink.  I was a stranger.  I was naked.  I was sick.  I was in prison.”  And to their befuddled question “Lord, when?” he will answer: "As you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me."  This is the goat team.

         Their surprise is almost as if they were thinking that if they had only known that Jesus was serious about all those parables like the Good Samaritan and the farmer who built a second barn to house all his extra harvest, this sheep and goat business would have turned out differently for them. 

         If they had only known that there was more to this Christianity business than just showing up in worship, or sticking a small check or some loose change in the offering plate, or enduring boring committee meetings (even if they were for the sake of the Gospel, or so we kept telling ourselves) …

        If they had only known that Jesus’ was to be found in the unfocused eyes of the hungry, in the restless hands of the jobless, in the coughs and cancers of the uninsured, they would have been right in there going to bat for the least of these. 

         Why didn’t somebody tell them? After all, those who ended up on the goat team seldom, if ever, woke up in the morning, looked at themselves in the mirror, and declared, “Today I am going to be racist, sexist, ageist, homophobic, greedy, a conflict maker.”

         However, the criteria for a team assignment is quite straightforward and twofold.  First, we choose whether or not we will respond to the world’s need.  Second (and equally important as the first), we decide who merits our assistance.  Most of us do pretty well on the first criteria.  We all engage at one time or another in a share of those random acts of kindness. 

         However (and here’s the rub), we oftentimes end up trying to figure out just who the least of these are that we will act compassionately toward.  Beware of that tendency because it will cause us our sheep status.   Though a narrower target group would certainly make any project more manageable and probably financially less risky, once we arbitrarily create a smaller pool of least ones, we are cut from the sheep team.  Jesus calls us to always err on the side of justice.

         The question then is not what we need to do to be saved and end up on the fast track to heaven when we die. The question is what we need to do now to bring God’s dream to fruition, so the world is a bit more like heaven.

         You see, the mark of a true follower of Jesus is not adherence to a creed and believing all the right things.  It is not one’s knowledge of the Bible.  It is not even one’s faith and profession of Jesus Christ as personal Lord and Savior. 

         The mark of a true follower of Jesus is the concern one shows – day in and day out - for those in need.  You see, for Jesus, helping the oppressed, the marginalized, and the down-and-out is the ultimate serious business.  Perhaps that is why at our baptism, we promise to care for one another and are reminded that we are called to “serve as Christ’s representatives in the world.”

         We are put on a team – sheep or goats - but I would say that, unlike the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts, our assignment is not a one-time decision.  We are put on a team every time we encounter a need in the world. We are put on a team – sheep or goats – every time we choose whether or not we will weep with those who weep, struggle with those who struggle, stand up for the down-and-out, share the pain of the family split by deportation or labeled as less than true blue American because of their religion or nation of origin.

         The mark of a true follower of Jesus is the practical demonstration of love.  There is no gray area.  You are either with him, or you are not. 

         As theologian Helmut Thielicke wrote:  "How easily we let a sentence like 'God is a God of love' pass over our lips. It even sounds a bit trite. But just let Jesus stand in front of us and look at us when we say the words and at once this pious little saying becomes an accusation. Then all of a sudden we hear it spoken by the beggar we shooed from our door yesterday, the servant-girl we dismissed, perhaps because she was going to have a baby, the neighbor whose name has recently been dragged through the newspapers because of some disgraceful affair, whom we let know that we always walk the straight and narrow path. Suddenly we hear them all speaking it, because this saying (God is a God of love) has something to do with all of them, not only with the God who dwells above the clouds, for in them the eyes of the Lord himself are gazing at us."

         Jesus promises to stand with those in the greatest need, and if we want to experience God’s presence, then we need to stand with them as well.  Jesus is hanging out in the mundane messiness of the world.  He is not sitting in the front pew in this or any other church.  If we want to experience God’s presence, then we need to be hanging out in the dark and dirty places too – choosing to rub elbows with our brothers and sisters who have made (in many instances been forced to make) those dark and dirty places their home.

         You know, we often interpret this parable from an individual standpoint.  What team am I on?  How compassionate am I?  However, in the first verse of this parable, the Gospel writer says that all the nations of the world are called together, implying that cultures and systems and – yes - even churches are eventually all brought to account.  This parable is more than just sizing up our own individual actions and purposes.  It is equally gauging us as a church. And so we must ask ourselves this question:  “Do we as the church look and act like Jesus?”

         This parable asks us as a congregation:  What programs and projects have we as a church put in place to serve the least of these?  What opportunities have we as a church given to individuals here to share their compassion and to side with the least of these?  What steps have we as a church taken to stand up for justice? 

         Last week, we added to our waterfall here at the front of our sanctuary strips of cloth indicating where each of you saw injustice in the world. The words you wrote covered a wide range – from anti-Semitic activity to family strife to hunger to addiction to women’s reproductive rights to immigration to disagreeing with the direction our President and Congress is taking us. 

         Though writing words may be a start, this parable of the sheep and the goats points out that words are not enough.  It is all about choices and priorities. 

         What are we choosing to do as a church to ensure that the least of these are not lost in the political tensions that circumscribe all those justice issues you mentioned? 

What are we as a church choosing to do to honor the least of these – and what more could we intentionally do? Is it time to set aside those mission projects we are so comfortable with that we do not even think about how they might be changing lives – and choose instead to venture off in new and more challenging directions?

         In a world as spiritually hungry as ours, surely many people from all walks of life, from all parts of the globe, seek to experience that amazing love that lies at the very foundation of our Christianity.  That is our calling, you know, to share that compassion – not intentionally, not because we are Christian do-gooders or because we are proselytizing, but just because we can, just because it is the human thing to do – and, for us, to do in his name – share that amazing love that we have experienced with the waitress, the panhandler, the nursing home resident, the harried young mother in the check out line in front of us at the grocery store.  Our calling as a bunch of Jesus’ 21^st century followers is not to change the world.  It is to make a difference in the world, one life at a time.  Surely we as individuals and as a church can choose to do that.    

        It is as Presbyterian pastor and theologian Frederick Buechner wrote, “For Jesus the only distinction between (people) that ultimately matters seems to be not whether they are churchgoers or non-churchgoers, communists or capitalists, Catholics or Protestants or Jews, but do they or do they not love - love not in the sense of an emotion so much as in the sense of an act of the will, the loving act of willing another's good even, if need arise, at the expense of their own….

         …’As you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.’ Just as Jesus appeared (Buechner continues) at his birth as a helpless child that the world was free to care for or destroy, so now he appears as the pauper, the prisoner, the stranger: appears in every form of human need that the world is free to serve or to ignore.”

         In concluding then, because the parable of the sheep and the goats is all about choices and priorities, I challenge you in this third week of Lent to reflect on these questions: What team have you chosen to be on?  What team have we chosen as a church?  What evidence have we – as individuals but also as a church - that we look and act like Jesus?  What more could we do in his name?      

Psalm 13 "Lament and Worship"

         The great Jewish King David has traditionally been named as the composer of this Psalm.  However, we do not really know whether he wrote it or not.  The likelihood is that he did not, but rather that an unknown but gifted poet penned the psalm when the Jewish (or Hebrew) people were enduring persistent persecution and what seemed to be ongoing exile hundreds of years before the birth of Jesus. 

         Whoever first sang it (and it was sung because that is what the psalms are – songs of an ancient Middle Eastern tribe), whoever first sang it had a marvelous ability to tap into the deepest and most raw human emotions.  This psalm lays bare all the anguish and hurt and pain and suffering imaginable and gives permission for each man, woman, and child who heard it to say to themselves:  “Yes, I know how that feels – to be at the end of my rope.  I know what it is like to feel abandoned and to be so utterly alone.  That has happened to me – when my child died, when I was diagnosed with cancer, when I lost my job, when I was homeless, when I had to flee the bombs and mines and leave my family behind.”

         Psalm 13, which we just read, is one of the great psalms of lament – formal expressions of grief or sorrow - that we find in our Bible.

O LORD, how long will you forget me? Forever?
How long will you look the other way?

         It is right up there with the cries for help we find in Psalm 88: “You have made even my closest friends abandon me, and darkness is my only companion.” And then there is Psalm 130: “From the depths of my despair, I call to you, Lord.” And how about Psalm 22 that Jesus quoted when he hung dying on the cross:  “My God, my God, why have your forsaken me.” 

         These are the winter-like psalms for when the cold winds blow across our lives, and they comprise nearly half or more of the liturgical songs of the ancient Israelites.  These are the psalms sung when our lives ice up, and we fear that our hearts may turn to stone.  These are the poems we whisper when we feel so alone and deserted - even by God.  These are the songs we conjure up when we feel like we are one of the forgotten ones.  

      One blogger I read this week wrote, “The psalms, said fourth century church leader, Athanasius, ‘become like a mirror to the person singing them.’ The psalms reflect our deepest feelings — all of them. And sometimes those deepest feelings are not bright and cheery. David, and the other psalmists, lamented their sins. But the psalmists also lamented the tragedies happening around them. The psalmists lamented and protested the troubles of human life. The psalmists lamented their enemies — expressing anger against them to God. The psalmists knew how to lament.”

         This Psalm of lament that we just read is divided into three parts, as nearly all psalms of lament are:  protest, protection, and praise. Covenant church pastor Dominique Gilliard describes lamenting like this: “uncensored communion with God -- visceral worship where we learn to be honest, intimate, and humble before God. Lamentation is both an acknowledgment that things are not as they should be and an anguished wail, beckoning the Lord to intervene with righteousness and justice.”

         Initially then, our Psalm of lament is a protest:

How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul,
with sorrow in my heart every day?
How long will my enemy have the upper hand?

         How long will God forget?  How long will God look the other way?  How long will I have to wrestle with my painful thoughts and unending sorrows?  How long will the world be as it is and not as God would have it?  How long will the homeless have no homes?  How long will children go unfed? How long, God, how long? 

         This first part of a psalm of lament is a lashing out at the Holy One.  God, you claim to remember us, but it seems like you have abandoned us.  Prove us wrong:  such a powerful accusation and challenge – a protest against all the wrong we see all around us.

         However, our Psalm of lament is not just an accusatory laundry list of complaints.  It is a prayer.  It is a prayer cried out into the darkness, tossed into the wilderness of our lives and of our world.  It is a prayer thrown into the void, a prayer for protection from all the evil we see all around us every day – if we care to watch TV or read the newspaper.

Turn and answer me, O LORD my God!
Restore the light to my eyes, or I will die.
 Don't let my enemies gloat, saying, "We have defeated him!"
Don't let them rejoice at my downfall.

         Will God hear us?  Is there anything in the darkness out there?  Who knows?  However, tell me, would we pray if we did not trust that there was something out there, that there was someone to hear even our feelings of abandonment and our prolonged struggle? 

         Instead of throwing in the towel and giving up on God, the Psalmist tells us to keep praying, keep reaching out, keep trusting that we do not live in the best of all possible worlds – far from it.  The Psalmist assures us that God continues to embrace us - and the world – even when we shake our fist at the Divine.

         And so the Psalmist comes full circle.  In concluding his song, he reminds us of the power of hope.  The Psalmist reminds us to trust in our compassionate God – because, in the end, only love will transform our lives and the world. 

        We will not have all the answers.  We will not be all cheery, and our lives will not suddenly be like sunshine, but God will not let us down.  And that, if nothing else about our lives or our world, is worthy of our praise.

But I trust in your unfailing love.
I will rejoice because you have rescued me.
 I will sing to the LORD because he has been so good to me.

         So much a part of our Old Testament religious heritage, the ritual of lament is a worship form that has been lost in our modern-day churches.  Most of us do not like to think about pain and sorrow – either our own or that which we see in the world - well, maybe a little bit at Lent but not enough to warrant those black birds in the sanctuary trees, thank you very much.  You see, church is where many of us would like to come to be personally comforted and to be joyfully praising God and to forget what the world is like “out there” – beyond the four walls of this sanctuary. 

         However, leaving the world behind like that is impossible – and so beneath us as Jesus’ 21^st century disciples.  In this age of nonstop media, we are constantly confronted with the world’s brokenness and sorrow.  Even if you never pick up a newspaper or watch TV, you see it graphically in videos gone viral.  You hear about it in 146 character tweets. 

         As Dominique Gilliard writes, “Today, we are bombarded by an unprecedented, unceasing stream of media that exposes us to the world’s pain and brokenness as never before.

         Nevertheless, before we truly grieve one tragedy, another occurs. So in our rush to keep up with our newsfeeds, with the latest scandal, the newest tragedy, we move on before processing the trauma we have just witnessed. We move on to stay up to date -- and in part, because we believe that our minds and our hearts, like our smartphones, can hold only so much.”

         We are on a 24-hour newsfeed that takes us from hate crime to suicide bombing to yet another shooting – nonstop. Oh, how we would like to come to church and forget it all.

         And yet, the Bible teaches us almost the opposite – it teaches us to engage in some intentionally lamenting rather than, what?  Moving right along….

         Instead of being swept from one news event to the next, lament forces us to slow down and to stay engaged after the publicity, the cameras, the tweeting has moved on.  Lament keeps our eyes open to the forgotten ones all around us and our ears attuned to their weeping and muffled cries of pain that too often become like white noise in our world.  Lament focuses us on our primary calling as Christians, which, of course, is to look to Jesus as the embodiment of God’s dream for the world and so to act in order that justice can roll down like mighty waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

         When we lament, we remember the forgotten ones – and, God only knows, we are constantly being told in the Bible to do just that.  “Remember when you were slaves in Egypt”, the newly freed Hebrew people are admonished.  “Whenever you eat this bread and drink from this cup, remember me – and all that I stand for,” Jesus tells his disciples at the last supper he ate with them before he was killed.

        Even though it may not be a pleasant experience, when we engage in the pain we see in the world around us, remembering our baptism and how God offers us the freedom to resist the evil we see, we are being faithful to the path that Jesus walks with us.

         Though we are often reluctant to embrace the narrative of lament – the stories of pain and suffering – our own as well as those of the forgotten ones throughout the world - we are called to do so – now more than ever - as faithful 21^st century disciples. 

         And so during this Lenten season as we explore the words of the prophet Amos (“Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream”), we continue to cry out, as songwriter Mark Miller has:  “How long, O God, must we feel like outsiders, strangers in a strange land, a people held captive by fear, abuse of power, prejudice, and unjust institutions? How long, O God, must we be in fear for our children who are growing up in a world of terror and violence?  How many people in our country need to be killed by guns (he continues) until we muster the will and the courage to stop the madness?  We long for your justice, for your peace, O God, we long to be released from these shackles of fear and injustice, and until that time, we cry out with the psalmist, ‘How long?’”

         Without making time for lament (for protesting, seeking protection, and finally praising God), how can we meaningfully engage with the issues of our day – the racism, sexism, militarism, and petty prejudices - long enough to viscerally understand their breadth and depth and to begin the healing that must take place if we are to see even glimpses of God’s kingdom? That is my challenge to you during this second week of Lent :  Make time for lament. 

§  What do you fear?

§  What angers you?

§  What one thing makes your heart heavy?

§  Where or how do you feel as an outsider?

         These are justice issues – worthy of lament and lamentation.

         And so I challenge you to not turn away from the brokenness you see around you, but rather to sit with it for a while - uncomfortable as that may be.  May you take the time to protest.  

         I challenge you to cry out to God unabashedly and without pretense when you feel like your life is imploding, but also when you look around and see how the world is fragmented and spinning out-of-control.  May you turn to God for protection.  

         And, finally, I challenge you to come full circle as the Psalmist did and praise God, trusting that God will lead you to healing and reconciliation.  May your heart be wide open to the Spirit guiding you to a life where justice rolls down, justice rolls down.