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Good morning! I hope that this finds you well. It is, as always, a joy to worship with you.
We’re thinking this morning and throughout the season of Lent about the ways in which we find both challenge and comfort in our lives, and in our relationship with God-looking for the things we hold on to, and how we practice letting go.
There is a little bit of this energy in our scripture text this morning from the book of Luke, but I think it deserves a bit of unpacking first, because
this is an odd little text-it’s a quick little story, without most of the obvious punchlines that often accompany Jesus’ stories where something gets turned upside-down, or some villain gets their comeuppance.
But I think it also provides a revealing insight into Jesus’ life, as well as a useful lesson for us.
First, this story serves as a reminder for us-something that often slips through the cracks in Christianity- Jesus was not very different, theologically or politically, than his primary antagonists. Christianity has a long and dark history of anti-Semitism, blaming Jewish people for the death of Jesus, accusing them of secretly running the world, but not only is it morally bankrupt to hold people responsible for actions of 2000 years ago, but it doesn’t even fit the biblical narrative-Jesus’ relationship with the Pharisees, his primary antagonists, was one of based on closeness, not distance.
Here in this text, for example, it is the Pharisees act to save Jesus’ life, just as they would often ask him to dinner to debate him, or as him questions. For most of these committed followers of God, Jesus may have been a little extreme, but most of them did not want to see Jesus killed. It is like the way that Christians can battle like cats and dogs over small differences, while being comfortable being in relationship with those from other religions. Sometimes we have kinder words for people from only a small distance away than those who are right next door. When we are in conflict with people-our fellow believers, people on the other side of the political spectrum, or the other side of family conflicts, we would always do well to always come back to the things that we have in common that bring us together, and to remember that we really do not want to win at all costs.
But what I really want to talk about this morning is the relationship Jesus expresses here in terms of power and control, because I think it is fascinating that he outfoxes the political power of Herod-outwitting the king, but acknowledging the city of Jerusalem as outside of his control, as the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it.
Do you know the Serenity prayer? It’s a core prayer in Alcoholics Anonymous (which I learned from my wise social work wife this week). It goes like this:
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
It seems to me, that here Jesus is embodying the serenity prayer in very unexpected ways.
So first, the courage to change the things he can: Jesus escapes from the clutches of Herod, claiming instead the journey to Jerusalem. Having been warned by his antagonists, the Pharisees, Jesus comes up with a clever plan-he has the Pharisees lie to Herod, explaining that Jesus is compelled by the Holy Spirit to stay for three more days. At the same time, he immediately will leave the region on his way to Jerusalem. He outfoxes the fox, so to speak.
When faced with institutional danger, with the unstoppable force of the state, Jesus has the courage to manipulate the system (one might even say, practice a little bit of deceit, so as to help the system function better) to preserve himself.
But he also has the serenity-well, maybe not serenity, since he is sort of whining here-but he does have the grace to accept the things that he cannot change. So he weeps over Jerusalem, because he knows that he cannot force Jerusalem to change, to accept his invitation to relationship, to love and mutual honor. He acknowledges that he cannot fold Jerusalem under his wings like a mother hen, that not all people will listen to a loving invitation. So, the rulers and their capricious wishes are but an obstacle to be avoided, but the city of Jerusalem, dominated by the military might of Rome, fated to be destroyed again and again, that city he cannot bend to his wishes, he cannot protect or control.
Similarly, think about Jesus’ animal metaphors-Herod is a fox, but in relationship to Jerusalem, he is a mother hen-while mother hens do pay attention to their chicks, in terms of protection from predators hens are not a particularly useful ally. So, Jesus here, as he does so often, claims the weaker, the servant image, even as he claims authority-that he is one who has the status to comfort Jerusalem, and his words, ‘you will not see me again until the time comes that you say blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord’ foreshadows the entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, but in that time of celebration, Jerusalem welcomes him in triumph, but is unwilling to welcome his redefinition of what it means to be king-to approach the world with open arms, rather than a closed fist.
This pattern, then is one that I think is worth our examination. We too, I think, are we faced with similar situations. When the world swirls around us, it is important to claim our own authority to change our environment, to work hard and shape our own success, but also to acknowledge both for ourselves and for those whom we interact with that there are limits to our authority and our power, and maybe it is worth remembering that even when he was claiming the courage to change his environment, and even when he was claiming the authority to watch over Israel, Jesus still modeled servant leadership, or leadership in the context of weakness.
So where might we claim the authority to dismiss the rulers of this age? And where is it worth being reminded that we cannot force anyone to love us, and come to us for comfort and support?
One of the places that I am thinking about this dynamic this Lent, where we often face this challenge, to discern between that which can be changed, and that which cannot is in the face pain or grief-its one I’ve faced from both sides. Pastors are often expected to provide care-giving for people in need, and compassion in times of grief is wonderful comfort when I am grieving. But it is also impossible to take away the cause of the suffering, to fix the sadness of the person who has lost a loved one, to make things better-which can be deeply frustrating for those who are trying to surround a grieving person with love, wishing that there might be something more profound that they can do, that they might fix the situation.
But try as we might, we cannot rush the grieving process, we cannot change those we love, we can only claim our response to the situations in which we find ourselves.
In order to practice embodying the prayer this week, I invite you to try a second spiritual discipline-the discipline of journaling. This is one way that all people can take time to think through a second time the events of life-trying to be reflective rather than just reactive, writing about both the profound and the mundane things of life so that we might better able to discern the world around us.
You’ll find seven possible journal prompts in your bulletin, but I certainly do not want to limit your imagination-let your spirit run wild, as far as I’m concerned, but I do encourage you to spend a few minutes every day writing reflections on life this week, as a part of our continued series of Lenten disciplines, as we continue to think about holding on and letting go.
And thus, we pray
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
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