The other three days.

Sunday of the Passion--Seventh Sunday of Easter, Series C

For a few years I was honored to preach at LSTC's contemplative Eucharist on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Holy Week. Those three days became a meaningful time for me, when I was privileged to proclaim the gospel to a seminary community whose members would scatter to lead worship in congregations on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter. At the request of many of my students, I offer one set of those brief homilies here. I pray that they will, in some small way, help to prepare your spirit to preach during The Three Days.

I have no doubt that the contributions that follow, by George C. Heider, will enliven your exegesis and inspire new insight. Heider, whose recent contribution to Preaching Helps inspired positive e-mail in this editor's inbox, is Visiting Professor of Theology at Valparaiso University. Several readers asked me to "have him write again soon." I am grateful that George was willing to do so.

Monday: Wasting Costly Oil (John 12:1-11)

There was so much going on at Mary and Martha's house the night of that dinner party. Lazarus had come home from the dead, and a great crowd had shown up to see him. The chief priests dropped by. And you know how nervous folks get when the clergy show up at a party. And then Mary did that thing with the oil--anointing Jesus' feet and wiping them with her hair. Right in front of God and everyone. Mary used so much oil that the whole house stank of perfume. No wonder a fight broke out. It seems the dispute was about the oil. Judas claimed he wanted to use the oil to liberate the poor; but really, Judas wanted the oil to make himself rich. I wonder: Was the writer of this story an embedded journalist? If CNN had a camera in Bethany that night, we'd be watching as the whole party stopped.

There is so much going on here, today, at this dinner party. We who by baptism have come home from the dead are here. As in Bethany, this house is full of crowds abuzz with the latest news. There's the war, of course. Then there are the daily battles of the call process, the internship-assignment process, the candidacy process, the construction process, the budgetary process, the curriculum-review process, the scheduling-of-meetings process. And sometimes I have trouble remembering--don't we do something around here that involves classes?

Wouldn't it be great if someone would do something outrageous, like Mary did?--something that would shock this house into stopping? Amid all the busyness of that dinner party, Mary sees it. Jesus says, "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial." How long had Mary kept that oil? And how did Mary know that this was the time to bring it out? While these things are fun to think about, they really don't matter. Mary sees that the day of Jesus' burial is drawing near and that nothing else matters. And, moved by love or gratitude or devotion or faith, Mary pours her oil, Mary pours herself, out in extravagance.

We know that our remembrance of the day of Jesus' burial draws near. It's less than a week away. On the cross Jesus brings war-torn nations, cumbersome ecclesial processes, questionable public policies, departed loved ones, unreconciled relationships, and a dying creation home from death. In the midst of our busyness, how will we prepare for that day?

What if we make today about wasting costly oil? What if, aware of the coming day of Jesus' burial and moved by love or gratitude or devotion or faith, we make today about doing something for someone else that is so wonderfully wasteful, so shockingly extravagant, so pleasingly provocative that this whole house stops to smell the fragrance of Jesus' burial?

Okay, it's fun to think about, but we won't do it. We're just too busy, aren't we? So maybe we can carry the image of wasting costly oil for others with us as we unite in prayer, as we share Christ's peace, as we make our way to the table, and return to the busyness of our day. And maybe, as we carry out our busyness, we can try hard to smell the fragrance of Jesus' burial. For it does fill this whole house.

Tuesday: Grains of Wheat (John 12:20-36)

Today Jesus concludes his public ministry. Some Greeks say, "We wish to see Jesus." Jesus responds that the hour has come. He bids farewell in terms of grains of wheat. He speaks of his death on a cross. And after he says this, Jesus departs and hides from the crowd. The next time the world sees him, Jesus will be lifted up from the earth, dying on a cross, driving out the ruler of this world, drawing all people to himself.

We, too, wish to see Jesus. We who are insiders to the events of this Holy Week, we who know the story so well. We honestly, desperately wish to see Jesus. We who preach the Word, wash the feet, strip the altar, adore the cross, light the new fire, splash the water, eat the bread and drink the cup, we want nothing more than that Jesus will not be hidden from us.

Jesus tells us where to look. He tells us to look to the cross. But even as we make the sign of the cross, even as we carry the cross, even as we mark newly baptized and newly absolved Christians with the cross, these are but hints, echoes, images, reminders of the cross on which Jesus died for us. We cannot go to Golgotha and see our Savior strung out on the cross.

So how do we really, truly see Jesus during this Holy Week? If we cannot see Jesus, perhaps we should look for those who follow him. If we cannot see the cross, we can see the grains of wheat. We can see those who by dying to themselves bear much fruit. We can see those who follow by serving. We can see those who by losing their life in this world give a glimpse of eternal life. They are right here. They surround us right now. Somewhere within an arm's length or a phone call's reach are those grains of wheat who choose to follow Jesus by losing their life for us.

So often we get overwhelmed by all that the gospel calls us to be. So often we get angry because we're doing such a bad job of being it. We get impatient that the inclusive reign of God is coming so slowly. We become demoralized because expressions of justice and mercy feel so unfair.

But you know, when you dig around in the dirt of this seminary, you find that it is filled with grains of wheat. Everywhere you touch you find followers of Jesus who in some way have chosen to fall into the dirt of this seminary and die to themselves rather than remain alone. The dirt of this seminary is filled with grains of wheat who give a glimpse of eternal life in the way they choose to lose their lives. And sometimes they do that for us.

Perhaps we can keep these grains of wheat in mind as we unite in prayer, share Christ's peace, make our way to the table, and return to the dirt of this seminary. Maybe we can try hard to reach out and touch one of those grains of wheat. Better yet, we could allow one of those grains of wheat to take root in the dirt that surrounds us. Who knows? We may end up seeing Jesus.

Wednesday: A Piece of Bread (John 13:21-32)

A few weeks ago, our Gospel Choir sang a song: "You know that I'd rather have Jesus than all of the silver and all of the gold. I'd rather have Jesus than all of the riches and wealth untold. I'd rather have Jesus than all of the houses and all of the land."

I went away thinking, If only the choice were that simple, that obvious, that safe! Given the choice between Jesus and all the money in the world, everyone in this room would choose Jesus. If that wasn't true, we'd be in some other room right now.

We can easily rebuff so obvious a betrayal of Jesus. But what about when the betrayals get smaller, sneakier, stealthier? What about when betrayal dresses up in words like "compromise," "greater good," or "being realistic"? What about when, rather than a choice between right and wrong, betrayal confronts us with the choice of two not quite rights? We need to choose carefully the hill on which we are willing to be crucified, because we can't die on them all. The only way we can avoid betraying Jesus is by being Jesus. And, despite what some Form D's might suggest, none of us is Jesus. When the disciple whom Jesus loved asks, "Who is it that will betray you?" Jesus points out Judas. But in truth, Jesus could have pointed at all of the disciples. Jesus could have pointed at all of us.

I find it interesting the way Jesus points out his betrayer. I might have said, "It is the one to whom I extend my anger." But Jesus says, "It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread." Jesus gives his betrayer a piece of bread. It would be amazing enough if Judas betrayed Jesus and then repented, and Jesus responded by giving him the piece of bread. But Jesus gives Judas bread from Jesus' own table, knowing that Judas will get up from that table and go out and betray him.

This sounds to me like the Eucharist. This sounds to me like what Jesus does for his betrayers whenever we gather around word and table. Jesus gives us who will betray him not merely the bread of his table; he gives us the bread that is his own body and the wine that is his own blood.

And Jesus gives us his very self, knowing that we will get up from the table and go out and betray him. When we come back the next time and say, "We confess that we have sinned," we tell Jesus that he was right. And no matter how many times we admit that we are betrayers, Jesus extends the bread and the cup, given and shed for you.

Perhaps we can manage, perhaps we can risk, to unite in prayer, share Christ's peace, and make our way to the table knowing that we are Jesus' betrayers. Rather than being repentant for what we have done, let us be mindful of what we will do. After receiving the bread, we, like Judas, will go out and betray Jesus. Our betrayal will lead Jesus to the cross, where he offers up his body. Knowing the betrayal we are about to do, Jesus still extends his body to us in that piece of bread. In that piece of bread Jesus extends God's life and love to us who will betray him. And all we can do is receive it.

Craig A. Satterlee

Editor of Preaching Helps