When we meet the risen Christ, we are given peace and life and a relationship of love and life with the Triune God, which gives us peace and confidence to trust God’s authority in our lives and follow it, to act on our faith in the world. 

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, Second Sunday of Easter C; texts: Acts 5:27-32; John 20:19-31

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

This is a remarkable change.  An amazing change.  A surprising change.  Pick the adjective you want, the apostles in Acts 5, our first reading, are very different from the ones of John 20, our Gospel.  In John, they’re frightened, locked behind closed doors, fearful of the Sanhedrin, the Jewish council who had condemned Jesus and urged his execution.  In Acts, only a few months later, they find themselves under arrest for preaching about Jesus’ resurrection, and they stand before that very council of their own authorities and fearlessly refuse to stop their preaching.  In effect, they challenge the council to do what it has to do, but they will not stop telling everyone they can about Jesus.  They have no fear of earthly authority.  They know who the true authority of their lives is, and they won’t back down.

It’s nothing short of miraculous, this transformation.  From cowed, hiding followers to brave, fearless leaders in only a few short months, something happened to them which changed them.  And the Bible says that what happened is they met Jesus alive, after they had seen him killed.  And nothing was ever the same for them again.

All of which raises the question for us: do we share such faith?  Do we have such confidence in the authority of God in our lives that we can be so fearless?  Willing to face death rather than disobey God?  Unafraid of anything anyone could do to us, and completely focused on our call to proclaim and serve the risen Lord?
Maybe we have to start with another question: do we even want such zeal?

Our living out of our faith can sometimes be a quiet one.  And we can, at times, be fine with that.

In a pluralistic society it’s not really even a question anymore whether we’ll be challenged in court to defend our faith and our discipleship, our actions.  And since we aren’t persecuted for our faith, arrested for our faith, we have the luxury of considering faith a completely private affair if we want.

In a tolerant America, about the only offensive faith action you can do in the eyes of many is try to convince your neighbor to believe what you believe.  Groups which proselytize, which loudly proclaim what they believe in public, on the air, in the media, make a lot of the country uncomfortable.  Perhaps including us.

In fact, given the rationale many terrorists give for their actions, that of obedience to the commands of God, and adherence to the dictums of their faith, many Americans, perhaps including us, find unquestioning obedience to God distasteful, if not downright dangerous.

Add to this the reality that some Christians in particular are trying to, as they put it, re-claim this country for Christianity, in effect re-writing our history to suggest the founders intended this to be a Christian nation, and trying to assert that we should be again.

So last week in North Carolina some legislators introduced a bill which would exempt North Carolina from the federal constitutional mandate that no law may be made respecting an establishment of religion.  They wanted to make Christianity the state religion of North Carolina, and be exempt from federal laws prohibiting any such favoritism.  The bill has since been removed from consideration.  But I’m sure they believed they were acting according to the mandates of their faith.  I’m sure they looked to Peter and the apostles today as their proper forebears.

So here’s the hard thing: if we disagree with the obedience terrorists claim to God, if we disagree with these legislators, then potentially this means we believe what the apostles are doing in Acts is unacceptable to us, inappropriate, perhaps dangerous.

And that puts us in a bit of an awkward spot, doesn’t it, given that we call ourselves disciples of the same risen Lord Jesus?

The witness of the early Church got the witnessers into trouble at many turns.  They were considered rabble rousers, and many were executed for their preaching and teaching.  They harmed the economies of towns and villages and cities by preaching against false gods which threatened the economic system that the worship of such gods generated.  They harmed the quietness of the same places by preaching about this risen Jesus and inviting, exhorting, calling to people to leave all they believed and come to a new faith, a new life.

The last thing faith was to these early believers was private.

It seems there’s a gap between our expectation of how one should live out one’s faith in the public sphere and the expectation of the disciples of Jesus.  And as soon as someone’s faith convictions lead them to involvement in politics, in urging the government to act, in speaking out for what they believe and trying to influence public policy, many of us get nervous.

As the events in North Carolina show, recently it has been right-wing Christians who want to inflict their views and beliefs on all of us.  Many of us think that is wrong of them to do.  But are we thereby shirking our call as disciples?

This actually is a familiar American difficulty with nuance and subtlety.  We’re not very good at that.  This is not a question, it turns out, of complete quietism and keeping one’s faith to oneself on the one hand and terrorism, Nazism, fascism, or American Christian theocracy on the other.

Somewhere in between those two convenient extremes which permit outrage without intelligence and criticism without discernment, somewhere in between lies this reality: to have faith in God at all means that God has a say in how we live our lives.  That’s the truth.  If we have faith in God, God has a say in how we live our lives.

And to live as a believer in God in a free society, where we are all expected to participate in governing ourselves, means that our faith will of necessity shape our politics, our votes, our public speech.  Or there is no faith to speak of.  Again, this is simply truth: if we believe, our faith will shape how we are.

It is not an integrated faith to be a believer in the risen Lord Jesus and keep that to oneself.  It is not an integrated faith to be a believer in the risen Lord Jesus and not act on Jesus’ call to love God and love neighbor in a public way.  Loving one’s neighbor inside the confines of one’s house and never stepping outside to help that neighbor is hardly love.

And once we step outside, once we act on the love of God that we know, we have become politically involved in some way.  That’s just the way it is.

So the question remains: If we’re involved the moment we step outside, what will that look like?

This week we commemorate Dietrich Bonhoeffer on the 68th anniversary of his execution by the Nazis.  He was a very important theologian and preacher among those who opposed Hitler.  He was a pacifist and an ethicist, and his writings still inspire and teach today.

He also was involved in a plot to assassinate Hitler.  What’s powerful to me about his involvement as I understand it is that he believed it was a great sin to do this.  He had no illusions that somehow this was exempt from God’s law.  But he also believed that doing this sin was the only right choice he had as a Christian.  And as it turns out, he was arrested, among many others, after the plot failed, and was executed only weeks before the war with Germany ended.

Whether Bonhoeffer was right in doing a sin to try to save others is not the question for us today.  The question for us is: can we even conceive of such a dilemma in our lives?

Can we even consider what it means to be so convicted by our faith that we act in a way we believe God desires us to act, even if it means others will not like us, others will be offended by us?  I’m not envisioning we’ll be arrested.  But it seems that even offending others can be a daunting fear for us sometimes.

What changes the question for us is what changed it for those first disciples: as these disciples found out, the risen Jesus comes through the locked doors of our fears and offers us peace.  What happened to the disciples, the thing that changed them forever, has happened to us: we have seen the risen Jesus in our midst, he’s come through our defenses, and calms our fears.

There is a deep, abiding peace that Jesus offers his followers – not just the peace of knowing that he is risen and has defeated death, though that is the heart of our lives.  But that peace leads to a deeper peace: knowing that if in fact Jesus is Lord of all, and has defeated death, we need not fear anything.  And that means we have no reason not to follow Jesus’ call.

He comes through the locked doors of our lives and then invites us to open them and step outside ourselves.  To be witnesses to his love and life for the whole world.

And that’s where we begin the conversation together.  With questions like these:

• What does it mean to follow the Son of God who calls us to be peacemakers, who asks us to follow the prophets’ call to do justice and walk humbly with God?

• What does it mean in a pluralistic society to follow the Triune God’s authority and not human authority?  How do we know what God wants, for that matter?

• How do we follow God’s authority as we understand it, and still have respect and tolerance for those who believe differently from us?

• What would it mean for us to take our faith out of the private sphere of our living rooms and act in the world as people who are filled with new life from God and a message of God’s love for all?

I don’t know what our answers will be to these questions, or others like them.  I only know it’s vital that we ask them of each other.

It’s why congregations periodically take time to do what we’re beginning now, to have a process of visioning and discerning, to ask from time to time the question “what is God calling us to be and do now, in this place, in this time?”

It’s simply the only honest way to deal with the faith we claim to have.  There has never been a time when the Bible told believers that the highest aspiration of their faith was to keep it to themselves and not bother anyone.  Jesus has always done something after giving peace and hope and faith to his followers: he’s sent them out to change the world.

That might make us uncomfortable.  That’s good.  And we might not be ready to risk our lives for God, so it’s a good thing we probably won’t be asked to do that this week.  But we could start by taking baby steps of faith.  We could be a little more courageous and willing to talk with each other about how we live as faithful people in this world.  Let’s not allow ourselves to imagine that suddenly, in our generation, God’s plan is that we stay home with our faith.  Let’s walk through the door Jesus has opened for us.

Most of all, let’s rejoice in the peace our risen Jesus gives us and ask him to keep giving us this peace even as we begin to seek a deeper discipleship and obedience of faith.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Our experience tells us that death is the end, and though we proclaim the resurrection of Christ, we too often live in fear as if it was not true; our risen Lord comes to us, alive, and tells us we need never be afraid, for he has come to bring life to the whole world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, The Resurrection of Our Lord C; texts: Luke 24:1-12; 1 Corinthians 15:19-26; Isaiah 65:17-25

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

It’s time we gave these disciples a little slack.  The men, anyway, since they’re the ones who are struggling to believe here, and since we sometimes can be a little hard on the male disciples, when compared to the faith and actions of their female companions.  The women go to Jesus’ tomb early Sunday morning, to finish the burial rites.  And they find the tomb open, and glowing beings dressed in white tell them that Jesus is alive, just as he said he would be.  But when they run back to tell the other disciples, they run into disbelief.  Or at least skepticism.  Luke says, “These words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.”  Now Luke and John both record that Peter (and another, according to John), think enough of it to run to the tomb and see for themselves.  But their first reaction is clear: this can’t be true.

From our perspective, we can tend to be critical of the disciples throughout this week.  How could they betray Jesus?  Run away from Jesus?  And why didn’t they remember that when he predicted he would die, he also told them he would rise again after three days?

But we’re no different from these folks.  We live and operate in life on the basis of our experience.  We interpret the actions and understand the words of others based on how we think and how we are, what we have experienced, how we feel.  We tend to doubt things that we haven’t seen or heard ourselves, or have been told by someone we trust that they saw or heard it.  And if there’s anything our experience tells us about death, it is that death is the end.  It’s permanent.  And everything changes.

We’ve all experienced this.  We know this.  When people we love die, they’re no longer with us, at our table, in our living room, walking in the sun, having conversations.  We don’t see them again.  This we know.  And so did those disciples.  Of course they thought it was an idle tale, imagination, wishful thinking.  And of course they didn’t hear it when Jesus said he would rise again: once he told them he was going to suffer and be killed, that’s all they could hear.  The rest just slid past their ears.  That’s how we are.

So for us, like those disciples, it really is the same.  We know reality.  We know that death is the end.  And then we gather here today and are told something completely different.  We’re told that there is one, the One whom we call Lord and Master, Jesus, who has broken through the end wall, who has broken the power of death.

And the question for us is also the same as for those who first heard the women: do we think this is an idle tale, wishful speculation?  Or do we believe that everything is changed, and live our lives accordingly?

You see, either way, however we believe it will affect how we live our lives.

If we live with the understanding, the belief, the certainty, that death is the end, we will live in fear.  And that’s exactly our problem.  Whatever we proclaim about Easter, whatever we say we believe about the resurrection, too often we act as if we don’t believe it.  We act and live as if death is the end.  As if the worst thing that can happen to us is death.

And so we live in fear.

We make our personal decisions too often out of fear: fear we won’t have enough money.  Fear we haven’t planned enough for our future, fear we don’t have enough insurance.  Fear we might lose our jobs.  Fear our families won’t be safe.  Fear we are going to get sick.

We make our decisions as the Church too often out of fear: fear of the other, the one different from us.  Fear that there won’t be enough money, enough resources.  Fear of the culture, fear of other faiths.

We make political decisions too often out of fear: fear of terrorists.  Fear of other enemies.  Fear of the other, those different from us.  Fear of an election.  Fear of the future, fear of the unknown.

It’s hard to find an area of our lives where fear of death, fear of loss, doesn’t shape our decisions and our actions.  Even in personal relationships, we can hold back from others out of fear of being vulnerable with them.

And that’s what we want to avoid above all, being vulnerable, that is, being “able to be wounded.”  We know we are vulnerable.  We can be wounded in so many ways by so many things.  And death always stands at the back of everything.

And when someone speaks out of hope, speaks without fear, speaks of the possibilities of trusting in God and stepping out in life, there’s a part of us that hesitates.  A part of us that wants to be “realistic,” which often comes off as cynical.  Isn’t it cute that this person actually believes that God is working life in a world of death?

Because we think it isn’t true to “reality,” to the world as it is, the world as we’ve made it, the world that has the ability to wound us, and eventually kill us, we tend either to discount such faith as naïve or idealistic, or build walls around our hearts so that we don’t dare hope in God and then be disappointed.  Because, we say to ourselves, we know how the real world works.  We understand reality.

But this is what we cannot escape today: the idea of “reality” for these disciples was completely taken apart by the risen Jesus.

Whatever we say about the early Church, its core reality was forever altered on this day.  Everything they thought true about how the world is was shattered by the real presence of their beloved Lord Jesus in their midst.

Not an hallucination.  Not a wish-fulfillment.  Not even some non-specific sense that he “lived on in their hearts.”  He was there: physically tangible (“able to be touched”), able to eat, able to embrace.

He was alive.  And just as the reality is that death changes everything for us, this reality, that Jesus who had died was now alive before them, changed everything once again.  This is now a new creation, they realized, a new heaven and a new earth: the prophet Isaiah was right about this (in those words we also heard today).  This is now a world where death is no longer the end reality, they realized.

What we face this Easter morning because of this is a complete redefinition of “reality.”  Because it’s not what we thought.  Reality is that we are no longer faced with death as the end.  It has no ultimate power over us.

Reality is that being wounded, being vulnerable, is not a bad thing.  It’s a way to life because our God is vulnerable and was wounded for us and now lives and heals.  And only by being open to being wounded can we be open to being loved.

Reality is that there is nothing that can ultimately harm us.  So we can begin to live without fear.

There is an ancient prayer for peace which we pray at every Vespers liturgy.  And one of the things we pray for is that we “might be defended from the fear of our enemies.”

That’s the wisdom of God’s reality, the only reality that matters, as it turns out.  That we might still have enemies, and we might not always be defended from them.  They might even kill us.

But that we can and will be defended from our fear of them.  Our fear of others.  Our fear of the unknown.  Our fear of loss.  Our fear of death.  Which Paul promises us is the last enemy to be destroyed.  That is the way to peace, this prayer understands for us.

So the first thing the risen Jesus will do when he appears in the Upper Room to these very disciples on that first Sunday night – our story next week – is to give them the gift of peace.

This, then, is our peace: there is no need to be afraid.

Ever.

Paul says today that if we hope in Christ only for this life we are to be pitied.

The challenge we have today is to live as if we believe what this day is all about.  As if the hope in Jesus’ resurrection isn’t an idle tale.  But that it is hope in a new reality, God’s reality, where the wounded and crucified Lord of Life now lives, and nothing will ever be the same.  A reality where we need not be afraid.  Ever.

From this moment, this day, this experience of the new reality God had made in Jesus, all the disciples went out without fear and changed the world through the power of God’s Spirit.  Believing changed the way they saw the world, saw reality, and changed how they went out into it as disciples and what they believed and expected God could do with it.

Somehow, I think Jesus is hoping we do the same.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

In the Passion of the Son of God there is a complete reversal of the reality of the world: guilty are declared forgiven, welcomed into grace, innocent willingly offer themselves as guilty for the sake of the guilty.  In this we find the fullness of God’s being and grace.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, Sunday of the Passion C; texts: Luke 22:14 – 23:56

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

There is something troubling about the way great tragedies are reported and discussed in our country.  Frequently the words “innocent lives” are used when someone brings a gun into a school or a mall and indiscriminately shoots and kills, when a terrorist sets off a bomb, when any thing horrible is done by someone to someone else.  After these tragedies it’s just as troubling that there seems to be a rush to know “why” the perpetrator did what they did, what is to blame: is it random, were they evil, were they abused, were they mentally ill?

The implication that we seem to live with is that some people deserve to die, and some people do not.  There are “innocent” people who deserve all good, and “guilty” people who do not.  Of course we’re not so crass as to state that boldly all the time.  But in our words and actions we show this is our view.  There were 27 who were killed by the shooter in Newtown, but only 26 bells were tolled on the Friday after the shooting, and 26 is the number of victims often listed.  Somehow there wasn’t room to include in compassion and grief the mother of the shooter, who was the first to be killed.  Again, most are too civilized to speak this aloud, but surely there is blame being laid at her feet, therefore she doesn’t fit our neat “innocent lives” group.  And of course no bell would ever be considered for the shooter himself.  Our artists have challenged us to reconsider all this, writers like J. R. R. Tolkien and Victor Hugo, for example, who have written great stories which open the question of who does and who doesn’t deserve to die, to be punished, beyond the simplistic frontier justice we seem so enamored of in our culture.

Today it is the evangelist Luke who challenges our prevailing attitude, so much so that he overturns our entire worldview, leaving it a shambles.  In its place is a view of the gracious and awe-inspiring love of the Triune God for a world filled with guilty people, guilty people who get off, who avoid punishment.  In its place is a view of the supreme Innocent One who takes all that guilt upon himself, though undeserving of it, and changes what it is to speak of “justice” for all time.

Luke shapes his story like none of his fellow evangelists when it comes to this reversal, for he repeatedly raises the question of innocence and guilt throughout his narrative.

Luke is the only one who tells us that Pilate repeatedly declared that there was no legal basis for a death sentence upon Jesus.  John recounts this once, Matthew and Mark never.  But Luke has three separate times where Pilate essentially makes a grand jury ruling, “there is no basis for this sentence, this charge.”

In addition, when Luke speaks of the two who were crucified with Jesus, he calls them, literally, “evildoers”.  (Our translation renders this “criminals.”)  Matthew and Mark say they were robbers, much less serious.  John just says there were two.

Lastly, while Jesus is declared “not guilty” by Pilate three times, three times Luke refers to the two fellow accused as “evildoers,” criminals.  And in case we didn’t pick up on this, only Luke tells us that the centurion who crucified Jesus declared his “innocence,” as NRSV translates it, and what he’s literally saying is that Jesus is “righteous,” “just,” dikaios.

There are therefore people dying on the cross in Luke who are guilty and deserve it.  And there is one who is dying who absolutely doesn’t deserve it.

But that’s just the beginning.  Just as critical as these declarations of guilt or innocence by the narrator, Pilate, or the centurion, there are the other startling declarations from the central figure himself, again found only in Luke’s account.

The first is the most powerful statement of the grace of God in the entire Gospel, and that’s saying something, for this is a Gospel rife with grace.  Remember that Luke has told us from the beginning who Jesus is, the Son of God, filled with the Holy Spirit, anointed to bring the good news of the reign of God.

And as this Son, filled with the Spirit of God, is being nailed to the cross, he speaks to his Father, but not in hatred.  He asks forgiveness for those who are killing him.  “Father, forgive them,” he says.  “They don’t know what they’re doing.”  Think of the shattering implications of such an act, such a prayer, from such a person.

Then, again, only in Luke, when Jesus is being mocked, one of the evildoers also mocks him, only to be rebuked by his fellow evildoer.  And here in a nutshell is all of Luke’s theological view of this crucifixion, this death.  The evildoer says that he and his fellow have been “condemned justly,” they are getting what they deserve for their actions, and that is death.  But this one, he says, “has done nothing wrong.”

We deserve to die.  We have no cause for complaint.  But this one is innocent.  That’s the center of the crucifixion in Luke.  But there’s a second, world-upturning declaration: the evildoer asks Jesus to remember him “when you come into your reign, your rule.”

Just “remember me,” that’s all he asks.

And without a question about deserving or undeserving, repentance or confession, without any question at all, the dying Son of God says, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

So for the record, in addition to an innocent person dying without deserving it, we also have this innocent person offering the forgiveness of almighty God to those who killed him, and the welcome of almighty God to one who actually did deserve to be killed for his crimes.

It’s more than we ever could fully comprehend.  And it changes everything.

What Luke forces us to reconsider by his telling of this story is literally everything we believe to be true about guilt, innocence, punishment, and grace.

This is consistent with the rest of his Gospel, and the book of Acts, but it’s no less difficult for that.  The coming of the Son of the Father, filled with the Holy Spirit, is the beginning of the reign of God on this earth.  The healing and teaching, the grace and welcome this eternal Son of God brings in Luke’s telling is a deep and abiding cause of joy for us as we read it.

But now we see this Righteous, Innocent One suffer and die.  And the wicked, evil ones are forgiven for it.  It offends our sense of justice, our sense of right and wrong.  It sounds just like what happens in the parable of the Prodigal Father, and once again we find ourselves on the side of the elder brother and his outrage at this injustice.

That is, until we realize that we are the guilty ones.  We are the ones who “know not” what we do.  It doesn’t matter to Jesus if we see ourselves as the younger brother in his story or the elder brother.  Because all the brothers in the world, all the sisters, are lost, broken, guilty.

Whether we can justify ourselves in our own minds as “innocent” or not is not relevant.  Whether there are some who to our minds are clearly “guilty” is also not relevant.  In the realm and reign of God, the Son of God came to seek and to find the lost.  And then to celebrate.

And the sooner we admit our lostness, our guilt, our sinfulness, the quicker we understand and grasp the indescribably astonishing truth of God’s love for us.  “Father, forgive them,” Jesus says about us.  “They don’t know what they are doing.”  Except when we do, and we say, “we are justly worthy of condemnation.”  Then Jesus says to us, “Truly I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

There are no loopholes.  All are guilty.  But Luke has left no loopholes in grace, either.  All are loved and forgiven.  That is our thing to ponder on this Passion Sunday, as we enter once more the gates of Holy Week.  Everything is upside down, and no one gets what they deserve: not the innocent Son of God, not guilty humanity.

And so we go from here in wonder, with much to consider, much to think about.

If our lives are built around the idea that we get, or we should get, what we deserve, well, can we ever say we deserve all good from God, much less forgiveness?

And yet Luke says that’s the whole point of the Innocent One, the Son of God, offering his life.  To declare all who are guilty innocent, free, loved.  To start the party of celebration that those who were lost to God are now found, and the feasting in heaven may now begin.

This week will give us much more to consider.  But with this as our hope, it will also give us the possibility of life now and always.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

God has done a completely new thing in the Son’s extravagant offering of his life for the sake of us and the world, and that abundant offering moves us to offer praise and thanks in extravagant abundance for the sake of God and the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen, 5 Lent C; texts: John 12:1-8; Isaiah 43:16-21

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

We sometimes have an awkward, if not outright negative reaction to extravagant gifts.  There is often in our culture a sense that when we receive a gift that seems exorbitant, generous, costly, we are required to say, “Oh, you really shouldn’t have.  This is too much, too much!”  In fact, we sometimes can find ourselves thinking or saying that even for gifts that aren’t so much.  A wise person I knew once said that it is as important to learn to receive well as it is to give well.

What’s interesting about this beautiful act of Mary of Bethany toward Jesus is that the response of the recipient is gracious and grateful: Jesus praises Mary for her generosity.  It’s others in the room that offer their criticism, in this case, Judas.  When Matthew and Mark tell this story, it’s “the disciples” who criticize, but John has a point to make about Judas, including his exclusive tidbit that Judas was a thief who stole from the shared purse used to feed and care for the poor.

It seems clear that Judas isn’t really concerned about the poor, but Jesus’ answer is often seen, incorrectly, as an instance of him not caring, either.  Of course he’s really saying that his own impending death and subsequent absence from his disciples is cause for their attention now, while caring for the poor will always be their job, their mission, their concern.

It is, however, Mary’s gracious, astonishing action that dominates our attention today.  It raises in us questions of our own response to the presence of the Lord, to the grace of God, and our place on the spectrum running from Judas’ disdain to Mary’s adoration.  Even Judas’ concern for the poor invites us to ask how we distinguish between gifts to God that in their own right are worthy and gifts we might give to the poor in God’s name.

Since we can scarcely take our eyes off of Mary in this story, let’s look at her more fully.

When we look at her gift we need to see it through her eyes rather than through our sense of its foolishness or wastefulness.

We do note first, however, the shocking extravagance of this gift, the careless regard for cost that is exhibited in this action of great care.  This perfume Mary takes up is worth about ten months’ wages of a daily laborer, the kind of people Mary knew well, the kind of people who spent time with Jesus.  In fact, many of his disciples likely weren’t earning that kind of daily wage, and were in various stages of poverty.

But even a daily worker couldn’t conceive of having ten months of wages set aside in savings, let alone deciding to buy perfume with it.  At that economic level, you eat what you earn, and are glad if what you take home in wages at the end of the day feeds you and your family.  So Judas’ concern for the poor has two truths in it: they literally could have fed a lot of people, a lot of families, with that money; and everyone who lived on the edge financially who heard his complaint could be sure to at least share his shock at the cost.

But Mary takes this perfume that cost so much and dumps it out, pours it over Jesus’ feet, wiping them with her hair.  She throws it away, seemingly, and though John tells us that the house was filled with the glorious scent, still, we might easily fall onto Judas’ side of this conversation.  It certainly makes Matthew’s and Mark’s assertions sensible, that “the disciples” complained, not just one.  Mary seems careless about the value, careless about the waste, careless about the hungry people she must certainly know.

Caring or careless: that’s the key distinction here, isn’t it?  Mary cares more for Jesus than for the cost of her gift.  That’s the point of concern for those critical of her.

We need to note, however, that Mary’s generosity arises out of her gratefulness to Jesus and her sense of what is now happening.  In the first place, this happens immediately after Jesus has raised Lazarus, brother of Mary and Martha, from the dead.  In real time and in John’s Gospel, it is the event that precedes this dinner party for Jesus.  We can almost see this party as part of the family’s gratitude for Jesus’ miracle of restored life.  Mary’s overflowing generosity comes in part from this gratitude and love.

In the second place, this happens immediately before Holy Week.  Six days before Passover, John says.  Now, Jesus has been telling the disciples that he is going to Jerusalem and will be put to death by the leaders of the people.  In the synoptic Gospels, the male disciples at least seem to act as if they’re not really listening to Jesus.  In John’s Gospel, in the previous chapter, when Jesus announces he is going to Bethany to help his friend Lazarus, however, his disciples, including the men, try to dissuade him because his life is threatened.  When Jesus persists, Thomas encourages himself and the others that they should all go and die with Jesus.  So in John’s telling, even the men are a little aware.

But clearly Mary’s more deeply in tune with Jesus’ mood and the political and religious tensions of the day.  She anoints Jesus for burial, he says.  She perfumes his feet and the whole room to prepare him for what is to come.

Which leads to the third thing Mary understands: she understands her role as servant of Jesus.  It is John who tells us that Jesus does this very same action for the disciples, though without perfume, on the night of his betrayal.  He washes their feet, and calls them to do the same for each other.  Mary anticipates that action by nearly a week, and washes Jesus’ feet with perfume and her hair, showing herself as the servant disciple Jesus wishes the others to become, the ideal disciple.

Mary’s insight and actions actually help us re-imagine what the LORD is saying through Isaiah today.

At one level, this beautiful text can be understood as a message promising the return of the exiles.  In this section, the first part of Second Isaiah, the prophet who spoke comfort to the Israelites in Babylon, the LORD God of Israel once more claims what is always God’s name-tag identification for Israel.  Since the Exodus, whenever the people of Israel needed to identify their God, or God needed to self-identify, it was always, “The One who brought us out of Egypt, out of slavery, into the land of promise,” or similar phrases and images.

So it’s no surprise to see the LORD say today, “I am the one who makes a way in the sea, who casts down chariots and armies.”  Of course: that’s who God is.  What is surprising is what’s next: God says, “Don’t remember that any more.  Forget all that stuff.”  This is the defining moment of salvation for Israel, the deliverance at the Red Sea and the entire Exodus.  And now in exile, God says, “Yes, that was I.  But forget about that.”

And that’s because God is about to do a new thing, a greater thing than the greatest thing.  And the new thing is described as a way in the wilderness, water in the wilderness, to give the chosen people drink, to sustain them.  Given its context, of course we can see this abundant grace of God, this promise, as referring to the return from exile.  They will have a path made for them through the wilderness, they will go home.

But in light of the life, death and resurrection of the Son of God, Christians have seen that “new thing” as far greater than the return from exile.  Death is reversed, the new reign of God has arrived, and the life in the Spirit is given.

At this point, on the verge of Holy Week, the fullness of this abundance is not yet known.  But somehow, Mary gives a gift appropriate for such an abundant grace that is to come, such a new thing.  Perhaps only such an extravagance could begin to approach an appropriate response for such love.  In light of the cross and empty tomb, Mary’s generous foolishness seems a perfect choice.

And though she didn’t know fully what was to come, she did know that in this Master of hers life came to her brother and was restored to their family.  The deaf heard, the blind saw, the lame walked.  And her brother lived.

And she knows, even if she doesn’t yet understand, that somehow this Master, this Son of God, whom she loves, is facing death.  So she gives him beyond the best.  She pours out all her love in a gift that is beyond understanding, just as her Master is going to pour out his love in a way that is beyond her understanding.

What Mary gives us is a model and inspiration for our own extravagant response.

We of course know what is to come for her and the others, for Jesus.  We know the marvelous end of this story and the beginning of the new story of God’s reign begun in Jesus.  We know more than she does at this point that Jesus’ sacrifice of himself was truly a new thing, the new covenant Jeremiah foretells, a new thing where the God who can bring a people out of bondage and return a people out of exile offers himself for the sake of those people.

This cross to which Jesus is heading is his choice, his willing giving up of all divine right and power and authority.  He does this, John says, to draw all people to himself.  To redeem, not to judge.  To save the world, not to condemn it.  The LORD was right back in Isaiah, but only after Easter do we fully understand how utterly new this is.  That the almighty God who made all things would set aside power in order to win us back with sacrificial love.  To seek and to save the lost, Jesus says.  To find us.  To find all.

What Mary teaches us is the proper response when such a Lord is present, when such a Christ is with us: there is nothing we give that is too extravagant, too priceless.  So when we worship, like Mary, we bring the best we can bring.  We have a choir that rehearses hours on one piece of music that lasts three and a half minutes at our liturgy, a waste of time to an efficient world.  But the gift of our best, our all, to the God whose love transforms us.

We take time in liturgy weekly to be with God, praise God, lament to God, be fed by God, to gather in God’s presence and give our best.  There are some who would see this as a waste of time, too.  But we have found that the love of the Triune God is so profoundly deep we are included in that love, broken and sinful that we are.  We have nothing better to do than be here to worship such a God.

We “waste” money on expensive candles and use them up in our worship, people among us “waste” a lot of time and care to bake bread which will be gone in ten minutes of Eucharist, because this is the best we can offer.  There would probably be cheaper options, but we don’t choose them.

And for your information, Judas, we also give of what we have to help others, feed others, love others because of this transformative love we have received.  Perhaps we could learn from Mary to be more extravagant with this, more wildly giving, that is true.  But the poor we always have with us, and we will care for them because we are loved by God with a death-defeating love.

And speaking of Judas, we also know this mystery and marvel: With such a new thing that God has done, such a new thing that includes even we who are broken and sinful, perhaps there is even room for Judas in it.  There was for Peter.  If Jesus truly came to seek and to save the lost, who is more lost in this story than Judas?  Cannot the One who is to be lifted up and draw all people to himself also bring Judas into his cruciform embrace?

We know it is so.  And that gives us more reason for abundant response like Mary’s, abundant joy, abundant grace to share with all who fear they have no place in God’s gracious abundance.

Perhaps what Mary invites us most today is to quit looking at her and start following her example.

The abundant love of God in a world that claims there is a scarcity of love, the overwhelming outpouring of the grace of God in a world that keeps score of wrongs and judges others, this is the reality that our Lord Christ has made known in his death and resurrection.  We are invited by Mary’s example to respond with the same abandon, the same joy, in worshipping the One who has done a new thing and is making all things new, and so participate in that making, that gracing of this world, this new creation.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen