36 Hours
Luke 22:7-23:56
(yes, I know it's a chunk of scripture, but we need the whole account of the Passion)
Maundy Thursday evening begins the Passion. Jesus gathers in the Upper Room to celebrate Passover, but completely reworks the Seder liturgy, instituting a brand new rite that actually fulfills the old one. No more lamb. No four cups of wine to mark each piece of the remembrance of Passover. No hidden matzoh. Just the one loaf. Luke does give us two cups, but it is the one we remember. Jesus becomes the centerpiece. He becomes the rite and ritual of this moment.
That seems odd until we consider exactly what Jesus means in his life, work, death, and, eventually, rising.
Jesus is the love of God embodied--as John poetically states in John 3:16--Jesus is God's gift to all humanity.
We see the fulness of that gift over the next 36 hours from Thursday evening into Saturday morning. Jesus enters the hell described in the Apostles Creed. Jerusalem forsakes him. Rome forsakes him. The Temple forsakes him. Pilate forsakes him. The soldiers forsake him. The crowd forsakes him. The faith community forsakes him. The disciples forsake him. Peter denies him. Judas betrays him. As he cries from the cross, he even feels God forsakes him. He enters the most abysmal form of human life we can imagine--to be utterly forgotten, forlorn, and finished. It was why we so often pass by the suffering we meet along our way. It is how the folks pushing the grocery carts with all their possessions become part of the scenery. It is how we can grow numb to yet another bomb going off in yet another market. It is what pushes into ourselves.
But there are the women...the ones who watch from afar, the ones who remain to witness all that happens, the ones still moved by the pathos of the moment.
We join them in our observances if we pull ourselves out of ourselves. We need to take in all the events of the next 36 hours, seeing them deeply for how they pertain to our lives.
We need to see the self-emptying. We need to see it in stark contrast to the belligerent bickering of our time and place. We choose sides, rejecting the other out of hand, loudly shouting down anyone who dares speak differently from our view. We refuse to cooperate--that is weakness. We refuse to listen, somehow fearing that even listening will steer us from what is right, completely oblivious to the fact that if we remain violently apart from one another, we can NEVER be right in the ways of God.
We need to see the willingness to love to the point of utter exhaustion of any and every resource within us. It is compassion that will heal the world. It is mercy that will bind up all human wounds. As long as there are those who hurt, there is reason to love, not simply in word and thought, but in tangible action of binding up, reconciling, forgiving, uniting, etc. Until pain is healed, our work is before us. Only by so doing could Jesus without a hint of irony tell the thief beside him, "Today you will be with me in paradise." It is within our reach to help someone closer to paradise. Love them.
Rest will come, but now, love.
That is the deep and lasting image from the Passion--to love extravagantly, unreasonably, and mightily.
That is our hope.
(yes, I know it's a chunk of scripture, but we need the whole account of the Passion)
Maundy Thursday evening begins the Passion. Jesus gathers in the Upper Room to celebrate Passover, but completely reworks the Seder liturgy, instituting a brand new rite that actually fulfills the old one. No more lamb. No four cups of wine to mark each piece of the remembrance of Passover. No hidden matzoh. Just the one loaf. Luke does give us two cups, but it is the one we remember. Jesus becomes the centerpiece. He becomes the rite and ritual of this moment.
That seems odd until we consider exactly what Jesus means in his life, work, death, and, eventually, rising.
Jesus is the love of God embodied--as John poetically states in John 3:16--Jesus is God's gift to all humanity.
We see the fulness of that gift over the next 36 hours from Thursday evening into Saturday morning. Jesus enters the hell described in the Apostles Creed. Jerusalem forsakes him. Rome forsakes him. The Temple forsakes him. Pilate forsakes him. The soldiers forsake him. The crowd forsakes him. The faith community forsakes him. The disciples forsake him. Peter denies him. Judas betrays him. As he cries from the cross, he even feels God forsakes him. He enters the most abysmal form of human life we can imagine--to be utterly forgotten, forlorn, and finished. It was why we so often pass by the suffering we meet along our way. It is how the folks pushing the grocery carts with all their possessions become part of the scenery. It is how we can grow numb to yet another bomb going off in yet another market. It is what pushes into ourselves.
But there are the women...the ones who watch from afar, the ones who remain to witness all that happens, the ones still moved by the pathos of the moment.
We join them in our observances if we pull ourselves out of ourselves. We need to take in all the events of the next 36 hours, seeing them deeply for how they pertain to our lives.
We need to see the self-emptying. We need to see it in stark contrast to the belligerent bickering of our time and place. We choose sides, rejecting the other out of hand, loudly shouting down anyone who dares speak differently from our view. We refuse to cooperate--that is weakness. We refuse to listen, somehow fearing that even listening will steer us from what is right, completely oblivious to the fact that if we remain violently apart from one another, we can NEVER be right in the ways of God.
We need to see the willingness to love to the point of utter exhaustion of any and every resource within us. It is compassion that will heal the world. It is mercy that will bind up all human wounds. As long as there are those who hurt, there is reason to love, not simply in word and thought, but in tangible action of binding up, reconciling, forgiving, uniting, etc. Until pain is healed, our work is before us. Only by so doing could Jesus without a hint of irony tell the thief beside him, "Today you will be with me in paradise." It is within our reach to help someone closer to paradise. Love them.
Rest will come, but now, love.
That is the deep and lasting image from the Passion--to love extravagantly, unreasonably, and mightily.
That is our hope.
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