The Lady or the Tiger

Let me set the scene for you.

Many years ago, a king has come up with a new way to put people on trial.  It is a trial by fate.  The accused is sent into an arena where they come upon two doors.  Behind one door is a ravenous tiger and behind the other is a lady, specifically chosen to be a good mate to the accused.

If the accused chooses the door with the tiger behind it, he is clearly guilty and the tiger kills him.

If he chooses the door with the lady behind it, he is innocent and must marry the woman.

As it happens, the king’s daughter has fallen in love with a man who the king feels is not worthy of her.  So he puts the man in the arena to face the two doors.

Now, the princess knows the location of both the lady and the tiger.

And her lover knows that she knows.

And now she has a choice.  She can direct him to the door with the lady behind it, saving his life or, she can direct him to the door with the tiger behind it because she cannot bear to see him with another woman.

I think we can agree a decent human being directs him to the door with the lady behind it.

She nods to him, directing him to the door to his right.

But while it may be an easy choice for us, is it an easy choice for the princess?  Has she saved his life or ended it?

Holy Week is a week of choices.

Today is Wednesday of Holy Week and though it doesn’t have a specific Liturgical Calendar designation, traditionally it is called Spy Wednesday, as in the day when Judas chooses to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday, another day of choices.  It is here at the Garden of Gethsemane that Jesus, after asking God to take away the cup of suffering, chooses to submit to God’s will.

And then, of course, Good Friday, where Pilate offers the crowd what he thinks is an easy choice.  Jesus or Barabbas?

Keep in mind that Pilate really wanted nothing to do with Jesus, and that was before his wife told him to have nothing to do with Jesus because of a dream she had.  Pilate could see what was happening, the behind-the-scenes machinations that would lead to Jesus’ death.  Pilate was being used, and he knew it, and being a prideful Roman, he resented it.

So, he gave the crowd what should have been an easy choice.  Free Jesus or free Barabbas. 

All of my life I have given very little thought to who Barabbas was.  Only in my book Witnesses to the Passion of Christ, did I think to give him a voice at all.  I thought honestly Barabbas was a placeholder.  He could have been anyone provided that for the sake of the plot, he was clearly the wrong choice.

Barabbas was a known insurrectionist, a murderer.

But for years, I have thought, Pilate could have chosen anyone or anything to pit against Jesus in this scenario.  Pilate could have said, “Will you free Jesus of Nazareth who has reportedly healed the blind and the sick, fed the hungry and even raised the dead OR will you free this man-eating tiger who has already killed twenty of your widows and young children, and who, if you choose to set free, I will release directly into the crowd here and let me just say, he is a very hungry tiger?  Now who will you set free?”

And the crowd raises their fists into the air and says, “The tiger!!”

This past Sunday, in his sermon, Reverend Greg looked at this choice of Jesus versus Barabbas and it gave me new insight.  First of all, our reading from Matthew 27:16–17 tells us that Barabbas’ full name was Jesus Barabbas.  And if you think giving the people a choice between two Jesuses is a bit on the nose, consider that, as Reverend Greg pointed out, Barabbas means “son of the father.”

Jesus Barabbas was, as I said, an insurrectionist and as Reverend Greg stated in his sermon, Barabbas was someone who fought Rome on Roman terms.  He used the tools and the weapons of Rome to fight Rome.

Or, I could sum it up simply as Barabbas fought fire with fire.

Jesus, on the other hand, our Jesus, Messiah, Son of God, did not fight fire with fire—in fact, He was not fighting Rome at all.

When we wonder how a crowd could have chosen Barabbas over Jesus, we are thinking like Pilate.  We are oversimplifying things.  We are thinking that the choice is simply choosing a good guy over a bad guy.

But the choice is more nuanced than that.

To choose Jesus over Barabbas in this situation is to choose mystery, is to choose the unknown over Barabbas, who everyone knows.

Jesus, who flipped the tables in the temple, upsets the natural order of things.  He heals on the sabbath.  He forgives sins.  Everything Jesus does is brand new to people.  He is a wild force in the world.  I keep thinking to the Narnia books where it is said of the great lion Aslan (a Jesus stand-in) that Aslan is not a tame lion.

Jesus is not a tame lion.  You could look at someone like John the Baptist and the way he dressed and what he ate (those yummy wild locusts) and say yes this man is a wild man.

But Jesus—to choose Jesus—is to choose someone so wild, He rewrites the universe every time He speaks.  To follow Jesus takes such a leap of faith—because you are following Him into the unknown.  And there is no telling what will happen next.

It is very easy to fault the crowd, to judge them, for choosing Barabbas.

It is very easy to say that we would not have made that decision.

Over the years, whenever the passion play has been read aloud in church and the congregation has been asked to yell out, “Crucify Him!” I have stayed silent.

I won’t say those words.

But as Reverend Greg was preaching on Sunday, I was sitting there thinking, “Crap, two thousand years later and we are still choosing the wrong Jesus, aren’t we?”

We’re still fighting the same wars in the same ways rather than choosing another way, rather than wondering how the radical love of the other Jesus might change the world.

We are so quick to judge those who chose Barabbas, to point out the splinter in their eyes, without acknowledging the wood plank in our own eyes.

Earlier I was sharing with you the very well-known story of The Lady or the Tiger, but I didn’t tell you how it ended.  The story ends in the unknown.  The author never tells us what was behind the door, the lady or the tiger.  The point of the story is self-reflection.  Are we the cynic who thinks the tiger is behind the door, or the optimist who thinks the lady is behind the door?  Do we believe the best in people or the worst?  What if the man had not chosen either door?  What if he had refused to play the game?

What if … what if … what if … can we ever be comfortable in the unknown?

Can we ever be comfortable in the mystery?

Because if we can, we may find that the world, the universe, is more wild and wonderful and amazing than anything we could have ever imagined.

Amen.

Embrace the Mystery

Years ago, when I was living in Cape Canaveral, Florida, I was driving home from work one afternoon when I noticed a massive rainbow just north of east in the sky.

There were too many houses and buildings and trees in my way to get a good picture, but I thought if the rainbow could just stick around for a few more minutes, I might have enough time to race home, grab my camera and head to the beach, because that would make an amazing picture.

So I said the same prayer I always say when confronted with the fleeting nature of … nature, I pointed to the rainbow and said, “Stay right there.”

Five minutes later I was on the beach with my camera and there was this amazing rainbow.  It is literally impossible to know what sits at the end of the rainbow.  It’s why we mythologize it with stories of a pot of gold sitting there in the vast unknown.  Rainbows are, in fact, our own personal illusion.  We see them based on our perspective, our point of view and how the light and the water in the air interact from that point of view.

If we try to move closer, the rainbow moves with us.  If we try to get a different angle, again the rainbow adjusts to our movements.

But that day at the beach, I can tell you that for a moment, the mystery as to what sits at the end of the rainbow was solved.  That day, the end of the rainbow illuminated the rocket gantry that sat on a small peninsula, jutting out into the ocean.  It was incredible.  I took the picture and that same picture is hanging on my living room wall, today.

We human beings are fascinated by mysteries both large and small.  It’s why, on the one hand, true crime podcasts and conspiracy theories propagate so well.  And on the other hand, mystery is at the center of mysticism.  Mystery drives our spirituality.  Mystery fuels faith.

It’s right there in our own liturgy when the priest says, “Let us proclaim the mystery of faith.”

Mystery, in this sense, is something to be embodied, something to be lived—it is not necessarily something to be solved.

It’s like the idea of a prayer labyrinth.  The prayer labyrinth isn’t a maze to be lost in, but a maze to be found in.  It is paradoxical in a way—counter intuitive.

But part of the Christian faith is living with the unknown, embracing it, because God is more than we could ever imagine.  We don’t have to prove our faith.  We don’t have to prove the existence of God, because the mystery of who God is lives inside of us.  And we, too, become a mystery.  We, too, become something more than we could ever imagine.

And isn’t that great?  There is something beautiful in the unknown.  The mystery drives us, fuels us, to be something more, to constantly be on the lookout for the “More” which we also call God.

The mystery fuels artists and poets, but it also inspires physicists, astrophysicists who spend their lives looking further and further out into space and therefore looking further and further back in time, hoping to get a glimpse of the moment of creation.  And theoretical physicists who look to the quantum world, the tiny universes that make us—us. 

Today is a Holy Day—it is The Annunciation of Our Lord Jesus Christ to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

When Mary was told by the angel, Gabriel, she would become pregnant with Jesus, the mystery of it was almost too much for her.  It probably didn’t help that Gabriel told her, “Don’t be afraid,” which I think always has the unintended consequence of making people’s adrenaline spike.

So she asked the angel, “How can this be since I am virgin?”

Good question, Mary!

Mary doesn’t want mystery.  She wants details.

And Gabriel says to her in Luke 1:45, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.”

Gabriel brings her back to the mystery.

Mary doesn’t press him any further.  She says in verse 38, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

At our 9 am reflection group this past Sunday, we discussed a section of Madeleine L’Engle’s memoir A Circle of Quiet.

In this particular part, she describes a dinner she had with friends where the topic of the supernatural comes up and a friend says “that when the electric light was invented, people began to lose the dimension of the supernatural.”  With light, we no longer wonder about shadows and darkness, about the things that exist in this world that we cannot see.

L’Engle goes on to quote Albert Einstein who said, “The fairest thing we can experience is the mysterious … He who knows it not, who can no longer wonder, can no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle.”

The other night we experienced a terrible windstorm in my area.  We were pummeled with hail and then gusts of wind that knocked down trees, picked up my storage shed and threw it, and left us without power for around seven hours.

You would think the best time to lose power is at night when you are asleep, but I, for one, can’t sleep when the power goes out.  It’s the unknown that unsettles me.  When will the power come back on? I wonder incessantly.  But it is also the silence that throws me off.  No whir from the refrigerator or the white noise of the air purifier, no hum of the heat kicking on. 

I realized that night how much I try to drown out the background noise with other noises.

For most of the seven hours the power was off, I did not sleep.  I could not settle my mind down.  But I did doze briefly for about hour right around the time I finally convinced myself of this—it will be light again.  Even if the power outage were to last for days, the sun will still rise.

When the power did come back on, shortly before sunrise—when the rain stopped, and the winds died down, I took one of my large Maglites—you know those flashlights that can double as a club if you are attacked—and went outside to assess the damage.

Specifically, I had heard cars all night, running over something on the darkened road.

As I shined my flashlight on the street, I could see several medium size branches—not twigs—that I was able to kick to the side of the road and then, I shocked myself, when the beam of my flashlight caught sight of a massive part of a neighbor’s tree which had snapped off in the wind and crushed the chainlink fence below.  This all happened 20-30 feet from my house.  In fact, I had heard something hit my roof during the storm and then roll off.  I think when the tree hit the ground it exploded and pieces of it flew up on my roof.

All in all, I was very fortunate.

Later in the morning, when the sun was up, I walked outside.  There was trash everywhere.  I live on an alley.  There is always trash, but this March as been particularly windy.  There are black bags from the nearby Corner Store stuck high in the trees, thirty feet above ground.  You want to know which way the wind is blowing?  Look up at the bags.

I also noticed something stuck in the puddle and mud at the end of my drive.

It was a bright pink deflated balloon, the type that holds helium—the kind of balloon frequently lost and cried over by children who can’t quite hold on.

I have always wondered what happens to those balloons once they are lost, the mystery, if you will, of how far they travel, what they encounter and where they finally wind up.

The mystery of faith is always tied to wonder and curiosity.

And so I would say this, if you want to increase your faith, engage those two things—wonder and curiosity.

Explore, create, become a child again and see everything in this world as new and awe-inspiring.  Look for the light, but do not fear the darkness.

And of course, the mystery of faith is tied to love, too.

So, love.  Love God.  Love your neighbor, unconditionally and without exception.

Amen.

 

A Genesis 50:20 Calling

Many years ago now, when I had been an Episcopalian for only a few months and was anxious to experience every opportunity the faith provided me, I attended the ordination of a woman named Pam.

Pam had been present at my very first visit to the church some months before during Easter Sunday.  She was a postulant for Holy Orders at the time, fulfilling her internship at our church as she learned the ins and outs of being a deacon.

I found her to be someone filled with boundless joy.  And so, of course, I was excited to attend her ordination.

The ordination was held at the cathedral.  I feel like every Episcopal diocese is mandated to have a cathedral, something large and gothic appearing, something that makes you stare up at it in awe before you’ve even entered through the doors.

It’s the perfect setting for ordinations, for the culmination, the acclimation and the affirmation of a holy call.

That day at Pam’s ordination, the cathedral was packed.  The inside was just as impressive to me as the outside and I think I spent quite some time just looking around with my mouth open.  There was a choir in the choir loft and the acoustics were such that there was not one inch of that place that wasn’t filled with holy song.

As the candidates for the diaconate began processing in, they did so solemnly, one at a time, maybe one or two risking a small smile as they passed a loved one in the pews.

But then came Pam.

Pam was all smiles.  Her smile was one of those open-mouth, count-every-tooth-kind of smile.  It was the kind of smile that hurts but in a good way.  And as she walked, she pointed to the friends and family she saw on both sides of the aisle and she waved and she laughed and she clapped.

She exuded joy.

The story of how Pam became Deacon Pam is her own to tell, but I will tell you that over the years, I have heard the stories of many people who became deacons and priests, and each story is unique in someways and identical in others.

Many people called to the priesthood and diaconate later in life come from jobs you might expect.  I have met nurses and therapists who became priests.  I, myself, was a teacher before answering the call. 

But I have also met former military and law enforcement.  I have met bookkeepers and accountants, people who used to sit behind a desk all day.

The one thing they all had in common was a call they could not ignore, a call from God that for some felt out-there but for all of them—felt right, more right and more perfect and more true than anything else in their life to that point.  God was calling them to be their true-self.

Indeed, in the gospels, Jesus calls His first followers from all sorts of jobs, from fisherman to tax collectors.  Though the disciples worked in jobs, though they had a profession, the disciples lacked something Jesus brought them—a vocation, something that beckoned to them and offered them, even at perhaps great sacrifice, a path in life that would give them meaning and purpose beyond just physical survival.

I think back to the Samaritan woman at the well.

She immediately becomes an evangelist after meeting Jesus, proclaiming that “He told me everything I ever did.” 

Now, as far as we know, the only thing Jesus told her was how many times she had been married.  But it is perhaps what Jesus didn’t say that tells the woman everything she needs to know about Him and about herself.

He does not shame her.

He does not judge her.

He welcomes her.

And she is so convinced that He is the Messiah, that He alone can provide this living water, that she leaves her own water jug behind as she races back into town to tell everyone about Him.

In today’s reading from Genesis, we hear my own personal favorite verse in the Bible, Genesis 50:20, where Joseph says to his brothers in this translation, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.”

This verse is an essential verse when you are trying to forgive someone.  Joseph, having been sold into slavery, by his brothers, then later falsely accused of rape, then later jailed and seemingly headed to death, has now risen in power in Egypt to becomes second only to the Pharoah. 

When his brothers come to him in desperate need of food, Joseph has the opportunity to exact vengeance upon them, to make them pay for what they did to him.

Instead, he offers them forgiveness.  He doesn’t brush off what they did to him.  He doesn’t gloss over it or pretend it wasn’t that bad.  He acknowledges that what they did was evil, but that God’s power triumphs over all evil.  God used that evil to do good through Joseph.

You see when we don’t forgive someone, we give power to them.

When we do forgive, we acknowledge that God has the power over every living thing in this universe.

Joseph’s brothers hurt him, but God was greater.

Genesis 50:20, though, also speaks to something else—what it means to be called, what it means to hear God in your heart and respond.  Though not everyone is called to ordained ministry, please know that God does call each and every one of us to something unique and special for us.

In Joseph’s case, God took a very awful period of Joseph’s life and shaped it to a call that brought Joseph to a place where he could do, not just good work, but God’s work.

Last week I shared this quote from Frederick Bueckner about calling with a friend of mine.  It says, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

That is where each of our callings becomes unique.

I think of Pam processing into her ordination and the joy she radiated—not just any joy—but the joy that comes when you have seen God’s light and love and now that light and love is reflected in you and from you.

That was her calling.

To let others see God’s love within her.

Actually, that is everyone’s calling.  How we fulfill that calling is unique to each of us.

During Pam’s ordination, the choir sang a hymn many of us are familiar with which includes the line, “Whom shall I send?” followed by, “Here I am, Lord.”

I had tears that day as I sang along.

God calls each of us.

Amen.

 

 

A Fly Went By

 This morning, I want to invite you in for a tour of my ADD brain. 

This past Sunday, at the 8 am service there was a massive fly buzzing around the sanctuary.  And I was immediately of two minds about the fly.  On the one hand, I was thinking, “Yay, the first fly of Spring!”  Despite the cold weather and the threat of snow, here was a fly, surely a great portend, a dove returning with an olive branch, if you will.  Surely, pollinators and flowers must be right around the corner. 

That was the positive way of looking at the fly. 

The other thing I was thinking during the service was that fly was probably a horsefly, or some sort of biting fly.  And when it alighted on the pew in front of me, I could not help but think that I could Karate Kid that fly.  Or I could take the Book of Common Prayer and just slam it down on that sucker.  Probably not the Book of Common Prayer, that seemed disrespectful.  A hymnal.  Also I was in the second row and there was no way I could kill that fly discreetly.  

But that fly was very distracting. 

So distracting that I started thinking about a class I took at Miami.  It was a warm day.  The professor had those large windows in the classroom open all the way.  There were no screens.  There was a beehive of some sort right outside one of the windows.  So during the class we were surrounded by swarms of bees with their constant hum, flying over our heads. 

Ask me what class that was and I will tell you I have no memory of that.  

All I remember is the bees. 

So, on Sunday, not only was I distracted by the fly, but I was also distracted by the memory of another time I was distracted. 

Even now as I am writing this, I am reminded of another instance at my old church when the pastor was doing the children’s sermon up by the altar.  The kids were gathered around her.  She had a leaf, a branch of something, I can’t remember what and I think her sermon must have been on the subject of life—something wholesome and enriching.  

But at some point, she noticed there was an ant on the branch and without missing a beat, she grabbed that ant between her thumb and forefinger and squished that ant dead. 

Which meant her children’s sermon now had an entirely different message. 

We are such a distracted culture aren’t we? 

I think of Jesus’s Parable of the Sower in our reading for today.  It seems to me that a lot of us are either the seed falling on rocky ground or the seed falling among the thorns.  

When we find ourselves on rocky ground, we may have the best of intentions.  We love God.  We want to do good in the world, but the rocky ground doesn’t allow us to have deep roots and when trouble comes our way, we are easily distracted.  Cynicism replaces joy.  Our hearts harden and we lose sight of the love of God. 

Or we may find ourselves scattered among the thorns.  Like the seed on rocky ground, we hear the Word.  We love the Word, but again distraction, pain and suffering, wars and rumors of wars, choke that love. 

So, what do we do when we find ourselves in rocky soil?  When we find ourselves surrounded by thorns?  Because it feels like rocky soil and thorns are not something we have control over.  We know this.  Life is hard.  Distractions are plentiful.  Jesus’s Parable of the Sower only goes so far.  Seed thrown on good soil prospers.  

But what do we do when, through no fault of our own, we find ourselves struggling to bear good fruit in the world? 

And if you have read or listened to my reflections all these years, you will notice a common pattern.  I will ask a question and I will provide an answer that is a seemingly small act, but full of enormous and divine-inspired potential. 

Today is no different. 

But I want to make something clear first.  I am not suggesting that the solution to all of life’s problems is easy or small.  We are all living in a world currently where our problems range from a fly buzzing around the sanctuary to wars in the Middle East.

And if there is no simple solution to the distraction of a buzzing fly during Sunday service, there is absolutely no easy solution to war. 

However, I do believe with all my heart that the first step to a solution, the first step in growing our roots deeper even in rocky soil, in eluding, in dodging, in thriving despite the persistent thorns that spring up everywhere around us, is something simple. 

And it is this. 

We must do things that nourish us spiritually.  We must hydrate with living water and eat of the bread of life.  

And for me, I believe one way to do this is relational; it is how we interact with the people in our lives, not just our close friends or family, but, especially in our interactions with strangers.  Imagine if we looked at every encounter with a stranger as an encounter with God. 

Even as I say that, I am reminded that I, and most of my generation, was raised with the admonition DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS!  It was so ingrained in me, in fact, that once, when I was little, I walked past a policeman on the street.  He said “Hi” to me and I responded by glaring at him and refusing to speak. 

My mom was horrified, but I was just doing what she told me. 

So let me add a discerning clarifier.  Imagine if every encounter you have with someone over the course of the day, whether it’s someone you know or a stranger, is an opportunity for God to work through your heart. 

Last Friday, at physical therapy, I held the elevator for a woman.  She thanked me.  She was also going to physical therapy.  We were the only two in the waiting room.  It had only been a minute or two of silence.  I had put away my phone and was dozing with my eyes open, when the woman struck up a conversation with me. 

 I am always surprised when strangers start talking to me, but it has been happening more and more lately.  The woman asked me about my physical therapy, and I got the sense from her that she wasn’t being nosy, but was actually nervous, perhaps about her own appointment.  

So, I asked her about her own back issues and quickly slipped into what I call “chaplain mode.” 

Chaplain mode means being a more active listener, not thinking about what you want to say next, but truly listening.  If you speak at all it’s to express sympathy or empathy.  

I wondered, as she was speaking, if God was calling me to pray not just for her but with her.  I’ve prayed with people in stranger places than a waiting room. 

But she was called back for her appointment a moment later and I didn’t have a chance to speak to her again. 

It is terrifyingly easy these days to cultivate a hardened heart.  There are so many thorns out there to trip us up. 

Please recognize that everyone is hurting these days.  And that a little bit of kindness toward strangers especially can go a long way in healing not just someone else’s heart, but our hearts as well. 

All of this reminds me of a story I’ve told many times.  Early in my teaching career, one of my teacher friends showed me something strange she found in her classroom.  There in the back of the room was a small plant seemingly growing out the seam where the wall met the floor.  I think we watched it grow for a few days and then one night, the janitor came in and tore it out and threw it away. 

That day one of our students came up to that teacher.  He was distraught.  He was the one who had planted that plant.  Every day, he brought water in a tiny little M&M container to water his plant.  Why had he done this?  Who knows?  Maybe it made school bearable, to come every day with the purpose of making sure something lived and thrived even in the strangest of soil. 

Take the time today to nourish your own spirit.  Do not neglect it.  You can do nothing for others until you take care of yourself first.  

What do I always say?  Love God.  Love your neighbors, unconditionally and without exception.  But also this: remember that God loves you.  You are God’s gift to the world.  Treat yourself with the holiness and care that responsibility deserves. 

Amen.

 

 

 

Be Jesus to Someone Today

 

I am someone who is super sensitive to certain sounds. 

For example smoke alarms.  The sound of a smoke alarm going off is so distressing to me that I have bought ear plugs and even those earmuffs you wear when you’re at the firing range, so that if one of my alarms goes off, I can fix or address it, because without ear protection, my only option is running from the house. 

I am so sensitive to those sounds that some years ago when I was at the grocery store and their alarms went off, I dropped—I collapsed, my knees gave out and the only thing that kept me from hitting the floor was that I was able to grab ahold of my cart at the last second. 

When I was volunteering as a chaplain at the hospital, I arrived one day to find their alarms were going off and had been going off and on all morning with no indication of stopping.  I sent a text to the head chaplain and apologized saying that I had to leave because of the alarms. 

One day, I visited a woman in the ICU whose heart monitor was going off because she was suffering from Afib.  I could barely hear myself when I asked her how she was doing.  She had been listening to that alarm all night.  She had not slept. 

As I stood there wondering how I could possibly pray for her in that environment with the alarm screaming at us, I remembered that we had been told that being a chaplain was more than prayer. 

So, I looked at the woman and said, “Let me see if I can find some ear plugs for you.” 

In today’s reading from Mark, we see Jesus making the rounds with healing people.  He first heals Simon’s mother-in-law of fever and when word gets out that He is healing people, other people start showing up, sick people and possessed people.  

“The whole city was gathered around the door,” we are told.  I don’t think this is hyperbole.  I think there was a crowd of people there larger than anything you can imagine—like maybe a Taylor Swift concert or Bad Bunny.  

It would have been standing room only.  It would have been difficult to breathe, to move.  There would have been this mass—this solid mass—of human flesh pressing in on all sides.  Jesus heals who He can and then when it is very dark, He slips out to a deserted place and prays. 

It is so important that we pause here and acknowledge what Jesus is teaching in that moment.  Something we call boundaries.  Jesus needed time to pray.  He needed time alone.  I’m thinking Jesus may have been an introvert.  He loved what He did but it took something from Him. 

Don’t believe me? 

What does He say when the bleeding woman touches His cloak? 

“Who touched me?”  How does He know someone touched Him?  Because He felt the power go out of Him. 

Jesus goes away to pray and to recharge. 

And then He goes back to work.  A leper comes to Him and begs Him for healing.  But the way he asks, is somewhat unusual.  He says to Jesus, “If You choose, You can make me clean.” 

And Jesus says, “I do choose.”  And He heals him. 

And this is the message I want you to take home with you today. 

Be more like Jesus.

How? 

Do what He did with the leper.  If you can help someone, help them.  If someone asks and it’s in your power to give … give.  

You don’t have to be a savior. 

You don’t have to be a martyr. 

You don’t have to have healing powers. 

Be Jesus to someone today. 

If someone asks for your help and you can help … help them.

It doesn’t have to be dramatic. 

Every little thing helps.  I keep saying that these days the place where I am most feel the kindness of strangers is at the post office.  Everyone holds the door.  Everyone says, “Thank you.” 

It’s not a little thing. 

Be Jesus to someone, not because being good will get you into Heaven, but because by being good, by doing good, by showing love, we embody Jesus and that saves us. 

It saves us … today, right now. 

That woman in the hospital who couldn’t sleep because her heart monitor was screaming at her all night—I managed to find some ear plugs for her.  I asked one of the nurses for help and they gladly helped me and I brought the ear plugs to the woman. 

Sometimes the best prayers are not the ones we say, but the ones we act out—prayers said in action not words.  

So be Jesus to someone today. 

Love deeply and unconditionally and if you can help someone, help them. 

Amen.

 

Ash Wednesday 2026

The one and only time I have ever anointed someone with oil or blessed someone with oil, have ever made the sign of the cross on someone’s forehead with that slick, fragrant, church-like-smell of oil, was in seminary in the first class I took.

 The professor gathered us together in a small room, a sitting room, maybe a small chapel—I can’t remember, but it was dark.  We stood in a circle, and the professor handed the oil to one of the students who then dabbed it on their thumb, turned to the person to their left and made the sign of the cross on that student’s forehead while saying a blessing.  

Then that student took the oil, turned to the person to their left, dabbed the oil on their thumb and then made the sign of the cross on their forehead and said a blessing. 

Again and again, the person to your right said the blessing. 

The person to your left received the blessing.

I remember when it was my turn, when I dabbed the oil on my thumb and turned to the woman to my left—she was taller than me and so I had to reach up slightly.  I remember making the mark on her forehead.

For the life of me, I don’t remember the words I said. 

You know why? 

Because the words didn’t matter.  

Years later, when I was volunteering at the hospital as a chaplain, I was asked to go visit a woman who had asked for a chaplain.  For some reason, the chaplain who was assigned that floor was not available. 

When I entered the patient’s room, I found a woman who was clearly very sick, but also in amazing spirits.  When I told her I was a chaplain, she was thrilled.  She told me that a chaplain had been by the day before and that he had blessed her and anointed her.  

She pointed to her forehead.  “Can you still see it?” she asked me. 

I could not, but I didn’t expect to.  Oil is clear.  Perhaps there would have been a sheen.  I was focused on the fact that, as far as I had been told, I was the first chaplain to visit her.  I couldn’t imagine who the chaplain was that might have visited her. 

She wanted me to anoint her again. 

I explained to her that I did not have oil with me, but I told her what I could do for her.  Basically, I would do all the things the chaplain had done the day before, make the sign of the cross on her forehead, say a few verses along the lines of, “May the Lord bless you and keep you.  Make the Lord make His face to shine upon you …” and then then I would, if she wanted say another prayer for her, one unique and special to her. 

She nodded.  She wanted that. 

I always, before entering a hospital room, used hand sanitizer, but because I was actually going to touch her and because I wanted her to know how sacred a moment this was, I went to the sink in the room and cleaned my hands again.  The hand sanitizer had that typical smell, a sweet awkward perfume combined with the tang of rubbing alcohol.  It’s a smell I think all of us associate with hospitals, or the Covid years, or of our own illnesses or attempts to avoid illness. 

For me that smell always reminds me of the road trips my family took when I was a kid and the smell of the alcohol wipes my parents gave me whenever we stopped somewhere to eat. 

And now, after hundreds of visits to hospital patients, I also associate that smell with prayer and holiness. 

When my hands dried, I walked over to the woman’s bed and began, just as I told her I would, with a dry thumb making the sign of the cross on her forehead, with the words of the benediction prayer spilling from my lips. 

Her eyes were closed.  She breathed deeply, each breath a sigh of contentment.  

And then, I took her hands, apologizing for how cold my hands were. 

“You know what they say,” I began, “cold hands ….” 

“Warm heart,” she finished in a whisper. 

And then I prayed. 

I have no memory of what I said in the prayer. 

The words didn’t matter. 

The lack of oil didn’t matter. 

What mattered was the presence of the Holy Spirit filling the room. 

What mattered was the breath of the spirit that nourished and enriched not just the woman, but me as well. 

When you pray for someone, when you pray over them, it’s like sitting in the splash zone at Sea World.  The person being prayed for may be the one swimming in the Holy Spirit, but you, the one who prays, you’re going to get splashed with that same spirit. 

Today is Ash Wednesday and though the ashes—mixed with a little bit of oil perhaps—the priest puts on foreheads in the sign of the cross are technically neither an anointing nor a blessing like what I just described in the previous two stories, the ashes and the words that go with them—“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return”—are something uniquely special. 

Receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday is a uniquely sensory experience in the church, involving at least four of the five senses—if you have ever experienced taste on Ash Wednesday, please let me know.  But beginning first, visually, you see the ash mixture in the bowl.  You watch as the priest spreads her thumb through the ashes.  If olive oil was used in the mixture, you might even catch a whiff of it, that subtle sweetness.  

And then two things happen at once, the priest traces a cross-like pattern across your forehead.  It may be cool or slightly warmed by the priest’s thumb.  It will probably be a little gritty.  Depending on how dry the mixture is, you may see tiny flecks of ash falling from your forehead in front of your eyes.  And as this is happening, the priest will speak those holy words to you. 

You might find, during this time, that receiving ashes touches another sense—no not taste, and not that sixth sense we all associate with ESP or psychic abilities, but an unnamed spiritual sense. 

It’s the sense that gives you goosebumps when you feel the Holy Spirit moving within you and around you. 

It’s the sense that makes you weak-kneed, makes you tremble in reverence and humility. 

It’s the sense that tells you just how loved you are and God required nothing of you to deserve His love. 

It’s what that woman in the hospital felt, the day after the chaplain had anointed her with oil.  She could still feel it, not the oil but the power and love of God. 

It’s what my fellow seminarians felt as we blessed each other that day, that we were all equal, that we were all children of God. 

In today’s reading from Luke 18:9-14, Jesus stresses the importance of being humble.  Humility should never become a contest either.  We should never compare ourselves to others.  True humility is realizing that everyone is special and that nothing we do can make us more special in God’s eyes. 

God does not hold back His love. 

Rather He imparts it, bestows it, lavishes us with it unconditionally.  

We get the most from God every day. 

And the “most of God” has a name. 

Jesus. 

If you get ashes today, that’s what I want you to focus on, that unnamed spiritual sense that makes your heart quiver and your breath catch because you know that God is present. 

And one last thing … that woman in the hospital … I never did find out who the chaplain was that visited her.  Hospitals are surprisingly very good at keeping spiritual records of visits.  They actually go on your chart.  But there was no record of anyone visiting her before I saw her. 

Think about that for a minute. 

Amen.

My Grandma, What Big Ears You Have

Last Friday, I was at physical therapy, this despite the fact that I knew there was snow on the way.  But the weather apps and people all said what little snow we got would melt on the streets and it was safe to drive. 

And the drive to the physical therapist’s office was fine. It was lightly snowing and as a Florida transplant, I was proud of myself driving in the falling snow. 

But as the physical therapist worked on me and put me through the paces, exercise wise, I noticed that the snow was falling harder, almost blizzard-like.  Still I told myself it would be fine to drive, the snow would melt on the road just as it had the other day. 

The physical therapist noted that the snow was now filling the cracks in the pavement.  And some minutes later, we noticed the cars were covered in a fine, gauzy veil of white. 

And still I told myself that it would be fine to drive—they hadn’t even canceled school. 

When I walked out to my car a short time later, there was easily an inch or two of snow on the pavement.  It was not melting.  It was still snowing. 

I told myself it was fine. 

Five minutes later I slid through the intersection on the first left turn I had to make. 

Fortunately there were no cars in the way, but let me say the journey home was fraught.  At one point the snow turned to sleet and my windshield wipers trembled and shook as the ice built up on each one. 

Adrenaline flooded my system.  All I wanted was to do was get home—in one piece preferably. 

I did make it home, eventually, and safely.  But driving in that was a mistake.  My senses had not betrayed me.  What I saw visually said “Don’t drive in this!”  But my own heart, my brain overwrote that in a failure of discernment. 

What we see in today’s reading from what I will call Part 5 in our “Awkward Stories of Genesis” series, is a failure of the senses and discernment. 

Isaac has had a rough life beginning with his father Abraham nearly sacrificing him when he was a kid to now, in today’s reading, his wife and son attempting and succeeding at conning him while he is on his deathbed.  Rebekah, Isaac’s wife, wants Jacob and not Esau to get Isaac’s blessing, so while Esau is away, she both literally and figuratively cooks up a plan.  She makes a big meal and then has Jacob put some goatskins on his arms and neck. 

Then Jacob takes the meal to Isaac, hoping to deceive his father’s senses.  Isaac is blind, but the smell of the food—he had asked Esau to prepare a meal—and the feel of Jacob’s arms covered in goatskin—Esau was, apparently a very hairy man, are almost enough to fool Isaac. 

But Isaac’s gut tells him that something is off.  The voice he hears is not Esau’s but Jacob’s, so finally Isaac asks Jacob to come closer.  He smells his son and concluding that the man standing before him smells of the earth, of nature, of the field, he believes that this is indeed Esau.

 The whole scene is reminiscent of one of our most well-known fairy tales, Little Red Riding Hood.  “My grandma,” Little Red Riding Hood says to the wolf who is masquerading as her grandmother, “what big ears you have … what big eyes you have,” and the wolf has an answer for everything. 

When you are a child hearing Little Red Riding Hood for the first time, you might be thinking, “Come on, who mistakes a wolf for a little old lady?”  But that’s the point of the story. 

It’s the same with Isaac.  Even blind and dying, Isaac should not have been fooled.  After all, at least one of his senses—sound—tells him flat out this is not Esau.  Something else, his gut perhaps—tells him Esau has not been gone long enough hunting.  He has come back too soon.  Something is not right.  But, like the wolf, Jacob has an answer to each of Isaac’s questions. 

Last week, I suggested the story of Abraham nearly killing Isaac is not a story of blind obedience to God but might instead be a lesson on discernment that Abraham fails.  God would never ask a parent to kill their child.

And this week’s story of how Rebekah and Jacob fool Isaac is also a story about discernment.  Isaac knows something is off in the story he is being told that Esau returned early from the hunt, that his voice sounds suspiciously like Jacob’s.  But Isaac is basically told he cannot trust what he hears.  He cannot trust this stirring inside of him that questions what he’s being told. 

And Isaac, blind and weary and tired and close to death, perhaps doesn’t have the internal strength, the cognitive energy, to fight the story Rebekah and Jacob have written for him. 

Also last week, I pointed out that in the book of Genesis, post-Eden, God still talks directly to people and yet they still mess up.  What hope to do we have in discerning God’s will in this day when all of our senses are bombarded with AI deepfakes and algorithms that flood our online life with advertisements for things we didn’t even know we wanted but now feel like we absolutely need. 

We are left like Isaac, blind to the world and without enough faith in our gut to stand up and fight back against the lies and manipulations we are being told. 

I’ve used that word “gut” a couple of times now.  Trusting our gut.  My mom used to refer to those gut feelings as “uh oh” feelings, meaning you know something is not quite right, perhaps even dangerous—but you can’t pinpoint what exactly is making you feel that way. 

I would argue those gut feelings, those “uh oh” feelings are the prodding of the Holy Spirit inside of you, saying, “Hey, let’s step back a moment and think about this.” 

When you think about it that way, you suddenly realize that it’s possible you have been trying to silence the Holy Spirit a lot. 

So, what do we do?  How do we listen for that still, small voice?  How do we separate God’s voice from all the mimics? 

It starts with intentionality.  It starts with daily prayer.  It starts with spiritual exercise that you take seriously, not New Year’s resolutions that we abandon by the end of January, but with daily, sustained conversation with God. 

It starts with making the effort to identify where God is in your life and what He trying to tell you. 

I mentioned that last Friday, I ignored my senses—I could see the snow was bad—and I ignored my gut—after sliding through the intersection, I should have just parked somewhere and waited it out.  That was a failure of listening to God. 

But then Saturday came.  It was frigid outside but the sky was just as blue as anything you could imagine.  The sky was saturated in blue, dripping with blue, or maybe I was just hearing the sound of the melting snow cascading down my roof and then pouring, a steady stream, down the gutter spout. 

But there was another noise that day.  It was birdsong.  Even in Cincinnati there are birds that don’t fly south for the winter, but what I noticed the other day was that those birds had been silent and now it was as if something had woken them up, because they were clearly singing, in particular the House Finch and the cardinal.  

They were singing as if it were spring even though snow still blanketed the ground and icicles as thick as my waist still hung from the eaves of the church across the street. 

The snow and the cold air may have screamed winter, but the birds discerned something else entirely.  The days were longer and the sun seemed brighter.  

Spring is coming and so the birds sing. 

As for me, I sat curled up under a heavy blanket in my recliner and despite what I saw and what I felt, when I heard the birds singing, I too discerned that spring was coming. 

No offense to the forecasting abilities of a certain ground hog, but I expect to see the crocus soon and not sometime in mid-March. 

Notice that when I made the wrong decision on Friday to keep driving, that not only did I ignore my senses and my gut, but that the decision was partly based on fear.  I wanted to get home.  I was afraid if I stopped in a parking lot somewhere, I might get snowed in, so fear drove my decision to keep going. 

But the next day, my discerning of spring came from a different place.  I listened to birdsong.  I felt the sun.  My prediction that spring was on its way was made from a place of hope and peace and steadiness. 

This is how we discern God’s presence in our lives.  God does not amplify our fear.  He knows that we are afraid—we’re only human—but He asks that we trust Him in those times. 

We make such better decisions when we act from a place of hope and love than when we act from fear.  

Choose love or choose fear. 

Only one can bring us peace. 

So begin here—love God, love your neighbor, unconditionally and without exception. 

Listen to the Holy Spirit.

Amen.