3/17/24
The Reverend Kathleen Killian
Lent 5B/24
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Psalm 51:1-13
John 12:20-33
Look Up
The setting of our gospel passage this morning is the festival of the Passover. Jesus has already made his triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, the large gathered crowd shouting Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of Lord, the king of Israel! For they have heard about Jesus and the wondrous signs he’s been doing—just days before he had raised Lazarus from the dead—and many were believing in him. It seemed in fact that the whole world was running after him. The temple leaders felt out of control, and also feared a retribution from the Romans because of the commotion. And so they planned to do away with Jesus along with his miracle named Lazarus.
Among this large crowd were some Greeks, likely Gentiles, who perhaps had also witnessed the holy ruckus caused by Jesus when earlier in the week he drove the vendors and money-changers out of the temple. They wanted to meet him, and asked one of his disciples, Philip, perhaps because he had a Greek name himself: Sir, we wish to see Jesus. Philip was unsure of what to do—everyone wanted a special minute with Jesus— so he went and told Andrew of the request; then both Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus together.
We don’t know exactly why the Greeks wanted to see Jesus—did they want something in particular? Whatever, they likely didn’t want or expect his rather disturbing response to their request: The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.
This is both a hard and hopeful teaching. This idea of hating my life to save it is jarring because I love the gift of my life. I don’t hate it but cherish being alive on this earth. But I am also well acquainted with the many little deaths and dyings and lettings-go and movings-on that are the inevitable result of life, and especially a life in Christ. To hate, lose, or disregard my life is in relation to Christ’s claim upon me; that I bear much fruit for his sake; for love’s sake; and that as a disciple the hour is come to surrender and sacrifice my grain of wheat life.
Jesus tells us that his hour has come to spend his life for love’s sake; love that gives utterly of itself. Jesus’ death is a generative act that will bear the fruit of new and eternal life for all. He understands that he must fall to the earth, and pass through the darkness of death. And though he knows that death is but a prelude to the freedom of light, he trembles, and says: now my soul is troubled. Now my soul is troubled.
In the gospel of John, there is no explicit Garden of Gethsemane scene. Our passage this morning is Jesus’ “Gethsemane” where he struggles: what should I say—Father, save me from the trial of this hour? As he will soon tell Judas at the Last Supper to quickly do what he came to do—to betray him—Jesus as quickly answers his own question: No, no; this is why I have come, to fulfill the purpose of this hour. And then he goes on to tell all who are listening what the purpose of this hour is: Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. “This world” is the fallen realm that exists in estrangement from God and in opposition to the divine purposes of restoration and reconciliation; this world can be both outside and inside of us. It is this world that we are to “hate”. The judgment against “this world" is that its ruler—its authorities and forces of evil—will be cast out.
And I, says Jesus, when I am lifted up from the earth— lifted up on a cross, lifted up in resurrection, lifted up in ascension—will draw all people to myself. Faith must look up; for in all three events—crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension— Jesus is raised and lifted up; that all people are drawn into the kingdom of God; that God is glorified, praised and worshiped, that to God and to the Lamb we will sing, we will sing. The purpose of this hour is love.
Our passage this morning is Jesus’ last public teaching in John’s gospel; his final discourse for the world. A large crowd of Jews, Greeks and Gentiles are gathered around him listening when suddenly they hear a voice from heaven. Or was it thunder? Or maybe an angel? As one commentator put it: There is ambiguity to everything divine in the world, and this ambiguity tests hearts (Rodney Whitacre).
Whatever the large crowd heard so long ago, and whatever we hear in Jesus’ words some two-thousand years hence is essentially a prayer between him and his Father; a prayer of wondrous heartbreaking love. Lent has indeed summoned us to pay attention to things divine, and to the heart; how it expands and constricts in relationship with our Lord. In our Old Testament reading, the prophet Jeremiah also speaks of the heart, that upon it the Lord will write his commandments and covenant. And the psalmist sings, as he did on Ash Wednesday when we began our Lenten journey, create in me a clean heart, O Lord, and renew a right spirit within me.
What is the state of my heart, of yours? Can we read the writing on its fleshy wall? Does your spirit feel renewed? Perhaps the thread on our Lenten resolves is worn a bit thin. Our special seasonal disciplines are the lens through which to notice how our discipleship lurches and lags, and our life in Christ waxes and wanes, empowering us, hopefully, to change our hearts. As we read in our Lenten study book: A sense of blessedness comes from a change of heart, not from more blessings (Mason Cooley).
For what reason have you come here today, to this hour?
If you came to see Jesus, you must look up at the cross. Even if you don’t want to look, he is still there; still here in the heart, drawing us to him, passionately, urgently, silently. Even if you don’t see Jesus, he sees you. Christ sees all of us and the terrible beautiful possibility of the crosses we bear; heavy, stark, strange, and holy “deathings” from which arise new and “altared” life.
As St. Paul tells us, and I paraphrase some: death works in us—in the clay pots of our ordinary lives—that we might have life—true and eternal life—the glory and the brightness of the ever living Father in heaven. (2 Corinthians 4:12).
Among the swift and varied changes of the world, tossed as we are to and fro, may our hearts be surely fixed where true joys are to be found. As we enter into the holiest of weeks and Jesus’ passion, may the compass of our hearts be set true north, to Christ, the Messiah of our salvation and ever abiding life.