Renunciations

John 8:3-11

Sometimes it helps to hear a story. When we are trying to understand a difficult concept, a story helps explain things. When we are trying to make something hard more palatable, a story softens the impact so we can accept it. So it is with the idea of renunciation—a strong theme for Lent. A story helps us understand the full range of what it means. 

A woman was caught en flagrante delicto with a man not her husband. The religious authorities decide to make her a test case for a wandering rabbi making waves with a gospel of grace, redemption, and healing—will he be obedient to the moral standards of the Church or not? What transpires, though, hardly goes according to plan—instead of becoming an example, the rabbi turns the tables, and the crowd and the woman end up experiencing a miraculous experience of renunciation that brings them all closer to God.

The first renunciation ironically comes from Jesus—he renounces engagement. He will not be pulled into the debate. Instead, he makes a show of non-participation, bending over to draw in the dirt at his feet as the mob awaits his ruling. What sort of renunciation is this? It is the renunciation of the need to react to everything. What a liberation! To be free of needing to react to every single event, experience, or episode unfolding before us! every pundit preaching on cable news is really after only one thing—your reaction (hopefully, your outrage). Jesus reveals another way. Refuse to play. Be able to see the game for what it is. At times, we feel overwhelmed by all the voices demanding attention, demanding our response, demanding our joining in—there are times, though, when the best response is no response. That in and of itself speaks volumes. Just because everyone else is screaming and yelling does not mean we have to join the fray. That is absolutely true when joining the fray leads far away from the compassion, grace, and mercy of God. The mob wants to destroy the woman. Jesus wants to reclaim her. Non-participation is the means by which to redeem.

The second renunciation is that of pride. Jesus sets the table perfectly. The one fit to judge is the one above repute. Well, that pretty well takes care of everybody. No, we may not have done what the woman did, but we have done something. John Calvin made that a hallmark of his doctrine—there is no delineation among sins because they all have the same result—someone is alienated from someone else; someone else has lost contact with God. As we set aside our right to judge, we suddenly find a bridge to the hurting soul near us. We set up the possibility of healing. Instead of uttering, “You fool!,” think of the promise of saying, “I think I know what you must feel like…” Jesus puts everybody before him in the same boat, not to condemn them, but to bind them together. When we pop the balloon of our ego, we set the stage for reconciling grace. We begin see others as they are and how we might meet them. This renunciation clears our eyes to truly see the world.

The third renunciation is departure. Ever found yourself somewhere you do not need to be? Then leave. The crowd, suddenly seeing the horror of what they are about to do, comes to their collective senses and departs before anything else can happen. They save themselves through Christ. Many a parent of teenagers may use this counsel—if something is happening you know to be wrong, then just leave. We can all use this renunciation on a daily basis. Exit is protection in some cases. Use it.

The fourth renunciation is guilt. This one is also ironic because isn’t Lent meant to be a season of remorse? How can you repent without guilt? Ah—but there is guilt, then there is guilt.  Proper remorse brings clarity, focus, and healing. However, guilt turned to abject self-loathing begins to gnaw at our souls. Do not allow guilt to become consuming. Talk it out with someone else. Find that gracious ear, using it to release yourself from the prison of regret. Hear Jesus blessing—“Neither do I condemn you.” Jesus is not after your destruction. He wants you with him. He wants you to know the joy of reconciliation, redemption, and reclamation. As we come to see what needs to be fixed, move toward fixing it, letting it go. Try hard as you can not to wallow in it. Yes, you may well see the person hurt. If you apologized, they are probably all right. Let go of the remorse to reconnect with them fully and completely. Allow yourself to heal. Then Christ’s presence will appear unfiltered.

Finally, though, there is the renunciation of resignation. This one is the renunciation of staying status quo. Once healed, we cannot continue as if sick. The woman will need to live differently now that she has tasted grace. Why would she want to return to life as it was? She has a new day, a new dawn—Christ wants her to enter them fully, to know the wash of joy of finding all things new. And that is the ultimate meaning of Lent. It is meant to clear the decks. It is meant to take away the darkness, preparing us for the wondrous light of resurrection, the new creation, and the full experience of the glory of God. 

So, yes, Lent is a season of renunciation, but it is a season of renunciation meant to harbor growth. Like a gardener removing the weeds that choke the flowers, we remove all that inhibits are growth in Christ. May this season be one of awakening, redemption, hope, and possibility. 

The resurrection awaits at the end of the road…