February
16, 2020,
The
Sixth Sunday after Epiphany
1.
 |
| The Art of Ray Lau |
As he
so often is, Jesus is invited to a party, a feast, a dinner table surrounded by
good friends, a handful of curious neighbors and a few suspicious fans. I guess that would have to include
Judas. A suspicious and skeptical
fan. But it’s a party. Always with Jesus, a party. And you know, Lazarus is there too: you remember
Brother Lazarus? He used to be quite dead. I mean, like four days dead. But now Lazarus is right there, at the
table. Eating, drinking, singing. Talk about heaven on earth! And Jesus, Jesus is all in. This is how the kingdom comes. Mary, Martha, Lazarus: so many friends,
gathered in so much love, at such a dangerous time. Because in the streets Jesus’ ministry’s
stirring up all kinds of trouble; because in the halls of power his preaching’s
begging a brutal backlash. It’s a
dangerous time for Jesus and his movement.
But
this night, with these friends, Jesus is alert and awake; he’s grateful for
their companionship and comfort; and he’s confident in their calling. His beloved community. At the table together.
We’ve
been talking, these last couple of weeks, about the particular kind of
friendship Jesus cultivates and how it is that the Gospel of John celebrates
and encourages this kind of friendship as the vocation of the church
itself. “One has no greater love,” Jesus
says (and we read this a couple weeks ago): “One has no greater love than to
lay down life for one’s friends.” The
friendship Jesus has in mind is resilient and brave, rooted in grace, and
willing to go an extra mile, and then another extra mile, in compassion and
service and sacrifice. It’s the gospel
itself, spelled out in human community.
I think I said last week that friendship is the circulatory system of
the Body of Christ.
And
you remember, last week, how Jesus wept before Lazarus’ tomb: how he wept
openly and tenderly when he learned of Lazarus’ death. These relationships, these friendships are
everything to Jesus: he builds his vision, his movement, his ministry around
these key and vital friendships. The
gospel spelled out in human community, right?
And so devoted is Jesus, so determined is he, so committed is he—in the
name of love—that he cries out for Lazarus, even into the darkness of his
death, even into the finality of the tomb.
He cries out for Lazarus, and Lazarus is unbound. Lazarus breathes again. Lazarus returns to his family, to his
community, to his friend.
All
of which is to say that the church Jesus builds on earth is a church of mutually
sustaining, deep and resilient friendships.
And it’s in such a church, precisely in such a church, that we come to
know and experience what friendship with God means and how it transfigures our
lives and communities and futures. “One has no greater love than to lay down
life for one’s friends.” See what he’s
saying: to know God, to love God, to dance with God has everything to do with
the kinds of communities we create, the kinds of communities we craft in our
homes and our churches.
Jesus
isn’t interested in downloading a bunch of complicated dogma, a roster of
religious regulation onto the hearts of his disciples. He’s far more committed to nurturing a
prayerful community of friends, far more invested in creating a spiritual body
of interdependent members. Friendship’s
the circulatory system that allows mercy and grace, the agape of God, to
breathe new life into the world. This kind
of friendship requires commitment and investment, prayer and patience. And God’s in the details.
2.
So
it’s stunning, really, when Mary takes this perfume, this nard, and anoints her
friend, washes his feet, with her unbound, unfettered hair. Mary’s grasped the whole gospel project. She’s internalized it, turned her life over
to it. This kind of faith, this kind of friendship
is a revolutionary power. I might even
say that Mary shakes Jesus open to the radically subversive power of the gospel
itself. Kneeling there, washing his feet
with her hair, she breaks open not just the perfume, not just the nard, but the
power of love itself. And Jesus is
changed. Read the story. Moving forward. Jesus is changed by all this.
It’s
stunning. It just wasn’t common—or
acceptable—for women in the ancient world to loosen their long hair in public
like this. It was a radical departure
from cultural norms; and Mary signals that everything about this party,
everything about this community, everything about this kind of friendship will
be new and bold and responsive to God’s grace.
A radically new and open and unfettered community of love. Put yourself in the room for a moment. Imagine the energy at the table: the joy
around Lazarus’ return, the intimacy of good friends and a bottle of wine, their
shared vision of justice and mercy and inclusion and affirmation. It’s palpable. And Mary’s gesture—transgressive and
liberated in every way--her gesture embodies both the danger and the
possibility of the moment. Love is the
gospel. Love is the revolution. And love changes just about everything.
And
there’s this too. In the ancient world,
anointing was common enough; but it was most always performed in official
settings, in decidedly religious ceremonies, in state-sanctioned rituals. Kings were anointed as they assumed the throne
in lavish rites. Prophets were sometimes
anointed as they were elevated to particular status in a particular regime, or
in a particular religious community.
Always these anointings were done in official settings, by official
representatives, invoking official words.
But
in Bethany, around this dinner table, Mary dispenses with all that. She seizes—in her own hands, for her own
community—the power of God and the anointing energies of the spirit. It’s amazing what she does here. Without denominational permission, without
royal blessing, without a photo ID or a green card, she simply takes the
perfume, kneels beside her friend and wipes his feet with her unfettered, perfumed,
holy hair. Because love demands it. Because compassion calls for it. Because she can. This isn’t the kind of revolution that generals
cook up in underground bunkers, or the kind that hackers orchestrate on the
dark web. It’s the kind of revolution that’s
birthed over dinner, nurtured in conversation and song, made strong by love. And the grace of God.
Do
you see how this is such a potent passage for our 21st century
church? Mary’s courage reveals our way
forward, and the hugely important mission of the church in our time. This anointing in Bethany is not about status
or power in any traditional sense: it’s not about proving one way’s the only
way, or insisting on Jesus as the world’s only hope. No, friends, this anointing is about love and
devotion; it’s about compassion and understanding; it’s about a beloved
community of friends joined by a sense of kindness and vision. And Jesus is in the middle of all that. His feet wiped clean with Mary’s
perfume. She knows—all too well—Mary
knows that they will suffer again, that they will all weep again for losses and
cruelty. But she also trusts that the
one who called Lazarus out of his tomb, the one who multiplied the loaves for
the hungry, the one who stood bravely beside the woman facing a stoning in the
city: this friend will see them through whatever wounding awaits. By Jesus’ love they will be healed. By Jesus’ mercy they will be renewed. After all: “One has no greater love than to
lay down life for one’s friends.” So she
pours out all that perfume, and shakes loose her long hair; and she washes his
feet in love and deep compassion. And
friends, this is discipleship, this is courage, this is faith. It’s the roadmap to revolution. And the charter for our beloved community.
I
am so incredibly glad that nearly 40 of you—that’s 4-0—nearly 40 of you have
signed on to participate in our Koinonia Small Group Initiative this Lent. What a response. And you can still register if you wish. Just see me after worship or email me this
week. We’ll get these small groups
organized in the next couple of weeks and get them up and running the first of
March.
The
idea is that faith is inspired, nurtured, sustained in a rich network of
relationships, a holy circle of friendship and conversation. We need one another. We need one another’s wisdom. We need one another’s courage. We need one another’s loving kindness on the
strange and bewildering paths that lie ahead.
Faith is nothing less than a deep and abiding experience of friendship
with God. And that kind of friendship is
cultivated in community: as we pray together, as we discern our paths together,
as we suffer and rejoice and break bread together. God’s at the table. By the way, you don’t have to be longtime
member to join these Koinonia groups.
We’re counting on our new friends, on the gifted and curious new friends
among us, to join up and grow with us.
After all, this is the genius—it’s always been the genius—of Jesus’
ministry: opening the doors, opening our hearts, creating new space for new
friendships. So see me, if you’re
curious, OK? We want you to be a part of
this.
As
we grow together, I think this morning’s story offers a cluster of questions
that inspire our evolution as a beloved community, our maturing in friendship
and partnership right here. See if this
makes sense to you. For example, Mary’s
community empowers her, encourages her to be bold and generous and liberated in
her loving. Let me say that again. Mary’s community empowers her, encourages her
to be bold and generous and liberated in her loving. Are we doing this here, right here? Are our friendships—you and me, in spirit and
in faith—are our friendships resilient enough and honest enough and gracious
enough to inspire each one of us to live out our faith, to live out our
vocation with unrestrained joy and unfettered delight? Mary’s inspired to color outside the lines,
to break a whole bunch of rules, to live into the meaning of her life as only
she can. Even if Judas thinks she’s
crazy. How beautiful, how extraordinary
is that! So there’s one question for the
church. What would it look like? For every one of us to live into the unique
and gorgeous and extraordinary meaning of our lives in this place?
There’s
this too. It seems too that Mary’s
anointing of Jesus has something to do with her recognition of the cost of all
this loving, with her recognition of the sadness and suffering he faces in the
days ahead. Somehow Mary’s created a
space where she can delight in life, rejoice among friends, share a great meal
at a generous table…and, at the same time, bear with her friends the pain of
the world and the befuddling consequences of faith with integrity and honesty
and grace. This seems like a central
challenge in our 21st century church, in this beloved
community. Can we lay claim to the
unambiguous love of God, and can we rejoice in that love and live in that love
such that it fills our hearts and our gatherings to overflowing? And can we—at the same time—choose to care so
much, and to love so much, and to engage so bravely in the world’s hurt that we
lay our souls open to the wounding and the despair that surely comes when one
cares like that?
What
Mary seems to embrace, so powerfully, so bravely, is the fullness of the gospel
calling. It’s an invitation to
friendship and feasting, and it’s an invitation to brokenness and
suffering. It’s Jesus saying, Come and
dance with me. And it’s Jesus saying,
Come and take up the cross with me.
Somehow, in her beloved community, with Jesus and her friends, Mary
finds the kind of love, the kind of tenacity, the kind of humility that sees
the world whole and blessed. The weeping
world. The bleeding world. The shimmering world. The shining world. Somehow, with her friends, she comes to trust
herself, her calling and her own bright spirit.
She makes space in her heart for joy, she makes space in her heart for
pain. And the two can move along, even
hand and hand, on the journey of faith, on the path that lies ahead. In a circle of faith and friendship, Mary
meets God and befriends God and finds God everywhere she goes, everywhere she
looks. Her community does that for
her. Her church does that for her. And so it is for us.
4.
