The Eliot Church of Newton

To come into worship with a parade, of children and singing and palms joyfully
raised in praise and delight…
Only to be …
dragged into the Passion of Christ…
A story of betrayal
Of denial,
Of fickle crowds,
Scheming authorities,
Ruthless monarchs,
And confused and fearful disciples. 

And by the end of the story, those who used to call him Teacher
have betrayed and denied him
They have disappeared, they are hiding.

And, we  
Wind up here,
Standing alone with the women...
Bewildered, perhaps
At the foot of the cross.

 

For years, I was not a fan of the cross
as the prime symbol of Christianity.
Why on earth would something used for tortuous death be a meaningful object to place on our altars and wear in gold around our necks?
(Seriously, why not a fish? Jesus ate all of the time, fished a lot, fished for people…and doves, oh my, a symbol of Spirit of God with us …) No. The defining image of Christianity became a cross.  
The cross portrayed to me a theology of redemptive violence,
where a vengeful God demanded payment for all of the wrong and evil and bad things people do in the world,
and  the only payment sufficient was  the blood sacrifice of God’s own child.
That God was not something I understood, so I rejected the cross.  

Until, a wise professor in seminary, Kosuke Koyama, who understood water buffaloes as a source of speaking theology said in class…
“Who thinks a circle is the best symbol for love?” 
I raised my hand… for a circle embraces, a circle continues forever…
“A circle,” Professor Koyama reminded us, “has an impenetrable boundary. You are in the circle, or outside of it. A circle creates barriers.”

Then, he asked, “What about the cross? Can it be a symbol for love? Who says no?”
I raised my hand, again.
He looked at us, and said, “Think about it. The Cross is the most open symbol of all, for it opens the center, it  is vulnerable…and reaches in every direction, endlessly..
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Reaching in every direction….
Standing at the foot of the cross this morning,
I find myself being drawn to the anointing woman,
Who responds to Jesus with openness, vulnerability, and unheard extravagance.

She emerges from the margin of the story—
Who is she? Why is she there? It isn’t clear…

But, while Judas is busy working out a deal to betray Jesus,
She is listening to Jesus.
When he speaks of his coming suffering and death—
She hears him. 
What does she hear in his voice?  Fear? Sadness? Love? Hope? 
Whatever she hears, she is moved to do something…something beyond reason…
So she lavishly and tenderly and generously anoints Jesus
by breaking open an alabaster jar of the purest of nard,  and pours it on his head—
recognizing him as one sent by God, and understanding the truth he speaks—
While his disciples continue to be devoured by power plays and questions.

Of course, there are those who are quick to criticize her wasteful act, crying out that the worth of expensive perfume should have gone to care for the poor.
They miss the point.
Jesus is the poor. He is the poorest man in that house[i]
An innocent man, who will be abandoned by friends, facing a brutal execution.
Leave her be, Jesus says,
her abundant mercy is a sign of devotion—and that, Jesus says, is what they should be doing for the poor. (I don’t know if I know anyone who has spent a year’s wages on corporal acts of mercy and healing and justice for the poor.)  

The woman’s act is a beautiful thing, Jesus says.
She listened and believed…it must have sounded impossible to her, in a way…Jesus talking about his death and his suffering. She didn’t miss the point, though, and did what was possible in the face of the impossible….
A beautiful thing that will be remembered…
Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever wanted to do something in the face of a tragedy, to do what is possible in the fact of the impossible?

When my nephew killed himself a year ago, it felt impossible. Impossible to believe, to grasp, to even begin to comprehend. His presentation to the world around him was of joy and light and love to so many. It was an unfeasible tragedy.

Without words, people lavished mercy and grace in the deepest of ways, from delivering packages of paper products and trays of food…to his young friends with tattoos and multiple piercings showing up at the doorstep to offer comfort to grandparents and play the music they wrote together…
It was an impossible time…
But the possible mercy offered
Was a beautiful thing.
This nameless woman, remembered forever, reminds us…
To be open to truth—
She reminds us to take whatever is precious and beautiful and extravagant
And use it to touch the suffering in others—
And God knows-- there is suffering in this world.

The word passion actually means, to suffer.
It is a deep word, encompassing love, emotion, fervor—beyond reason.
The extravagant passion of Jesus had everything to do with the struggle between those with power, between the privileged and the impoverished, between those who live at the centre of things and those who exist at the margins.[ii]  
His passion was about speaking truth to power,
And offering hope to the powerless,

Never giving up—believing that there could be heaven on earth for all—
and the meaning of his death is in that struggle—which has nothing to do blood sacrifice and punishment. And everything to do with love.
What happened on the cross,
Was the greatest act of openness.
The ultimate act of love, reaching to infinity[iii]
Revealing a God “who makes possible all of our loves…and helps us to resist evil”[iv], to embrace hope, and gives us courage to lavish extravagant compassion and devotion in the corners of our world.  
And that, dear ones,
is a beautiful thing.