Looking

Now among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” (John 12.20-21)

One of my favorite episodes in the Holy Week narrative turns up in John 12.20-26. I’m probably drawn to it because it’s so often discarded to focus on more famous events that transpire during Jesus’s final days. But I love it because what happens here is a major breakthrough in His ministry—a momentary glimpse at what the Church will look like and what will be required of it. I believe this moment gets overlooked because it’s not overly complicated. But what happens is most unusual.

We start by noting that first-century Judaism holds tremendous appeal for many non-Jews. The God of Israel is unlike most deities, in that God remains in constant dialogue with the people. This God is known for mighty works and exhibits no mortal frailties. So, the power of God is the main attraction. Quite a few foreigners convert to monotheistic Judaism completely, while a large group worships YHWH as a God above all gods. At high holidays like Passover, the mainly Jewish crowd that flocks to Jerusalem is peppered with people from pagan traditions who come to pay homage to Israel’s God. While their status prevents them from being admitted into the Temple’s inner court, their faith compels them to participate in the festival from afar.

It happens that a group of Greeks is in Jerusalem for Passover. Evidently they’ve heard of Jesus, catching wind that His disciples say He’s the Promised One. It’s rumored that He raised a man from the dead and He’s created quite a stir since arriving in town. If, as some say, He is God, they want to meet Him. They go looking for Jesus. When they find one of His disciples, Philip, they say, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” Philip needs to clear this with the higher-ups. He takes their request to Andrew and the two of them approach Jesus. (For the record, this is the same Philip who, in the Book of Acts, becomes the first Apostle to baptize a non-Jew—the Ethiopian eunuch—into the faith. So there’s some poetic foreshadowing underway here, too. Nor can it go unnoticed another group of foreigners, the Magi, seek the newborn Jesus out.)

Jesus’s response is rather curious. He doesn’t ask one question about the Greeks—who they are, what they want, what they said. Indeed, there’s nothing in the text that implies their request surprises Jesus at all. Instead, Jesus reminds Philip and Andrew that His death is at hand. God’s plan is at work, and this out-of-the-blue appearance by the Greeks indicates the full extent of what God intends to do. Of course, He will see them.

The real point of the story arises in verse 26, where Jesus says, “Whoever serves Me must follow Me, and where I am, there will My servant be also. Whoever serves Me, the Father will honor.” The Greeks have come looking for Jesus. When they meet Him, they’ll find what they’re searching for. The nonsense about ethnicity, religious background, circumcision—all the criteria the Temple officials employ to segregate worshippers into “us” and “them”—is passing away. A New Order is coming into fruition, born of a single Divine Root that will spring up out of Its burial ground to spread Its branches over all of humanity. Jesus doesn’t simply invite the Greeks for a courteous chat, as if He’s campaigning for office and needs to shake as many hands as possible. He welcomes the Greeks’ request to get to know Him, fully confident that their encounter with Him will transform them into true followers. Finding Jesus puts them in the right place at the right time.

I sometimes think Holy Week’s epic emotions and tragic events eclipse what it’s really about: finding Jesus in the midst of chaos and treachery. We worry about the disciples. We hiss at the villains. We wring our hands in despair that no one will come to His defense. Yet to the end, from a group of curious Greeks to the believing thief hanging beside Him, Jesus keeps welcoming people who, according to tradition, are unworthy of His attention.

As we revisit this familiar story we love so dearly, our prayer should be, “We wish to see Jesus”—not through the lens of His enemies nor the frightened eyes of His followers. We wish to see Jesus as He wants to be seen: welcoming, accepting, willing to see us, regardless who we are or where we’re from. Inner court, outer court, Jew, Greek, male, female, straight, gay, saint, sinner—none of it matters. Finding Jesus. Meeting Him. Seeing Him as He wants to be seen. Being where He is. These are the things that mark us as His followers. 

Where I am, there will My servant be also.

Eyes for Peace

As He came near and saw the city, He wept over it, saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.” (Luke 19.41-42)

There is no after-party following Palm Sunday’s parade. Jesus dismounts the borrowed donkey and goes to the Temple, has a look around at what’s going on, and returns to Bethany. We know what Jesus finds during His brief stop at the Temple upsets Him, since He goes back on Monday to oust moneychangers and merchants who gouge holiday worshippers with inflated prices. He unites two prophetic texts to condemn their criminality, saying, “My house shall be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.” And we have a pretty good idea that Jesus returns the next day intent on shaking things up, in part because He’s in a foul mood. On His way into the city, He spots a fig tree that hasn’t yet blossomed. He’s hungry, but the tree has nothing to offer. So He curses the tree and it shrivels up. This is a side of Jesus the disciples haven’t seen—their first indicator that there’s been a shift in the atmosphere. Everybody’s tensed up.

Before all of this happens, however, Luke captures a poignant moment that helps us recognize the sorrow Jesus feels for Jerusalem. He pauses before entering the city and weeps for its decline. Jerusalem, the proverbial city on the hill, whose world-famous Temple sits atop its highest peak, has lost its vision. According to Isaiah 56, God has ordained Jerusalem’s Temple as a site of justice and inclusion. The chapter begins with a divine command: “Maintain justice and do what is right, for soon My salvation will come, and My deliverance be revealed.” (v1) The prophet lays out God’s vision for the Temple, describing a place where eunuchs and foreigners who were previously excluded would be welcomed and given places of honor. This is where we find the “house of prayer for all peoples” declaration. (v7) Gender and ethnic boundaries will be erased. Peace and unity will prevail in the Temple, which shapes Israel’s social and religious agendas. Jesus is entering Jerusalem to offer its people salvation and deliverance. But even before He steps inside the city, He isn’t hopeful. “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes,” He laments.

His reference to blindness invokes God and Isaiah’s displeasure with how the Temple is being run. In verses 10 and 11 we hear, “Israel’s sentinels are blind, they are all without knowledge; they are all silent dogs that cannot bark; dreaming, lying down, loving to slumber. The dogs have a mighty appetite; they never have enough. The shepherds also have no understanding; they have all turned to their own way, to their own gain, one and all.”

Jesus weeps because this is an old, old story. The gulf between the Temple and its people continues to widen. The correctives issued in Isaiah 56 haven’t been obeyed. People are still turned away from worship. The rich get preferential treatment. Preachers and teachers continue to serve up God’s promises, yet they have no vision for what those promises will look like in a “new Jerusalem,”—the place Jesus has spent three years describing as “the kingdom of God.” And here He stands, looking at Jerusalem through tear-swept eyes, the very embodiment of God come to save and deliver Israel from its religious and political oppressors. Their promised Prince of Peace is with them, but they can’t see it.

We can see it, but do we really understand what we’re looking at? The cry from Jesus’s heart mourns the loss of community. God has endowed Jerusalem with power to become a singular place where no one is rejected, where God’s all-inclusive love can reign supreme. Jesus has come to offer this amazing gift to a holy place that has lost touch with what makes it holy. Seeing how many of our own churches reflect Jerusalem’s failure, we too should mourn. But mourning is not enough. We should walk into our places of worship with clear eyes for peace. We should recognize where our leaders and communities have failed and we should decry their resistance to change. God is calling for a house of prayer for all peoples. The redundant embrace—all peoples—stresses the expectation of uncompromised inclusion.

Any church or faith community that compromises God’s expressed vision should be regarded with suspicion. These are blind spots shepherded by people with no understanding. We will not be fed in these pastures. We will not find peace in them, even though they sing and preach in the name of Christ. So why are we there? It behooves every disciple of Christ to seek community among people who have eyes for peace and understand Who Jesus is. The glory of the Temple loses its luster when we realize it’s lost its way. The fancy robes and soaring architecture and showmanship that draw so many inside its walls lose their magic. When churches prefer some above others and deny entry to eunuchs and strangers, the ground they stand on is no longer holy. So weep like Jesus for their blindness. But follow Jesus’s example: declare your displeasure with their error and when they resist you—and they will—walk away. Find a home where people with eyes for peace live out God’s vision in tangibly faithful ways.

Keep Talking

Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. (Romans 12.12)

The proliferation of wireless technology has fixed it so we never shut up. With smart phone in hand, we can fill up every spare moment with conversation. Either we’re chattering away, texting like houses afire, or shooting back emails. Our time is now so consumed with communication we can’t spare a minute to spell things out. We’re well past quick-typed acronyms and emoticons. Abbreviations now litter our speech. “That’s more than I need to know” has become “TMI.” “She’s my closest friend” is reduced to “BFF.” Where did this talking sickness come from? It’s as though having the capability to talk with anyone, anywhere, at any time unscrewed our corks and we’ve lost all control over torrents of words pouring out of us. We’ve become afflicted with a bottomless need to tell everyone everything, whether or not what we have to say really needs to be said.

Now suppose all these gizmos we’re attached to could only access one number and the responder at the other end was God. Would we be as enthusiastic about technology? Would we use it as freely and frequently as we do with other people? Would lines wrap around the block, with crazed consumers camped out overnight to get their mitts on the latest iPhone? Probably not. Talking to God—or texting or emailing God or scrolling through God’s Facebook posts—doesn’t have the same appeal that bending another human’s ear has. It’s estimated that Americans, on average, spend more than an hour of each day interacting with one another through their mobile devices. Imagine how that figure would plummet if our gadgets were solely dedicated to reaching God. Would we even know how to fill an hour in conversation and exchanging messages with God?

Prayer is the mother of all wireless technologies. And nothing we’ve invented—or ever will invent—can top its reliability and effectiveness. Prayer comes with a time-tested guarantee of no dropped calls. Satellite coverage is never an issue. It never goes to voicemail. Our words never break up. We never have to worry about having the Listener’s undivided attention. It’s never too early or late to call. Indeed, prayer’s technology is so advanced that we don’t even need to open our mouths. We can pray in our heads and the unspoken things on our hearts still reach God. That’s why all our excuses for not praying more make no sense. It’s ludicrous to think we don’t have time to pray, when we can pray whenever we want to tell God something. It’s silly to confine our prayers to certain places, like church or our bedside, as if they’re celestial phone booths. No matter where we are, we are never out of God's reach.

So why aren’t we praying more? Nothing whatsoever is stopping us from staying in frequent contact with our Maker. Maybe it’s because praying feels awkward to us. Maybe we don’t spend more time in prayer because we don’t know what to say. That makes sense. But it also makes sense that the more we pray, the better we get at it. So there may be long stretches of silence. So what? It’s okay to hang on the line with God. The silence can be illuminating. It encourages us to dig deeper and articulate problems and emotions that make us uncomfortable. If what we have to say is too much for God's ears, why would we ever trust another human to handle it?

Romans 12.12 urges, “Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.” We can employ Lent’s focus to alert us to dozens of prayer opportunities that come our way every day. Five minutes here, fifteen there—it all adds up. When a moment to pray presents itself, make the most of it. Consider giving your friends on speed dial a break. Tell God the same things you would say to them. Bend your Creator’s ear every chance you get. Keep talking.

Sharers--an Epiphany

This mystery… has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become… sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel. (Ephesians 3.5-6)

Room

When I was a kid, Sunday mornings began at the breakfast table with “The Revivaltime Hour,” a weekly radio broadcast. The host, Dr. C.M. Ward, was my father’s favorite preacher and over the years, he’d befriended my parents. I never met him. To my young ears, he sounded like Walter Cronkite. Most of what he said got lost in the table talk and clatter of dishes. But I recall how soothing his tones were; there was mastery in his voice that deepened my sense that God had everything under control. Most of all, it was the music that stuck with me. The program opened with “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” an 18^th-century anthem full of coronation imagery that climaxed with “crown Him Lord of all.” Then, after Dr. Ward’s message, “Revivaltime” closed with a gentle rendition of the invitational hymn, “Room at the Cross”:

There’s room at the cross for you

Though millions have come, there’s still room for one

Yes, there’s room at the cross for you

Sometimes, despite the breakfast hubbub, the song would grip Dad’s heart. His eyes would cloud up and I could almost see what he must have seen in his mind's eye: a young man from small-town Alabama making his way to Calvary, finding his place beside millions who’d come to kneel before their newfound Lord and Savior.

My own favorite religious program came on the air at 9 PM. It was the live broadcast from Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church—an African-American congregation whose 100-voice choir rocked the airwaves with its signature opener, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”:

What a fellowship! What a joy divine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

What a blessedness! What a peace is mine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

This was great news to a young man steadily realizing his God-given identity would one day lead him away from his family’s faith tradition. To enter into fellowship with a God Whose love would never fail was a promise I could believe, a hope I could never surrender. While both broadcasts’ doctrines were nearly identical, I found Fellowship’s Jesus to be more than an omnipotent Sovereign. Their Christ was a Lord Who reached out with everlasting arms to enfold and protect me. The programs intersected in their final moments. Like “Revivaltime,” Fellowship left the air as the pastor, Rev. Clay Evans, led the congregation in “Room at the Cross”. Their version was much slower—less an invitation than a reassurance—and they crafted a second chorus to underscore the boundless, inclusive love of Christ:

You may be high, you may be low

Some are rich, some are poor

STILL, there’s room at the cross for you

Mystery

This weekend’s texts—celebrating Epiphany—brought back the flood of emotions that coursed through the Sundays of my youth. Matthew’s Gospel gives us the Magi, who journey from the East in search of Israel’s promised Sovereign. They come fully prepared, bearing treasure to offer the Babe as they kneel at His cradle. Yet they really have no business being there. They aren’t Jews. They’re obviously not poor or lowly or oppressed. Still, they come. They’re drawn by the bright promise a new star that rises in the east to guide them. It is a light sent just for them—a light that assures them they’re welcome to worship the Incarnate God, a Lord of lords Who willingly exchanges royal robes for swaddling clothes, throne for crib, crown for the cradle of a teenaged mother’s hand. And this image, indelibly printed on our minds, delivers the Christmas message with stunning clarity. It is a promise that follows Jesus through His life, death, resurrection, even to this day: High, low, rich, poor, there’s room for you.

It’s unlikely the Magi grasp the import of their visit—a journey born of intellectual curiosity that will become the first testament of Christ’s all-inclusive love. In an age when personal, religious, ethnic, and national identities are so tightly intertwined as to be inseparable, that God would raise a star to summon pagans to Jesus’s side boggles the mind. That the Creator would literally move heaven and earth to include people traditionally deemed unwelcome defies reason. And that the Spirit would move Matthew to record this moment—forever fixing the presence of outsiders in our Christmas iconography—confounds us. In Ephesians 3, Paul calls this phenomenon “the mystery of Christ.” He stresses the radical nature of God’s inclusion as something we can never comprehend yet nonetheless must believe. In verses 5-6, he writes, “In former generations this mystery was not made known to humankind, as it has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise of Christ Jesus through the gospel.” Fellow heirs. Members of the same body. Sharers in the promise. Though millions have come, there's still room.

Epiphany

We’ve not made much progress in defeating the ancient notion that all the threads of our identity are so tightly woven together they’re all of piece. And to a large extent, that’s true. The concept falls apart, however, when we assume certain aspects of identity make us unacceptable to God. Such ideology is the illegitimate spawn of human tradition. It doesn’t square with what we see with the Magi or hear the Spirit say through the apostles and prophets. Who we are, where we come from, and whatever social and religious baggage is thrust upon us bear no relevance in terms of God’s lavish welcome. Every effort—all the powers in the world—attempting to shut us out cannot change the fact that we “have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.”

There’s room—that is the epiphany for today, tomorrow, and all time. It is the mystery made manifest in a Creator Who displays sovereign power by moving heaven and earth to summon the least likely of us to Christ's side. It is the promise made real by a Babe Whose tiny arms unfurl, inviting us to fellowship with a God Who loves us without measure. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Trust what your eyes see and the assurance the Spirit speaks to your heart. You cannot be crowded out. You will not be turned away. Bring your gifts. Ask your questions. Follow Christ’s star. It was sent just for you. Discover what the Magi found: there’s room for you.

God’s lavish inclusion is the mystery at the heart of Epiphany’s celebration.

Postscript: “Room at the Cross”

I found this clip of Rev. Clay Evans, now in his late 80s and pastor emeritus of Chicago’s Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church, from those golden years when he led his congregation in “Room at the Cross”. It still brings joyful tears to my eyes. The hymn he segues into (“At the Cross”) says:

At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the Light

And the burdens of my heart rolled away

It was there by faith I received my sight

And now I am happy all the day

The same Light that drew the Magi to Christ’s cradle radiates from Calvary’s cross, there for all who, by faith, receive their sight. May this Epiphany overwhelm you with the joy of discovering there is room for you!