The Redemption Project - Afterimage

I will not always be with you.

Jesus says those words to Judas while they're in Bethany. The statement comes in response to Judas' critique of a woman who comes and anoints Jesus with perfume, expensive perfume we're told. This is, we're told, the last straw for Judas. This is the moment that pushes him over the edge, sending him off to betray Jesus to the Chief Priests. I figure he's been looking for an excuse for some time.

Judas' reasons seem good. He feels like they could have sold that perfume, given it to the poor the needy, the folks who have found themselves unemployed and struggling to pay the bills. Nothing wrong with that.

But he's not understanding something, something that we, too, probably misunderstand. He's trying to think about the big picture, trying to save the world. He's focused on "the poor" and "the hungry" and all those other categories people fit neatly inside.

Jesus draws him back to the specific.

I keep Pandora playing as I write. This morning, as I read the story of Jesus' anointing in Bethany the song "Afterimage" by Rush came on. It begins with the line, "Suddenly, you were gone from all the lives you left your mark upon." The late Neal Peart wrote those words in response to the death of a friend who died unexpected and too young. It was no accident that those words, heard and read, came together.

Over five-thousand people died of this plague yesterday, thirteen-hundred in this country alone. Suddenly, they were gone. All the lives they touched now feel only the fading fingerprint of their presence. They are only a memory, and anything left undone for them, left unsaid will remain incomplete and unspoken.

You will not always have me.

In a very basic way, nothing is different this Holy Week than any other. I am just as mortal this April as I have been every month of my life. I have no idea how long I have before death comes for me. I never have.

But this plague has reminded all of us, I think, how fragile our lives are. We are, as was told to us at the beginning of this season, only dust that will return to dust. Our times might be shortened by this virus. We may find ourselves sick, unable to breathe, and taking our last breath. Worse, those we love dearly may be here and, suddenly, gone.

We will not always have one another.

The story of Jesus in Bethany isn't about money, but it is about extravagance. It's about breaking open the containers we've been saving for some special day and pouring them out upon those we love. It's saying things in a bold and unashamed way. It's letting our words and actions pour over those we love, drenching them in their perfume. Because, we will not always be able to do so.

And we will want to have left our mark upon those who have marked us.

The Redemption Project - Fig Trees

I don’t understand the fig tree story. Jesus, the day after everyone’s laying down branches and cloaks, heads back to Jerusalem. Hungry, he goes to a fig tree. There’s no figs; because, it’s not the season for figs. And, so, Jesus curses the tree, and it dies.

As I said, I don’t understand this. And, right now, this is not the Jesus I’m needing.

This week is going to be bad. Nothing less than a miracle will change this. This curve we’ve been riding for weeks is steepening. We’re about to head straight up, it seems, watching the numbers expand exponentially. And, I for one feel the anxiety.

Add to this the coming horror of the Holy Week story, one we know ends in a death so tragic, so painful that it even mutes the joy of Palm Sunday. What do we do with Jesus, basically, killing a tree? Is this just an object lesson, a warning? Is it a visual representation of what will happen to those who do not bear fruit? Will we be cut down and cast into the fire?

A lot of commentaries you find (I looked) have this sort of bent to them. There’s a lot of writers who see this as a condemnation of the Jewish religious leaders, specifically the Sadducees. Some, incorrectly, take this as a condemnation of the Jewish people.

In the writings of the prophet Micah, there’s one of those beautiful pictures of what the redeemed world looks like. All nations will go up the mountain together. God will settle all the old disputes. And in verse four of chapter four there’s this wonderful promise that everyone will sit in the shade of their own fig tree, and they will know no fear.

Maybe all Jesus is trying to do here is tell his disciples that this is not that time.

The great shock of this week is that things do not go as everyone hopes they will. Jesus does not announce himself as the Messiah they expected. He doesn’t call down fire on their enemies and rule his people with the mighty power of God. He ends up arrested, beaten, and killed. And the disciples, far from being free from fear, run and hide in terror behind locked doors.

Maybe, rather than a story about trees and fruit and who’s in and who’s cast into the flames, this story comes to us as a reminder, one shocking enough to get our attention. It’s a moment not born of anger but of sadness. It is Jesus telling us, not yet. The great redemption of things is not yet.

This, however, he tells us, is the road to that redemption. It is not the road even he desires, but it is the only road now. It’s a road of pain, and sadness, and death.

But it’s also the road where fig trees grow.

Christ the King Sunday

Around this time of year I begin to feel pulled in two different emotional directions. On the one hand, I'm excited that in a few days we'll crank up our collection of Christmas music, put up our decorations, and enjoy the fact that the holly-jolly time of year has come once again. But, at the same time, I'm a little sad. The few CDs that are marked to be played only in November will soon be stowed away, for another year. And as much as I love the fun and activity of December, I have equally grown to love the quiet weeks before Thanksgiving when night falls early and it seems the holiday season will go on and on.


In the midst of this time comes Christ the King Sunday (or, if you want less masculine and medieval language the Reign of Christ Sunday). It's a rather new, liturgically speaking, day in the calendar. One that, it seems to me, most people are still trying to put a finger upon. Not to say that I have. But as it rolls around, it's a day that blends rather well with how I feel both about the season of the year and the season of life I'm currently living through.


Right after Thanksgiving this year we plunge once again into Advent—a season that celebrates not just waiting but anticipation. We look forward not just to Christmas, but to that future advent. Something (someone) is coming, we know. Something new and wonderful and life changing (which means it's probably not something you'll find at a Black Friday sale) is drawing near. It's something that we've long been waiting for and, man-oh-man it's nearly here.


But this Sunday and the week that follows isn't yet in the Advent season. It's still Thanksgiving time which is about what is. It's about the right now including the people (and animals) who are a part of that now. It's about where we are in life, what we're doing. It's a time to look around and be thankful for it all.


That should be easy for me. With, as the prayer says, the "loving care" that surrounds me, I should be able to bask in this quiet present rather than want to rush on to the breathless anticipation that comes when the long wait is nearly over. I should be taking in the moment rather than looking toward the eastern horizon for a glimpse of what's on its way. Because, I should be able to see that what is coming is wonderful, yes. But that it is no more wonderful than what has come and what is.


This Sunday, to me, we are called to remember that Jesus has already been placed above every name. It's a day (and a week following) that, in the midst of my beginning to look toward that future redemption of all things, I must also turn my eyes to look around and see that redemption is already happening. It's a day to remember that even in the period of waiting, when things seem like they'll never change; there is a moment that contains its own joys and, I suppose, its own piece of redemption.


And it's a day to remember that even as I wait I cannot forget to be thankful for this moment that not so long ago I was waiting for with anticipation.


Thank you for the moment.