Healing and Grace

21 When Jesus had crossed again in the boat^* to the other side, a great crowd gathered round him; and he was by the lake. ²²Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet ²³and begged him repeatedly, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.’ ²⁴So he went with him. And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. ²⁵Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. ²⁶She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. ²⁷She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, ²⁸for she said, ‘If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.’ ²⁹Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. ³⁰Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?’ ³¹And his disciples said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, “Who touched me?” ’ ³²He looked all round to see who had done it. ³³But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. ³⁴He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’ 35 While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?’ ³⁶But overhearing^* what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’ ³⁷He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. ³⁸When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. ³⁹When he had entered, he said to them, ‘Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.’ ⁴⁰And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. ⁴¹He took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha cum’, which means, ‘Little girl, get up!’ ⁴²And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. ⁴³He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.

           

Mark 5:21-43

                                   

This is one of those rich passages with so many different images, with so many different ways to preach about it. Since I’ve spent the last week at the beach, I turned my bulletin info in last Wednesday a week ago, intending to go a completely different way with this sermon. But when I got in bed that night, I turned on my television to discover that it had happened again—another mass shooting where many lives were taken way too early in such a violent and horrific manner, that many husbands and wives, children and parents, nieces and nephews, friends were left mourning someone they dearly loved, and so sadly that a congregation was left without its pastor. Just like many of you, I’m sure, I tossed and turned all night, not being able to get it out of my head, not being able to wrap my head around it all, not being able to make any sense out of it. I’ve thought about it ever sense in so many different ways.

Although I sat on my living room floor after Newtown and wept as the details came out that 20 5 and 6 year olds were gunned down, this shooting has hit me differently, perhaps even harder. The more I’ve thought about it over the past 10 days, I think I’ve discovered the reasons it has hit me so hard. I have to confess to you (if you haven’t already figured it out) that I’m deeply troubled by the proliferation of guns and the violence that often comes with them in our country, by the deeply troubled folks who use them to terrorize and create chaos—by how easily these folks use them to create chaos because, in so many cases, they don’t even have to stop to reload. I’m saddened by our glorification of guns and other violent weapons in video games, tv shows, movies, and so much more.

When I was in 6^th grade, my classmates and I came back from Christmas break to discover that our classmate Darrien had been killed on accident by his brother who found their dad’s handgun in a closet. When I was in college, my friend Carl shot himself in his bed with a gun his dad owned. And then there was Bonkey—a young African-American teenager whose family was taken in by a Presbyterian church in Birmingham, taken in so they could get out of a life of violence. Bonkey had flourished in this situation, finding a home in the church youth group and among the youth of our presbytery, making good grades in a new school, playing football for the high school. After their football game one Friday night, Bonkey and his friends were walking into a Pizza Hut to celebrate their win—and he was gunned down in a drive-by shooting by a stranger who had gotten ahold of a semi-automatic weapon. All of these situations, each one different in it’s own right, changed me as a person. I hope you can sense that my hatred of guns, that my disgust of the violence we see every day because of them, is not a political statement—but an honest expression of faith for me. Because I believe in God, I believe that God has created each one of us out of great love. And because of that belief, I believe God grieves deeply when we are so easily able to take life away from each other. Anytime I hear of shooting—no matter whether a single life or many is taken away, I grieve deeply.

As a woman raised in Birmingham, I grew up hearing the stories of segregation, the tales of racism. I grew up with a mom who was raised in Birmingham in the 1960s, shielded by her parents with what was really going on only 5 miles from their home. I love the city of Birmingham, so it is hard for me to imagine what took place there over so many years before I was born. I’ve been in the 16^th Street Baptist Church many times, and it never ceases to sadden me to think of the 4 little girls who were blown to pieces in that building. The stories of segregation and racism grieve me deeply, knowing that police dogs attacked black children, knowing that slurs were hurled at women as they were tackled to the ground, knowing that so many were thrown in prison for no other reason than the color of their skin. So, to discover that this latest act of sheer violence happened because a white man couldn’t see past the color of a person’s skin, believing that we aren’t all created equally in God’s eyes—whose racist hatred ran so deep in his bones that he took nine lives—it’s just overwhelming.

And to think that it all happened in a church, a sanctuary where folks gather to be welcomed in the name of Christ, to spend time in fellowship together, to learn and discover more about God together, wow. To know that the minister who was gunned down was my age, with so much more ministry ahead of him just like me, wow. To think of the Bible studies and worship services that happen in this place, to think of the way Mother Emmanuel opened its doors to everyone just like we do, wow. Pretty overwhelming. Deep, deep grief.

In our Gospel story today, Mark sets another overwhelming scene for us, telling us a story about deep, deep grief. A synagogue leader runs up to Jesus—he has heard the miraculous stories of healing that Jesus has been doing. The leader’s daughter is at the point of death, so he runs to Jesus, falling on his knees before him, begging him repeatedly to come heal his daughter: “’My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her so that she may be made well.’” Jesus feels the desperation and immediately turns to go with Jairus to find the little girl. As they are on the way, Jesus soon feels someone else beside him, feels another moment of desperation and grief. A woman who has been bleeding profusely, hemorrhaging for 12 years, a woman who has tried everything to find some healing, falls behind Jesus and touches his cloak. Jesus feels it, feels the woman reaching out to him: “’Who touched me?’” he asks, calling the broken woman to open up. She comes to him, opens her life up once again, and tells the truth. “’Daughter,’” Jesus says, “’your faith has made you well; go in peace and be healed of your disease.’” Finally, Jesus makes his way to the little girl, raising her from death. In these moments of desperation and deep grief, Jesus gives new life to them all—to Jairus and his little girl, to the bleeding woman whom he has healed.

Mark paints a scene for us of chaos and desperation, of folks who are struggling for healing and experiencing deep, profound grief. In different ways, they reach out to Christ, yearning for healing, praying for wholeness. And they leave Christ as folks who are made whole, folks who have been given the gift of transformation, of incredible grace. And we are not so far from the people in our Gospel story—we are folks who struggle with violence, people who sin every day even in the times we can recognize it and in the times we can’t, folks who are broken by racism and sexism and the other isms of our world, people who are called to fall on our knees and reach out and touch Christ’s cloak to beg for healing and wholeness, to ask for redemption and forgiveness, to experience GRACE.

The good news of this passage today, the amazing news for Jairus and his daughter, the overwhelming news for the bleeding woman, is found in Christ’s gracious act of healing, of acceptance, of welcome, of wholeness. It is also wonderful news for all of us who are searching for understanding in the midst of sin, in the midst of brokenness, in the midst of the darkness of this world. One of the things I love most about this passage is that Jesus feels these folks coming up to him, begging for his grace, begging for his healing. He senses them there, and he listens to their pleas, but he doesn’t waste any time asking them how they got there—it simply doesn’t matter to Christ what circumstance brought them there. Jesus doesn’t ask them to stop first and confess their sin, doesn’t ask them to give a list of the good things they have done, doesn’t ask them whether they belong there or whether they’re worthy of healing. Christ simply extends his healing, welcoming them and giving them the wholeness of grace, giving new life to all of them, proclaiming that their faith has made them well, telling them to go in peace.

And Christ calls us to do the same for each other, as folks who identify ourselves as his followers. In the worst way, the loss of life at Emanuel Church has been overwhelming. But in the best way, it has also been overwhelming—the way all of those folks, the ones who died, and the ones who were left mourning, reflected and extended God’s grace over and over and over again. In the same moment, my heart broke again—and my heart rejoiced—when I heard the killer say that he almost didn’t go through with the shooting because the folks at Mother Emanuel were so welcoming to him when he walked into the Bible study, as he sat for an hour listening. Those folks were doing what they were supposed to do in God’s sanctuary. They were living out Christ’s call to welcome in his name. And, again, Christ’s grace was extended through the forgiveness that the relatives of the slaughtered church members offered the shooter at his initial hearing: I am mourning, but I forgive you. I am devastated, but I forgive you. I am lost, but I forgive you. They extended Christ’s healing to him even though he might not ever be able to recognize or celebrate it.

Just as Christ extended such incredible grace as healed the folks in our passage, we are called to do the same for each other. The fact that the shooting happened in a church named “Emanuel” shouldn’t elude any of us—because Emanuel means “God is with us.” God, in Christ, is with us in the way he senses our brokenness, in the way he offers forgiveness, in the way he heals, in the way he graces us with love.

I was so struck Friday by our President’s eulogy for the Reverend Pinckney, by his definition of grace. If you’re a fan of our President, or if you’re not, I hope you take some time to listen to his eulogy. He said, and he sang:

[The killer] didn’t know he was being used by God. Blinded by hatred, the…killer could not see the grace surrounding Reverend Pinckney and that Bible study group -- the light of love that shone as they opened the church doors and invited a stranger to join in their prayer circle.  The…killer could have never anticipated the way the families of the fallen would respond when they saw him in court -- in the midst of unspeakable grief, with words of forgiveness.  He couldn’t imagine that…Blinded by hatred, he failed to comprehend what Reverend Pinckney so well understood -- the power of God’s grace.  This whole week, I’ve been reflecting on this idea of grace. The grace of the families who lost loved ones.  The grace that Reverend Pinckney would preach about in his sermons.  The grace described in one of my favorite hymns -- the one we all know:  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.   I once was lost, but now I’m found; was blind but now I see.  According to the Christian tradition, grace is not earned.  Grace is not merited.  It’s not something we deserve.  Rather, grace is the free and benevolent favor of God as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings. Grace.  As a nation, out of this terrible tragedy, God has visited grace upon us, for he has allowed us to see where we’ve been blind. He has given us the chance, where we’ve been lost, to find our best selves.  We may not have earned it, this grace, with our rancor and complacency, and short-sightedness and fear of each other -- but we got it all the same.  He gave it to us anyway.  He’s once more given us grace.  But it is up to us now to make the most of it, to receive it with gratitude, and to prove ourselves worthy of this gift.

Wholeness. Healing. Forgiveness. Peace. It is Christ’s gift, and it is indeed up to us to make the most of it, to share it with others, to prove ourselves worthy.

Family Matters

…and the crowd came together again, so that they could not even eat. ²¹When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, “He has gone out of his mind.” ²²And the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, “He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons.” ²³And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan? ²⁴If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. ²⁵And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. ²⁶And if Satan has risen up against himself and is divided, he cannot stand, but his end has come. ²⁷But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered. ²⁸“Truly I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter; ²⁹but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin”— ³⁰for they had said, “He has an unclean spirit.” ³¹Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. ³²A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.” ³³And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” ³⁴And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! ³⁵Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister 

and mother.”

Mark 3:20-35

Family matters, matters of our families, are always an interesting thing, and interesting creature in our lives, as we all know. I bet, that if all of us gathered today were asked, “Tell us about your family,” we would have every answer in the book. Some of us have our families close by, while others have families who are spread out across the world. Some of us have created families of our own through marriage and the beautiful birth of children, while others live on their own and have created their own kind of family through friendships. Some of us are products of strong, healthy, nurturing families of origin, families who gather for holidays and birthdays, families who celebrate and lift each other up every chance we get. Others of us are products of unhealthy, abusive, broken families of origin, families who don’t talk and gather and share, families who harbor guilt and hard feelings. I was reminded of the differences within each family one time when I was talking to one of my best friends, honestly complaining about something crazy someone in my family had done. My friend comes from a broken family where divorce, non-communication, and divorce have affected them so greatly. She rightly put in me in my place as she said, "Rachel, your family might be crazy at times, but at least they're together." I'll never forget it--her reminder that families are an interesting thing, and interesting creature, sometimes lovely, other times ugly, sometimes broken, other times whole.

Mark, in his gospel today, paints a fascinating picture of the concept of family, prompting us to wonder and ask about the nature of Christ, encouraging us to ask real, deep questions about who are families are, what family means in our lives, and what family means in our lives as folks who call ourselves followers of Christ. Mark starts his gospel off with a bang—no flowery words or long, descriptive images; he doesn’t waste any time telling us about Jesus and the beginning of his ministry. As soon as he is baptized and tempted in the wilderness to begin his ministry, Jesus acts quickly to call the first disciples, knowing that he has too much to do on his own. In the very first chapter, Jesus heals a man with an unclean spirit , cleanses a leper, begins teaching. We read from the beginning that what he is doing is scaring the people in power, causing others around to stop seeking them out for help and turning to Christ instead, threatening the powers that be. Jesus heals on the Sabbath, overturning laws that have been existence for a while, threatening the foundation of the long-established religious authorities. In the story immediately preceding our reading today, Jesus commissions the disciples he has already called, getting them ready to leave the families that they know to go out and do some dangerous, risky, new, and unexpected work in the world.

As our story for today begins, everyone has seen what Jesus has been doing—calling, teaching, challenging, healing, questioning, commissioning, and the nervousness about him is beginning to grow. “He has gone out of his mind,” they say, challenging the status quo, working and healing when it is unlawful to do so. His family, his family of origin, the ones he has spent most of his life with, start hearing these rumors, begin realizing that he is challenging the governmental and religious authorities, and they naturally become nervous and frightened. They try to restrain him, to hold him back.

As many times as I have read this story, I have to confess that I have never noticed this little but crucial detail. It jumped out at me this time as I read and reread this passage—his family meets him outside and physically tries to restrain him. On the surface, it seems that they are restraining him from the gathering crowds, trying to keep him safe from the immediate threat. And I think they are doing that—but they are trying to hold him back from so much more. I immediately thought of the story Luke tells us of the day Jesus is presented in the temple for purification as a child. An old man named Simeon has been sitting on the steps for years, waiting for this day, waiting for the Messiah to be presented. As so, as he walks up with his parents, Simeon takes Jesus in his arms because he knows the Messiah is finally here. He knows that he can now go in peace and he blesses Jesus’ family, but there is more. He knows that, since the truth of the Messiah has been revealed to him, he also has to reveal it to others: “This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed,” and then he looks in Mary’s eyes and sadly continues, “and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Mary, the mother who has loved her son so deeply, has known from the beginning that her child has been born to reveal God, to be God incarnate for all of us—and she has known from the beginning that that revelation will also come with a sword that will tear her heart apart and deeply pierce her soul. She has known from the beginning that her son, such an integral part of her family, is destined to die so he can save so many others. So, who can blame Mary and the rest of her family for trying to shield Jesus here? Who can blame them for wanting him to stay inside where it is safe for a while? Who can blame Jesus’ family for wanting to hold him back from the inevitable pain and suffering heading his way? Who can blame them for wanting to hold that sword off as long as possible?

I think this story also tells us so much about the nature of Christ, about the care and love that he has for his family of origin. After his family tries to restrain him outside of the home, Jesus goes inside to preach and teach. Some time later as he is inside the home, Jesus is reminded by the crowds that his mother and brothers are still outside waiting for him, wanting to see him, asking for him. Jesus responds, “Who are my mother and my brothers? Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” At first glance, it seems that Christ has rejected his family, and this rejection seems pretty harsh, hard, unnecessary. This rejection seems to be pretty contrary to what I, to what we, believe to be the kind, loving, peaceful nature of Christ.

Make no mistake—this rejection is hard and it is harsh. But it is a necessary one, I think. Jesus knows his family has heard about what must happen to him in the future, and they have tried to restrain him from his call, not wanting to see him hurt, not wanting him to lose his life. Perhaps he thinks this is the only way for them to truly see it, for them to wrap their minds around the fact that they are going to lose him. I can’t imagine how hard this rejection must feel for them, but perhaps Jesus thinks that this is the only way they will truly get it, the only way they will truly understand that his call, that his purpose will come with a high price and lots of pain. I think it’s fascinating that this story comes right after Jesus calls and commissions the disciples—fascinating that his mother and brothers, his family, aren’t called. Jesus knows that this call will be to hard for them. He knows that this call will involve lots of pain and suffering for them, that it will involve the willingness to let him go to his death for all of us. Perhaps Jesus knows that his family is too dedicated to him, that their unconditional love for him will prohibit them from giving him up for the world. The rejection of his family is hard, but it is necessary.

And that rejection leads Christ to redefinition, leads him to redefine the true meaning of family for the disciples, for the crowds gathered, for the governmental and religious authorities, and for all of us. The seemingly harsh news of rejection as actually lovely, great news for the rest of us because Christ spends his ministry redefining, challenging, broadening our limited ideas of what the word “family” truly means, of what family should and could be. Throughout his ministry, Jesus surprises and challenges us, sometimes even shocks us by the people he heals, welcomes, eats with, listens to, forgives. From the very beginning, he calls common, ordinary fishermen, people with little power and even less money, to be his disciples. Over and over again, he cleanses lepers, folks who would never be welcomed into the temple because of cleanliness laws, touches and heals them, welcomes them as family as he makes them whole. He heals people who have been overcome with demons, making their bodies whole, giving them new life and hope. He brings people back to life, giving their families a break from their grieving, giving them new life again. Christ reaches out to women over and over again, giving them names, giving them power when they had previously had none, giving them life. He reaches out to immigrants from foreign lands, welcoming them with healing, reaches out to folks with beautiful, different shades of skin, telling them that they are equal and welcome in his family. Christ calls little children, children who are seen as nothing more than property, blessing them and calling them to come to him and experience new life.

You know I could go on and on, but simply put, Jesus Christ, God incarnate, shows us what the family looks like in the kingdom of God. He shows us God’s will as he reaches out to those are bleeding and broken, those who are sinful and hurting, those who are rejected and lonely, those are shunned and nameless, those who are grieving and desperate, those who are different and unfamiliar—he reaches out to them and says, “You are part of the kingdom.” And then he tells us to do the same: “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” Thanks be to God. Amen.

My Commandment

⁹As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. ¹⁰If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. ¹¹I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. ¹²“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. ¹³No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. ¹⁴You are my friends if you do what I command you. ¹⁵I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. ¹⁶You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. ¹⁷I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.

John 15:9-17

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you…I have appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last…I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”

Several weeks ago, New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote a fascinating article called “The Moral Bucket List.” The article was so interesting and challenging to read, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It really hit home for me this week as I pondered these words to us from Christ, thought about the commandment to love: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” In the column, Brooks ponders the difference between our resume virtues and our eulogy virtues, as he calls them. He writes this:

About once a month I run across a person who radiates an inner light. These people can be in any walk of life. They seem deeply good. They listen well. They make you feel funny and valued. You often catch them looking after other people and as they do so their laugh is musical and their manner is infused with gratitude. They are not thinking about what wonderful work they are doing. They are not thinking about themselves at all. When I meet such a person it brightens my whole day. But I confess I often have a sadder thought: It occurs to me that I’ve achieved a decent level of career success, but I have not achieved that. I have not achieved that generosity of spirit, or that depth of character. A few years ago I realized that I wanted to be a bit more like those people. I realized that if I wanted to do that I was going to have to work harder to save my own soul. I was going to have to have the sort of moral adventures that produce that kind of goodness. I was going to have to be better at balancing my life. It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?

Were you capable of deep love? Are we capable of deep love? We are not talking about a shallow, fleeting love, but a love that makes us deeply good to others, a love that enables us to listen without reserve; a love that calls us to look out for the good of others, a manner of love that is infused and oozing with gratitude; a love that brightens the days of others, a love that is selfless and reflects a generosity of spirit, a deep depth of character.

Are we capable of deep love? It is a question that should flow through our thoughts and hearts each day as we breathe and move and have being. Are we capable to deep love? It is a question that should abide in our hearts. What a question to be asked every day of our lives. But Jesus takes this question a lot further in our Scripture lesson from today—he asks the question about how we abide in love, but he takes the question much further by turning into a commandment. It is not a suggestion or a question merely to be asked, but a commandment to be lived out in our lives each day. Are we capable of deep love? We must be because we are commanded to be.

The Greek word used in this passage for love is not the “eros” love, the love of lovers, the love of romance and passion. It is not the “philia” love, the dispassionate kind of love expressed between between friends, coworkers, acquaintances. The Greek word Jesus uses in his speech here is the “agape” kind of love, the love of charity and benevolence towards our fellow brothers and sisters, the love that ensures our sisters and brothers are cared for, whether they are able to express that kind of love in return or not, the love that expresses God’s unconditional love for God’s children, the love embodied in God’s son who is sent to live and die and come back to life for us, the love that comes without condition.

In his explication of this passage in the Feasting on the Word series, David Cunningham explains this agape love beautifully:

Love in this sense is a theological virtue, an excellence of character that God has by nature and in which we participate by grace. Such love is primarily interested in the good of the other person, rather than one’s own. It does not attempt to possess or dominate the other. Nor is it limited by the scarcities that are imposed by time and place: once can have a few good friends and fewer lovers, but one can have agape for all…[this kind of love] is not possessive or subordinating, thus allowing genuine space for the other to be; and superabundant, such that it can be offered without reserve.

What a beautiful and rich way to describe the kind of love to which we are called here. Jesus calls us to a deep love and respect for each other, a love that doesn’t just come in and out of our lives, but one that abides in us, dwells in our souls, one that is superabundant.

There are so many important things Jesus tells us in this passage, so many that I could probably go on all day about them. I won’t subject y’all to that, though, so here are a few things that jump out here. First of all, Jesus calls us to this kind of agape love, calls us not through suggestion or hints, but through a mandate, a command. Much like the mandate that is given to us on Maundy Thursday to love and serve each other without reserve, he gives another mandate here: “If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love…this is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” If we are truly the followers of Christ that we claim to be, then we have no other choice but to follow the way of love, agape love—the love that doesn’t attempt to possess or own or dominate, but to accept and forgive and understand instead; the love that radiates from our souls by its light; the love that is primarily interested in the genuine well being of those around us instead of ourselves; the love that is infused with gratitude instead of selfishness; the love of superabundance that we are called to give to all of God’s children no matter what. This is our way of love because we are children of God, accepted and loved and unconditionally. And because of that, we are commanded to do whatever we can to love the same way.

Jesus also redefines the word “friend” for us in this passage, as he does throughout the Gospels. We tend to think of our friends only as the people who we hang out with, the folks we trust with our fears and our dreams, our hopes and our desires, the people who accept us as we are and love us no matter what. Our friends are indeed those folks, but Jesus reminds us over and over again that our friends include so many more. Yes, our friends are the folks we share meals with in our community, but they are also folks from around the world who might not be able to find any food to eat. Our friends are the people who share the good times and the rough experiences with us, but they are also folks whom we might never meet who might be experiencing the same kinds of moments, rough and good. Our friends are the folks whose names we know and can always call out when we need them, but they are also the faceless, nameless folks whom we pass by every day. Christ calls us, commands us to love our friends so much that we are able to lay our lives down for them—but this doesn’t just extend to the people we know and love. This command mandates that we all share our love with each other, no matter what we believe or how we live or whether we will ever get anything back in return. “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

And to show that this mandate, this commandment, is not merely made up of shallow words or fickle promises, Christ literally does lay down his life for us. It is impossible to read this passage without knowing the context of it, what comes immediately following. Jesus says, “This is my commandment” just as he is beginning his walk to the cross, to his death by crucifixion. When Jesus says to us, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,” his words carry such a deeper, fuller meaning when we realize that he is saying them as he is on his way to lay his life down for us—for all of us. Jesus doesn’t simply stop at commanding all of us to love without reserve, to love abundantly. He gives us the mandate and then he does it himself. The crucifixion is the perfect example of a selfless, non-possessive love, a love that is full of grace and gratitude, a deep, overflowing, superabundant love.

At first glance, it seems a bit odd that this passage leading to Jesus’ death is given to us in our lectionary so soon after his resurrection, just as we are still basking in the glow of Easter. But it’s given to us here so that we won’t ever forget, so that the command to love is always in the forefront of our minds and hearts. “I am giving you these commands,” Jesus says, “so that you may love one another.” The command for us to be people of agape love is given to us every day—as we journey through Lent, as we sit at the foot of the cross, as we celebrate the resurrection, and as we live each day as Easter people. Thanks be to God.