Houston, We've Had a Problem

 Palm Sunday, Year C; Luke 22:24-23:53; St. Paul’s Smithfield, NC 3/20/2016 Jim Melnyk: “Houston, We’ve had a Problem”

As most of you already know, there are certain movies that when I come across them while channel surfing, all but demand that I stop and watch.  I’m willing to bet that each of you have a few of those types of movies, as well.  They could be just starting or more than half way through – I just feel compelled to watch – they carry that much power and meaning for me. 

Apollo 13 is one of those movies.  It came to mind the other day as I watched on the NASA web feed the launch of a rocket carrying three astronauts to the Space Station.  Those of us who are of a certain age actually remember living through that dramatic story of three astronauts and their terrifying journey through outer space and back.  Those of us who lived through the actual event, and those of us who have seen the movie or read the story, remember the intense drama and the electrifying fear that held a nation captive as three men struggled to find their way safely back home.

           

Many of us recall hearing those chilling words from astronaut Jim Lovell, “Err, Houston, we’ve had a problem here.”  An oxygen tank explodes and suddenly the whole trip looks different.  The quiet confidence of crew and support team – the dreams of moon walks and tickertape parades at mission’s end – turn into the stuff of nightmares as the crew of the Apollo 13, with the support folks on the ground, fight for their very lives. 

The story of Apollo 13 is a story of triumph, to tragedy, and back again.  Its impact on those who lived through or watched the experience was powerful.

But this week the Church throughout the world turns to another story – another story of triumph and tragedy known as Holy Week.  It’s a story that speaks to us about “the way of the cross.”  And though it begins with the dizzying excitement of parades and joyous, hopeful crowds shouting out their hosannas, by the week’s end there is only the darkened silence of the grave.

Where the Apollo 13 story deals with the lives of three men, their families, coworkers, and an anxious nation, Holy Week speaks to us about the reconciling work of God in the world through Jesus Christ.  Holy Week is a story of humanity’s struggle with God, and with God’s overwhelming desire to love and save humankind from itself.  The way of the cross is real life drama, whose focus is the very life and hope of the world.  Holy Week is a story wherein we participate in both the suffering and the death of our Lord Jesus Christ so that we might participate in his resurrection. 

Instead of the turn beginning with “Houston, we’ve had a problem,” we hear our Lord asking Judas, “Must you betray me with a kiss?”

Today, on Palm Sunday, we experience in one hour the whiplash of triumph to tragedy that is the whole of Holy Week.  We began the morning with shouts of “Hosanna!” and waved our palm branches as we recalled hearts leaping with joy at the coming of Christ to the holy city, Jerusalem.  In that portion of our liturgy we are able to sense the expectation and the hope as a world in pain turns to Jesus – and then, in just a few moments from now, we will listen as everything goes wrong.  We will hear the harsh reality of the unexpected turn as shouts of “Hosanna!” become our own cries of “Crucify! Crucify!”

I submit to you that the meaning and power of Easter becomes much more real for those who walk with Christ through the week before his death.  How can we fully understand the triumph of Easter Day without knowing the harsh reality – the fear, the anxiety, and the cruelty, of betrayal and the cross?  How can we fully understand the depth of resurrection power and joy without first experiencing love so deep that our Lord would even wash the feet of the one who sits waiting to betray?

We hear the stories of our faith and listen as crowds become mobs crying out for violence – and realize the same thing happens today – is happening today.  We humans all too often demonize those who disagree with us in order to assuage our fears – but it doesn’t help.  As the Dean of the Cathedral of All Souls writes, “The Church has done great damage by a subtle removing of Jesus’ death from politics, economics and human sociology. We have sought to make the crucifixion about God needing blood to save our souls. It is really about human fear and the lengths we will go to calm or remove our fear. Jesus threatened religious and political folks and they let him know what is done to those who threaten their defined order” (The Very Rev. Todd Donatelli, Dean’s Blog, 3/17/2016).

Holy Week is supposed to be tough for us.  If we really pay attention to the stories of our faith as we move through this week, what we experience should be hard – should be depressing – should be disturbing.  But as theologian Megan McKenna writes, “This week profoundly disturbs the world and is meant to disturb us” (Synthesis Today, 3/17/2016).  Holy Week reminds us of how easy it is to allow our fears to become the rich soil that gives life to our woundedness – that allows us set love aside.  We should be concerned if the events of Holy Week don’t cause us to cringe on some level.

It’s mid-March on Tobacco Road and suddenly once again we’re being bombarded with the time, energy, and emotionally consuming reality of what we all call March Madness – I keep close tabs on my brackets.  Do you want to know what real March Madness is all about?  It’s taking the Lord of Life – it’s taking the One who is the embodiment of the Love of God – and nailing him to a tree!  That’s real March Madness!  Finding ways to twist our love for God, and our love for neighbor, into some form of theological pretzel, so that we can look the other way and ignore the mess our world is in – that’s March Madness – that’s madness in any month! 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…. And the Word became flesh and lived among us…”, and we nailed that love to the cross.  God, out of infinite love for the world, took on human flesh – put on human skin – embraced and experienced the full gamut of human life and emotion – and had the grace and the love to say “Follow me and I will transform your life.  Follow me and together we will change this world.”

Holy Week is the holy drama of triumph to tragedy – but with an underlying promise that it won’t end there – that God’s love for us holds fast, and that together this world can learn to walk in love.  Our story doesn’t end with a betraying kiss and the cross.  Our story points us to so much more – for our story is always told in the midst of the promise of Easter Day.

           

The Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Luke:

Catching a Whiff of God's Love

Lent 5C; Isaiah 43:16-21; John 12:1-8; St. Paul’s Smithfield, NC 3/13/16

Jim Melnyk: “Catching a Whiff of God’s Love”

You may recall that we spent some time in the early verses of Isaiah 43 back during Epiphany.  In this chapter the prophet proclaims Good News to a people in exile – to a people taken hostage in Babylon.  Through the prophet God says to Israel, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you – that is, I have paid the price of your sin.  I have called you by name, and you are mine (sound comfortingly familiar by now?).  Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you, I will gather you together, and I will bring you home.

But who is this exactly, to whom God speaks?  Who are these people to whom God speaks words of poetic love?  God sends love notes to a people in exile – to a people who have sold the righteous for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.  God sends love notes to a people who have trampled the heads of the poor into the dust – to a people who have turned away from the God of their mothers and fathers.  And we might ask, “Has the world really changed much since then?”

To a broken people God speaks words of love – such is the grace of God.  Israel, lost in exile, cries out to God – much as the Children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob had done while slaves in Egypt – and God answers her cry.  There will be a new Exodus.  God will lead God’s people home.  There will be a highway in the desert – a highway for all to travel – no one shall pass it by.  Not even the fool or the unclean shall pass it by (Isaiah 35).  Such is the grace of God.  Let any who call the God of the Hebrew Scriptures a God of wrath pay heed to the words of the Second Isaiah. 

“Do not remember the former things,” says the Holy One to the people of Israel.  “Do not consider the things of old,” says God.  “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

           

Remember what it was like to make bricks without straw and flee from Egypt with Pharaoh’s men at your heels?  Remember the wandering in the wilderness for all those years and the struggles to be faithful to the God who brought you out of slavery?  Remember forsaking me for other lovers – for other gods?  Remember those days and trust that God will once again bring you home.  But this time there will be a highway – straight from Babylon to Jerusalem’s broken gates.  I will bring you home and you shall rebuild Jerusalem, and rebuild my Temple.

But there’s a cost to that renewed freedom, and that cost is to allow something new to break into their lives.  No longer can they embrace the ways that honored privilege over poverty – the ways that honored power more than the Holy One’s authority – the ways that honored power at the expense of other’s pain.  No longer can they embrace the ways which made so many exiles in their own homes, so that palaces might be built which would overshadow the people in their poverty.

“I am about to do a new thing,” says God.  “I am the one who blots away your transgressions for my own sake.  I am the one who will forget your sins – will you not forget your old ways?”  And like the Second Isaiah, Jesus proclaims Good News to a people in exile – but now to a people in exile in their own land.  Jesus speaks to those whose hearts are in exile – to those long oppressed by Rome and by fellow citizens who have power by virtue of their collaboration with Rome. 

Breaking bread in Bethany with Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead, Jesus is only days away from his arrest and crucifixion.  Certainly he must be the talk of the town.  Everyone gathered at the dinner thrown in his honor had to be stealing glances back and forth between Jesus and Lazarus. 

They had all been in town – they had all been present – for the funeral – for Lazarus’ funeral. 

They had witnessed Lazarus, his body wrapped in grave linens, placed in the tomb and the heavy stone rolled in its place.  They had wept with and consoled Mary and Martha, the two grieving sisters.  They had wagged their heads at Jesus when he came upon the waning funeral – some of them, like both Mary and Martha – wondering why he had come so late – pondering the big “what-if.”  What if he had come earlier – might he have saved Lazarus?

They had all been witnesses – “Lazarus, COME OUT!”  And now, here he is again – sitting at table with them – sitting at table with Lazarus.  And perhaps, just perhaps, some of them are beginning to wonder: “What if God is doing yet another new thing among us?  What is it from God that is springing forth in our presence?”

Can’t you just picture the scene?  Dinner is coming to a conclusion, and everyone is reclining around the table expecting Jesus to speak.  What wonderfully puzzling, hope-filled, word will he speak to us this time? Tell us more about the coming kingdom, Jesus!  Open our ears and our hearts to the love of God!

And out comes Mary with her first century version of Chanel Number 5.  As she breaks the seal on the jar the scent of the perfume fills the air.  All conversation has stopped cold, and all eyes are upon Mary as she kneels at the feet of her friend and anoints them with the contents of the jar.  Everyone is speechless – stunned – overwhelmed.  What in the world is Mary doing?  For all the times Jesus has mentioned his impending death, Mary seems to be the only one who takes him seriously – anointing his body with perfume as if he had already died. 

It is an extravagant act of love and discipleship on Mary’s part – caring for her Lord, and Teacher, and Friend.  And perhaps it is Mary’s action this night in Bethany that prompts Jesus to later wash the feet of his disciples as a sign of servanthood and love.  Wouldn’t that be cool – that Jesus go his Last Supper foot washing brainstorm from disciple Mary?

Beth Sanders writes, “In this moment between the stench of Lazarus's four days in the tomb and the spicy scent of myrrh and aloes with which Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus will embalm Jesus' body, the sweet aroma of God's love is wafting in the air. It sticks in Mary's hair as she brushes it against Jesus' feet and fills the house wherever she goes. Has anyone caught a whiff of God's love on us 21st-century Christians lately?” (Synthesis Today, 3/9/2016)

Isaiah speaks to us about the emptiness of the wilderness becoming a place with living streams of water and a highway home to Jerusalem.  Israel’s time of suffering is coming to an end and God will bring her home with rejoicing.  John gives us a vision of Jesus being lovingly cared for by Mary as if he were already dead – recognizing that his suffering is yet to come.  It will be terrifying and cruel.  It will seem to all to be as final as the exile seemed to be a final word for Israel.

For those who listened to what Jesus has taught – and for those of us who know the story now – exile and cross will not have the final word.  God will have the final word– and that word is, and will always be, resurrection.

But let’s face it – God doing a new thing can be scary.  For those lost in exile or facing the powers that be, anything new might be welcome.  But for those who are comfortable – for those who have status – position – God doing a new thing can feel threatening.  Will we be displaced by those returning from exile?  Will we be displaced when those who have had no power, no voice, no face, are welcomed in?  And let’s face it – that’s as much a twenty-first century anxiety provoking question as it was a first century worry.

And, well, yes.  It can happen – from something as simple as the new person is sitting in my pew, or as challenging as someone new getting elected when I didn’t – to challenging changes in the community that can make everyday life different from the status quo.  Any time something new and freeing comes on the scene there will be those who feel stung by the changes.

God is constantly calling us to something new in our lives – to something new in this world – and that newness is the fullest expression of the kingdom of heaven.  It’s a call out of exile – it’s a call out of our own experiences of brokenness and the cross.  It’s a call to help our fellow human beings out of exile and brokenness as well. 

As the Apostle Paul proclaims, “Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” Will the world around us catch a whiff of God’s love upon us in this 21^st century?  How open are we to perceiving God doing a new thing in our lives and in the life of the world? How open are we to God doing a new thing?

(Image used above is by Dinah Roe: http://www.art.com/products/p21297894797/product.htm?RFID=217825&ProductTarget=105221343927&gclid=CNHS14rgvcsCFcUdgQodvf4CDA)

Of God of Dwindling Milestones

Lent 4C; 2 Cor. 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32; St. Paul’s Smithfield, NC

3/6/2016 Jim Melnyk “Of God and Dwindling Milestones”

         

 Poet Stanley Kunitz writes:

“I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing…”(Diocesan Clergy Lenten Retreat).

I listen to the poet’s words and I see in my mind’s eyes the prodigal son wrestling with his broken place in life, and his desperate desire to journey home.  I see the anxious parents waiting – longing – especially the father, who has given away so much with so little hope for any return. And I see an angry, older brother, whose own dwindling milestones remind him of duty begrudgingly lived, and the burning desires of his heart that long for so much more….

The parable of the prodigal son – that is, when we focus predominately on the younger son in the story – is a story about someone whose world view is about power, possessions, and prestige.  He sees these things as something to be wrestled away from his father – unaware of his father’s overwhelming generosity. His internal operating system – his internal core programming – seems to have a virus of sorts. 

Where the kingdom of God is about relationships, his internal programming is about self gratification.  Where the kingdom of God is about love for God and love for neighbor, his internal programming is about feeding the belly and his senses rather than feeding the heart and the soul.  It takes a “spectacular crash and burn” for the younger son to come to his senses. And even then, we can sense an underlying sense of manipulation in the young man as he plots a way to work himself back into his father’s good graces. 

The parable of the dutiful son – that is, when we focus predominately on the older brother in the story – is a story about someone who has always played by the rules.  It’s a story about someone who knows how to keep his nose to the grindstone – someone who sees his life as a burdensome duty to be carried out.  Like his kid brother, he either underestimates, or has no clue, about the overwhelming generosity of his father.  God is saying to the older brother – and to us – “Come out and play with me,” but the older brother – like us too often – can’t let go of the stranglehold we have on our lives. 

Of the older brother, Lindsey Crittenden writes, “Being the dutiful child is a burden. In some ways, the role of the prodigal is easier in its spectacular crash and burn. To slog away out of duty and purpose doesn't make for high drama. And yet, to wake up from mere duty and realize, one day, that you've had love all along—that, too, can turn lives around” (quoted in Synthesis today, 3/3/2016).

Each Sunday, especially during Lent while we’re using Eucharistic Prayer A, we recite the great “mystery of our faith:” “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again” – what Bishop Porter Taylor of the Diocese of Western North Carolina calls the “great pattern story” of Christianity.

The mystery of our faith begins with the words “Christ has died.”  The cross is how we break out of our own dysfunctional operating systems and find ourselves open to the love of God in Christ Jesus.  The hard truth is that we don’t get there without some suffering.  Thomas Merton once wrote, “love is the resetting of a Body of broken bones.”  And so, in the great mystery we say that Christ has died – past tense, but in that same great mystery we follow those words with “Christ is risen” – present tense!  The Good News – and it is Good News to be sure – is that Jesus has walked the way of brokenness before us – and for us – and that the risen Christ now walks that same way of brokenness with us as we seek to find wholeness and holiness in our lives.  And this reality is what the two brothers seem to glimpse in their father’s unconditional love for them both.

Finally, we come to the parable of the welcoming parent – the welcoming father in the story – who gives ungrudgingly of his own wealth, out of love for both of his sons.  Rather than being broken by the actions and attitudes of his two sons, the father’s arms are outstretched and welcoming.  He watches for, and spots, his younger son while the young man is still far off.  It’s as if the father has gotten up each day to search the horizon for any sign of the returning prodigal, and upon the son’s return the father wraps him in a bear hug and then throws a great party welcoming him home.  And to the older, duty bound and dour brother he responds – all that I have is and always has been yours!  All you have to do is ask. Come and join the celebration! 

Perhaps we shake our heads and wonder how in the world the father can act with such love in spite of the actions by his two sons.  The whole fifteenth chapter of Luke gives us some insight.  Prior to today’s parable we find that Jesus has come under fire for welcoming and breaking bread with tax collectors and sinners – the very embodiment of the two sons in today’s story.  Luke’s Jesus responds with three party parables. 

After the introductory verses presented in today’s lectionary we skip over the parables of the loss sheep and the lost coin in order to get to the prodigal son – but those other parables are there – and all three parables in this chapter focus on God’s “overwhelming joy upon our return.  Repayment, punishment, and justice [aren’t] mentioned, only joy and celebration” (Michaela Bruzzese, Sojourners Online, Preaching the Word, 3/6/2016). As the Apostle Paul writes, "In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting [to them] the message of reconciliation" (2 Cor. 5).

In each of the three parables, that which was lost is found, and that is worth throwing a grand party.  Author Anne Lamott writes, “Do you want to know how big God’s love is?  The answer is: It’s very big.  It’s bigger than you are comfortable with” (quoted by The Rt. Rev. Porter Taylor).

In the parable of the welcoming parent we hear God calling us to let go of our need to be in absolute control of our lives; to let go of our need or our desire to judge those who fail – even spectacularly – and to let go of our unyielding sense of duty lived out begrudgingly, without understanding or accepting the freeing grace of God’s love which has always been there for us. 

We look back at the “dwindling milestones” of our lives and know that God is calling us to something beyond ourselves.  As the Apostle Paul reminds us, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Cor. 5:17). 

No longer is there the greedy, foolish son who cares only about what he can get for himself, or the older, angry son who feels as though he has been taken for granted and somehow cheated of having more.  Instead there is a new creation – two children beloved by their parents and heirs of all their parents have to offer.  As our opening poet concludes, “no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written.  I am not done with my changes” (Stanley Kunitz).

Today’s parable, however we want to title it, tells us we need to reboot our systems and die to a thought process that honors power, possessions, and prestige over mercy, justice, and love.  Today’s parable tells us that God desires more than anything else in the world our transformation into the likeness of one who loves as the father in today’s story loves. 

We come to this Fourth Sunday in Lent and we realize that any transformation on our part finds its origins in God’s readiness to invite such transformation – a readiness that we see acted out in the life and teachings of Jesus.  More Good News: the God we meet in Jesus is a God who loves a good party almost as much as that God loves each of us.  And we are each invited to join in the grand celebration.

Sledgehammers and Crowbars and the Kingdom of God

Lent 3C; Exodus 3:1-15; Luke 13:1-9; St. Paul’s Smithfield, NC 2/28/2016

Jim Melnyk: “Sledgehammers and Crowbars and the Kingdom of Heaven”

“The disciples of a rabbi came to him, and they asked him about the zaddick, a zealous people who work themselves into a frenzy to reach ecstasy and religious enlightenment.  So [the rabbi] told them this [parable]…

‘Once a king created a great maze of complicated passageways.  He then sat in the center of the maze and told his followers to come to him.  The first group entered the maze with sledgehammers and crowbars.  They forced their way to the center.  The second group came in very quietly and gently, wandering around the maze.  Whenever they came to a complicated, twisted turn, they wrote out a little message and left it there for those who were to come after them.

The rabbi said that those of the first group were obsessed with the command of the king to come to him.  Those in the second group, conversely, had faith that the king would magnetically draw them to himself’” (Edward Hays, The Lenten Labyrinth).

This is certainly a story about God.  It’s a story about a God who is patient, who calls for us and waits for us, and who trusts us to find our way home to our Creator.  This rabbinic parable is also a story about humanity – about a people who choose many ways to seek the God who calls.  The parable is about a people who can be obsessive, single-minded, and violent in their search for God; and about a people who can be patient, thoughtful, and caring toward others, as they seek the heart of God.

The hammer-wielders of this world boldly and heroically smash their way toward the kingdom, trying their best to push or pull others along the way and crush those who get in their way.  The quickest route between here and heaven is a straight line with the gas pedal pushed to the floor, and God help (or consign to hell) anyone who doesn’t jump on board or gets in their way. 

The hammer-wielder’s God is not always patient, and their God’s quality of mercy is often strained.

The wanderers of this world know their final destination, and trust God to see them there.  They are the ones who stop for others in need along the way.  They are the ones who leave little messages along the way for those who follow after.  They hear the voice of God in the stranger as well as the friend and neighbor.  The wanderers know that heaven can indeed wait, and will wait.  They know that God will honor their faithfulness in the journeying.  The wanderers’ God is constantly calling, correcting the wayward, and embracing the whole of creation. 

The God of those who wander is the God who claims the name “I Am”, or perhaps better translated, “I Will Be Who I Will Be”, or “The One Who Causes To Be What Comes Into Being.”  This God is a God of process – this God is a God of becoming – who has left sledgehammers and crowbars behind long ago.

Our Gospel story today shares a theological reality with the rabbinic tale.  It’s a story about the patience of God in a situation that seems to beg a more expedient solution.  The comments by Jesus about the Galileans killed by Pilate, and those killed by the falling tower, tell us that Jesus is very conscious that time is running out – especially as he nears Jerusalem and what awaits him there.  There is a tension between the seriousness of people closing their eyes and ears to the Good News, and Jesus’ hope for humankind.  We can sense our Lord’s frustration as he tells his listeners, “but unless you repent, you will perish just as they did.”  By this pronouncement from Jesus, we are reminded of our own sinfulness, a nature shared by all humanity.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there.  He goes on to tell a story of his own.  It’s a story about the mercy of God – about the steadfast love God shows to God’s people.  The owner of a vineyard comes to the gardener wanting a barren fig tree cut down.  Fig trees exact a great toll on the soil, and to have one taking up the soil’s nutrients without return seems wasteful.  But the gardener stands between the owner and the fig tree and asks for patience.  “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it.  If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.”

One cannot help but see the promise of the Risen Christ in the words and actions of the gardener.  It’s a powerful image given to us in this story – it’s an image of God, who in the person of Jesus, kneels in the dirt and mud, digging about the roots of an unwanted, unfruitful, tree, in an attempt to bring about new life.  Think of the image of a God who is willing to get scratched and muddy, hands and arms manure-streaked and bruised, for the life of one tree.  Going even further – consider the image of those who managed to cut down a bothersome tree – only to see it rise again three days later.  Oh, what a wonderful God we have – who shares so much with us – who’s passion for us runs so deeply.

We might ask, “What of the next year?  What if there’s no fruit on the fig tree after all that work?”  Surely the owner of the vineyard has a limit?  Surely the mercy of God has its limits?  But I’m inclined to ask, “What if there’s the slightest bit of new growth?”  Wouldn’t the gardener find a way to give that tree one more season, then another, and another?  Would the Christ we claim to have descended to the dead to proclaim Good News not accept our turning at any point?

When we, or God for that matter, draw a line in the sand and say, “No more!” doesn’t our love – doesn’t God’s love – become conditional?  Maybe it’s our inability to love with the heart of God that demands a deadline for the barren fig tree – and some sort of “holy deadline” for humanity. 

Maybe it’s our own need for God’s love and forgiveness that makes us more concerned with the plight of the barren fig tree, or the other person’s sin, instead of the love of God which calls us each into new life.  The hammer-wielders of the rabbi’s parable see the barren fig tree as a lost cause to be cut down and thrown into the fire, or an obstacle to be ignored and slammed out of the way.  There is little patience on their part for those who cannot or will not get with the program – which coincidently matches their own belief systems.  The head-long, hammer-wielding, rush to the king at the center of the maze has no time for those who are left along the way, or those who don’t fit neatly into compact, set-in-stone belief systems.  Yet in another Gospel story, this one by Matthew, the hammer-wielders who find themselves before the throne of God are at a loss when they hear, “Depart from me… for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me” (Matt. 25:41-42).

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all face the world as the rabbi’s wandering disciples faced the king’s maze?  As wanderers we would stop for that barren fig tree.  Heaven can wait – God will wait – while we dig about its roots with the gardener’s help, and offer it care and nourishment along the way.  As wanderers we will risk getting run over by the hammer-wielders or caught upside the head by a stray crowbar every time we stop to care for those in need of help and love – every time we stop to leave a little message of encouragement or direction along the way – every time we stop to offer the Good News of God in Christ rather than a word of judgment.  And stop we must as followers of the One who stopped for us on Calvary’s tree.  Wanderers are vulnerable in this world – but then again, so was our Lord.

The hard truth is that each of us is often as much a hammer-wielder as a wanderer – Lent reminds us that sometimes we take up a crowbar instead of the cross.  The wonderful promise – the Good News – is that God gives us the power and the heart to become more and more the wanderer we see and know in Jesus.  And as wanderers, we know that heaven can indeed wait – that heaven will indeed wait for us – that God will indeed wait for us – as we journey among our sisters and brothers with the love of Christ enfolding us – as we journey into the heart of God.