Just two quick words of orientation to our passage today. One is the reminder that here at Roland Park Presbyterian Church, we follow a set of prescribed readings called the Narrative Lectionary, which helps explain why we’re reading about the crucifixion even though we are still in Lent—and Palm Sunday is next Sunday, right? Yes, Palm Sunday is next Sunday. But John’s Gospel is a little bit different than the others.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke dedicate a few chapters to the last week of Jesus’ life and its events. But the entire second half of John’s Gospel is just the last week of Jesus’ life. And so it creates this interesting pace, because the first eleven chapters cover a span of two-plus years, and then the last ten-plus chapters—just one week. And so John really slows down the pace of the narrative here. And as a result, we are slowing down the pace of the narrative and drawing out the story in such a way that we’re telling it over the course of all of Lent, rather than just Holy Week.

The other thing is—and I know this is repetitive for some of you, but it’s so important—John’s Gospel is the source of so much antisemitism. And there’s truth: there’s animosity in John’s Gospel between the burgeoning Christian community and the Jewish community. But that’s not prescriptive for all times and places. That is that particular time and place, as a new community was forming and coming out of another and separating—much like a teenager does from a parent—and there is sometimes animosity that grows in that relationship. But it is still a relationship of love and of closer ties and connections than being apart.

And so I take great care in reading the Gospel because John uses this term very loosely—“the Jews.” And most of the time he refers to the religious authorities, but sometimes he’s just referring to the crowds. But because that can be problematic, I will retranslate that for us when it’s appropriate.

John 19: 1-16a

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. And the soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they dressed him in a purple robe. They kept coming up to him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and striking him on the face. Pilate went out again and said to them, “Look, I am bringing him out to you to let you know that I find no case against him.” So Jesus came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said to them, “Behold the man!” When the chief priests and the police saw him, they shouted, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and crucify him; I find no case against him.” The Jews answered him, “We have a law, and according to that law he ought to die because he has claimed to be the Son of God.” 

Now when Pilate heard this, he was more afraid than ever. He entered his headquarters again and asked Jesus, “Where are you from?” But Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore said to him, “Do you refuse to speak to me? Do you not know that I have power to release you and power to crucify you?” Jesus answered him, “You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above; therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.” From then on Pilate tried to release him, but the Jews cried out, “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar. Everyone who claims to be a king sets himself against Caesar.”

When Pilate heard these words, he brought Jesus outside and sat on the judge’s bench at a place called The Stone Pavement, or in Hebrew Gabbatha. Now it was the day of Preparation for the Passover, and it was about noon. He said to the Jews, “Here is your King!” They cried out, “Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!” Pilate asked them, “Shall I crucify your King?” The chief priests answered, “We have no king but Caesar.” Then he handed him over to them to be crucified.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

I wouldn’t blame you if you felt like we’ve been spinning our wheels here for the last few weeks.

John really does draw out this trial scene, and we’ve taken his cue and slowed down so that we can pay attention. But it almost feels like we’re not getting much of anywhere. At the beginning of last week’s passage, the religious authorities bring Jesus before Pilate. And at the beginning of this morning’s lesson, the religious authorities again bring Jesus before Pilate. This game of back and forth between religious and civil authorities is like a ping-pong match…except the religious and civil authorities are trying to play on the same team.

They just can’t decide who should swing the paddle.

I actually used to be a pretty good ping-pong player. Not great, just good. But as we were preparing for a match, I would tell my opponent that I was the state champion in high school. I wasn’t. I don’t even think there was such a thing. It was a complete lie, and soon the truth would become very evident. And we’d laugh, and it was just a silly little joke I used to do all the time. But every once in a while I noticed that my opponent—ever so slightly—maybe their eyes would widen when I would say it. They would be just a little bit intimidated.

It would only last a few minutes.

Now Pilate is me in this weird ping-pong Holy Week analogy that’s getting away from me. Pilate’s the one who’s faking bravado here. Although, unlike me, he’s doing it to intimidate, not as just a silly prank. Because Pilate is the one who sits on the judgment seat, right? That’s why the religious authorities are going to him.

They’ve become equal parts afraid and annoyed with Jesus and his shenanigans, but they do not have the will or political clout—or both—to do what they think needs doing. So the religious authorities bring Jesus to Pilate and tell him he’s claiming to be king of the Jews, which is interesting because that title doesn’t exist. There is no such thing.

And anyway, when Pilate questions him, Jesus responds that his kingdom is not from here. Remember from last week, he told Pilate, “If my kingdom were from here, my followers would be fighting back but they are not.” And so that’s really all Pilate needs to hear. He’s not a threat.

So Pilate tells the crowds, “Look, I find no fault in Jesus,” and he tries to release him. But the crowds refuse and ask for him to release Barabbas instead. That’s the ending of last week’s passage, right?

So beginning in our reading today, Jesus is back in front of Pilate, and Pilate seems to have no clue what to do with him.

So, you know…might as well flog him, I guess. That’s what empires do, right?

But let’s pause here for a second and ask ourselves: who truly holds the cards? Because John is doing something really subtle and very clever here that we might miss.

But we’ve been in John long enough now to know that he likes reversals, especially when it comes to power dynamics.

Remember just a few weeks ago, we read about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, and Peter protested: “No! You are the teacher, you are the rabbi, you are the one in the position of authority. We should be washing your feet, not you washing ours.” But Jesus says no.

Well, John’s up to his old tricks again.

Because Pilate is supposed to be the one in charge here, right? But everybody is telling him what to do and he’s doing it. He wants to release Jesus; the crowds won’t let him. He tells them he finds no fault in Jesus; they tell him to look again, harder this time.

But it’s not just the crowds, too. Look at Jesus. He’s the one on trial. His life is on the line. Is he cowering at Pilate’s feet? Is he begging for his life?

He is cool as a cucumber…acting as if he’s completely in control of the outcome, and not Pilate.

Finally, the crowd wears Pilate down, and he agrees to charge and crucify Jesus. But he only does it under threat. The line that finally gets him: “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar.” It’s kind of the ancient version of, “Can I speak to your manager?”

But then John does something else.

And it’s very subtle, and we don’t get it in our translation because they make the choice for us. But he says that he sat on the judgment seat, which is presumably some sort of fancy chair that symbolizes Pilate’s power and authority given to him by Rome.

But the catch is that the language that John uses here is intentionally ambiguous. He could have made it very clear that Pilate is sitting on the throne—or on the seat—and indeed that is what our translation presents to us. But if we go back to the Greek, we see that it is actually ambiguous.

It could mean Pilate. It could also mean Jesus.

Why would John do that?

Because he wants us to ask the question: who is really sitting on the judgment seat here? Pilate? Or Jesus?

John wants us to be confronted with that question in this narrative.

Another way to put it is to notice that there are two very different types of power on display in this passage: power over and power with.

Pilate and Rome know only dominant power. Might makes right. If you can take it, it’s yours. The one who dies with the most toys wins.

This kind of power relies on fear and violence, punishment and retribution to get its way. It divides people into winners and losers, insiders and outsiders, us and them.

But this is not the only kind of power that’s on display here. Jesus is exercising power too. By refusing to dominate people, Jesus lifts up service to others. By refusing to fight and be pulled into violence, Jesus lifts up nonviolence as a way of life. By refusing to give in to vengeance, Jesus lifts up forgiveness.

And John wants to put us at that crossroads. John wants us to choose.

And he points out the danger of religion mixing with dominant power.

The religious authorities and crowds make their choice. They’re seduced by the power of the empire. They exploit Pilate and get him to bring the full force of Rome down on Jesus.

But what happens to them in the process?

They give up the farm. They sell out all their values and principles that drew them to faith in the first place. And by the end, they proudly proclaim the empire’s motto: “We have no king but Caesar.”

Lest we think this is something that just happened 2,000 years ago, last Sunday, self-proclaimed Christian Nationalist William Wolf told his congregation, “We should not blink. We should not hesitate to tell people, this is how we should order our lives together.” Wolf said, “And frankly, yes, we are going to impose it upon you. If you don’t like it, I’m sorry, but this is good and right,” he said, “and I’m going to enforce my morality on you in so much as my morality is God’s morality.”

My goodness, how can he tell the difference?

The temptation of dominant power is great. It can seem like a great way to get things done. Anything else can seem naïve in comparison.

We think to ourselves, sometimes we say it out loud, “Look,” we say, “I’m a good person, and the things I want are good. So what if I take some shortcuts to get there?”

The problem is dominant power does not bow to our good intentions. It corrupts them, pushing the line of what is acceptable further and further out. And suddenly we find ourselves pledging allegiance to Caesar and not God.

By the way, John does something else that’s very clever and worth noting here.

I mentioned a few weeks ago how we like to play the blame game. And again, it’s important to know that this passage is a source of much antisemitism, because it seems like it is the Jewish authorities and the Jewish crowds who are calling for Jesus to be crucified—but that misses the point completely.

John makes it very clear when he says, “the one who hands me over has a greater sin.”

Yes. Who hands him over?

Well, in the immediate context, we would say it’s the religious authorities and the crowds. They were persistent in their efforts, in fact. But how did they get a hold of him? One of his own disciples, Judas, had to first hand him over, right?

But that’s not it.

Then notice what John says when Pilate finally makes his decision: “Then he handed him over to be crucified.”

There is no “they” who handed Jesus over to die. It wasn’t just Judas, or the religious authorities, or the riled-up crowd, or the empire.

It was all of them together.

It was us.

When we choose dominant power over service and nonviolence.

Now if that were all that John gave us, this would be a tragic passage…the type of which we see every day on the news.

But John suddenly asks this question: who is really sitting on the judgment seat?

And even by asking the question, John is suggesting the kind of power Jesus shows us is a viable option for us to adopt—maybe even the right and faithful one.

But that can be hard for us to see, because from all the outward signs, Jesus looks weak and defeated. There he stands on his own. His own friends have abandoned him. His life is on the line.

What a loser.

But does he flinch? Does he waver from his belief in nonviolence and the worth of everyone as an image-bearer of God? Does he stop believing in the power of serving others and empowering others?

He does not—even when it leads to his death.

And in the end, God vindicates his death and this “power with” when Jesus is raised from the dead. Death does not have the final word.

The power of dominance might win in the short term. It often does. But ultimately love, justice, and power that is shared are the ultimate winners.

Look, friends, it’s hard to keep believing in the power of love in a world where bombs are being dropped and missiles are flying daily. And when our leaders call their opponents schoolyard names and bully people who look different or vote different or think different.

Our politics is dominant power on steroids.

And in this kind of environment, kindness and respect and decency… well, they just seem weak and naïve.

But the gospel invites us to believe that they are not.

Indeed, the gospel invites us to believe that they are what true, God-like power looks like.

We have to realize that the real standoff is not between religious and secular, not between Republicans and Democrats, not between any “us” and “them.”

It is between “power over” and “power with.”

And instead of imposing our faith or morality on others through force, it is better in the end, as Madeleine L’Engle writes, “that we draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, by telling them how wrong they are and how right we are, but by showing them a light that is so lovely that they want with all their heart to know the source of it.”

Friends, at the end of our passage, the crowd of faithful people are so turned around, they say, “We have no king but Caesar.”

They betray their faith for a chance at dominant power.

Many Christians today are being seduced in exactly the same way.

And the truth of the matter is that it is not enough for us to be against them and that kind of power.

We have to be for something.

We have to find our own lovely light that God has put in each one of us—a light that shines when we claim we have no king, no king but Jesus.

Amen.

The post Were You There? No Kings (But Jesus) appeared first on Roland Park Presbyterian Church.

Our passage today is from John, chapter 18. This is the beginning of a rather lengthy part of John that concentrates on the arrest and trial of Jesus. It won’t surprise you that John spends the most time here as compared to the other gospel writers. It goes into a lot more detail and a lot more explanation. And so, actually, we’re going to be reading the trial over the next several weeks.

So, John chapter 18:

John 18: 12-27

So the soldiers, their officer, and the Jewish police arrested Jesus and bound him. First they took him to Annas, who was the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest that year. Caiaphas was the one who had advised the Jews that it was better to have one person die for the people. 

Simon Peter and another disciple followed Jesus. Since that disciple was known to the high priest, he went with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest, but Peter was standing outside at the gate. So the other disciple, who was known to the high priest, went out, spoke to the woman who guarded the gate, and brought Peter in. The woman said to Peter, “You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?” He said, “I am not.” Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself. 

Then the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and about his teaching. Jesus answered, “I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why do you ask me? Ask those who heard what I said to them; they know what I said.” When he had said this, one of the police standing nearby struck Jesus on the face, saying, “Is that how you answer the high priest?” Jesus answered, “If I have spoken wrongly, testify to the wrong. But if I have spoken rightly, why do you strike me?” Then Annas sent him bound to Caiaphas the high priest. 

Now Simon Peter was standing and warming himself. They asked him, “You are not also one of his disciples, are you?” He denied it and said, “I am not.” One of the slaves of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, “Did I not see you in the garden with him?” Again Peter denied it, and at that moment the cock crowed.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

We love to point fingers, don’t we? To assign blame.

The Gospel writer John—we’ve talked about it—he likes to blame “the Jews.” And let’s be clear and not apologize for the text: John, the gospel writer, is wrong in this instance. He’s too caught up in the current events of his own day.

Now, if you’ve been around here for a while, you’ve probably heard me give context to John’s problematic use of the label “the Jews.” You’ve probably heard me say that by this, John does not mean that all Jewish people of all times and places. That’s just ridiculous, right? He probably doesn’t even mean all Jewish people of his time and place.

When he uses the label “the Jews,” John is most likely referring to those in power—the religious authorities—which is why I usually retranslate it that way. In other words, he is talking about people like me.

But it is also true that sometimes John, when he uses this label “the Jews,” just means the crowd of ordinary Jewish people who are pawns in the leaders’ power games. And it is less clear how John feels about them, but he seems to view them with a mixture of pity and disdain for being so easily manipulated by those in charge.

If the gospel writer John were on Facebook and he had to declare a relationship status with “the Jews,” it would definitely read: It’s complicated.

But what is also undeniable is that John, the gospel writer, has been used for centuries by those who want to point the finger and blame somebody.

Last week in the sermon I talked about the sin of racism. Some have called that America’s original sin.

Well, perhaps anti-Semitism is Christianity’s.

And so let me be clear: it is wrong, and there is never, ever, ever any excuse for it. Period.

But still, we love to point the finger, don’t we?

And today, the finger in the text seems to be pointing not just at those who oppose Jesus, but at those who are supposed to stand with him but seemingly fail to find the courage needed to do so.

As we’ve been talking about for a few weeks now, John really slows down the narrative for the last week of Jesus’ life. He wants us to pay attention, to savor every detail, not just read it but immerse ourselves in it—to feel the tension in the room, to smell the charcoal fire burning, to feel the chilly night air, and to endure those awkward silences after Peter denies knowing Jesus.

We are invited to imagine what Simon Peter is feeling as he denies knowing his teacher and friend. To hear the strain in his voice, then watch his head drop in private shame as he realizes what he’s done.

In other versions, the rooster is there to cue him. “Before the rooster crows three times, you will deny me,” Jesus warns him.

But in John’s gospel, did you notice? No such warning is offered. And we aren’t even told if Simon Peter knows that it has crowed. But it’s our cue.

John doesn’t want us to miss it.

He wants to keep us here until we become uncomfortable. He’s making a point, and it’s not so subtle once we get past all the finger-pointing and assigning of blame.

John wants us to ask ourselves: Where do you stand?

Peter ultimately fails to stand with Jesus in this moment.

Now, I’ve always stopped here with this passage, as have most of the sermons I’ve heard preached on it. But you know, this week the Holy Spirit must have nudged me just a little bit harder, because I finally realized that someone else is standing in this passage.

And ultimately, I think this is the one that John hopes we will mind above all others.

Jesus is on trial for his life. His words and actions have put the religious authorities between a rock and a hard place.

The Romans want peace—but not the kind of peace the Bible talks about. Not shalom. Not wholeness and justice for all. The Romans want the kind of peace that all empires want: the peace of compliance.

The Romans want the kind of peace that you have to fight for, the kind of peace that comes through the threat of mutually assured destruction, the kind of peace you get with a sword, or a gun, or a bomb.

And you see, Jesus is a threat to that peace by telling the people that God is ultimately in charge, not the emperor. By telling the orphan and the widow that they are made in the image of God and deserving of grace.

Jesus threatens the Roman peace by convincing the people of this backwater town in Israel that they are God’s chosen people—a holy priesthood.

And so the religious authorities really just need Jesus to shut up.

Because the wrath of the Romans isn’t discerning. If they can’t quiet Jesus, they will all suffer the consequences. And so Caiaphas starts spreading the news: it’s better for one to die than for all of us to go down with him.

And so there he stands in the middle of it all: the scapegoat.

Jesus: calm, collected, self-assured. Not casting blame on anyone. Remaining utterly committed to nonviolence, and with absolute trust in God’s love, justice, and peace that they will finally prevail.

And I think that’s what John really wants us to see—not the brutal force of the Romans, not the treachery of those trying to protect only themselves and their interests, not even poor old Simon Peter.

John wants us to see where Jesus stands.

He invites us to slow down and consider his stance, and to ponder another way—the way of Jesus, the way of peace and justice together, the way of love.

That’s love the verb, not the noun.

“No one kills with more passion than those who believe God is on their side,” writes Shane Claiborne. “Every major religion has been distorted by folks who want to justify their hatred, camouflage their bigotry.

And Christians are not exempt.

Right now, people who claim to be Christians are promoting unimaginable violence at home and abroad.

It is evil. It is wicked. And it is an offense to God.”

Claiborne calls us to rebuke this violent perversion of our faith in the name of Jesus. “Let us do all we can to stop it,” he writes. “The world will know we are Christians by our love.” He points out the word Christian means Christ-like. “Jesus is the Prince of Peace. He blessed the peacemakers and commanded us all to love our enemies. He rebuked his disciples when they resorted to violence, and he insisted that when we live by the sword, we die by the sword. Jesus carried a cross, not a sword. And he died with mercy on his lips. That is our Savior.”

And in this way, in this passage, Jesus offers us both a promise and a question. The promise is that he will not abandon us in our own time of trial. He will stand with us. We are never completely on our own. But the question that he asks us in return is this: Will we stand with him in the work of peace and justice? Will we stand with those that Jesus stands with—the oppressed, the victims?

Where will we stand?

Amen.

The post Were You There? appeared first on Roland Park Presbyterian Church.

Sometimes time just flies, doesn’t it? Right? How is it March 1st already? Wasn’t Christmas just a couple of weeks ago? Other times, time slows to a crawl.

Last Sunday after church, my son and I raced home, packed our bags, and headed off to the airport. Our flight to make a final college visit wasn’t scheduled to take off until six, but the weather reports and the notices from the airline suggested that arriving early would be a good idea. So we did.

Sitting at that gate, I must have checked my phone about every minute over the next two hours for updates about the flight. Is it on time? Will we make our appointment and our tour the next day in Florida? Time slowed exponentially as we waited. Then, 30 minutes before boarding, I got the ping: “Your flight has been canceled. We rebooked you for the next available flight, 6 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

Considering the forecast and the time of night, we decided to find a room in a hotel near the airport and get the shuttle for our early morning flight. So that’s what we did. Woke up at 3:30, caught the shuttle at 4 a.m., boarded at 5:30, wheels up at 6. And so I’m here to tell you, you can leave Baltimore at six in the morning, fly to Orlando, drive to Daytona, and make the 11 a.m. tour with two minutes to spare. Still, those 12 hours felt like 12 days.

Sometimes time flies. Other times, it slows to a crawl. The gospel writer John knows this to be true.

The first 11 chapters of his gospel cover a span of more than two years. But from chapter 12 on, it is just one week and change — the last week of Jesus’ life, what we typically observe during Holy Week. But John wants to slow time down.

He wants us to spend more time here, to pay attention, to slow down, to notice every detail, every morsel of this beautiful life that is about to be extinguished before our very eyes. Our reading today is from John chapter 13.

John 13: 1-17

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already decided that Judas son of Simon Iscariot would betray Jesus. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.”

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

The story we just read is steeped in relationship, observes Amy Robertson — Jesus’ relationship to God as he prepares to return to God, and Jesus’ deep connection to the people who are with him on earth.

How do these things fit together? Why does Jesus’ awareness of the power he derives from his relationship to God cause him to disrobe and don a towel and wash the feet of his students? Is this about cleaning or hospitality? And how exactly does this prepare them for what is to come?

This matches what we’ve been noticing about the unique way that John tells the gospel story through the lens of relationships that Jesus formed here on earth. We, of course, have the disciples, but then we have Nicodemus, and the woman at the well, and the man born blind. And of course, last week we had Lazarus, who we are told Jesus loved, and whose death caused Jesus to weep.

Our passage today begins with John letting us know that Jesus is fully aware that his life is about to end. If you knew you had only a few days left, what would you tell your family and loved ones?

What wisdom, advice, what message would you impart?

We spend our lives running from our mortality, but when the curtain is drawing closed, how will our perspective shift? What one or two essential things will rise to the top of all the important things that fill our lives?

I’ve not been in that position myself, but like all of us, I’ve thought about it. And you know, I just can’t imagine giving one lick about success or fame or wealth or possessions.

I imagine, like most of us, it will be the relationships that rise to the top — the loved ones that went before us and those that will carry on after we are gone. That’s what will matter most. That is what will be most cherished.

So too it is with Jesus. He wants to make sure his friends know that he loves them, and he wants them to love and care for one another in the way that he has shown them.

And he doesn’t communicate this with mere words, but with himself, with his actions. He gets down and washes their feet.

Now, it’s worth stating that what is shocking or unsettling to you and me about Jesus washing his friends’ feet is not what would have been surprising for Jesus’ contemporaries — mainly because foot washing is not really a thing we do.

But in the ancient world, foot washing was a necessary act simply because they walked around in the dirt and the mud and the who-knows-what in mere sandals and bare feet. So each home had a basin and a cloth by the front door for guests to wash their feet. And in the nicer homes, they would have somebody there to do it for you as you entered.

Now, what is shocking about this scene is that socially speaking, Jesus is not their servant, but their teacher and master. And so, like the tables he turns over in the temple, Jesus flips the power dynamics in the room, submitting himself. And furthermore, he does this as an example for us to follow.

Simon Peter, ever the one to say what we’re all thinking out loud, says to Jesus, “You’ll never wash me, Lord.” Perhaps thinking that this is how Jesus really wants him to respond — you know, like it was a test.

But no. Jesus reiterates what he’s doing. Then, sensing he had misread the cue, Simon Peter goes full-on in the other direction: “Okay, wash all of me.”

Jesus again tells Simon he’s missing the point. Calm down.

John isn’t asking us to look down on Simon Peter. Rather, John invites us to see ourselves in him — in all the ways that we try to obfuscate and complicate something that’s really very simple. I mean, Jesus’ message cannot be more clear and straightforward: take care of one another.

Look after each other. The way I’ve shown you, love one another as I have loved you.

The message is simple. It’s the living it out that’s the challenge.

And too often we treat each other as a means to an end, as a tool that we can manipulate, as a resource to be exploited or used — not as fellow travelers on the journey of life, not as companions, partners, teammates, friends.

Fellow children of God.

And we don’t even have to leave our passage for today to see an example of this.

Judas plays the villain in the story — we all know that — and we treat him as a convenient scapegoat so we don’t have to face all the ways that we have betrayed Jesus and our loved ones. But just as Simon Peter gives voice to our thoughts, Judas shows us the damage that can be caused when we value money, or a cause, or whatever, over the person who is right in front of us.

But let us not mistake our judgment and condemnation of Judas for that of the text — certainly not that of Jesus himself. Clearly, all the gospel writers are uncomfortable with Judas and his role, and they don’t quite know what to do with him.

But one thing they do not do is show Jesus condemning him the way history has.

Now, we often talk about using our theological imagination. This is a great place to do it.

We can use our theological imagination to consider how Jesus might respond to Judas’ betrayal — and how that response might differ from our own.

I picture — this is not going to be surprising to some of you — I picture one of my favorite scenes from the long-running British TV show Doctor Who. In it, the main character, the Doctor, is betrayed by his closest friend and companion. She does it for what she truly believes are good reasons, but nonetheless, it’s a betrayal.

And when things finally come to a head and she breaks down, begging for forgiveness but not expecting it, finally the Doctor speaks and says, “Do you think I love you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”

Or I think of a song from my favorite band, the Irish rock band U2. The song is called “Until the End of the World.” And it’s written from the perspective of Judas in the aftermath of his betrayal. The lyrics begin, “Haven’t seen you in quite a while, I was down the hold, just passing time.” It then goes on to describe the events that happened in the upper room that we just read about — Judas’ betrayal of his rabbi and friend.

And the final verse of the song is Judas encountering Jesus in a dream, and it goes like this:

In my dream I was drowning my sorrows,
But my sorrows they learned to swim,
Surrounding me, going down on me, spilling over the brim.
Waves of regret, waves of joy.
I reached out for the one I tried to destroy.
And you, you said you’d wait until the end of the world.

Friends, can we imagine a love that is stronger than all the ways that we try to betray and deny it? Can we imagine a love big enough to show us hospitality and acceptance? Can we imagine a love that will wait until the end of the world for us?

Not only can we imagine it — we have it right before us in the person of Jesus, inviting us to live differently, to live nonviolently, to live with compassion for all, to work toward justice — not our own self-interests.

We have the living example of one who, as Barbara Brown Taylor puts it, “was fully who God created him to be every day of his life; who loved God with all of his heart, with all of his soul, with all of his strength, with all of his mind; and who loved his friends so much that he stepped into the oncoming traffic of death in order to push them out of the way.

And he furthermore did it with no more than the basic human equipment — a beating heart, two good hands, a holy vision, and some companions who could see it too — thereby showing the rest of us humans that such a life is not beyond our reach.”

Lent is here, friends.

It’s time to slow down. Pay attention. To remember that the holy and sacred is not in some far-off heaven, but sitting right next to us, sharing the same air, the same earth, the same love.

Take care of one another, Jesus says.

Love one another as I have loved you.

It’s really just that simple. And it’s really just that hard.

Friends, today after worship we have a unique and historic opportunity to participate in the love and justice of Jesus. We know too well the damage and devastation and loss of life and liberty that has been caused by the sin of racism.

We know that racism is not merely a posture of the heart — that some lives have more value than others — but has infiltrated just about every aspect of our common lives. We call these things systemic and systematic racism. They are real, and they cause real harm — not just historically, but here and now.

We live in a city where structures and roads and neighborhood planning have all conspired to privilege some over others. Our economic and civic institutions, too, have prejudice and bias baked into them in ways that you and I, as individuals, cannot fix on our own, but nonetheless require our action and our attention.

Friends, the cause of justice is not hopeless, even though it’s not easy.

It requires many of us — particularly those of us who are white — to reorder our own lives and repair our own hearts and minds. The work is called reparative justice, and we’re going to talk about it — about the need for it, as well as the hope of it. So I hope you’ll join us today.

Because I want us to see this for the wonderful and holy opportunity that it is — a chance for us to participate in the repairing of the world right here in Baltimore.

Friends, this work is more than just and right. It is indeed holy work. It is the very living out of Jesus’ last instruction to his disciples: take care of each other. Love one another as I have loved you.

Because it’s only this kind of love — love that welcomes, love that serves, love that leads to justice — that will repair not only the world, but our own hearts as well.

Amen.

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