Jesus mourns over the corruption and power-grabbing in Jerusalem. We join him in the same kind of mourning over our country, but we don’t have language or resources to move forward with this kind of grief. Jesus’ actions during Holy Week and Paul’s reminder that we are citizens in heaven help us navigate a way forward.
Vicar Natalie Wussler
The Second Sunday in Lent, year C
Texts: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17—4:1; Luke 13:31-35
Beloved in Christ, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Jesus is deeply grieved. Our gospel text meets Jesus near Jerusalem and the Pharisees tell Jesus that Herod desires to kill him. And these words send him into a moment of deep mourning as he looks over the city called “the promised land” and “the land of milk and honey.” He sees Jerusalem for what it is meant to be–a beacon of hope and a city of peace, and yet, Jesus laments how far Jerusalem is from being a light of God’s love in the ancient near-east.
He laments that the faith of his people has been co-opted by the power-hungry few, which serves only to make the rich richer and more powerful, and leaves the vulnerable falling into deeper oppression and marginalization. Jesus is not speaking here about all the Jewish people who live in Jerusalem, rather, the way the religious elites have colluded with the power of empire since Rome conquered the Holy City about 100 years prior.
More and more people are bowing to Rome as the empire intimidates people into compliance. And Jesus sorrowfully recalls that throughout Jerusalem’s history, prophets have been killed by the ruling class for preaching the way of God and calling out the structures of oppression. He wishes he could gather up all the people of Jerusalem as a mother hen does to her flock and protect them from all the impending violence and injustice. Jesus mourns. He cries out. Because it’s all too much.
And for many of us who were raised on American exceptionalism, we’re experiencing a similar moment of deep grief. Many of us were raised believing that this country would serve us if we served it, that the American dream was a reality for all people who worked hard. We’re grieving the country we thought we lived in and the idea of a land that represents liberty and justice for all. We lament that the Christian faith has been perverted to empower evil. We mourn the historical injustices we were never taught about and at the same time we mourn the brighter future we believed was just on the horizon. We fear for our rights and civil liberties and for the safety of our friends, families, and neighbors. And like Jesus, we wish we could gather up all our beloved ones and all those who are experiencing oppression under wings of protection. We wish we could be sheltered from the storm. And yet, each day brings new heartache. And we live with this unspoken, intense grief. And it’s all too much.
When you grieve the loss of a person, it’s painful, but there are so many resources that can help you get through it, like grief-specific therapists and support groups. But where’s the support when you’re grieving the nation you grew up in? Where’s the support when the country you’ve loved and served causes harm? Where do you turn for help navigating through the deep grief over our country? There’s no grief support groups for when your country is turning into something you don’t recognize. We don’t have the language to name this grief, so we don’t talk about it. And we feel isolated in our pain, and we suffer in silence. We need a way forward. We need a light in this long tunnel.
And Jesus lays a path for us. Jesus mourned over Jerusalem but it didn’t stop him. He responds to the Pharisees, basically saying “Herod means nothing to me. I’m busy doing what God wants me to do.” He moved on from Jerusalem that day, but he came back on Palm Sunday. He spent a week teaching–giving whatever wisdom he could to his followers and his closest friends. He entered the temple and called out those who co-opted religion for their own gain. He praised the widow’s gift and called on the women and men following him to recognize the humanity and value of the poor and marginalized. Jesus dwelt with his community, broke bread with them, and called them to carry on his ministry of love and justice after he left them. Jesus’ love for Jerusalem and grief over its sad state was a part of a path that led to a Roman cross where he willingly poured out love over all people. And then he rose from the dead, declaring that the powers of death and empire would not win in the long run.
But for today, empire seems to be winning. And while we do have the promise of God’s reign to come, today, we grieve, because it’s all too much.
But Paul’s voice is a light in the darkness, reminding us that our citizenship is not on earth, but in heaven. No matter where we are and who rules in our nation, we belong to God and to each other before we belong to any country. We are bound up to one another and to all people not because of our allegiance to any nation or ideology, but because we are beloved children of God and coworkers with Christ, first and foremost. Our citizenship in heaven is an invitation to see the world through God’s eyes, to let our hearts be broken by what breaks God’s heart, to be in the world as Jesus would be in the world, and to venture toward a society that values and loves all people. It’s an invitation to be gathered up into Christ’s mothering body by the holy spirit, and to be a family of people who hold each other up, lament with one another to God, listen to each other, and seek God’s face together even on the hardest days.
Christ is our protecting mother hen through the embrace of our community. In this body we nurture one another and are nurtured by each other, and God gives us what we need and to continue on the path Jesus laid for us. And so, as citizens of heaven we go out into the world and work toward justice, even in the face of resistance. And it starts with our grief.
When it’s all too much, we start with naming the pains that grieve our hearts. Our grief isn’t stagnant. And what starts as a lament, God transforms into courage. God takes our grief and molds it into a fire within our hearts that will not be quenched until all people are brought under shelter of God’s love. And together we take steps toward justice. And when we name our grief aloud in community, we resist suffering in silence. We realize we are not alone and we support each other through our grief transformed into collective action. We become Christ’s light of hope amidst the shadows. And, empowered by the Holy Spirit, we go forward doing the same things Jesus did–coming close to those who are vulnerable and suffering, calling out systems of oppression, advocating for a brighter and kinder future in this and every place.
In the name of the Father, and of the ☩ Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
