When Rising Up Means Falling Down
1.
Let’s say that this Jesus, the one on
his knees, is thirty-three years old. We
can’t know for sure, of course; but he’s something like thirty-two, thirty-three
years old and suddenly certain that his hour has come to depart this world. Odds are pretty good, his disciples, his
friends: they know what’s coming. Jesus’s
been unflinchingly honest. And they’ve
seen the signs, encountered hostilities in the streets. And now their time together is short. Shadows on the walls seem dangerous and close. One last night.
And I don’t care what kind of empire
you’re living in. But thirty-three is
too soon. Thirty-three is good pizza and
cheep beer and frisbee on the beach. It’s
an afternoon binding tomatoes in the garden, a bike ride up the coast. But here’s Jesus, our Jesus, at thirty-three,
and his hour has come. A last
supper. Betrayal in the breeze. Executioners on the prowl. Thirty-three’s too soon. But now he’s on his knees; and he’s tying a
towel around his waist and he’s washing their feet. One disciple at a time. Five very tired toes at a time. John 13.
If you count yourself among Jesus’ friends this morning, if his beloved
community is your beloved community, this is one of those moments that breaks
your heart wide open. Love on his
knees. Because rising up means falling
down.
These final hours—in Jesus’ life, in
any life—are really both precious and painful. But I imagine you know that. I imagine you’ve been in that brittle,
beautiful space—with a friend or two, a mom or a dad, maybe a thirty-three year
old at the end of her life. Maybe she’s bravely
battled breast cancer, your friend—treatments and losses and hands held tight—and
now it’s time to let go. Or maybe he’s
suffered terribly with AIDS, the thirty-three year old you loved—each broken
breath like an ancient prayer—and now it’s time at last to say goodbye. I imagine you’ve been there. That tender, scary moment: when your friend
realizes that every breath is numbered, that every goodbye is forever, that
death is not just inevitable, but right there in the room.
And that’s where we find Jesus,
that’s where we find his friends in John 13.
He’s something like thirty-two, thirty-three. And he’s bravely battled breast cancer; he’s suffered
desperately with AIDS; he’s sustained that war wound that never healed. These final hours are precious and
painful. He’s defied the empire’s war
machine and embraced its forgotten victims and now Jesus pays the price. Now he knows.
He knows the hour has come to depart from this world.
2.
And this morning, our story says, the
Gospel says that “Jesus loves them to the end.”
Six words to build a life around.
You know what I mean? Six words
to build a life around. “Jesus loves them
to the end.” With the empire’s death
squad waiting in the wings—ready to pounce, ready to fire, ready to put an end
to Jesus’ foolishness—Jesus loves them to the end. With Judas losing faith—disappointed and
underwhelmed and restless for revolution—Jesus loves them to the end. How can he not fear the shadows and the
footsteps and the darkness? How can he
not doubt everything he’s believed, everything he’s done in the name of love? Sure, he fears the shadows. Sure, he doubts himself. But Jesus loves them to the end. It’s what Jesus does.
St. Francis once admonished his
brothers in Assisi, in Italy: “Preach the gospel at all times, and if necessary
use words.” Jesus doesn’t need a whole
lot of words in those last dark hours. He
ties an old towel around his waist and he washes your feet. He uses any energy left over to kneel before
you and scoop hands full of water over your ankles. He loves you to the end. It’s what Jesus does.
So when Fox News tries to pin the
blame for just about everything on immigrants from strange sounding places like
Chechnya and Dagestan, we own up to our fears, but then we live up to our
calling. Jesus’ friends love as he loves
us. Generously, tenderly, boldly. We’ve got to wear out the knees in our jeans
and use up the towels in our cupboards. In
a season of violence and cruelty, rising up means falling down. And serving one another with humility. As Jesus loves us.
And when neighbors we respect go
after the homeless and poor, when they wonder if there’s too much compassion in
Santa Cruz, we show up and listen and empathize, but then we double down on our
passion for justice and God’s preferential option for the poor. Jesus’ friends love as he loves us. Generously, tenderly, boldly. We’ve got to wear out the knees in our jeans,
use up the towels in our cupboards. When
our neighbors are anxious, rising up means falling down. And serving one another, serving all of our
neighbors with humility. It’s what we
do.
3.
Maybe you heard the story this week
about Cameron Lyle, a senior at the University of New Hampshire and a thrower
in the shot put on the school’s track and field team. Early next month, Cameron hoped to wrap up
his competitive career with personal bests at the America East championships in
Binghamton, New York. He’d been aiming
for the meet all year long.
But, on Wednesday this week, at 6 in
the morning, Cameron Lyle will check in at Mass General Hospital in Boston, for
a bone marrow donation procedure. It
turns out that two years ago he went with some college friends to register with
the National Marrow Donor Program. A
coach had suggested it. The test was a
simple cheek swab, no blood and no needles.
Five minutes. And Cameron and his
friends thought nothing more about it.
And then, about a month ago, Cameron
Lyle discovered that he was indeed a rare bone marrow match for an unidentified
28-year-old, a young man living and suffering somewhere—with acute
lymphoblastic leukemia. The Donor
Program told Cameron that the odds of this match—a good match with a non-family
member—were something like one in 4 million.
One in 4 million! But together,
Cameron and his match had beaten the odds.
So he heads down to Mass General in
Boston this week. Odds are he’ll never
know the identity of the recipient, nor will the grateful recipient be allowed
to know Cameron’s name or his story.
After Wednesday’s procedure, in which (I believe) some kind of a needle
is injected into his pelvic bone and bone marrow is removed, Cameron won’t be
able to lift more than twenty pounds for three or four weeks. And that means
he’ll have to pass on his last chance to compete in the shot put and he’ll have
to root for his teammates from the sidelines instead.
Now here’s the thing. Did Cameron Lyle set out to be some kind of
hero? Probably not. He says he just went along with some friends,
encouraged by a coach, and got his cheek swabbed. No big deal.
Any one of us could do the same.
And probably should do the same.
But when the call came a month ago, Cameron
Lyle had to decide what he believed and who he wanted to be. He had to decide whether humility was a nice
concept, a sweet word—or whether he could build a life around it. Turns out humility is a very big deal
indeed. And Cameron Lyle chose
humility. Because when life needs you,
when the broken world cries for help, rising up means falling down. And love brings you to your knees.
4.
Interesting thing about this morning’s
story (Jesus washing their feet) and the fourth gospel itself. Scholars suspect it was written, late in the
first century, as a series of meditations on the meaning of baptism and
Christian initiation. The beloved
community was just then developing its own practice around baptism and
immersion—and apparently the fourth gospel invited focused reflection among baptismal
candidates. Prepared them somehow for
new journeys and commitments.
So maybe John 13 is a meditation on
baptism, immersion and Christian commitment.
Maybe it’s about releasing narrow agendas and discovering larger
landscapes for our dreams and hopes. We
know that, in ancient practice, candidates were immersed, totally immersed, in baptismal
waters—maybe an old stone font, maybe a river—and then they were lifted up (literally)
to new life and new commitment and new practice. It was a dramatic, disruptive moment in lives
that would never be the same. Maybe John
13 describes how so. How those lives are
never the same. How, with Jesus, you
lose everything, let go of everything and find what really matters. On your knees.
You know, a couple thousand years
later, we celebrated three baptisms of our own last month on Easter Sunday. There we were, at the beach, just after sunrise,
in the chilly, churning waters of the Pacific.
With Stew and Briana and Annie. One
by one, they waded out there with me, into the surf, into the shimmering salty
sea. And one by one, they let go, they
sank beneath the surface of things, they immersed themselves in all the love
the universe can offer. And then, one by
one, Easter Sunday, they rose up to new lives—Stew, then Briana, then
Annie—they rose up to new lives and new commitments and the peace that reconciles
everything that’s broken, every fragment of God, and every piece of our hearts.
And you know, in their beautiful eyes
that morning we saw all kinds of surprises: how cold the ocean can be at 7 in
the morning, how new the world can seem to eyes wiped clean by grace, and how
much love the human heart can really hold.
Next year you really have to come along.
It’s a stunning, soul-shaking kind of thing. Out there on the beach.
And I think of the three of them
now. I think of their shivering
shoulders and the look in their eyes. I
think of Stew and Briana and Annie, and I can see Jesus. I can see Jesus washing their feet. John 13 is their story now. Because if baptism means anything, if the
ancient ritual has any weight, any wonder, any power, it has to mean that Jesus
loves them to the end. When he calls you
by name, when he takes you down deep, when he kneels before you on the last
night, Jesus loves you to the end.
And then he pulls you to your feet, and
Jesus wraps his arms around you. And
then he says, clear as clear can be, the words that mark your days from here on
out. “Just as I have loved you,” he
says, “just as I have loved you, you now should love one another.”
If baptism means anything, if Jesus
means anything, if Christianity means anything at all, it has to mean this. When
disease comes for a friend, when despair bears down hard on a neighbor, you will
love as Jesus loves you. Generously,
tenderly, boldly. And when the time
comes, on your knees, with all humility and grace. It’s
what you do.
And when fear goes after
the poor, when our lesser selves strike out at the misunderstood, you will love
as Jesus loves you. Generously,
tenderly, boldly. And when the time
comes, on your knees, with all humility and grace. It’s what you do. And when the generals start planning the next
war, you will love as Jesus loves you.
Generously, tenderly, boldly. And
when the time comes, on your knees, with all humility and grace. Because that’s what you do. That’s what baptism means.
Remember St. Francis? “Preach the gospel at all times,” he said to his friends, “and if necessary use words.” Easter’s not really a holiday, you see. It’s a way of life. It’s our way of life. We preach on our knees. We preach with our compassion. We preach every time we defy cruelty and choose love and follow Jesus home. Easter’s not a holiday, you see. It’s a way of life. And rising up means falling down. Amen.
