The story of Thomas invites us to believe, not in death, but in life through Jesus and to hold space for the unbelievable bigness of God’s love .

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
The Second Sunday of Easter, year B
Text: John 20:19-31

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The church has been a bit hard on Thomas.

The gospel writer says he already had a nickname – he was called “the Twin” – but we never call him that, do we? We call him “Doubting Thomas.” And, every year, when we hear this story on the second Sunday of Easter, I always feel a lot of sympathy for him. For one thing, it’s really not fair that he is the only one who gets the nickname “Doubting.”

Because every one of those disciples in that locked room were doubters.

They had all already heard from an eyewitness that Jesus had risen. Mary Magdalene had told them all, earlier that day, that she had seen the risen Christ. And there they still were, huddled in fear, with the doors locked, doubting. And it wasn’t until all of them saw the wounded hands and side of Jesus that they believed. Thomas wasn’t the only doubter. He was just the last doubter, at least among the inner circle, and only by chance.

And maybe doubt isn’t such a bad thing anyway.

The story that God would become human, that God would die, and that God would rise again from the dead–that story was and still is, a little bit unbelievable. I received some feedback from an earlier sermon that encouraged me to be careful about describing the love of God as unbelievable or incredible, inviting me to ponder if I really want to say that God’s love is not able to be believed – that we can’t believe it.

But I think I do. Maybe I don’t want to go all the way to say it can’t be believed, but it is difficult to believe–and we shouldn’t forget that. Because if we believe it too easily, I think we tame the wildness of God, we shrink the hugeness of God’s love. If we stop demanding to witness, to see and touch God’s goodness, if we stop being on the look out for Jesus’ scars, if we take all of it as a given, as obvious–then we are liable to forget how earth-shattering this story really is.

How ridiculous it is. How mind-boggling. How unbelievable.

That niggle of doubt keeps it in perspective. Keeps the extraordinary bigness of God’s love from becoming small and mundane.

So I think it is alright that Thomas doubted – that all of them doubted. And it’s good that we have this yearly reminder to believe the unbelievable.

But, of course, it’s also good to remember that believing has a shadow side.

In the tradition I grew up in, we rarely talked about Christians and non-Christians, we talked about believers and non-believers. But as I’ve grown older, it sometimes seems like a strange distinction to me. Because everyone believes in something. We’re all believers. Some believe in Christ, and others believe in different faiths, or they believe in humanity, or in a higher power or a greater purpose or the idea that life has meaning – or they believe equally that life has no meaning. But everyone believes in something.

And so that’s the other reason I don’t think it’s fair to call him “Doubting Thomas.” Because Thomas was a believer.

Before he met the risen Christ, he believed in death.

He believed, with good evidence, that death was final. He believed in death so much, that the idea of the resurrection, of life, was for him, unbelievable.

And it can be so easy to believe in death.

So easy to believe in the things that suck the life right out of us. To believe in lies and conspiracies and our own superiority, to embrace paranoia and pessimism and despair. To believe that nothing will ever change, or if it does, it will change for the worse. And to be mired in those beliefs so deeply that we can’t even see that they are killing us.

So I’m not sure that Thomas’ problem was doubting. I think he and the other disciples believed – but they didn’t believe in life.

And that’s what Jesus comes to change.

He shows them his hands and his sides, shows them his living, breathing body, and tells them to believe – believe in life! Believe that life is possible, even after death. Believe that wounds can turn into scars. He tells them to believe!

Jesus doesn’t want us to believe so that we get the right answers on some cosmic test. We don’t need to fret about believing the right things or believing them hard enough. Nor do we need to despair about the impossibility of believing the unbelievable. No, the gospel writer tells us: “These things are written that you may continue to believe…and that through believing you may have life in Jesus’ name!”

Believe in life – so that you can have life!

Life that is full and abundant, completely trusting the giver and sustainer of all life. That’s why believing is important. Not because having the right list of beliefs in your head is your ticket to heaven.

It’s important because believing how we get to trusting.

If I don’t believe that the chair will support me, I will not trust it with my weight. Belief and trust are bound up with one another, so bound together that in Greek they are the same word. And whereas we are tempted to separate them, because for us belief is individual and cognitive, while trust is relational and emotional, in this passage we are invited to both.

Because what Jesus really wants from Thomas – from all them – from us – is relationship. Jesus wants us to believe so that we can get to trust. So that we will lean in with all our weight and trust that we will be supported. But since it is so difficult to trust if you don’t believe, Jesus helps with that too – showing  us the evidence we needed to see to believe — to believe in life. To believe that life and hope and healing are possible. And to believe that love and joy and peace and all the other fruits of the Spirit cannot be permanently trampled by fear and despair and hatred. That life is not destroyed by death.

And when we believe in life through Jesus, when we trust Jesus with our lives, we experience life – we become fully and abundantly alive.

And that has a name – it’s called faith.

So, perhaps we should start calling him Faithful Thomas. Faith isn’t the opposite of doubt. The opposite of doubt is certainty. Certainty runs from doubt, tries to kill it, and never looks back. Faith reaches down to lift doubt up too.

There is room for doubt in faith. There is room for unbelievable in believing. There is room for needing to put your fingers in Jesus’ wounded hands so that our unshakeable belief in death may be overcome by belief in life, may be overcome by the enormity of God’s love, until we cry out with Thomas in awe and in trust: “My Lord and My God! We believe.”

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Jesus kneels at our feet, inviting us to be part of the fierce and incredible love of God. All we have to do is receive it and pass it on. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl 
Maundy Thursday, year B 
Texts: Exodus 12:1-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35 

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Jesus knew that his hour had come…”

He knew this was the Last Supper. His last hours with his disciples. And, though also he knew that God had “given all things into his hands,” Jesus still had so much to give. So much he wanted to pass on.

And what better time to do it than at Passover? When he and his disciples were themselves participating in a tradition that had been passed on through generation after generation – that is still observed faithfully by our Jewish siblings. The specific rituals of Passover, the foods that are eaten, the words that are spoken, even the way it’s eaten – loins girded, staff in hand, sandals on feet, all of these rituals were given by God as remembrances. And as long as they are passed down, the people remember.  They remember the fierceness of the love that God showed God’s people, doing whatever it took to rescue them from slavery in Egypt. 

And Jesus wanted his followers to remember. 

And so, at this very supper, already laden with memories passed down, he passed the bread and the cup and said: “Do this in remembrance of me.”  Remember the fierceness of my love for you.  Remember that I did what it took to rescue you from sin and death.  Remember this love. And pass it on.   

Ten years ago, at a Starbucks in Florida, someone, I don’t know who, started a pay-it-forward chain.

The idea is pretty simple – as you pay for your item, you tell the barista that you’d also like to pay for the next person in line.  A small, thoughtful gesture to put a little kindness in the world. And sometimes, the next person decides to do the same thing, passing it on, adding a link in the chain. And that day in 2014, not only did the next person decide to pass it on, but so did the next. And the next and the next and the next and the next and next  – and this went on, incredibly, for 10 hours. 457 people passed it on! 

They did it without knowing. Without knowing how much the person behind them was ordering. Without knowing whether the next person in line deserved it. Without knowing whether the next person would also pass it on.  But 457 people accepted a random act of love from a stranger and chose to pass love on to another stranger. And it’s kind of beautiful.

Now, I should say that there are a lot of people who don’t like pay-it-forward chains, including many baristas and food service workers because it does make their job more difficult and confusing and the generosity is often only directed at other customers and not at the employees who are actually doing a lot of the work to keep the chain going and who are often underpaid in first place.  So the point of this message is not to encourage you to start more pay-it-forward chains at coffee shops. 

The point is to invite you to ponder – what do you do with the fierce and incredible love of God when it is given to you? 

Do you accept it?  And do you pass it on?

As Simon Peter could tell you, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Jesus had barely begun to show them how deeply he loved his own who were in the world, loving them to “the very end” and had barely begun passing on this love by tenderly washing their feet – and the chain nearly ended right there and then. 

“Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Peter asked. He didn’t get it, couldn’t understand, and he tried to stop it. 

“You will never wash my feet!” he said.  You could also translate that “never” idiomatically as “not in a million years!”  He really didn’t want to accept the love that Jesus was offering.  Why? Well, maybe because he thought it was all wrong–Jesus was the most important person in the room, he shouldn’t be kneeling at anyone’s feet–Peter should be kneeling at Jesus’ feet!  Or maybe Peter thought the whole thing was just unnecessary and a waste of time–Peter could clean his own feet well enough, thank you. Or maybe he said it because Peter didn’t want to take off his sandals, didn’t want Jesus to come close enough to see how dirty his feet were, didn’t want him to have to bear the stench.  

You know, funnily enough, the 458th customer at that Florida Starbucks that day was also named Peter.¹  He had driven there because he had heard about the pay-it-forward chain. He had come there specifically to end it. To be fair to him, he did leave a very big tip for the baristas, $100!  But still, he came there on purpose and when asked to pass it on, he refused.  In an interview after the fact he gave lots of reasons: “it was unfair” and “it’s just a marketing ploy” and “they should have given money to people that needed it, like the homeless” and “I just don’t want to be forced into doing something.” 

We always have our reasons, don’t we? 

There are always reasons to break the chain, to refuse to accept love or to pass it on.  Especially when we are afraid that love will never win, never in a million years. 

But at the Last Supper, love does win. 

Because whatever the reason was that Simon Peter didn’t want to have his feet washed, Jesus isn’t having it. “Peter, unless I wash you, you have no share with me,” he says.  His response seems harsh – almost like Jesus is threatening to leave Peter out of the will, to take away his share.

And that seems to be how Peter takes it, because immediately, he goes full Peter:  “Oh then, of course Lord, if that’s the way it is, don’t stop at just my feet, wash my hands, wash my head – wash all of me!”  It sounds to me like desperation. Like Peter was so afraid that he was out, so afraid that he could lose it, that he started begging: “Whatever it takes to clean me, Jesus, please do it. Just don’t leave me with no share!” 

But Jesus wasn’t cutting Peter out, he was inviting Peter in. 

That word “share” in Greek, also means a “part.” Jesus was saying:  “Peter, unless I wash you, you won’t be part of what I’m doing. I want you to be a part of it.  And don’t worry, Peter, you are clean. It’s not about the water–it’s about the relationship.  Let me wash those beautiful feet so I can pass my love to you.  All you have to do is receive it. And pass it on.”

And finally, Peter accepts. Jesus washed his feet, and washed the next, and washed each and every one of them. Even though he did know.  He knew exactly what was about to happen. He knew that they didn’t deserve it. And he knew that one of them would never pass it on.  Even though he knew, he washed them all, even Judas, because he wanted them to be part of it. To be part of his love. 

Jesus wants us all to be part of this love.

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done for you.”  These words are for you. Your invitation today, and every day, to get your feet wet!  Maybe literally in just a few minutes, but more importantly, figuratively, as you dip your toe in or take a running leap, feet first, to be part of the chain of love and kindness and service that our Lord and Teacher started for us. 

The first step is to remember and receive the fierce love of God that kneels at your feet and gently tends to the parts of you you’d rather keep hidden.  

All you have to do is receive it. And pass it on. 

In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

^{1. “Meet the man who stopped the 11-hour Starbucks pay-it-forward: ‘I had to put an end to it,'” ABC News, Aug 22, 2104.  https://wjla.com/news/nation-world/meet-the-man-who-ended-the-10-hour-starbucks-pay-it-forward-i-had-to-put-an-end-to-it–106360}

 

 In the care given to Jesus’ body after death, we glimpse how God comes close to us in the every death. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl 
Sunday of the Passion, year B 
Texts: Mark 11:1-11; Mark 14:1-15:47

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

By now the palm branches should be feeling strange in your hands.

Were we just celebrating?  It seems like a long time ago – like a dream. How did we get here? How did we get from Jesus, vital and assured, riding into Jerusalem to the sound of cheers and singing, all the way to the dull thud of the stone being rolled in place, enclosing the corpse of God? 

I can’t stop thinking about that.  Because of the beautiful and tender conversations we’ve been having in Adult Forum for the last few weeks, I can’t stop thinking about the corpse of Jesus – and about how preciously it was cared for. I keep thinking about the unnamed woman with alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and how she did what she could, she broke it and poured it out to anoint Jesus’ body for its burial.  

And I keep thinking about  “Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council who was himself waiting expectantly for the reign of God,” and how he “went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.”

He asked for the body of God.

God’s body, which was completely–and unfathomably–helpless. God’s body which, as we heard in Mark’s brutal account, had been beaten and bound and spat upon and mocked and flogged and struck and derided and nailed to a cross until it was just limp flesh, without breath or warmth or life. Just a broken body.

But Joseph went to Pilate “boldly” and asked for it —perhaps out of that stubbornly hopeful expectation that it still wasn’t too late for the reign of God. Or perhaps because he just couldn’t bear to see that broken body hanging there. He had to care for it. To tend it. To wrap it in linen and lay it to rest in a safe place.  To respond to the love of God–shown at its most extreme—with his own love in return. 

And imaging those moments of tenderness and care for the remains of a loved one revealed a new depth of this story for me.

We say so often that the story of the cross is the story of Christ coming close, meeting us in our very deaths.  But our deaths–those are still abstract for us – we don’t know what experiencing death is like yet.  But the story of the cross is also the story of Christ meeting us in the deaths we have experienced, the deaths of those we love.  When we tend their bodies, when we anoint them with costly ointments, when we attempt to memorize their faces, when we sing them to their rest.  When we wash and arrange and bury their bodies – Jesus is there.

Every dead body is also Jesus’ dead body. 

Christ is there in the body that has died in peace, surrounded by loved ones, and Christ is there in the ones that have died alone in fear or pain. And Christ is there in every single body strung up or blown apart by violence and cruelty and hatred.  And Christ is there in the bodies of those taken too soon. Every dead body is also Jesus’ dead body. And every single body is a site of sacred love come close. 

God came to us in a body and God still comes to us in bodies.

We bear the life of Christ to one another and we hold the death of Christ in one another as well.  In the care and kindness we show one another in life and death and in the memories and wisdom that are passed down from our loved ones. One of those souls whose beloved memory we keep in our congregation is Susan Cherwien, whose words in so many hymns and writings still soothe and challenge us. And her words about death have been echoing in my mind as well.  She once remarked that the soul does not inhabit the body, the body inhabits the soul.

And in Christ, we are not souls inhabiting separate bodies, but bodies inhabiting one soul – the very soul of God. 

The soul that holds us all in astounding love – that comes near and meets us where we are – that loves through life and death.

In a few minutes we will celebrate the Eucharist.  We’ll see the bread and cup, Christ’s body and blood for us, wrapped tenderly with linen.  We will hear Christ’s words, spoken once more, “Take; this is my body” – the body that lived and died.  The body that cared for others and was also tenderly cared for.  That came close and still comes close to us in every death and holds for us the promise of the resurrection and restoration of all creation. The body that showed us the love of God at its most extreme. 

Today, like the unnamed woman, we respond to love with love.  And we join Joseph of Arimathea, as we come boldly and ask for the body of Christ and we wait expectantly for the reign of God. 

In the name of the Father, and of the  ☩  Son, and of the Holy Spirit. 

Midweek Lent, 2024 ☩ Love One Another ☩ Week 4: Encourage One Another

Vicar Lauren Mildahl
Texts: I Thessalonians 5:4-14, John 16:12-15, 32-33

Beloved children of God, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

For the last three weeks, we’ve been diving into some of the tougher aspects of the command to Love One Another. 

We’ve talked about agreeing with one another, confessing our sins to one another, and not judging one another. We’ve been dealing with brokenness in our relationships – broken by conflict, and isolation, and superiority. 

But this week, we finally get a fun one: “Encourage one another!” 

This is the kind of instruction that a smiling, optimistic, positive person like me can really get into. I even like all the different ways that you can encourage. You can give compliments, reminding people of their unique gifts: “You’re amazing! You’re so strong!” You can offer optimism, sharing your faith in the restoration that God promises: “Everything will turn out all right! It gets better!” Or you can really lean into the confidence we have as God’s beloved children: “You’ve got this.” “You can do it!”

These are nice things to say and really nice things to hear.  Who wouldn’t want to spend their time offering encouragement and being encouraged? It almost seems silly that we would need to be commanded to do it. And even Paul admits that the Thessalonians are already on it:  “Encourage one another,” he writes, “as indeed you are doing!” 

So what am I going to preach about?

Well, unfortunately, there is a darker underbelly here.  

Because just like you don’t need to be told to agree unless there is conflict, and you don’t need to be told to confess unless there is violation, and you don’t need to be told not to judge unless you are judging, you don’t need to be told to encourage one another unless there is discouragement. 

Because even in a community of faith–even as we are experiencing the love of God, the grace of Jesus Christ and the communion of the Holy Spirit–we sometimes feel discouraged. Dis-courage-ment. 

Sometimes we are robbed of our courage. 

Often by fear–fear of losing the people or the things we love. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear that there won’t be enough, fear of guilt or fear of judgment–we are anxious and afraid and dis-couraged. 

Or sometimes it’s doubt that discourages. Doubt in ourselves and our ability to bear the weight of living. Doubt in each other – will you all really be there for me? Or doubt in God. Doubt in God’s promises or God’s love or even uncertainty about whether God is there at all.  And when we doubt in this whole project of faith and hope and love and life, it seems a lot safer to look out for ourselves, to retreat from each other. Doubt robs us of the courage to believe that God will use the hands of those around us to catch us when we fall. 

And sometimes it’s despair that discourages.  On days when it’s hard enough just getting out of bed, how can we stand boldly in faith and face it all?  When everything seems so hopeless–we keep hurting each other and burning the Earth and we know we’re doing it but nothing ever changes–what’s the point of courage? It’s all lost anyway.

That’s the dark underbelly: Fear and Doubt and Despair. 

That’s why we need our courage back and why we need each other to be en-couraged.  

And we need real encouragement. En-courage-ment isn’t just plucky pick-me-ups or stock sayings about silver linings–maybe that can buck us up when our hearts are a bit faint, but what about when our hearts aren’t even in our chests anymore, but have fallen all the way to the ground?

Compliments and optimism and “You’ve got this”–those things don’t really work then.  Not when fear and doubt and despair shatter our illusion of control. Because no matter how many times I tell you that “you’ve got this,” the truth is, you don’t. And you never did.  No matter how many times you tell me “you can do it,” the truth is, I can’t. I never could.  We were never in control.  And no matter how many times we are told we are children of the light, we still fall asleep. 

But we have a God who never sleeps. And that’s where the real courage comes from. 

I remember two things about the summer camp I went to in high school. 1) I hated doing the high ropes course. 2) I loved rappelling. Which seems weird. Both of those activities involved heights, involved wearing a harness and a helmet, and all of your friends standing around on the ground staring at you, shouting, “You can do it! You’ve got this!”

In both activities you are up high, strapped in, and completely safe.  But I remember clinging to the high ropes course, shaking and trying to will my feet to move for what felt like hours, absolutely petrified, and then the next day, leaning over a cliff to rappel down the side of a mountain in seconds, with no trouble at all. 

Because the crucial difference is that with rappelling, you can feel the rope holding you the whole time.  From the very first moment you lean back over the cliff, you feel the rope tighten and support you. With high ropes – you only feel the rope when you fall off. The rope is the back up, to jerk you to a stop when you fail.  And most of the time you are supposed to pretend it’s not there, and just trust in your own strength and balance – and I hated that. 

Either way the rope was there. But only one of them gave me courage. 

And it wasn’t the one that held me so loosely that I was supposed to forget about it as I figured out how to get through the course under my own power.  It was the rope I could feel the whole time, trusting it with my weight as I descended.  That gave me courage.  

God is our rope – but much better than a rope. God will not let us fall.  And the best, real encouragement that I can give you, that we can give to each other, is not “You’ve got this!” but a resounding “You don’t got this! God’s got this.”  That was the encouragement that Jesus offered his followers, in their last conversation before he died: “In the world you will have distress and trouble, but take courage: I have overcome the world.” I’ve got this.   And it’s the same encouragement Paul offered the Thessalonians: “whether you are awake or asleep you live with him.” It doesn’t matter what you do – whether you’ve got it together or you’re falling apart – you live with Jesus. Who’s got this. Who’s got us. 

So, we need to offer one another better encouragement than just retelling each other the myth that we can do it on our own, that we can be in control. 

The myth that we’ve got this.  Because we’ll just need to be jerked back up again when we fall.  Instead let’s encourage one another, let’s hoist one another up in the Spirit, reminding each other that to lean back and feel the rope, to let the God that will not let us go take all the weight, until we feel lighter than air. 

Until we relax into the peace of Jesus, who has overcome – overcome all the fear, all the doubt, and all the despair that the world can throw at us. 

Dear siblings, this is your encouragement: You don’t got this. God’s got this. 

In the name of the Father, of the  ☩  Son, and of the Holy Spirit. 

Thinking about the Cleansing of the Temple as a jealous rage refocuses our attention not on Jesus’ righteous anger but on God’s jealous love. 

Vicar Lauren Mildahl 
The Third Sunday in Lent, year B 
Texts: Exodus 20:1-17, 1 Corinthians 18-25, John 2:13-22 

God’s beloved, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

A lot of people really like “Angry Jesus.”  

I’ve noticed especially among my fellow seminarians–we love this Jesus, whip in hand, flipping the tables of stagnant religious institutions; we love imagining him breaking down oppressive systems and driving out those who benefit from them and ushering in justice for all; we are inspired by him, bursting onto the scene at the beginning of his ministry (at least in John’s version) speaking passionate and prophetic truth to power. Maybe it’s because we think we can diagnose everything that’s wrong in the world and in our churches and we imagine that this will be the kind of thing we’ll do when we become pastors and leaders.  “Give us a whip,” we think, “Give us a whip like Jesus and we’ll clean things up around here.”

And I think there is a true impulse there.

I do think that standing on the side of justice requires some anger.  There is a truth to this anger – when we recognize that something has gone awry, and we cannot stay silent. And anger has a purpose–when something is wrong, anger can supply the energy necessary to make the changes that need to happen. Some tables do need to be flipped.

But, at other times I am very uncomfortable with this image. “Angry Jesus” can become a convenient figure to hide behind, and I’m uncomfortable with the way that even well-intentioned activists and allies can respond to injustice with blind anger, not ready to listen and learn, but only eager to fix everything immediately or burn it all down.  It is easy to whip ourselves into a frenzy – and feel righteous doing it – until our anger creates more victims. 

So, I am a bit wary of this story.

Especially since it seems like such an outlier in Jesus’ ministry.  Jesus did not make a habit of brandishing whips and turning tables, he was much more likely to heal and feed and teach, even his enemies. And how could Jesus, whose own experience of being whipped we will soon hear about on Good Friday, respond in this encounter, even in righteous anger, with violence? What happened to God’s love? 

But, maybe, in a way, this story is about love.  Love has many faces. Sometimes it is sweet and tender. And sometimes it is impassioned and intense. 

And sometimes, love is jealous.  

“Jealous” is the adjective God uses in our reading from Exodus, when God commands the Israelites not to worship any other gods: “For I the Lord your God am a jealous God.”  And since I was a kid, this line has always confused me.  Jealousy is bad, isn’t it? It seems like basically the same thing as envy or coveting – which the last commandment tells us not to do! Then why would God admit to being jealous?  

This must be something different. Not a sinful kind of jealousy, but a jealousy that’s actually hard to imagine.  A jealousy without possessiveness or resentment, a jealousy that is entirely fierce devotion. It is jealousy that desires the reciprocal devotion of the beloved, but which is completely entwined in a passionate intensity to protect and provide for the beloved what is best for the beloved. An incredibly zealous love. 

God’s jealous love is what prompts God to remind the children of Israel of all that God had done for them: “For I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery!”  As if God were saying “This is how much I love you! These are the lengths I have gone for you. And all I want is for you to let love grow. To love me back and to love one another so that you can have what is best for you: abundant life. I am jealous for you.” 

But even if God’s jealousy is not a sinful kind of jealousy, it is still not a pleasant experience. 

And it strikes me like a weakness.  God’s jealousy is a love that wants so badly to be loved back but will also fiercely guard the freedom of the beloved. Because love without freedom isn’t love at all. So the God of power and glory and wisdom and honor and to whom belongs everything in heaven and on earth and under the earth doesn’t exercise that power to force us to love in return. We have a choice.  And God chooses to open God’s self to the ache of jealousy and the pain of unrequited love. God chooses weakness, chooses vulnerability, chooses jealousy – which seems utterly foolish for the creator of the universe.  

But the apostle Paul reminds us: “God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.”  

God’s foolishness is love.  God’s weakness is us. 

God’s jealous love for us is what leads Jesus all the way to the cross.  Embracing the ultimate weakness and humiliation for our sake and for the sake of what can be built and created and grown and repaired through the foolishness and weakness of love.  

And so the scene in the temple takes on a different meaning if we think of it not as righteous anger prompted by injustice, but instead as a kind of jealous rage. 

Because it wasn’t the Romans that Jesus drove away. It wasn’t the empire built on violence, who were exploiting and oppressing Jesus’ people.  There was plenty of justice to proclaim among them.  But it was God’s own people, the ones who had come to God’s own house, the ones who had let their love for what was on their tables turn their hearts from God. 

When seen as a jealous rage, all this business with the whip and the flipping tables — that wasn’t a punishment or a rejection, that was love, jealously intervening on behalf of the beloved.  

As if Jesus were saying: “Get rid of those tables! Forget about all that stuff – it won’t love you back.  I freed you from Egypt and I am freeing you now from the system you are trapped in.  I’ll crack this whip if I have to, to remind you that you don’t need to live like this, devoted to these fleeting things and putting up tables as barriers between one another.  Come back to me! Come back to each other!” 

Jesus is pleading with them with a passionate jealousy, begging them to step into the abundant life of divine love.

Inviting them to come back to the world imagined by the Ten Commandments. A world where they take care of each other, respect each other, where thousands of generations are cherished and beloved and blessed. A world where they love God back and they love the world that God loves. 

And this invitation is for you too. 

This Lenten season of confession is an invitation to examine our tables and everything we have put on them, everything we love that cannot love us back, everything we use to separate ourselves from each other, everything that the world says is wisdom and strength–and invite the Holy Spirit to knock our tables over once again! 

Then we have a glorious chance to put those tables up again – but this time to fill them with weakness and foolishness, with love and care for one another.  This is our chance to respond to Jesus’ jealous rage with a jealous intensity of our own, loving our creator – a God who is able to be loved, who wants to be loved, who chooses weakness and foolishness. And to love each other just as jealously. 

There is a place for righteous anger. But there is also a danger that if we spend all of our time and energy turning over tables, we’ll never get around to sharing the feast of abundant life around the bigger and better table that God jealousy wants for us.  

In the name of the Father, and of the  ☩  Son, and of the Holy Spirit.