“For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom,” wrote Paul. So… which one are you? Jew or Greek? One who expects God to reveal himself with deeds of power, or one who recognizes God because she answers our deepest existential questions? Speaking for myself, the answer is yes. Yes to signs and yes to wisdom. Frankly, I’d really like both. I’d like God to come with power and great glory and fix all that is wrong in this hurting world, and I’d also like to understand how and why we got in this mess anyway. What is it about the human condition that leads us into temptation, and then leaves us wondering why God does not deliver us from the evil we ourselves allow to happen?
Do we not have the power to resist temptation? Does God not have the power to deliver us? In many ways I think these are the very questions Lent invites us to wrestle with. What are the limits of our self-control? And how exactly do we recognize God’s power in a world where Almighty God chooses not to exercise omnipotence? A world where God limits God’s own power out of respect for our freedom of choice? A world where God’s very own self would suffer the most shameful death the Roman empire could offer up?
“Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves” is the prayer with which we opened our worship. And yet today’s readings are full of manifestations of power, both human and holy. The ten commandments, which we recite at the beginning of every Lenten Sunday worship in what we call the penitential order, are a social contract. At God’s instruction, we limit our power to cause damage to each other. But notice that in the Exodus version which we heard this morning, God begins the commandments by reminding the Hebrew people of his own power: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” God did such great signs—exercised such great power—can we humans not respect a few laws?
But then again, according to Paul, “we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” Here we are again, amidst divergent conceptions of God’s power. Or rather, of the antithesis of God’s power. Because the crucifixion is anything but an exercise of power, at least by conventional human terms. But “to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.”
There’s a story I’ve always loved: a parable of sorts, although it’s not in the Bible. Imagine a person, living alone in his mountain cabin, is sitting in front of his crackling fire on a snowy evening. It’s cozy, and he has plenty of firewood and everything he needs. Until he looks out his window and notices a flock of migrating birds, stranded and disoriented. He knows that they won’t survive the snowstorm, so he leaves his comfortable chair, puts on his heavy outdoor gear, and goes outside. He takes a broom with him, and attempts to shoo the small flock into his barn until the snow passes. To deliver them from the danger, we might say.
But try as he might, the birds would not go where he attempted to guide them. The more he wafted his broom, the more they flew around wildly. They were cold and disoriented, and some started to fly into tree trucks and fall to the snowy ground. What could he possibly do to guide them to safety? In his frustration and grief, he cried out his deep longing. “if only,” he asked himself. “If only I were a bird.”
It matters, doesn’t it, what kind of power we exercise? Sometimes—maybe most of the time—the biggest brooms won’t solve our social problems. Nor the biggest guns nor the loudest megaphone nor the most aggressive marketing campaign. Sometimes the most powerful tool at our disposal is our ability to identify with, and enter into the experience of, another person. We’ve all done that, I know. Walked a mile in the shoes of a friend, of a child, or a partner. Gone at their speed, walked their path—even if we don’t happen to like it—and limited ourselves to the constraints of their situation. This is what love looks like.
You can probably guess where I am going with this. It matters where we locate ourselves and with whom we identify. It matters that we are here in downtown San Jose, in the midst of this complicated urban neighborhood. It matters that we practice kindness to our neighbors who are vulnerable and unhoused and even mentally ill. It matters not only because we believe it’s the right thing to do—although it is—but it’s also exactly what God chose and chooses to do.
This very week, Front Door Communities will move into the Trinity campus. They’ve been working for months to renovate the unused basement of our office building, which will now become their offices. Come after worship to take a look at what they have done. Front Door Communities—FDC—is a well-established ministry to homeless people, and they’ll be serving lunch to our neighbors three days a week from our 2nd Street gate. The other two days they’ll be downstairs from our parish hall, offering a sit down meals and the chance for conversation and clean clothes to vulnerable women.
This will change our relationships with our neighbors in ways we probably cannot yet imagine. In balance, I believe that it will make us all safer at Trinity, because people tend to care for those who care for them. But FDC will only operate their ministry at Trinity in the mornings before 11:00 am, so it’s entirely possible that you won’t interact with them at all, unless you choose to volunteer to serve with them. Which you are more than welcome to do. It’s the easiest and most Christian way to welcome people to Trinity, and you don’t even need to mention Jesus. Because you can be confident that when we serve together, he will be present.
Some demand signs and some desire wisdom, scripture teaches us. But scripture also teaches us this: some simply enter into the human condition and show us a better way to be. Show us a practice of power that depends not on the size of our weapons nor the sophistication of our message, but on the depth of our love. Yes, Jesus was one such example, but he never intended to be the only one. The man in the story I just told did not long to become a bird so that he could take shelter in the barn alone by himself. We are disciples of Jesus so that we can lead others to safety and to significance.
“What sign can you show us for doing this?” The Jewish leaders questioned Jesus right after he had demonstrated power in that oh-so-human way of overturning tables and forcing the moneychangers out of the temple. “Destroy this temple,” he answered rather cryptically, “and in three days I will raise it up.” How exciting! Aren’t we all impressed with demonstrations of power that overturn and/or build things up fast?
“But he was speaking of the temple of his body,” the scripture goes on to say, confounding every Jewish and Greek understanding of power. The same God who had given King Solomon the plans to build the first temple in Jerusalem, and the wisdom to adjudicate under the covenant of Moses was now giving the most powerful gift of all… his vulnerable human self. Showing us the way to give the most powerful gift as well. Obey the commandments, as you are able. Build up our beautiful temple, if your time and talent and treasure allow you to. That’s all very good and right, especially during Lent. But if you really want to follow Jesus, let me invite you to give yourself: mind, soul and body. Because that is the very power of God. And “after he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.”
