Pomp and Circumstance

So I'm preparing my sermon for our Graduate Recognition Sunday this week, and I stumbled across some remarks I made at my son Nathan's baccalaureate service in May 17, 1998.  Somehow the world survived the feared Y2K and my son got to graduate from high school.  I was asked by the Baccalaureate Committee to give a brief talk on behalf of the parents of the graduates.  (Since they were asking a preacher, the word brief was emphasized, as I recall.)  And since it's graduation season, I thought I'd reproduce those remarks for my blog.  Though they are 14 years old, they still feel pretty fresh to me and will probably feel so to any parent whose child has a cap and gown hanging on the door.  I consider it an oldie but goodie.  And in that light, I give you A Parent's Response …

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Did you ever see Fiddler on the Roof?  One of the classic songs to come out of that musical seems fitting for us parents on a day like today:

Is this the little girl I carried?

Is this the little boy at play?

I don't remember growing older.

When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty?

When did he grow to be so tall?

Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

Sunrise, sunset; sunrise, sunset;

Swiftly fly the days.

For most of you graduates, the speed of the last eighteen years may have felt like a round of golf on a busy day: hit and wait; hit and wait; hit and wait.  But for us parents, these years have felt more like a fast break in basketball; like an 80-yard touchdown pass—just a few seconds and it's over.  So cut us a little slack if we seem a little more sentimental, a little more nostalgic than usual.  Be patient with us if we run through a box or two of kleenex dabbing our misty eyes.  This is all pretty emotional for us.  We're happy for you, but we're a little sad all at the same time.  It's sort of like swimming through a bowl of sweet and sour sauce.

You see, we remember.  We remember how our hearts leapt when the doctor told us you were on the way.  We remember lying in bed at night trying to come up with a name we could both agree on—we hope you like it okay.  We remember the thrill of holding you in our arms for that very first time.  And when we did, well, something happened inside of us, that let us know we would be connected forever.  You were bone of our bones and flesh of our flesh.  And if you have been adopted, you are the very child of our choice.  And we are bound together—bound in ways words cannot articulate.  We dads remember proudly pointing you out to others through that nursery window at the hospital—and even though we may not have said it out loud, we believed in our hearts that you were the pick of the litter, the finest looking baby in the bunch.  We still do.

And we remember taking you home.  Video cameras cost about a zillion dollars in those days so most parents didn’t have them.  But we had an instamatic camera, and we got plenty of snapshots of that Kodak moment.  Now I know you don't remember this stuff, but trust me, you were there.  And some of us parents can see it as if happened yesterday, and we remember it.

And we remember when reality set in.  We quickly discovered that you weren't a doll in a box.  You were a person, and you were determined to let us know that you were in the house and you were claiming your space.  You woke us up a lot those first few months.  We dads usually pretended to be asleep so mom would have to tend to you, but you woke us up too.  And before any teacher ever schooled you in the "three r's" of "reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic," you gave us a thorough education in the three p's—pee, poop, and puke—and you were very undiscerning about when and where you did all three.  You took a lot of patience in those first many months.  I read about a young father in the supermarket pushing the shopping cart which held his screaming baby.  The father could be heard muttering gently under his breath, "Easy, Freddy, calm down now.  Everything's all right, boy.  Come on, Freddy, don't get upset."  A woman customer gave him a real pat on the back by saying, "You are very patient with little Freddy."  To which the young father replied, "Lady, I'm Freddy."  Most of us parents, we've been there—many, many times over these last eighteen years we've been there.

Parenting is such a roller-coaster ride.  We've walked with you from most of your firsts to many of your lasts in this era of your life.  We remember so many firsts with fondness:  first tooth, first word, first step, first haircut—back when we got to choose the style.  We remember the first ballgame, the first recital, the first day of school, the first date.  Those firsts were happy firsts.  But other firsts were more trying: your first big sin against what you knew was right—that moment when we realized that you weren't as perfect as we hoped you were.  Then there was your first note from the teacher, your first trip to the emergency room.  And then when you started driving, well, that ushered in a whole new set of worries.  Many of us have felt like the dad who received this Father's Day card from his sixteen-year-old son.  The card reads: "Dad, everything I ever learned I learned from you, except one thing … The family car really will do 110."  And your driving offered some of us parents a few other firsts to remember: first wreck, first ticket, first court appearance, first community service.  And then, we struggled right alongside you with other firsts you experienced—like your first funeral of a loved one, your first broken heart, your first big disappointment.  Parenting you has been such a mixture of worry and rejoicing, celebration and sorrow, good times and hard times.  Just like life, I guess.  But it's been a good ride all in all.  There may have been a few times when we wanted to go to PTA meetings under an assumed name, but by and large, the journey has been a joy, and we wouldn't have missed it for the world.

So in light of this journey, may I say two or three things in behalf of us parents?

First, we want to say some thank yous.  Thank you, faculty, coaches, and staff of Lakeside schools.  Even though some of you feel that you have had to endure some of these graduates, and even though some of them feel that they have had to endure you (and we won't mention any names on either count), no doubt every single one of you has had a major impact in the lives of at least one of these kids—a major impact.  You've said something to them or done something for them that they will remember for the rest of their lives.  We parents thank you, and I hope that these graduates will look you up in the next few days and take a minute to thank you too.

We parents also want to thank those in the community who coached our kids in sports, those who employed them in their businesses, and those who encouraged them along the way through other avenues.  And we thank the churches and the synagogue of our city too.  Thank you for reminding our children that in a world that seems obsessed with the pursuit of wealth and pleasure, the things that really matter and the things that last forever are things like faith, hope, love, compassion, service, honesty, family, friendship, and a relationship with God.  It does take a village to raise a child—and it takes a school and a church too.  And we parents say thank you to one and all.

And to the graduates we say, "Way to go!  You survived us, and all in all you look to be in good shape."  How many of you are first borns?—raise your hands.  Well, you were the guinea pigs many of us parents had to experiment with and learn on.  Sometimes I marvel that my son Nathan is turning out as well as he is.  When Nathan was about three years old, I was trying to watch a Razorback game while he was supposed to be napping.  Very few Razorback games made TV in Kansas City, so I liked to devote full attention to them when they were on.  But Nathan wasn't cooperating.  He kept calling me for this or that, and I kept telling him to pipe down and take his nap.  It became a war of words that wouldn't have escalated if I had just gone in there in taken care of the situation.  But I was more interested in my game than I was in my son at that moment.  So I let it get out of hand.  I got so mad at his interruptions that I decided I'd fix him good … at the next commercial, of course.  Since he was being so mouthy, I determined to wash out his mouth with soap—and not just any soap, but dishwashing soap.  So I dragged him by his little arm into the kitchen, put a few drops of that slimy, blue liquid on my finger, and smeared it across his teeth and mouth.  Then he looked up at me, tears streaming down his sweet, pudgy cheeks, and do you know what he did?  He blew a soap bubble.  Then I laughed and he laughed and I scooped him up in my arms and gave him a great big ol' hug.  You know, I knew then that with a dad like me the kid was in trouble, but it's amazing what a little love and laughter and forgiveness can do for a family.  I hope there's been a lot of that in your family.  But even if there hasn't, you survived us.  You made it.  And now you get a fresh new start.  Still, however, let's make a deal right here: we won't tell all our stories on you, if you won't tell all your stories on us.

And graduates, we also want to say thank you.  Thank you for being you.  We delight in you.  We are so proud of you.  There is no way you can know the depth of our feelings until you stand in our place in about 25 years or so.  How we love you!  And how we thank you.  Thank you for including us in your lives, your world, your friends, and your dreams.  That means a lot to us.  And we say thank you.

And then we ask you something too:  please be patient with us as we work at letting you go.  We've been working on that ever since you've been born, some of us with more success than others.  Whether it was presenting you to the church for baptism or dedication, watching you walk through the door of the primary school for your first day of kindergarten, running alongside of you steadying your bicycle and then giving you a gentle shove and cheering you on as you pedaled down the street on your own, we were learning to let you go.  Giving you car keys on your 16th birthday was another big step.  And now, as we celebrate your graduation and send you off to work or college, we are letting go most of all.  We are going to do it, but be patient with us and understand that it's probably a good bit easier for you to be let loose than it is for us to turn loose.

After all, literally or figuratively, we've been holding your hands for a long time.  And those hands weren't always so large as they are now.  They once were baby hands that squeezed our fingers.  Hands you used to play peek-a-boo.  Hands with which you learned to eat, often getting more spaghetti on your face than you did in your mouth.  They were small hands that turned the pages when we were reading you a book, tiny hands folded in prayer at bedside and at table.  And those little hands were the hands we parents held when we walked you across a street or through a mall.

But now those hands are big and strong.  Hands that in many cases dwarf our own.  Hands strong and gentle.  But hands that offer help to others.  Hands that hold the potential to do much good in life.  Hands that hold a growing responsibility.  Hands that will find new work and challenges to tackle.  Hands that will find new hands to hold.  They are strong hands, big hands all right—hands strong enough and big enough to hold a diploma and firmly shake the hand of the one who gives it.   

So use your hands wisely and well, okay.  We will let them go.  But we encourage you to put your hands into the hands of God.  And then, with our two free hands, we send you on your journey with prayers and this blessing—"You are our beloved sons and daughters, in whom we are well pleased."

A Letter from My Mother

Since May 1 would have been my mother’s 84^th birthday and May 13 is Mother’s Day, my mother has been on my mind a good bit these couple of weeks.  From Christmas of 1964 till we graduated high school and left home, my mother raised three boys by herself.  Well, truth is: her mother (with whom we lived) helped, and we three boys pretty much raised ourselves in lots of ways too.  For lots of reasons, I was not emotionally close to my mother—emotional closeness was a rare, rare commodity in our family.  Hugs weren’t even a part of our relationship until we boys were grown.  But we knew she loved us and she made sacrifices for us.  There just wasn’t a lot of emotional stuff attached to the relationship.  My mother did some mothering things better than others, and here’s what she did the best: she knew how to let us go.  She accepted the fact that we were never fully hers.  We were always on loan from God to her for a time.

Don’t underestimate the power of knowing how to let your kids go.  As a pastor I’ve witnessed a number of moms (and dads) who just can’t let their kids grow up.  They do for them.  They bail them out when they’re in trouble.  They shield them from the consequences of their actions.  And so many times, they get in the way of God’s refining work in the lives of their children.  But not my mother!  She knew how to let us go in appropriate ways.  Her example helped me let my kids go when it was their time.

Anyway, as I was getting ready for bed on my first night at college, I opened my Bible and found a typed letter in it.  It was from my mother and dated August, 1974.  She must have smuggled it in when I wasn’t looking.  She didn’t title the letter, but if she did, she could have called it John’s Emancipation Proclamation.  So in tribute to her and as an encouragement to all mothers, I want to share it with you.

Dear Son:

     I've tried to think of some pearls of wisdom for you to have in your new life, but again, a solid knowledge of the Bible is the best and greatest wisdom anyone can have…so I commend to you the Proverbs and all that go with them.

     You know that now that you have given your life to God, Satan is waging a constant battle for you.  He could care less about wishy-washy Christians.  He only wants those whom he is losing, the ones who are totally committed to God.  As it is written, put on all your armor, and tell Satan to get behind you, as Jesus did, and all will go well.  He is a sneaky fellow who sounds very reasonable, as you know, so don't let him trap you.  Remember that God allows everything to happen (Job), but He will never allow us to be tested beyond our strength to endure.  So when the going gets rough (and it will because nowhere are we promised a bed of roses or smooth sailing), praise the Lord for caring enough about you to let you be tested and tried.  Rely on Him totally, and the tests will pass away.  You will have gone through your refiner's fire, and nothing for you will be impossible within the framework of God's plans for you.  It is only outside of His plans that things are frustrating and impossible.

     You know I love you very much, and I committed you to God's care (as I have Ray and David) many years ago, but very seriously about 2 years ago, and I totally released you the night you gave your first sermon.  I feel He has great plans for you, and you will pass all of your tests with flags flying high.  I could have said these things, but thought you might find this about the time you realized that you are now emancipated and feeling a little low, and maybe it would help. 

     Lots of good luck, son; keep that red-haired and freckle faced countenance, together with your heart, mind and spirit on things above, and all will go well.  You are always in my prayers.

All my love,

Mother 

The very fact that I have held on to this letter for 38 years, tells you what it means to me.  God may not have given me the most affectionate mother or the most emotionally engaging mother, but He sure gave me a wise one.  May her tribe increase.

Why Me, Lord?

I hear that a lot, you know: “Why me, Lord?”  It usually comes on the heels of something bad: bad news, bad diagnosis, bad break.  It’s often accompanied by tears and anger and angst.  Why me, Lord?

I’ve been thinking about that lately for a number of reasons—but in a different way, a Kris Kristofferson way.  Do you remember his song from the 70s? 

Why me, Lord?  What have I have done

to deserve even one

of the pleasures I’ve known?

I would change the word pleasures to blessings though they are much the same.

Here’s why this has been so on my mind?  It came to my attention near the end of 2011 that it had been 8 years since my last colonoscopy.  I had two in my 40s and both of them revealed polyps.  They were benign but they were there.  And since my dad had colon cancer twice and died from it the second go-around, I’m a risk for the very same thing.  I can’t tell you why, but I began to worry about this.  Maybe it’s because I’m up to my ears in the various cancers people in my congregation battle.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been so blessed with health, I wonder when it will be my turn to lose it.  So I worried.  I worried for the three months it took me to get an appointment to have it done.  I was very disappointed in myself.  I don’t typically worry a lot.  The Lord has my back and has my life in His good hands, so why worry?  Worry does no good and can’t change a thing, so why worry?  The Bible instructs me to pray rather than worry, but I still worried.  I finally had the test near the end of March.  I sort of expected to be told I had cancer.  Well, I had a couple of polyps but no cancer.  Why me, Lord?

Then I had my annual appointment with my dermatologist in April.  I had one skin cancer removed a few years ago and several pre-cancer spots frozen off over the years.  I didn’t see anything suspicious this go around so I had no concern … until the doctor found a small spot on my back that he believed needed a biopsy.  It was dark, irregular, didn’t look right.  “Could be a melanoma,” he said.  “We need to check it out.”  Thankfully, I didn’t worry so much about this for the ten days it took to get word on the biopsy.  And when I got word, the word was good.  Why me, Lord?

And then there’s my family.  I’m blessed with two grown children who have children of their own.  They are healthy, happy, employed, and deeply invested in the kingdom of God and their local church.  Why me, Lord?

And then there’s this church I serve.  I got a call this morning from a man in his 80s.  He asked me to pray for a friend of his who was just diagnosed with a brain tumor and was scheduled for surgery today.  My friend from the church has shared his faith with this man for years.  He’s prayed for him.  He’s loved him.  He’s burdened for him.  And he called me to ask me to pray that God would use this cancer to open his friend’s heart to Jesus and salvation and life.  And here’s the deal: I serve a church with lots of people just like him.  God put me in a church with many people who love God and others and God’s world, people who invest time and treasure and heart into God’s worldwide kingdom.  Sometimes I have to pinch myself to be sure it’s all not a dream.  Why me, Lord?

And then there’s this: today would have been my mother’s 84^th birthday.  She went through a good bit of hell in her life, and I suspect I contributed a bit of it along the way.  She had a hellish and violent marriage until she found the courage to walk away (for which I don’t think she ever forgave herself).  She had a stroke of sorts that left her unable to use her right side from her late 30s till she died.  She had to learn to walk and write and do everything left-handed.  She barely had enough money to live on.  She battled two rounds of cancer.  She lived alone the rest of her life, and she developed enough dementia in her last couple of years that the last time I saw her it took her all day to remember my name.  I was not the son I should have been to a woman who sacrificed a lot for my brothers and I and who endured a lot of hardship in her life without ever losing her faith.  Why me, Lord?

I don’t get it—better people than I am are in some pretty deep pits right now.  Why them and not me?  I don’t understand why God has blessed me so.  I don’t deserve it.  But I guess that’s why it’s called grace.  And I guess that’s why grace is best described as amazing.  So for now, I’ll just humbly give thanks, while I scratch my head and shrug my shoulders at it all.  And I’ll pray for the faith and the courage and the strength to be able to say a little something different if and when some serious trouble comes crashing into my life or my family: “Why not me, Lord?  And even then, I pray I’ll never lose my deep sense of God’s blessing in my life.

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,

And his steadfast love endures forever.

(Psalm 136:1)

The Risen King

We’ve spent these four Sundays leading up to Easter considering the dimensions of Jesus’ kingship. We’ve been poking around John’s account of Jesus’ Passion Week listening to the stories of people who were there. We’ve learned that Jesus is a lowly king, a servant king, and a suffering king. None of those adjectives sound very kingly. And when Jesus is riding a donkey’s colt instead of a stallion, washing the disciples’ feet instead of the disciples washing His, and willingly enduring suffering rather than dishing it out, well, Jesus doesn’t look like much of a king.

That all changes on Resurrection morning. That all changes in John 20, when Jesus Christ is raised from the dead. Jesus is the risen King. It was the resurrection of Jesus that caused His followers to take a second look at Jesus’ life and ministry. Maybe Jesus wasn’t just a Nazarene peasant with a bunch of new ideas. Maybe Jesus was more than just another martyr for a lost cause. He really is the Messiah King. This is Jesus’ followers’ conclusion: “Though in disguise, the eternal King was among us all the time.”

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I don’t know why I went to the tomb so early on Sunday morning. I couldn’t sleep. It was still dark. I guess I just had to be near him. I guess I just had to convince myself that it was true—that this was not just a nightmare from which I’d awake. Jesus is really dead.

On the way to tomb, I replayed it over and over in my mind. There are images of sights and sounds seared in my memory that I suspect will never go away.

· The shouts of the crowd: “Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!”

· The snap of the whip upon His back, coupled with the grimace on his face and the guttural groan rising out of the agony of bloody wounds that covered him from head to toe.

· The clank of the hammer on the nails driven into his hands and feet.

· The mocking crowd.

· The laughing soldiers throwing dice for his clothes, carrying on as if killing Jesus was no different than butchering a cow.

· I remember his gasping for every breath … his last breath.

I’m afraid to close my eyes lest I see it all over again. If I’m going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable at his grave. At least I will feel that I am close to him again.

It was dark and I was careful not to trip over a rock or a root as I made my way to the tomb where we had buried Jesus’ body just two nights before. But dark as it was, even from a distance, I could tell something was wrong. Things were not as we had left them Friday night. I could smell damp earth, cold rock from inside. Oh, no … the stone … someone has moved the stone! Were they afraid Jesus would become a saint, afraid His tomb would become a shrine? Wasn’t killing him enough? They can’t even let his body rest in peace. And where have they taken him? To toss him off a steep cliff? To bury him among the garbage at the town dump? Why disturb his body? His body is all I have left, and now it’s gone too?

I didn’t stay to investigate. I’ve got to tell Peter and John. I ran faster than I’d ever run in my life to find them. I banged my fist on the door. “Peter? John? Wake up. I’ve got terrible, terrible news!” Apparently they weren’t sleeping all that well either; they opened the door immediately. Gasping for breath, I fell into Peter’s arms. “Catch your breath,” he said, “and tell me what’s wrong.”

So I took a deep breath and said, “They’ve taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve laid him.”

Their eyes got big. “What?”

“Somebody’s taken Jesus’ body and who knows where he is now.”

Without a word, they pushed right past me on a dead run to the tomb to check this for themselves. I followed as best I could. By the time I got there, they were just coming out of the tomb. I hadn’t thought to go in. But with daylight breaking, they could see at least a little bit. They told me they saw the linen burial cloths there. And strangely enough they found his head cloth folded and in its own place. They weren’t sure what to make of it. Nor was I. If someone stole his body, why take the time to unwrap the burial cloths? It made no sense. Our heads were spinning. Puzzled, Peter and John returned to their homes.

I stayed. I had come to the tomb to be near him, and even though he was no longer there, it’s the last place he was. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know what to do next. I just stood there and cried like a baby.

Finally, I composed myself enough to stoop down and peek into the tomb. I saw what must have been two angels. “Why are you weeping?” they asked.

“Why am I weeping? They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have laid him.”

It never occurred to me that these angels might have done the taking, but I was not doing my best thinking in those moments. I was in something of a daze, I guess. So much so, that when I left the tomb I didn’t see the gardener either and bumped right into him. “Why are you weeping?” he asked. “Who are you looking for?”

“Sir,” I said, “if you’ve carried away my Lord, tell me where you’ve laid him, and I will take him away.” Like I said, I wasn’t thinking clearly. What was I going to do, pick him up all by myself, or ask the gardener to throw him over my shoulders? My request must have sounded rather silly, but the gardener didn’t seem to mind.

“Mary,” he said to me.

Hmm? I know that voice. I turned into the sun to get a better look. “Rabboni!” I said, “My Teacher!”

It was Jesus … alive! “Don’t hold on to me,” he cautioned, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father.”

“Don’t hold on to me?” What did that mean? I wasn’t holding on to him. And then, before I could respond, he gave me a job to do: “Go now to my brothers and tell them I’m ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”

Go? He told me to “go”? I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to be sure it was really him. We were together, and in those moments, that’s all that mattered to me. But he said, “Go.”

So I went. I took only a few steps and looked back, but he was gone. I don’t know if the disciples will even believe me. When I arrived at the house most of the disciples were there, buzzing about the empty tomb Peter and John had told them about, speculating about what it might mean. “Mary,” they said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, the Lord. I have seen the Lord.” And they stared at me as if I had two heads: stunned silence. I told them the things the Lord had told me. More silence. I don’t know if they believed me or not. And we sat in that room not sure whether to laugh or to cry or to shout for joy, without one clue as to what to do next. But we were certain of this—at least I was: things would never be the same again.

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Mary was right. Things were never the same. Jesus’ resurrection changed the course of history and the course of countless lives across the ages. So join me in worshiping Jesus Christ, the Risen King, on this Easter Day. All hail King Jesus! All hail!

The Suffering King

This is the third installment in All Hail King Jesus! In this Easter season I'm exploring some of the dimensions of Jesus' kingship. He is no ordinary king. This time we're looking at Jesus' death. Did He die like a king? Well, not like most kings. When most kings die, their people mourn; when King Jesus died, most of the His people, the Jews, applauded. When most kings die, there is a state funeral with visiting dignitaries and great ceremony; when King Jesus died He was hastily buried in a borrowed tomb with no dignitaries and no ceremony. When most kings die, flags fly at half-mast and there is a period of national mourning; when King Jesus died, it was business as usual in Jerusalem. Jesus is no ordinary King; He is the suffering King.

And we're going to explore that dimension of Jesus' kingship through the eyes of Governor Pontius Pilate, the man who made the decision to kill Jesus on a cross. Just a word before you read the monologue: Pilate doesn't see the cross like Christians see it. He sees it like most anyone else who doesn't know what King Jesus did for us there. Keep that in mind as you read.

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I do not feel as if I am among friends here. You know me for one thing and one thing only. I ordered the beating and the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. As Governor of this Roman province, I alone had the authority to execute Jesus or set him free. And as you well know, I chose to execute him on a cross.

But before you judge me too harshly, understand this: politics is politics. Did I like Jesus personally? Yes. I only knew him a few hours, and I found him mysterious and engaging. The man had courage—I will certainly give him that.

It was those pesky Jews that brought Jesus to my attention. It was Passover time so I was in Jerusalem. The city loads up with people on that holiday, so I send in extra soldiers and go there myself. Of all the various nations under our Roman thumb, the Jews were the hardest to subjugate—seems like they were always complaining about this or protesting about that. And at Passover, with Jews streaming into the same place from all over the Empire and their religious fervor stoked, well, it’s important to flex our Roman muscles and remind them who is boss. I had spent the last four or five Passovers there with not a single incident. This year was different.

Along with his cohorts, their high priest Caiaphas, a real malcontent, brought Jesus to me early Friday morning, and they had blood in their eyes. Of course, they are too holy to enter my headquarters, so I had to go out on my porch to meet them. They shoved Jesus toward me and said, “If this man had not done evil, we wouldn’t have bothered you and certainly wouldn’t have bothered you this early.”

“Why’d you bother me at all?” I said. “You’ve got your own laws; judge him yourselves.”

“We have judged him already,” they said, “and found him guilty. We are bringing him to you because he deserves to die for his crimes and we don’t have the legal authority to execute him. That authority belongs only to you.”

And immediately I felt a headache coming on. Since I didn’t trust Caiaphas, I didn’t ask him to explain the charges. I decided to ask the accused about that. I had heard about this Jesus of Nazareth. I ushered him into my office away from his accusers. “So,” I said, “you’re the King of Jews?”

Jesus raised his eyebrows and asked, “Did you come up with that yourself or did others tell you this?”

“Do I look like a Jew to you? Your own people and their priests brought you to me. What have you done?”

“My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus replied. “If it were, my servants would be fighting tooth and nail to set me free. But like I said, my kingdom is not of this world.”

“So, you are a king?”

“You said it. And I was born for this purpose. This is why I came into this world—to witness to the truth. Those who are of the truth listen to my voice and know the truth when they hear it.”

“Truth, you say. What is truth?”

I was getting nowhere with him, but he seemed harmless enough to me. So I left Jesus and walked back out on the porch to talk to the Jews who had grown in number while I questioned Jesus. “Not guilty,” I said. “He’s done nothing worthy of execution. But you have this custom that I should set one prisoner free at the Passover. How about I release the King of the Jews?”

“Not him!” they shouted. “Barabbas! We want Barabbas.” I can’t say I was surprised that they didn’t want Jesus released, but Barabbas? The man was bad news—a hardened criminal: tried, convicted and sentenced. And they wanted Barabbas? Do you see now what I had to contend with here?

But politics is politics, and I had yet to eat my breakfast, so I figured I’d give them something. I turned to the captain of the guard, “Take Jesus, tie him to the post, and flog him.” Well, they did more than flog him; they always do. They had heard all this talk about him being the King of the Jews so they made sport with him. They found a purple robe and draped it over his shoulders. One of them weaved together a crown of thorns and pressed it on his head. They shoved him around, roughed him up as they do all Jewish prisoners, and then bowed in mock reverence saying, “Hail, King of Jews!” That was a bit childish, I admit. But soldiers get bored and need a little entertainment now and then.

They administered the beating and finished their gruesome task while I enjoyed my breakfast. They brought him back to me, and I presented him to the Jews adorned in his robe and crown. His face was streaked with blood; more blood dripped out from under his robe. He stood in a pool of it. “I find him not guilty,” I said for the second time. And I really thought the beating might be blood enough for them, but it was not. “Don’t stop now!” they shouted. “Finish him! Crucify him! Crucify him now!”

“Crucify him yourselves,” I said. “I find him not guilty.”

“He is guilty!” they shouted. “Our laws say he has to die because he’s made himself out to be the Son of God.”

“What?” I thought to myself. “The Son of God?” They’re all crazy. But that’s the first I heard of that. We Romans believe in lots of gods and for all I know he could be the manifestation of one of them. We Romans want to appease the gods, not anger them. So this “Son of God” talk sent a shiver down my spine. I hurried Jesus back into my office, hoping he wouldn’t bleed on the marble floor. “Who are you really?” I asked. “Where are you from?” His head was down and he said nothing. “Speak up,” I demanded. “Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here? I have the authority to crucify you or set you free.”

He looked up and spoke through swollen, bloody lips, “The only authority you have over me is what has been given you from heaven. That’s why the one who turned me over to you is a worse sinner in this matter than you are.”

And suddenly I was in waters I had never sailed before. Ask anyone who knows me from my military days to my days as governor and they’ll tell you that while I am sometimes wrong, I am never in doubt. And this time I was in doubt. It wasn’t that I was afraid to kill him. I’ve sentenced plenty of people to death, killed plenty by my own hand. So what if one more Jew gets hung on a cross. I won’t lose any sleep over it.

But this Jesus was no ordinary criminal. I had never dealt with anyone like him before. What to do, what to do? He sure didn’t deserve to be crucified, and I sure didn’t want to give those priests the satisfaction.

So I went out to talk to the Jews again. I tried to persuade them to back off, told them Jesus had been punished enough already, “He’s a bloody mess. I’ve a mind to let him go.”

Their eyes got big and they shouted, “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar. You know that anyone who makes himself a king raises his fist against Caesar.”

Have I told you how much I hated these people? But the last thing I needed was one more confrontation with Caesar over my governance. By now it was nearly noon. Sheesh … what a long morning! But it was time to bring this thing to a head, so I brought Jesus out to them. “Behold your king!” I said that just to spite those arrogant, no good ….

“Away with him!” they screamed. “Crucify him! Crucify him! Nail him to a cross!” They were out of their mind with hate and bitterness. I hadn’t seen them this riled up since I took some of their precious temple money to build an aqueduct that helped everybody. So I toyed with them some more. “Shall I crucify your king?”

And that’s when the chief priests said it, “We have no king but Caesar.”

Got ‘em! And I couldn’t help but smile at that. I’ve governed these rebels for more than four years, and I finally coaxed them into saying that Caesar is their king. That was victory enough for me in this whole fiasco.

So I decided to call it a day and made the call: “Jesus of Nazareth, I hereby sentence you to death by the cross. Guards, take this man and carry out this sentence today.” Did the Nazarene deserve it? No. But the political reality is that it had to be done. What’s one more dead Jew to me? Just one less rebel to worry about it. Caesar put me here to preserve order and keep the Roman peace. Trust me: I’d have had a riot on my hands if I’d have set Jesus free. Crucifying him was my only option. It had to be done.

I despise letting those chief priests have their way, but that’s politics and you have to compromise now and then for the greater good. I did goad them one more time. We Romans often nailed an inscription of the criminal’s crime to the top of his cross. You know, let people know what got the poor schmuck crucified so it might be a deterrent to others who were thinking of committing the same crime. So I told my soldiers to nail this inscription at the top of Jesus’ cross: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” Nice little touch, huh? And I told them to write it in Aramaic and Latin and Greek so everybody could read it for themselves. The chief priests pitched a fit. Caiaphas was all red in the face and the vein in his neck was bulging out. “Don’t write, ‘the King of the Jews,’” they argued, “write ‘this man said I am the King of the Jews.’” Well, they weren’t winning this one: “What I have written, I have written.”

And that was that. I didn’t waste any more of my day watching Jesus die, but I’m sure it was like any other crucifixion. My soldiers stripped him of his clothes, they stretched him out, they drove nails through his hands and his feet, they hoisted the cross, dropped it in its hole, and waited for him to die. So yes, your King Jesus suffered, at my orders. Mine—a governor. A king that can be sentenced to die by a governor is not much of a king. Sure, kings get killed from time to time, but never without a fight, never without an army to defend them. If a king can’t take care of himself, how’s he going to take care of his people? People follow and rally around powerful kings—a king like Caesar—not weak, suffering ones like your Jesus. You call Jesus your king, right? Well, behold your king … on a cross.

You know … you can have him.

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Okay, I'll take Him! I'll take the King who planned a way to forgive me sins and bring me into relationship with Him. I'll take the King who did for me what I could never do for myself. I'll take the King whose love is so deep and so wide and so high that He would die for me to bring me life. And I'll take the King whose death was hardly the end of the story. (But more on that next week.)

I'll take that King eight days a week and all eternity. How about you? Are you willing to serve and follow the suffering King?

The Servant King

Last week I began a sermon series in church called All Hail King Jesus! We're poking around Jesus' Passion Week in John's Gospel looking at dimensions of Jesus' kingship. Jesus is no ordinary king. As He walked on the earth Jesus lived in no palace, wore no crown, had no money, employed no servants, owned no land, collected no taxes, had no horse and carriage to ride around in. Jesus was a poor man who walked everywhere he went. And Jesus was more the servant than the served. He said as much to His disciples: “The Son of Man has not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mk. 10:45). Jesus is a servant King. Few stories capture that part of Jesus' kingship like the time He washed the disciples' feet the night of His betrayal. I wonder if Simon Peter's retelling of that event might sound something like this …

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I can be a little thick-headed at times. I’ve never been all that good at interpreting signs and symbols. I’m a straight-forward man. If you’ve got something to say, say it. Don’t speak in riddles. Don’t beat around the bush. Don’t dress it up with 20-dollar words and a bunch of poetry. Just say it. Be clear. Be blunt. Just say it. Whether chasing fish on the Sea of Galilee, bartering for the best price at the market, or hashing out things with my wife, straight talk has always served me well.

When I left my fishing business to be a disciple of Jesus, straight talk paved the way. “Follow me,” said Jesus. It doesn’t get much clearer than that—“Follow me.” I know what that means: Jesus is the leader, I’m the follower, I go where He goes, and I do what He tells me. “Follow me.” I can understand that.

But there were times when Jesus didn’t talk so straight and when He wasn’t easy to understand. The story you heard in the Scripture this morning is one of those times.

Though we didn’t grasp it in the moment, Jesus was just a day away from being nailed to a cross. We were in Jerusalem for the Passover and had gathered in the evening for a meal. It had been a tense week. The week began on a high note with Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem to the cheers of an admiring crowd. The week had spiraled down from there. Opposition to Jesus seemed to be growing larger and bolder. Most of us sensed we were at some kind of turning point here but none of us could put our finger on it. You could just sort of feel the tension in the room that night as we ate our meal. Conversation was limited and Jesus seemed lost in his thoughts.

And that’s when Jesus did a very strange thing. He got up from the table. Every head craned to see what He was up to. Strangely, Jesus took off his robe, draped it across a chair, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Caught off guard by this strange behavior, none of us said a word. When He got the towel squared away, Jesus took hold of a pitcher and poured the water into a large basin. I thought to myself, “Surely He’s not going to do what I think He’s going to do. Not Jesus. Not the Master. Not for us.”

But that’s exactly what He did. He knelt down and began to wash our feet—patiently, carefully, tenderly, individually. Messiah Jesus was washing our feet.

Our feet! Feet are rarely one’s most distinctive feature. I’ve seen them all—hammer toe, corns, bunions, fungus, crooked toes, missing toenails, toenails a half-inch thick, crusty, callused, filthy, stinking feet. You walk our dusty, muddy roads in sandals, and you are going to have foot issues. I don’t even like washing my own feet let alone anybody else’s. Yet King Jesus knelt down to wash our feet.

The men were in shock. And why wouldn’t we be? Most people washed their own feet. Washing feet was about as low as it gets. The task of foot-washing was so menial that even Jewish slaves were exempt. That job was kept for Gentiles. Foot-washing was a degrading and lowly task. When done by a wife for her husband, a child for her parents, a student for his teacher, it was viewed as an act of extreme devotion. But I’ll tell you what never happened in regard to washing feet: never did persons with a higher status wash the feet of those beneath them. Well, anyway it never happened until that night in the upper room when King Jesus washed our feet.

We were in shock all right. Nobody said a word as Jesus worked His way around the table. One would look at another and just sort of shrug his shoulders. What are you going to do?

Well, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to refuse. My brother disciples may stand for such a thing, but I won’t. Jesus is better than this. He’s certainly better than me. “Lord, you wash my feet?”

“I know it seems strange to you now, Simon, but you’ll understand it later.”

And as I pulled my feet away from Him and up underneath me, I said, “Understand it later or not, you will never wash my feet.”

Jesus sighed (I heard that a lot in our relationship). “Simon, if I don’t wash you, then you won’t belong to me.”

Hmm. That shed a different light on things. I didn’t know exactly what He meant at the time, but I couldn’t bear not to be one of His. So I thrust my feet toward Him, bowed my head and extended my hands: “Lord, then don’t stop with my feet. Wash my hands and my head as well.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jesus replied. “A person who has bathed already only needs to wash his feet to be completely clean. And you are clean—well, all of you except one.” (I realized later the unclean one was Judas—but that’s another story. Jesus washed Judas’ feet too, by the way.)

But back to Jesus’ conversation, and if His words sound a bit confusing to you, it’s because they were confusing to me. Like I said before, I prefer straight talk, and Jesus was talking in riddles here. But He was right. I did understand it later—as in after the cross and the resurrection. That’s when it became clear. Jesus wasn’t talking about hygiene here; He was talking about holiness. His washing our feet was a picture of a greater thing, a greater, deeper cleansing. Only that cleansing wouldn’t come from a stooped over Jesus holding a basin and a towel; it would come from a stretched out Jesus nailed up on a cross. Jesus washing our feet with water was a picture of Jesus washing our souls with His blood. When He washed our feet, I didn’t think He could stoop any lower than that. I was wrong. The cross was lower, much lower. And Jesus stooped that low so He could wash more than our feet; He could wash out the stubborn stains of our sin and set us in relationship with Him—make it so we belong to Him. I shudder when I think that my pride almost got in the way of receiving Jesus’ gracious gift. What was I thinking?

Like I said, I prefer straight talk, and that’s what came next. When Jesus finished, He left us with our thoughts while He washed his hands, put his robe back on, and took His place again at the table. Once He was settled He said, “Do you understand what I have done to you?”

We looked at one another thinking, “Honestly, no.”

“You call me Teacher and Lord,” Jesus explained. “You’re right, that’s who I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, wash your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. Look, I’m trying to set an example for you here. As I’ve done for you, you do for others. No servant is greater than his master; no messenger is greater than the one who sent him. So now that you know these things, do them … and you’ll be blessed.”

Now that I could understand! Straight talk—it sounded a lot like “Follow me!” The whole mystery of the cross bound up in Jesus’ washing of our feet was beyond me at the time, but this “do for one another as I’ve done for you” I could understand. I still found it strange. It broke pattern with foot-washing’s social standards, etiquette, and customs. It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do. Jesus was asking us to stoop awfully low to serve one another—washing feet of all things—not my deal. But King Jesus is greater than us. And if He would humble himself to serve us in this way, how can I think myself too great to follow His example? It doesn’t seem very kingly, but Jesus is no ordinary king. He is a servant King, willing to get His hands dirty and do the lowest task to grace His people with His love.

And since I like straight talk, I’ll give it to you straight: as Jesus did for us, He wants you and me to do for one another. We can’t die on the cross for anyone, but we can serve others in humble love and in so doing, we can help them experience something of the touch of the Servant King Jesus. And Jesus can work with that to do greater things than we can imagine. So humble yourselves, and serve one another in Jesus’ name.

The Lowly King

I’m calling my Easter sermon series All Hail King Jesus! We’re using the four Sundays leading into Easter to consider various dimensions of the kingship of Jesus. As part of my research for this series, I asked our crowd at a Wednesday night Bible study to do a little word association game with me. I asked them to tell me the first word that came to their mind when they heard the word king. Here are some of the responses: royalty, throne, crown, power, Jesus, sovereign, palace, wealth, queen, and majesty. All of those are dead on. And other than the word Jesus, those are the same words I’d have heard if I asked the question at the mall instead of at a Bible study. None of those word associations is a surprise. I’m likewise not surprised at the words I didn’t hear: meek, humble, lowly. Any king those words describe is ripe for overthrow. And yet those words describe King Jesus.

Each week in the series we’ll be considering a dimension of Jesus’ kingship and we’re doing it, in part, by hearing the story from someone who was there. We looked first at Jesus the lowly king. His triumphal entry into Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday captured the lowliness and humility of King Jesus. And the disciple John tells us about that event.

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I was there, you know … on the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey colt. We’d been to Jerusalem before, but we never made an entrance like this.

We had just come from Bethany and there was still quite a buzz about what Jesus did there. He raised a man from the dead. The man’s name is Lazarus. He and his sisters Mary and Martha are friends of Jesus. Lazarus got sick and died. We got word of his sickness, but Jesus just sort of blew it off and took his sweet time getting to Bethany. Lazarus didn’t have that time. His sickness got the best of him and he died.

We got there too late. We even missed the funeral. By the time we arrived, Lazarus was four-days-dead, wrapped in burial clothes, and laid out in a tomb. Lots of mourners were still there. And nobody seemed particularly happy to see Jesus. First Martha and then Mary got in their little dig at Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” The crowd got into the act too saying, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept Lazarus from dying?” It was pretty tense. They didn’t need Jesus now that Lazarus was dead and all Jesus could do was pay His respects.

But Jesus didn’t come to pay His respects; Jesus came to raise Lazarus from the dead. And that’s exactly what He did. “Move the stone away from the grave,” Jesus said.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Martha replied. “The odor is going to stink to high heaven.”

“Wait till you smell the fragrance of the glory of God,” countered Jesus. “Now somebody move the stone!”

The stone was moved. The smell was bad. Everybody covered their noses except Jesus. Jesus did two things. The first thing He did was talk to God. The second thing He did was talk to Lazarus. Jesus shouted, “Lazarus, come out of that tomb.” Guess what—Lazarus came out. He was wrapped up like a mummy. He walked out stiff-legged, but he walked out alive. And Jesus said, “Unwrap the man and let him go.”

A lot of the people who saw it believed in Jesus on the spot. But the religious leaders did not. They got their heads together and said, “Jesus has to die. If we let him go on like this everyone is going to believe in him. It will create chaos. Rome will come down and take away what little freedom we have left. It’s going to get ugly around here.” The high priest Caiaphas piped up and said, “It is better that one man should die for the people, not that the whole nation should perish.” Caiaphas was dead on, but in a different way than he thought.

So word got out that Jesus was a wanted man. We pulled back to a more wilderness area for a short time to let things cool a bit.

But things didn’t cool much. People were still buzzing over Lazarus’ resurrection. And now it was Passover time. Jesus wanted to celebrate it in Jerusalem, so we headed back to Bethany on route. Lazarus, Martha, and Mary threw a big thank you dinner for Jesus. Mary got so carried away she ended up anointing Jesus’ feet with about a year’s salary worth of nard. Leave it to Judas to raise a stink in a room that smelled like flowers. “The woman’s crazy,” he said. “That’s a lot of help we could have given to the poor.” Don’t believe Judas for a second. He didn’t care about the poor; he was the keeper of our purse and sometimes he even helped himself to the proceeds.

Judas didn’t like what Mary did, but Jesus liked it a lot. He said that she had anointed Him for burial. Huh? Burial? We had no idea at the time what Jesus was talking about. But it wouldn’t take long till we’d know exactly what he was talking about.

The next day was Sunday. The Passover was this week. It was time to go to Jerusalem, and we went. We didn’t go alone. You wouldn’t believe the crowd that came along and the crowd that was there to greet us. It seems that everybody had heard about Lazarus and wanted to see for themselves this man who raised him from the dead. That miracle was such a crowd-pleaser that the religious leaders said, “We better not stop at killing Jesus. We need to kill Lazarus too”—you know, get rid of the evidence, so to speak. But they made no move in that direction on that Sunday.

How could they? There were too many people in a crowd that was Jesus-friendly. If they tried to take Jesus or Lazarus that day, they would have instigated the very riot they were trying to avoid. So they had to sit back and watch with everyone else.

It was quite a parade really. I admit that I don’t tell the story with the detail of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. They explained how Jesus got the donkey’s colt on which he rode. I chose to cut to the chase. I did mention the donkey. That’s important. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, by choosing a donkey’s colt Jesus was fulfilling Zechariah’s prophecy: “Fear not, daughter of Zion, behold, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt.”

That whole processional was both glorious and bizarre. It was glorious because with knives gleaming in the sun, people were cutting palm fronds from trees along the trail. They were waving those palm fronds and laying them in Jesus’ path. You roll out the red carpet; we laid down palm branches. And the people were shouting phrases right out of the messianic psalms: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” Hosanna means save us now. Those were big words, big praises and prayers. I know what the crowd was thinking—probably the same thing we disciples were thinking: is this the signal that Messiah Jesus is going run those pagan Romans out of town? It was glorious. It was like worship. It was like a royal procession.

And believe me, we knew all about royal processions: kings or generals making their grand entrance into the city mounted on bleached chargers, surrounded by soldiers and guards with their swords and their spears and their shields, people lined up along the route shouting and cheering the heroic conqueror. Such processions were a common occurrence.

And that’s why Jesus’ procession was also a bit bizarre. He sat not upon a great stallion but upon a donkey’s colt. Those who surrounded him were not soldiers armed to the teeth but the poor and the peasant and the common and the weak. If Jesus was trying to make a political statement here, He failed miserably. If He was trying to stir fear in the hearts of the occupying Romans, the best he got from them was a chuckle. If He was trying to signal Jerusalem that King Messiah had finally arrived, well, He sure didn’t enter like the Messiah they were expecting. Jesus was sending a signal all right, but not one of us picked up on at the time.

But still the people loved Him. They loved Him that day anyway. The religious leaders didn’t. They were up in arms: “What are we going to do now?” they said to one another. “He’s got the whole world eating out of the palm of His hand.” None of us—not us disciples nor the religious leaders—had clue one that by the end of the week this city, this crowd, would turn on Jesus like a rabid dog on its master. People wouldn’t be eating out of the palm of His hands any longer; the Romans would be driving nails into those palms instead.

Hmm … not exactly what you’d expect … from a king.

Unless that King is Jesus.