Away with Him: A Sermon for Holy Week

Reference is made in this sermon to a Lenten study on the story of the Good Samaritan. Our congregation spent the six weeks of Lent reflecting on a video series that looks at the story of the Good Samaritan in relation to contemporary social justice themes. To learn more about the series, visit www.juststart.org.

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Away with him!

This was the sentiment expressed by a hospital administrator in Los Angeles after Gabino Olvera was treated there for injuries related to a minor traffic accident. Gabino was a parapalegic-- paralyzed from the waist down. He was also homeless, and had lost his wheelchair in the accident. He had nowhere to go. But he also had no insurance. And so the hospital put him in an ambulance and dumped him back on skid row. According to the hospital, he was an inconvenience.

“Away with them,” cried the sheriff of Los Angeles County.

After the effort to clean up LA’s skid row back in 2005, I was taken on a tour down the street that was formerly home to tents, boxes, tarps, and other make-shift shelters. As we drove down the street, it looked as if the effort to clean up skid row had been successful. Aside from a few people loitering about, the street was basically clear. But then the driver of the van took me several blocks away. I started to see tents, tarps, and shopping carts filled with belongings.

“They said they cleaned up skid row,” the driver told me, “but all they really did
was move the homeless to a place where fewer people would see them.” According to the city of Los Angeles, the homeless were an inconvenience.

“Away with them,” was the cry of the diocese of Philidelphia, after a group of homeless families— mostly women and their children-- took up residence in an abandoned cathedral downtown.

They had been living in a tent city, but conditions had been getting unbearable, with flooding and rats making conditions unsafe. That’s when they noticed St. Edwards, one of many urban churches that had been closed down and abandoned by the Catholic Church. And so, the families moved in. But when the archdiocese which owned the building got wind of what was going on, they announced that the families had 48 hours to get out, or get arrested. Even to the church, these homeless women and children were an inconvenience.

“Away with him,” was the cry of the crowd in Jerusalem, when Pilate brought Jesus before them once more, asking them if they wished to reconsider his fate.

A few weeks ago, we reflected on Jesus’ trial and all of the political maneuvering that may have contributed to his condemnation. It was a hostile and volatile political climate. Jesus was a controversial figure. And let’s face it, the demands he made on his followers and would-be followers were pretty darn inconvenient. He preached that the last would be first and the first would be last-- that the rich and powerful would be cast down from their places of honor. He hung around with tax collectors, prostitutes, lepers, and sinners. He defied the religious leaders and their traditions. He healed on the Sabbath. He told people to love their enemies, and threw the moneychangers out of the temple. He told his followers to sell everything they owned and give the money to the poor. He said, “take up your cross and follow me.” Jesus was inconvenient. Jesus complicated things. And that is perhaps yet another reason why Jesus found himself on the brink of condemnation by his own people. They did not want to see him for who he really was. They did not want to hear what he had to say, or have to deal with the implications. And so they cried out to Pilate to take him away, to get him out of their sight. Away with him.

Perhaps it’s easy for us, with our knowledge of how this story eventually ends, to feel a little bit removed from the religious leaders who condemned Jesus to his fate. We know the truth about Jesus, we have the advantage of hindsight, they did not. But the question I always find myself asking when wrestling with this part of the gospel narrative is-- would we have acted any differently? Would we have seen Jesus, if he was presented to us in the flesh? Would we have heard what he had to say? Would we have followed him to the cross? Even today, knowing what we know about how this story eventually ends, do we truly let ourselves see Jesus? Do we let ourselves hear him and be changed by him? Do we let our lives be inconvenienced by the gospel? Do we take up our cross, and follow?

These are just some of the questions we’ve been exploring in our Lenten Good Samaritan study over the last few weeks. Last week, one participant commented to me that although they thought the study was very good, that it was almost too much. Over the past four weeks we’ve heard about everything from extreme poverty, to global disease epidemics, to exploitation and modern-day slavery. Week after week, participants are encouraged to pray that that God would open our eyes to a world in need-- to show us where we can be Good Samaritans. Not to say “away with them,” when we see people in need, but to answer Jesus’ call towards radical love and compassion-— to let ourselves be inconvenienced.

This is a risky endeavor, because when we do open our eyes and look around, when we do make an attempt to respond to the call of the gospel, we begin to see need everywhere-- from the streets of skid row in Los Angeles to the soup kitchens of Stamford, Connecticut. From the pictures of AIDS orphans in Africa, to the exploitation of workers all around the around, including right here in this very city. We see need, brokenness, and injustice everywhere. And all of a sudden, our natural impulse to want to respond, to want to help, begins to shrink in the face of all that need. There are so many demands on those of us who care deeply about the world. And we start to feel paralyzed by the immensity of the problems. And so when we really let ourselves see all of the brokenness in the world around us, our first reaction can sometimes be to retreat, to try and push it all back under the rug, to pretend we didn’t see. Not because we don’t care, not because we are bad people— but because we don’t know where to start. It seems too hard, and we don’t see how we can even make a dent in all that’s wrong in the world. And perhaps, just perhaps, we also realize that to really change things, to really begin to break down systematic injustice, we might have to change the way we live. And that scares us. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s inconvenient.

But here’s the thing about following Jesus: no one ever said it would be easy or comfortable. There is nothing in the gospel that should lead us to think that following Jesus is the path of least resistance. If it was, I have a feeling that the end of the story would have turned out quite differently. Jesus calls us to a life of radical discipleship, a life that is in glaring contrast to the status quo, one in which we see the need in the world around us and we refuse to sweep it back under the rug. One in which see injustice and we refuse to let it be ignored. This kind of life may not be the one that is most comfortable or familiar. It might require taking some risks, trying something new, stirring things up, and God forbid-- ruffling some feathers. But when we look back over the history of the church— it has always been the folks who aren’t afraid to let things get a little messy, a little inconvenient-- who have taken both the church and society forward in the movement towards peace and justice. People like Martin Luther King Jr and Dietrich Bonheoffer, Dorothy Day and William Sloan Coffin. People whose lives show us that following Jesus might be difficult, and awkward, and scary, but it leads us towards a better world and better versions of ourselves.

Now, lest all of this talk about inconvenience and the difficulty of following the gospel be too discouraging, it’s important to remember that there is good news in all of this. There is good news for us, and there is good news for the church. The good news is that every time we open our eyes to the poor, every time we volunteer our time at the soup kitchen or the food bank. every time we write a letter to congress, or donate food and clothing to someone in need-- every time we let ourselves be inconvenienced by the gospel, we are that much closer to the kingdom of God.

Tony Campolo, an evangelical preacher and writer, makes a point of saying that "Jesus never says to the poor: ‘Come and find the church’. Rather, he says to the church: ‘Go into the world and find the poor, hungry, homeless, and imprisoned.’ Because that is Jesus in disguise.”

Jesus says to us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. If you know me, you will know my father also.” To open our eyes to the needs of the world, is to open our eyes to Jesus Christ— and to open our hearts to God.

Every week in church we pray that God’s kingdom might come, that God’s will would be done, on earth, just as it is in heaven. Every time we let ourselves be inconvenienced by the gospel, every time we let ourselves imagine that another world is possible, we are living out that prayer. And I believe that what the church truly needs right now, in the midst of all the brokenness in the world, are Christians who believe so deeply in the truth and power of that prayer that they can’t help but begin enacting it here and now. That would be good news indeed.

What is Truth: Part Two

In my last post, I wrote about how the cultural noise in our society can distort truth to the point that grave injustices occur. It's always important to keep this in mind, especially as we head into another presidential campaign season. However, I recognize that there is more to this question of truth than the truth about our external reality. And there are more distractions than those that come at us from the outside. As much as we’re bombarded with news, opinions, editorials, and conflicting accounts of what’s true from outside sources-- the fact is-- it can be pretty noisy in here as well. Sometimes all that outside noise can actually be a preferable distraction to our own insecurities, doubts, and anxieties about our lives. We all have times in our lives when we feel like the Israelites, wandering through the wilderness of this world. Or maybe we feel like Jesus, praying alone in the garden, wondering if God has abandoned us. Or pleading with God to take our burdens from us. At times like that, we can tend to ask ourselves, what is really true about God? What is really true about God’s will--- God’s purposes for our lives? Is there even a purpose? Is God even still listening? What is truth, we ask ourselves, when our lives get turned upside down?

It’s appropriate, I think, to be reflecting on this idea of truth as we journey through the 40 days of Lent. Lent is traditionally a time to turn down the noise-- both inside and out-- to tune out all of the voices of fear, all of the voices of self-doubt, and any other voices that might be overpowering the truth of God’s love in our lives. Lent is a time for discernment— a time to discern what is really true about ourselves, our lives, and about our relationship with God. St. Paul wrote in his letter to the Romans that we are “not to be conformed to this world, but to be transformed by the renewing of our minds, so that we may discern what is the will of God.” It is through our times of solitude and quiet reflection that we find the wisdom necessary to discern truth about who we are as beloved children of God.

While reflecting on this question of truth, I want to offer a metaphor used by theologian Karen Baker Fletcher. It’s a metaphor that she uses to talk about how we do this work of discerning God’s truth in our lives. She writes that discerning God’s truth is a little bit like a dance. It requires us to remain nimble— to be able to respond to God’s ever-present and always active Spirit in our lives. She says that if we let our views become too narrow, if we let our ideas become too static, we might miss out on the dance. We might miss out on the next step that the Spirit is nudging us to take. We might miss out on the help that God is sending to guide us in our journey through the wilderness. I love this metaphor because it challenges us to embrace a concept of truth that is dynamic and living. It challenges us to look beyond the sound-bytes and easy answers, because at the end of the day, this kind of Truth is not something that someone else can tell you. It’s not something you can get from Fox News, or MSNBC, or CNN. You won’t find it in the New York Times, or on a blog. It’s not something you can read in a book. It’s something you can only know if you allow yourself to be open to, and transformed by God.

This Lent, and even as we move out of Lent into the Easter season, we are called to be participants in this dance with God. In our times of quiet reflection, in our moments of discernment that happen throughout our day, we are called to listen. We are called to listen for the still, small voice of the Spirit as she moves us towards the next step in our search for truth. I suppose if there is an answer to our question this morning— what is Truth— it is to be found there: Truth is a journey. It is the journey that all of us are on— throughout these 40 days of Lent, and throughout our lives. We don’t ever really stop looking for it. But every step we take on that journey brings us deeper into relationship with God, and brings us to deeper understandings about ourselves and the world that we live in. This Lent, let’s take that journey, let’s enter into that dance, together.

What is Truth: Part One

What is truth?

These three little words, uttered here in John’s gospel, have fascinated and provoked all sorts of people-- from religious mystics, to biblical scholars, to secular philosophers, to everyday people like you and me.

What is truth?

This little question has been the source of much speculation (and much consternation) both inside and outside of the church. It’s a question that— particularly in this context— seems to lead us to even more questions. For example: Why does the text so abruptly break after Pilate asks this question? Why do we get no response from Jesus after this seemingly important and profound question? Did Pilate even expect an answer, or was it merely a rhetorical question? Some scholars suggest that it’s not really a question at all— that it is more of a sarcastic response to Jesus’ claim to be an agent of truth. “What is truth, anyway…” Pilate says, before giving Jesus up to be crucified. Other scholars believe that it’s not meant to be read in a historical sense at all, that it is really a question addressed to the readers. After 18 chapters of John’s gospel, the truth about Jesus has been laid out for us over and over again. Perhaps John inserts this question here in order to provoke his readers— to get us to think back over the previous 17 chapters and decide for ourselves what we really believe the truth to be about Jesus Christ.

Unfortunately, it’s impossible to know for certain what John intended when he wrote these three little words. One thing we do know, however, is that in the midst of everything going on around Jesus during his last days, there was an awful lot of noise. Lots of people, saying lots of things, about what was true, and who was right.

On the one hand were the religious authorities. The chief priests who handed Jesus over to Pilate, insisting that his crimes were worthy of the ultimate punishment. The religious authorities were fearful because up until this point, the Roman Empire had been fairly lenient towards the Jews in Palestine-- allowing them to maintain much of their communal identity and religious freedoms, even though they were subjects of the Roman Empire. But that religious freedom came at a price. If the Roman Empire ever got wind that there was rebellion brewing— if they ever had reason to believe that the loyalty of the Jews belonged to anyone but the emperor, those freedoms would come crashing down with the force of the Roman army. And so there was an agreement between the Roman government and the Jewish authorities: Practice your religion freely— as long as you don’t threaten our political power. Well, that balancing act was becoming more and more precarious, and the religious authorities were getting nervous. Jesus was calling a little too much attention to their little corner of the world, and all of this upset about Jesus of Nazareth— being hailed by some as a king and some a messiah-- was not something they wanted to reach the ears of the emperor.

On the other hand, Pilate also had reason to be nervous. He also maintained a precarious position. As governor of Judea, his subjects were Jews, but his power came from the emperor. If ever the Roman government sensed that his sympathies strayed from the throne, consequences could be dire. At the very least, he would be deposed. At worst, he too could find himself executed for treason. Pilate faced the possibly of rebellion and violence from his subjects on the one hand, and punishment from Roman authorities on the other. Now certainly I don’t want to mischaracterize Pilate here as the victim— some hapless governor who wanted to do the right thing but merely lacked conviction. Historical sources tell us that Pilate was as brutal and merciless as any other Roman governor of the time. But it’s important to recognize that that brutality was one borne out of a system where truth often fell silent in the face of political maneuvering.

And so in the midst of all that noise, in the midst of all the fear and anxiety of the time, we can perhaps imagine that Pilate’s question—what is truth-- was as much a real question about where to find truth in the midst of political games and power struggles as it was an existential or philosophical question. One can imagine the doubt and fear that filled the minds of many of the characters in this story. Even the disciples had lost their footing, most of them had fled, Peter had denied even knowing Jesus. The world seemed to be turning upside down.

Where was truth to be found in the midst of all that noise?

Much has changed since this story was written down. We live in a different world now— a different culture, with a very different understanding of how the world works, and our place in it. One thing that does remain the same, however, is that there is still an awful lot of noise. There are still an awful lot of voices competing for our attention, claiming to tell us the “truth” about the world—the truth about politics, economics, poverty, war, or disease. Name the issue, and odds are, there are people on both sides claiming to know the truth. But the story of Jesus’ trial and condemnation is a cautionary tale for us. The distortion of truth, in this case, led to the condemnation and execution of an innocent man. In modern history, the distortion of truth has led to any number of major social problems, including racial prejudice, the oppression of ethnic and religious minorities, sexism, and a decline in the civility of our public discourse that allows for the demonization of anyone who thinks differently than us. Make no mistake, the distortion of truth for political purposes is alive and well in our world today. And for those of us who genuinely want to know what is true about the issues and problems that confront us— economics, politics, poverty, war, disease— sometimes all that noise can be overwhelming. It can make us want to throw in the towel and say, “I give up! I don’t know what’s true; I don’t know who to listen to. I’m just going to disengage.” But as Christians, that’s not what we are called to do. We are called to engage, not disengage. As Christians, we are called to confront fear based untruths, particularly when those untruths lead to injustice or oppression, or when they hurt the most vulnerable people in our society. We are called to search for truth— seek it out, and proclaim it. Even if it’s hard, even if it’s frustrating sometimes.

What is truth? It's not always easy to know the answer to that question. But one thing is for sure: if we keep listening to all the noise, we'll never know.