I Thirst

When one is hanging on a cross, not only the body, but time stretches out too.

A cross is not a quiet death, over in an instant in one glorious moment of martyrdom like being torn apart by lions, or meeting the swift sword of a soldier.

A cross is as much an instrument of torture as it is a gallows from which to hang.

It is there to make a statement, to warn others, to set fear in their hearts.

And as the day wears on, seconds stretch into minutes, which stretch into hours 
until there comes a point when time can no longer be measured

except in the circling birds of prey, and the gradual weakening of the body,

and its ever more insistent demands for that substance which is so vital to life,

so foundational to all living things, so basic to existence as we know it: -- water.

Water to moisten a parched mouth,

Water to free a swollen tongue,

Water to open a sore and rasping throat that cannot gasp enough air,

Water to keep hope alive, to stay with them just a few precious moments longer.

Water, to a crucified man, is life.

Jesus was cradled in the waters of Mary’s womb,

Baptized in the waters of the River Jordan by his cousin John,

Became living water to a woman at the Samaritan Well,

Washed the feet of the disciples on that last night he was together with them,  

And now, in this moment, when he craves it the most,

All this man is given is sour vinegar.

"O God, thou art my God, I seek thee, my soul thirsts for thee; my flesh faints for thee as in a dry and weary land where no water is."

Who can tell if these words from Psalm 63 went through Jesus’ mind?

A thirst for water is a thirst for life,

and a thirst for life is a thirst for God,

A God who promises streams in the desert, mighty rivers in the driest of lands,

and living water to wash away every tear.

Here, at the end of it all, those promises from God seem so far, far away… distant. And yet Jesus, broken in body, still clings to the memory and the hope of life.

"I thirst."

Have You Seen Him?

The earliest memory I have of him was his birth. His cry was clear and loud, even though his body was so small. As a child, he would make fortresses out of blankets and branches and involve all of the neighborhood boys in games of war. So normal, so much like the others. How was I to know?

As a youth, he seemed to grow overnight – both his limbs and his mind. When my son was 13, we lost our ancestral homeland. Soldiers came one night in the dead darkness and took it, just took it! The army had taken notice of our olive grove, and needed it (they said). Suddenly, his passion for playing war became all too real. He knew there would be no inheritance – it had been taken from him, from us. 

At 14, he met a group of young men who were as frustrated as he was. Zealots, they called themselves. Riff-raff was what I called them. These men would gather at night and plan violent acts of insurrection. They used our religion to stoke the fires of rebellion in the hearts of other young men. Dangerous stuff.  Their weapon of choice?  Rocks. My boy and his friends would sneak up behind the Roman garrisons and throw stones at them. What were they trying to prove?

I remember in those years he would come home in the morning, a few fresh bruises on his face, and I would dress his wounds.  I know he had his reasons, we all do, but why did he have to get involved in something so dangerous?

Something changed in him when he was 22. He met a healer and teacher, from Nazareth (of all places), who had been travelling throughout Judea with a small band of loyal followers. My son heard him speak and decided to leave the Zealots, he told me it was because they were “thinking too small”. This new teacher, this Jesus, was preaching about the realm of God that was to come.

There was so much about this man that kept my son spellbound. Every time they encountered the hungry, Jesus would compel the crowd to care for them. When the sick and diseased came to him, Jesus didn’t run away like one of our priests, but he prayed over them – and somehow people got better! He was always telling stories; they made you think about what it means to be a child of God.

So my son became one of them. He put down the rocks and picked up a pair of sandals. Not much to go with, but Jesus told him that somehow the Lord would provide for them. Eventually he was given the huge responsibility of taking care of the group’s modest travelling purse. As a young man without an inheritance, this trust placed in him was extraordinary. And that wasn’t all – because Jesus taught them so much about what it means to forgive someone, to minister to them – his father and I thought this would become his life’s work. We have been so proud of Judas lately.

Were he and the others always successful? No, I heard plenty of stories about them getting kicked out of villages. I know that part was frustrating. But for a mother to see her son grow from a hooligan to what he was becoming was a gift.

Which is why, on this night, my heart is breaking. The stories that keep flooding in tonight, betrayal… deception… treachery! I don’t know what I could have done differently, or where his father and I went wrong. We didn’t raise my son to be a thief and a liar and a sell out!

Are you judging me?

Something had to change his heart, what it was I may never know. Maybe it’s true that Jesus is taking longer than he though to usher in the realm of God.  My biggest fear tonight is that Judas has done something horrible. 

If it is true, if he has betrayed Jesus, something had to have snapped.  There must have been a reason. He loved him! I know he did! He would talk about him all the time. He must not have done what they are saying, it’s all lies. My stomach is churning, and I don’t know where to find my son. Have you seen him?

Jesus & Geography

One of the most thoughtful gifts I ever received was given to me by my father: a GPS. This little electronic miracle on my car’s dashboard not only gives me to most efficient way to find someone’s house or a meeting location, but it also shows me the approximate time I’ll arrive at my destination. It gives me great peace of mind to have that kind of control. As a new minister, my dad knew that I’d have to find my way around town and he knew what he was doing when he gave it to me (thanks Dad!).

I’ve come to realize that without the GPS I’ve got a little problem with my sense of direction. If I have to guess where I am going, I am often one hundred and eighty degrees off. If I choose to go right, I should have gone left.

Before leaving for Jerusalem I studied a number of maps just in case I became separated from the group and unable to find my way back to the dorms. My GPS doesn’t work in a foreign country. I hoped that studying my surroundings carefully would make a difference, because I didn’t want to get caught looking like a tourist with my nose in a map. Sometimes, the geography around me can be misleading, and I’ve learned that just because a road looks like it should go somewhere, doesn’t necessarily make it so.

I wonder if that happened with Jesus too. Today is Palm Sunday, a day that we remember Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. In our minds eye we picture crowds shouting “Hosanna” (go ahead, wave your palms!) as Jesus and his followers wind their way down then up the cobble street road to enter the city from the Eastern side through the Golden Gate from the village of Bethany.

Most people who watched them go by wouldn’t have guessed that in a week he would be dying on a cross. Maybe the ones who followed him closely had an idea, whether they could bring themselves to admit it or not. But everyone else? They didn’t know where Jesus’ road was leading. Their hope was that it was leading to a marvelous kingship, that this Jesus of Nazareth would overturn the rule of Rome and usher in the realm of God.

Geography matters because it determines the road you are on.

Over on the western side of Jerusalem another parade is entering through the Damascus Gate. This assembly is altogether different; it’s a Roman garrison, ordered there by Tiberius Caesar to back up Pontius Pilate during the season of Passover. Drums beat out a marching rhythm, horses prance in formation, thousands of soldiers on foot and mount display power and might and strike fear in the hearts of those assembled. The crowd is ordered to bow down in reverence and obedience, some willingly, others under duress.

There were two different parades, on two different roads, for two very different reasons, headed in two different directions. The Roman army was there to “keep the peace” and order of the domination system, which was always tricky during time of religious pilgrimage when the city would expand with visitors. In a society dominated by political oppression, economic exploitation and religious justification this public showing of brute power and force kept chaos at bay, at least for a time.

But the other parade, the one with the Nazarene teacher riding a small donkey, the one with the crowd of peasants shouting “Hosanna! Save us!” - that parade was there to redefine what peace could be for God’s people. The road Jesus’ was on quite literally had a fork in it. Had he taken the turn to the north, he would have been in the path of the military parade on their way to the Antonia Fortress. Instead, he turned southwest and towards the temple, indicating that the work that was to be done began in the place where they worshipped and learned about God.

Jesus, of course, knew where the road was headed – according to Mark’s gospel he warned his followers three times that there would be trouble ahead, that they would not be well-received. But they kept on going, despite the fear and trembling, even though they could hear the war drums sound a few blocks away. What would you have done?

I know how I would have responded, because in addition to being somewhat directionally impaired, I have a great fear of being lost. The road that Jesus was on would have looked like "lost" to me. I wouldn’t have been able to turn that donkey around fast enough!

Yet, we don’t get any hint that Jesus wants to head his donkey in a different direction. Mark Twain said, "The two most important days in a person’s life are the day he is born and the day he finds out why." Jesus knew why he was born: to confront the domination system and show these people who followed him and kept messing up over and over that life, not death, is the final word.

What looks like "lost" to us looks like a purpose for being to Jesus. Perhaps you remember Robert Frost’s famous poem "The Road Not Taken," which paints a picture for us about two paths in a wooded area. We get the impression that Frost stands at a fork in the path for a while and calculates which one he should take. One seems to be well traveled; one is still grassy because it has not yet been trampled down. Perhaps one is safe, but the other is beautiful and wild. Maybe he knows exactly where one of the paths comes out, but the other could take him in a direction that is new and exciting and beyond his control. It’s a difficult choice indeed. In the poem, Frost chooses between safety and beauty, between known and unknown. Frost ends his poem this way: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Jesus makes an undeniably harder choice: between life and death, between security and purpose. Maybe what we are celebrating today is simply the notion that Jesus chose the path that few others did, the path paved with mercy, love and compassion. The small, insignificant gathering of pilgrims and peasants who followed him believed it just might be possible to change the world for the better, to usher in the realm of God. And that was why they were on the road with him.

The question that Jesus asks us today is “what road are you on?” Is it the road that leads to restoration and wholeness, to a society shaped by grace?