You Are Witnesses

We’re moving on, and we’re moving fast. After Easter, there are so many things to do. Gardens and flowerbeds need to be planted, graduation invitations need to be mailed, and with camps, vacation, summer internships, General Assembly, and the family reunion coming up, summer plans need to be made. It’s two weeks after Easter, and we’re moving on – it’s almost May; and we know, before we’ll be finished saying, “Happy Mothers Day!” it’ll be Memorial Day.

But a big boulder is sitting in the rapids of time. The church’s lectionary – quietly, yet stubbornly – resists the rush.

The ‘lectionary’ is a set of recommendations that has evolved over the centuries, recommendations for how we read Scripture when we gather for worship, and what portions we read and when. The lectionary is also the church’s calendar where every Sunday and every holiday is given a name, and today, perhaps to your surprise, is not the Second Sunday after Easter, but the Third Sunday of Easter.

Spring is rushing toward summer with bright-green speed, the schoolyear is rushing toward graduation with flying gowns, and the lectionary – quietly, yet stubbornly – resists the rush. Easter lingers, and today is only the third Sunday of it.

We open the Bible for the gospel reading, and in Luke it’s still the first day of the week. The entire chapter 24, his final chapter, walks us through the day that began with the women coming to the tomb. They returned with a story, but their words seemed to the others an idle tale.

Then Luke tells us about two of the disciples going to a village called Emmaus and talking with each other about all the things that had happened. They shared their story with a stranger who came near and went with them, told him about Jesus and what a prophet he was and how they had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel; told him about how he had been condemned and crucified and how the women had astounded them with their words. You know the story, how the stranger interpreted to them the scriptures, how he accepted their urgent invitation to stay with them for the night, and how they recognized Jesus in the stranger in the breaking of the bread.

That same day, they returned to Jerusalem and found the eleven and their companions gathered together – and now everybody had a tale about the risen Lord! And while they were sharing resurrection stories, Jesus himself stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”

No one had let him in; he just showed up, startling them. Now perhaps you think that this was the third time, after all, that the resurrection disrupted the flow of their day, and that by now they should have been able to deal with the fact that Jesus was not dead but risen. But they were still startled and terrified, then disbelieving and wondering.

Perhaps you think it was time for them to get it and move on – but move on where to? What did it mean for them that Jesus was not dead but powerfully present? What does it mean for us?

In the gospel according to Luke that first day begins at early dawn, but it never ends. There’s not a single word indicating that eventually everybody got tired and went to bed. Jesus ate a piece of broiled fish, and then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures. How long do you think he taught them? Until the next morning?

Until their imagination was unlocked; until a few closed doors in the hallways of their minds swung open. Jesus interpreted for them the witness of scripture until they understood that his rejection and his death were part of God’s work to redeem humanity and renew creation.

Jesus opened to them the witness of scripture until they could hear the call: Now that Christ is risen, repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning in Jerusalem.

Jesus is neither a dead man, nor a ghost, but the risen Lord who teaches, sends, and blesses us for ministry. “You are witnesses,” he said to them, he says to us. You have a story to tell. You have a story to embody and live.

In the gospel according to Luke, the entire final chapter is dedicated to the first day when Jesus rose from the dead; and the sun doesn’t go down on that day, night doesn’t fall.

The chapter ends with Jesus leading them out as far as Bethany, and, blessing them, being carried up into heaven. The sun doesn’t go down, night doesn’t fall. The gospel concludes with the disciples worshiping him and returning to Jerusalem with great joy.

The first day doesn’t end; it culminates in the disciples’ return to the city, and the way I see it, they are not alone. Returning with them in an unending procession of great joy are the nations who have heard the good news of repentance and forgiveness of sins.

On Easter Sunday, the children sang,

“Every morning is Easter morning from now on, every day’s resurrection day, the past is over and gone.”

What they are telling us is not that our days are an endless repetition of a day that began and ended two-thousand years ago. They are telling us that we are living in a new day. A day that is not defined by sunrise and sunset, but by the Lord Jesus, crucified and risen. This day is defined not by humanity’s sinful past, but solely by God’s power to create and redeem. Easter lingers because this day does not end.

Jesus is neither a dead man, nor a ghost, but the risen Lord who teaches, sends, and blesses us for ministry. “You are witnesses,” he says to us. You have a story to tell. You have a story to embody and live.

Like every generation of disciples before us, we move on not to leave Easter behind, but to live in it more fully every day of our lives.

We move on – from words that seem an idle tale to moments of recognition.

We move on – from the burial of hope to the table where our eyes are opened.

We move on – from having our vision impaired by fear and doubt to having our minds opened to understand the scriptures.

We move on – from being slow of heart to believe, to hearing the call of Christ in any kind of circumstance.

“You are witnesses of these things,” he says to us. And we want to respond, “Who – us?” because the world has a way of robbing us of our hope, filling us with fear, closing our minds, and colonizing our imagination.

But he continues to break into that reality saying, “Yes – you.” We have a story to tell. We have a story to embody and live, a story the world cannot be without.

In the spring of last year we got into a little boat, big enough for all of us, yet small enough to remind everybody that this is no cruise ship where some are crew and the rest are passengers. We set sails, allowing the Spirit of God to blow freely and pull us forward. We called our adventure ‘The Journey.’

We were very intentional about listening to each other. We gathered in groups of various sizes, heard presentations and shared comments, and then we met in groups of three for a hundred days. One hundred days of prayer – obviously some of us were more reluctant than others to participate in that part of the journey, but it turned out to be the most rewarding.

We talked and listened, we prayed, we watched in wonder how trust and friendship grew among us; we had our hearts and minds opened. We moved from the safe surface to the secret places, and were not our hearts burning within us again and again?

No idle tales; we were free to share our hopes and fears, our frustrations and our dreams. Insights emerged and visions, discoveries were jotted down, ideas refined.
The summer of prayer turned into a harvest season of gathering and rejoicing. And like wheat becomes bread to strengthen the human heart, and the grapes gathered in the vineyard become wine to gladden the human heart, the harvest of our conversations and prayers has become a story to nourish the heart and kindle the imagination.

It is not just any story, it is our future story, Vine Street 2019. I’m not spilling a secret when I tell you that we will watch a video presentation of that story during lunch today – the 30-second trailer was released online on Thursday afternoon, and it had over 70 views already by Friday.



We will watch a video premiere, but this little film is more than the play of light on a screen and sound waves on the air – although it is that. It is more than the product of the creativity of a writer, a director, a photographer, and an editor – although it is that. It is more than the faces and voices of several of our members – although it is that.

It is the embodiment of our work and prayer of an entire year. It is the call we have heard and the beginning of our response. It is the shape we will give to our witness over the next 5-7 years, beginning in Nashville and extending to all nations around the world. Yes, it is that big.

This is how we intend to live in the day that began with the women coming to the tomb and finding the stone rolled away.

This is how we intend to live as witnesses of our crucified and risen Lord.

This is how we intend to live as God’s Easter people in the world.

Audio of this post is available.

And here's the video:

Delicious and Imaginative

The Resurrection Continues

It is a strange reversal, when you think about it. Jesus is out of the tomb, risen from the dead and on the loose in the world – and the disciples? Hiding behind locked doors, prisoners of fear.

There was little conversation, nobody had remembered to get something to eat, but no one really felt like eating anyway.

Mary had told them that she had seen the Lord and what he had said to her, but her tesimony, for whatever reason, hadn’t made the slightest difference. We don’t know if they didn’t believe her of if they couldn’t imagine what her words might mean.

One of the stories I suspect was in circulation in the first century but John didn’t write down, is the one about Mary pulling her hair in frustration: all she had were words, and her words were not enough to break the paralysis of fear and guilt, not enough to let them hear what she had heard and see what she had seen.

It is strange reversal; Jesus is out of the tomb, and the disciples are in it.

Then Jesus came and said, “Peace be with you.”

The first word of the Risen One to the gathered disciples was peace. The last time they had been together, he had told them, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give as the world. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid (14:27).” And now Jesus stood among them, after their betrayal, their denial, and their abandoning him – Jesus stood among them and spoke peace into their troubled, fearful hearts.

He showed them the wounds in his hands and his side, and his presence transformed the dark tomb into a house of joy, with laughter pouring into the street. Their fear melted away and the living Christ was once again the center of their lives.

“Peace be with you,” he said, not, “Shame on you, you sorry bunch” or “OK, friends, let’s talk about this,” but, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

Suddenly they saw the world outside, the world of sin, death, and fear no longer as a threat, but as the object of God’s love. Only moments ago they had been little more than bodies in a tomb, now they were a community with a mission, sent by the risen Christ.

In the book of the prophet Ezekiel, the prophet looks at a valley full of bones, and the Lord asks him, “Mortal, can these bones live?” And the Lord tells him to prophesy to these bones, to speak to the bones and say to them, “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will put breath in you, and you shall live, and you shall know that I am the Lord (Ez 37:1-14).”

In Ezekiel’s day, the bones represented the people of God in exile, lifeless, dry, dispirited and discouraged.

I know Mary must have felt like she was talking to a pile of bones when her words couldn’t break through the pall of fear and grief that lay on the disciples. But now Jesus was in their midst and he breathed on them and they received the Holy Spirit. A small band of fearful men, held together solely by habit, shame and fear – now they were the church, commissioned and empowered by the living Christ, born into living hope.

Can these bones live? We shall see – the mission of Christ continues, and his disciples follow him telling the story, forgiving sins and serving others until the peace of Christ, the shalom of God, fills earth and heaven.

Since the days of Mary and the other apostles, frightened disciples could be church because the Risen One keeps breaking in on us, breathing on the white bones of our lives, leading us out of our tombs, and placing in our hands the gifts of God for the world: peace and forgiveness. Because Christ is risen from the dead, we no longer live toward the horizon of death, but toward the horizon of fullness of life for all creatures.

The resurrection isn’t something that happened to Jesus two millennia ago, but rather something that began with him and continues with those who hear the word of life. It is the transformation of our old, tired world into the new creation. It is the wind that blows from the future of fulfilment, the breath that brings life to dry bones, the dew from heaven that renews the earth.

Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus came in the evening of that day. Neither were any of us around then. All we have is what Thomas was given, the words of witnesses.

The other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.” But their words, just like Mary’s before, didn’t have the power to break through whatever kept this disciple from hearing them with faith.

He didn’t know whom or what they had seen, what apparition might have fooled them. He needed to see for himself, and more than see.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

He needed to see, he needed to touch, he needed to get close. Thomas wanted proof – not a convincing argument about the general possibility of bodily resurrection, but tangible proof that this Risen One was indeed the Crucified One.

He had questions nobody could answer for him with a reference to scripture or to some other authority. He needed to see, he needed to touch, he needed to get close.

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. That is remarkable, isn’t it?

There are plenty of churches where you are no longer welcome when your questions cannot be answered with a quick reference to scripture or to some other authority.

There are too many Christian communities where no one voices their doubt or their struggles for fear of being excluded or declared spiritually challenged.

And there are countless individuals who hear the words of Mary and the disciples, but they won’t be back a week later with their questions and their need to experience for themselves what the words declare.

In this gem of a story, the community of disciples consists of those who have seen and those who have not; no one is pushed out or forced in; they’re together. And the scene repeats itself, solely for Thomas’s sake, we suppose.

Jesus comes and stands among them and says, for the third time now, “Peace be with you.” He turns to Thomas and, far from rebuking him for his stubborn insistence on something more tangible than words, says, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

And Thomas responds, “My Lord and my God.”

The one who wanted proof, the one who didn’t want to settle for repeating the words of others but held out for an experience of the Risen One on his own terms, this Thomas made a confession of faith unlike any other in the gospels.

Thomas has been remembered in the church as the doubter par excellence and called to the aid of authorities whenever the questions of some became uncomfortable and needed to be squelched. I don’t think we should remember him as a doubter, though, but rather as one who insisted on the continuity between the ministry of Jesus and the mission of the church, one who insisted that the glory of God is revealed in the wounds of the crucified Jesus.

The gospel according to John begins, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Close to the end of the gospel, it is Thomas who, after much struggle, affirms that statement in the presence of Jesus, crucified and risen.

The resurrection is not something that happened to Jesus two millennia ago, but rather something that began with him when God raised him from the dead.

The disciple whom Jesus loved came to the tomb and saw the linen wrappings; then he went inside, got a little closer, and he saw and believed.

Mary Magdalene had seen angels at the tomb, but they had no comfort for her; then a stranger spoke her name, and she recognized Jesus and believed.

The disciples believed when they saw the risen Jesus, and they rejoiced, “We have seen the Lord!”

Thomas believed when he saw Jesus with the other disciples, and the word of the risen Jesus moved him from unbelief to confessing, “My Lord and my God.”

Not a bad conclusion to the gospel story.

But in the final verses of this chapter it becomes clear that the Sunday evening scene wasn’t repeated solely for Thomas’s sake, but also for ours.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

We have not seen what the first disciples have seen, but we hear their witness.

In the final verses of the chapter, we read a note from the author to the readers, “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.”

We trust the Word that comes to us through the proclamation of the first witnesses.

We follow the call that comes to us through their word and the work of the Holy Spirit.

We continue the mission of Jesus Christ, embodying his peace and forgiveness in how we live our lives.

We believe, not because we have seen, but because we trust that we will see the shalom of God filling earth and heaven.

And we continue to be witnesses who declare what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the Word of life.

The resurrection continues.


Audio of this post is available.

Now the Story

The little boat has served us faithfully.

We got on board in the spring of last year, and the Spirit of God blew across the sails – gently sometimes, forcefully occasionally, always pulling us forward.

We gathered in groups of various sizes, heard presentations and shared comments, and then we met in groups of three for one hundred days. How surprised we were to find this portion of the journey to be the single most rewarding!

All the insights and discoveries, all the thoughts, hopes and dreams were harvested – no, not to be stored in a pretty barn. Like grapes become wine and wheat becomes bread, the harvest of our conversations and prayers has become a story. Are you curious?

On Sunday, April 26, during our Spring Luncheon, we will present “Vine Street 2019,” our future story. This is not only a premiere you don’t want to miss; it is a sacramental moment: it is the embodiment of our work and prayer of an entire year, it is the call we have heard.

Tallu in Nicaragua

On Monday, April 20, Tallu will fly from Nashville to Managua/Nicaragua to work for one year in a community development project coordinated by Church World Service, Week of Compassion, and CIEETS.

Tallu is a member of Vine Street Christian Church in Nashville; we are very proud of her, of course, and we look forward to this opportunity to build relationships with the people she'll be working with. I hope she'll soon have her blog up!

For today, have a safe trip, Tallu, and God bless your adventure in ministry!

Who Are We Now?

In the Garden

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.

What kind of sabbath had she passed the day before?

Surely not a day of holy rest, a day of rejoicing in creation’s beauty and abundance. More likely, she spent her sabbath in numb silence, a vast stretch of grey time, punctuated by episodes of hellish fury against Rome, against the temple leadership, and against God.

She had allowed this man to awaken hope in her; she trusted Jesus like she had never trusted anyone before. Because of him, she had dared to step out of the darkness into a life of forgiveness, love, and promise. And now he was dead; and with him, her hope had died.

How do you put into words that your world has a hole in it larger than life itself? How do you sit with this unending absence, this void that swallows up light like a black hole? A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty, says Philippe Ariès.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.

On Monday, an earthquake shook the ground under the small town of L’Aquila in central Italy, killing 292 people. We do not know how many went to the graves, early this morning, while it was still dark, to touch the earth, or to just be where they had buried a loved one without whom the fabric of their lives was little more than a frayed cloth about to fall apart.

On Wednesday, news anchor Dan Miller, a virtual family member of thousands in Middle Tennessee and a husband, father and friend, died suddenly, only 67 years old.

On Friday, a tornado touched down several times in Murfreesboro, killing a mother and her baby, injuring dozens of people, and damaging or destroying 250 homes. The same storm system had caused three deaths in Arkansas on Thursday.

Too many funerals that did not come at the end of long, well-lived lives, but too soon, too violently, ending too many dreams, leaving too many promises unfulfilled.

Earlier this week, somewhere in America, a woman was called into her supervisor’s office. Sales had been down since September last year, and the company was losing money daily. ‘So sorry,’ the supervisor said, ‘we have to let you go.’ She cleaned out her desk, wondering how long their family could afford to pay the mortgage with just one income.

Earlier this week, somewhere in America, a man sat across the desk from his doctor, trying to make sense of the words, ‘three months, perhaps four.’

Someone else heard the words, ‘I have never loved you,’ and slipped over the edge into nothingness where life is a fall without end and the darkness is overwhelming. [See Craig Barnes, “Savior at Large”]

Earlier this week, the darkness of Friday covered the world like a suffocating blanket.

Early on the first day, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.

She didn’t want to see anybody, or she could have asked one of her friends to come with her. She wanted to be alone, close to the one who used to be the light of her world, whose name was the first name of her hope.

The moment she saw that the stone had been removed, leaving the entrance to the tomb wide open, Mary ran to tell Peter and another disciple that Jesus’ body had been stolen. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

Then John tells us that for a while there was a lot of running back and forth to the tomb, with what sounds like an odd competition between Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved – an entire paragraph about who got there first, who entered first, and who saw what and when.

After emerging from the tomb, rather than starting to search the garden for the missing body, the two disciples went home, without another word to each other or to Mary. John explains that ‘as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.’ A generous interpretation would suggest that they went home to study the scriptures some more.

Mary didn’t go home; I suspect she didn’t have anywhere to go, since the closest she had ever come to feeling at home had been with Jesus. Mary stood outside the tomb, weeping.

The angels she saw sitting where the body of Jesus was supposed to be, showed remarkably little sensitivity.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” they said to her.

She told them what she had told the disciples, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

The angels had no comfort to offer.

You have to wonder if angels do not know how difficult it is to keep on living after someone you love has died. Not being mortal, they may not know the pain of loss and grief. They may well lack the capacity to imagine a world without hope, a world without light, a world falling and collapsing into a dark, formless void.

Are you hearing echoes of the first chapters of Genesis? I am.

This is the first day, while it is still dark. This is the darkness before God speaks. This is the garden where it all began, where it begins again and again with the love of God for a rebellious humanity.

The cross is the ultimate clash between the will of God and our will; it is the tree of life robbed of its fruit, stripped of its leaves and roots, and perverted into an instrument of death. The cross shows us what we do to each other in the name of justice, political ambition, and religious conviction. We betray, we deny, we forsake, we accuse, abuse and condemn. We turn the garden of creation into a world where God is crucified and buried.

This day is not about a missing corpse. Mary turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” the stranger asks, sounding just like one of the angels. “Whom are you looking for?” She doesn’t answer him; all she wants is for him to give her back the dead body of Jesus.

And he says, “Mary!” – and she turns and light and life and laughter return to the garden.

“Rabbouni!” she replies with wonder and joy, lunging forward to embrace the long-lost friend.

How is the scene to end?

Richard Hays suggests, in a 1992 article in the Christian Century,

A Hollywood director (…) would finish the scene with lush strings, Cat Stevens on the vocal track, glints of light from the rising sun on the morning dew, slow-motion shots as Mary runs to embrace him.

Some of you may not remember Cat Stevens, but we have seen enough movies to imagine the closing scene, the long tearful hug and Jesus saying with a nice baritone voice, “Let’s go and get the others; time to go home. I will never ever leave you.” Cut – and roll the credits.

But this is not Hollywood; this is the first day of the new creation. The Risen One frustrates our desire for closure, and says abruptly, “Do not hold on to me.” This is not the resumption of a former relationship, a turning back of the clock that somehow undoes the reality of suffering, the brutal reality of the crucifixion. There is no going back. This is the beginning of a new relationship between Jesus and his followers.

On this day, we do not cling to the hope that Jesus will take us back to the life we once knew with him. What we do hold on to is the promise that his departure was not a fall into oblivion, leaving us orphaned in a world of our own loveless making, but rather the opening of a window through which the Holy Spirit comes to us to abide with us.

This day is our celebration of the wondrous resilience of God’s purpose, of the faithfulness of our God who will not let us go. The Friday darkness gives way to the light of the new day, and on this day the Spirit gathers us into the intimacy the Son shares with the Father, an intimacy God has willed and desired for us since the beginning of time.

Mary doesn’t cling to the body in which she first encountered the love and grace of God – instead she receives and embraces the commission to speak about God’s will and desire to draw humanity into the communion of the divine life. And so Mary leaves the garden, not as one driven out but as an apostle who is being sent on a mission.

The sad sabbath of loss and grief did not end while she was groping for a way through the dark, nor when she saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. Not even a vision of angels had the power to change her lament, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

But then she recognized the voice that called her by name. Mary left the garden confessing, “I have seen the Lord,” and everywhere she went, everywhere we go, proclaiming the Risen One, the dead wood of the cross leaves, blossoms, and bears fruit. Thanks be to God.

The Lord Needs It

Passover is an annual celebration, a spring festival whose date is determined by the lunar calendar. This year it begins this Wednesday at sun-down, and Easter, as always, follows soon after.

Before the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed in the year 70, Passover was one of the great pilgrimage festivals that brought together God’s people from near and far. Those who lived in Judea may have made the trip every year; for others it was a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage. They went up to Jerusalem, up to the Temple, to remember how the Lord had brought them out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, and had led them to the land of promise.

I like to imagine how in the days leading up to the festival, the roads around the city were full of people, young and old, most of them on foot, some on donkeys – slow-moving traffic, but nevertheless a cheerful throng on the way to a joyous feast. They chattered and laughed, helped each other find the children that got lost in the crowd, shared food and water, ointment for their sore feet – and on the last few miles, when they could already see the city on the hill, they sang the songs of Zion, songs of longing and fulfillment.

Among the crowd were those who knew they would never make this journey again – who knows how many years they had been saving every little copper coin to be able to be in Jerusalem for Passover just once. You know they had tears running down their smiling faces as they climbed up the dusty roads; you know they laughed when they explained, apologizingly, “O everything’s OK, thank you for asking, I’m just so happy to be here.”

The little ones were watching, and while they may not have known all the stories of God’s mighty acts, they learned lessons about God and faith every step of the way. This was the journey of their people with their God.

For Jesus, according to Mark, this was the first and only trip to Jerusalem. He had told his disciples repeatedly what awaited him in the city, but they were unable to hear and grasp what he said when he spoke of rejection, betrayal, torture, and death, let alone resurrection.

James and John heard him talk about his humiliation at the hands of the religious and civil authorities, but all they could think about were seats of honor at Jesus’ right hand and his left. One more time Jesus taught them about servanthood and service as standards for greatness, but who knows if his words ever made it from his lips to their hearts.

Now they were approaching Jerusalem, and something very curious happened.

Jesus sent two of his disciples to go and get him a donkey. His instructions were very clear and detailed: where to go, what kind of colt to look for, to untie it, even what to say should anybody ask them what they were doing and why.

And then everything unfolded just as Jesus had said it would: they went away, found the colt tied near a door, began to untie it; bystanders asked, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” and they told them what Jesus had told them to say, “The Lord needs it and will send it back immediately.”

Now what would you say if a couple of guys showed up in your neighbor’s driveway, opened the door to the car, and looked for the keys behind the visor?

“What are you doing? Can I help you find something?”

I’m sure you would find the answer entirely satisfying, “The Lord needs it and will send it back immediately.”

This is a strange conversation, isn’t it? Perhaps the strangest thing about it is that Jesus has so much to say about where and how to get the little donkey, and then he is silent until the next morning; doesn’t speak a word. They bring the donkey, he sits on it, people spread cloaks and leafy branches on the road, they sing and shout, and Jesus doesn’t say anything. He enters the city, goes to the Temple, looks around, and then he and the disciples go back to Bethany for the night.

“Jesus’ Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem” says the header in our Bible, but the whole scene is a lot less triumphal than what Matthew, Luke and John describe, and more than half of the passage deals with fetching a donkey.

We know Mark knows how to be brief. Mark doesn’t waste any words. Why then is so much attention given to the instructions to the disciples and to the unfolding of the unusual scene in the village?

We like the pageantry and drama of Palm Sunday. We love the palms, the parade, the children singing and the crowds pouring through the city gates to welcome the king. We love it so much, we add a little trumpet to the song, and it sounds almost like Easter.

Mark’s little story is very different, very restrained in comparison. Yes, today we welcome God’s Messiah to the city, and the trumpet and the palms and the shouting are the least we can do. But I believe Mark wants to make sure we remember that we are disciples, and not the royal welcome committee. The curious details about where and how to obtain the donkey are all for our sake.

Jesus taught compassion and service; he spoke of God’s faithfulness in the presence of human rejection, betrayal, torture and condemnation; he told his friends what would happen, but they couldn’t hear it – they were preoccupied arguing about greatness, jockeying for positions of influence and prestige, dreaming of glory.

Had they known about “the triumphal entry” they would have wanted to walk in at Jesus’ right hand and his left, or perhaps ten paces ahead of him manifesting their self-importance and controlling the crowds with serious looks and officious statements.

Jesus sent only two of them, but they went on behalf of all of us. They listened, they did as they were told, and they found everything just as Jesus had said.

Were they surprised at the positive response they received when they said, “The Lord needs it”? No doubt in my mind.

Did they begin to understand that this wasn’t just about a donkey but about all the events of that final week?

Did they begin to trust that everything would occur as foreseen and foretold by Jesus ever since they left Galilee?

Did they begin to grasp that rejection and suffering were not the failure of Jesus but the very consequence of Jesus being God’s Messiah?

I don’t know – on Thursday night, all of them deserted him and fled (Mark 14:50). He was alone.

The more important question is, do we understand that we are on the way with the Son of God and that all that happens this week is not just a series of unfortunate events?

The gospel according to Mark begins with the call to prepare the way of the Lord(Mark 1:3), but that preparation does not translate into chairing the messianic party committee or writing choreography for the Son of David cheerleaders.

In Mark, preparation of the Lord’s way translates into “the arrangements people make for the ministry of Jesus” (Joel Markus) – things like finding him a boat and have it ready (Mark 3:9), gathering people in groups for a miraculous meal in the wilderness (Mark 6:39), fetching a donkey for the last leg of his journey to Jerusalem, and getting a room ready for the Passover meal (Mark 14:13-16).

Thomas Long came up with the lovely phrase describing disciples as “donkey fetchers.” What we are asked to do may seem mundane and routine, and on days when the donkey is particularly balky, pushing and dragging it to the Mount of Olives can be utterly exhausting. But our efforts have a place in the redeeming work of Christ.

We may think that a convertible or at least a white horse would be a more appropriate ride for a king, but Jesus knows what he’s doing.

We may think that leading an army of sword-wielding heavenly warriors would be the most promising way of dealing with humanity’s rebellious tendencies and the presence of evil in creation, but Jesus knows where he’s going.

We may think that what we do in response to Christ’s call and obedient to his teachings doesn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but it does: because to be a disciple is to make arrangements for the ministry of Jesus the Messiah.

Mark’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem has another intriguing detail. In no other gospel do the songs and shouts end so abruptly. Verse 10 ends, “Hosanna in the highest heaven!” and verse 11 continues, “Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple.”

He is alone and all is quiet. He looks around. He knows where he is going. He knows that before the week is over he will enter the deepest loneliness.

One last word. When Jesus gave instructions to the two disciples for how to respond should anyone ask why they were untying the colt, he told them, “Just say this, ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’” Mark doesn’t tell us, though, who took back the colt or if it was taken back at all.

I wonder if it stayed. I wonder if the donkey stayed when all others fled. I got the thought from a line in the book of Isaiah, where God declares,

“I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people do not understand (Isaiah 1:2-3).”

I wonder if the donkey stayed, a silent witness watching as the love of God for God’s people – Israel, you and me and all the others – went farther than any human being could have ever imagined.

This is the week when we remember that love prevailed against rejection, betrayal, torture, and death. This is the way of Christ. This is the journey of our God with us.

Audio of this post is available.

Nouvelle Alliance

On Palm Sunday, Nouvelle Alliance Christian Church gathered for their first Sunday worship service in the chapel at Vine Street Christian Church.

The members are all recent immigrants from the Democratic Republic of Congo and their children. The worship languages are French and Lingala, and the sermon is also translated into English. Celet Nkobe is the leader of the new church, and we pray that Nouvelle Alliance will thrive and become a home for French-speaking Christians in Nashville.

On Good Friday our congregations will worship together, and on Easter the youth will serve pancakes for both congregations.