New Covenant—2 Feb 2025 (was 3 Feb 19)
Luke 4
21 Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” 22 All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, “Is not this Joseph’s son?” 23 He said to them, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’” 24 And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. 25 But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; 26 yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. 27 There were also many lepers[a] in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.” 28 When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. 29 They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. 30 But he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
What do we deserve?
It’s one of those questions that’s akin to quicksand— the more you struggle to answer the question, the more stuck you become. So we can begin with the basics: we all deserve a warm place to sleep, enough food to live, and some companions on the way. After that, it becomes tricky.
Politicians will tell you that we all deserve to be middle-class, with a steady income, some savings, and a plan for retirement. This idea usually includes more specific items too: house, car, boat or trailer, vacation in the sunny south, college for kids, and so on. But then the speech ends, or it splits off in different directions.
On one hand—let’s call it the left hand—these things come through a progressive tax code, the right to collective bargaining, and a government willing to safeguard the social safety net. On the other hand, the right hand, it’s moderate taxation that doesn’t stifle the entrepreneurial spirit, support for business and markets (who seem to have a mind of their own) and services that the public purse can realistically afford.
Until recently, these were the two messages we heard, beginning with what you deserve and applying contrasting lessons on how to get what you deserve. Until a new voice entered the conversation. This voice agrees that everyone should be able to realize their dreams, middle-class or beyond, and then the vision sours. “There are others,” this voice insists, “that are actively trying to take what is yours.” Rather than focus on our collective failure to share the wealth, this voice insists others are trying to steal it. And then the closing argument, where the voice says “you deserve to be safe”—even if you didn’t feel unsafe in the first place.
It should not surprize us that this new conversation has left traditional politicians and thinkers at a loss. Generally, your opponent didn’t just make stuff up, and if they did, you could defeat them with facts, or logic, or the good old fashioned truth. We have learned in this new age that some would rather be lied to—and seem to relish it—if the lies unsettle the existing order. Norms are gone, decency is gone, and truth has become the relic of a bygone age.
Now you’re really looking forward to lunch. Why so cranky, preacher? Florida winter getting you down? Or another birthday come and gone? Actually, our passage today is all about the preacher’s dilemma: do you tell-it-like-it-is or do you apply a thin sugary-coating to the message and carry on to lunch?
Jesus-the-preacher decides to tell it like it is. ‘You’ve all been so kind,’ he says, ‘you remember me and my kin, and you’ve obviously been following me on Instagram. You’ve heard about all the healing, and the various signs that even I struggle to explain. And maybe you think you deserve the same—since it took a village to raise me—but that’s not how it works. God decides who deserves what—and won’t be compelled to do anything.’
‘You want examples?’ he said. ‘Many people were hungry in the time of Elijah, but he went to the widow of Zarephath instead, even raising her child from the dead. And there were lots of lepers in Israel in the time of Elisha, but he healed Naaman the Syrian while the others looked on.’ They were cut to the quick, his formerly proud friends and neighbours, and made a plan to silence him for good. But he slipped away.
Think of it as the place where human nature meets classical wisdom thinking. Human nature says give me some advantage or special treatment because of proximity: you know me, we’re neighbours, we come from the same place. And classical wisdom thinking says the good shall prosper (like church-goers) while the wicked suffer. It’s a powerful combination: ‘Jesus, we know you and we’re good people, so give us what we deserve—a sign, a local miracle, something to make us the talk of the Galilee.’
But God decides what we deserve and when we deserve it, and the deliberations are done in secret, a mystery to our eyes. And while this frustrates all of us—the faithful, the faithful who feel entitled—we can only remain frustrated by the lack of transparency that seems to define the Most High.
Now, when I say ‘lack of transparency,’ I should clarify, since the passage before the passage I read this morning does go a long way to outline the divine program. Jesus reads from the Isaiah scroll, and gives us God’s very own to-do list: good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom from oppression, and a jubilee year, an idea that sends shivers down the spine of every banker and debt collector in the land.
So yes, God lacks some transparency, but definitely has a weakness for the weak. Again, if you are in need of good news, or freedom from any form of imprisonment, or new sight, or the need to escape oppression—especially if you oppress yourself—God is on your side. God loves the oppressor AND oppressed, but is always going to help the latter overcome the former.
The crowd in Nazareth, however, likely didn’t fit into either category. Like the rest of us, they may have taken on one role or the other—oppressor or oppressed—depending on the day of the week. But by-in-large, they were just busy trying to get on with their lives. Jesus’ visit must have seemed like an opportunity, a chance to shake things up, maybe a way to ‘make Nazareth great again,’ but it was not to be. Jesus wanted to say pleasant things about foreigners instead.
Their anger, their desire to take him to the edge of the cliff outside town, is really just some not-so-subtle foreshadowing, a look ahead to Holy Week and another set of onlookers who would become an angry mob. And the reasons are more-or-less the same, disappointment turned to anger, and anger expressed in violence. On the next occasion there would be no walking away—but that’s another story for another time.
We dwell instead on the impulse: when God is near we expect special treatment, to get what we deserve, some advantage over others. It’s not really clear what the Nazarenes were looking for, maybe just a bigger dot on the map, but by the time we get to Holy Week it all becomes clear.
By the time we get to Holy Week it’s obvious that a ‘revolution of the heart’ was not going to cut it. People wanted an end to the existing order, they wanted a conquering hero, they wanted a less metaphorical King of the Jews. But the climax of the week unfolded this way instead:
"Put your sword away," Jesus said, at the very moment of his arrest. "Don't you know that if you live by the sword, you will die by the sword? You know I could call on a legion of angels anytime to do my bidding? Am I leading a rebellion? See, I am surrendering to you, that the writing of the prophets might be fulfilled." The passage concludes with the saddest note in scripture: "Then all his disciples deserted him and fled."
Again, another story for another time, but we got what we deserved. Dying and alone, save the criminals that hung beside him, God-in-Jesus looked at our sorry state, authors of desertion and betrayal, and gave us what we deserved, saying “Father, forgive them, they know not what they are doing.”
Even in the act of killing God, God forgives. If God decides that that is an act worth forgiving, what smallness do we cling to? If God can forgive an attempt on God’s own life, what could we possibly do that God won’t forgive? What could others do to us that we can’t forgive, with God as our example?
Think of all the forgiveness in scripture: the prodigal son, the people of Nineveh, even Saul of Tarsus, and imagine that behind each example there was disappointment. The older brother, old fish-guts Jonah, everyone who met St. Paul in his former life: we learn that forgiveness is just as hard to accept as it is to do. But God forgives that too, just to make a point.
We want favour, and God gives forgiveness. We want a reward for being good, and God gives forgiveness. We want to be lied to about all that we deserve, and God gives us forgiveness instead. You would think we could spot the pattern, but we can’t, and God forgives that too.
In a moment we are going to participate in one of the defining movements within our life together. The Lord’s supper is a symbolic meal within a greater framework where we repent, rehearse, and remember. We began with confession, reminding ourselves that forgiveness is the foundation of the meal. We rehearse the history of our salvation, always hidden somewhere in the Gospel, and finally we remember: beginning on the night Jesus took his last meal, and ending on the cross. We also remember that we were among those that deserted and fled, yet God draws us back, draws us to this table, and gives us what we deserve—new life.
May the God of forgiveness give us what we deserve, and may we extend that to others, in Jesus’ name, Amen.
New Covenant—19 January 2025 (was 17 Jan 16)
John 2
On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there, 2 and Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine was gone, Jesus’ mother said to him, “They have no more wine.”
4 “Woman,[a] why do you involve me?” Jesus replied. “My hour has not yet come.”
5 His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”
6 Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing, each holding from twenty to thirty gallons.[b]
7 Jesus said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water”; so they filled them to the brim.
8 Then he told them, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.”
They did so, 9 and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside 10 and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”
11 What Jesus did here in Cana of Galilee was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.
I was saving these “wedding mishap” stories for my autobiography, but why wait when the lesson for the day fits squarely under the same theme?
Like the very first wedding I was part of—assisting my supervisor on a hot day in July—when one of the groomsmen fainted in the heat. If you think repeatedly slapping someone who has just fainted only happens in the movies, think again. Apparently it happens in northern Ontario too.
Or the wedding in the Thousand Islands, with numerous guests arriving by ferry, with the usual delays that occur when a crowd all try to get the same ferry at the same time. Time passed, and the prematurely opened bar didn’t add to the solemnity of the occasion. There is a moment when the rule that says you must be sober to get married is at risk of being violated and the minister will finally say “we have to start the service—right now!”
Or the wedding at which the brother of a famous Canadian got married, where everyone was required to sign a confidentiality agreement pledging that we wouldn’t reveal the time, the place, the identity of the famous Canadian or any mishaps that may or may not have happened. And that’s all I can say about that (it wasn’t Justin Trudeau).
Or my favourite story—we’ll call it “mishap averted”—where the Roman Catholic bride and the Jewish groom set the goal of a banquet hall wedding with a rabbi and a priest officiating. Finding a traveling rabbi was easy, but the priest proved impossible. The bride and groom finally decided to hire an actor, dress him up like a priest and hope for the best. As the bride was describing this madcap scheme to her hairdresser, a light went on in her head and the hairdresser said “wait, I know a guy—he’s a United Church minister. He can pretend to be a priest!” I did my very best.
Of course, wedding mishaps are as old as weddings themselves. If you ever find yourself seated beside a minister—say at a wedding—and the conversation becomes thin, simply ask for a funny wedding story. Ministers collect them like kids collect hockey cards. Y’all know what a hockey card is?
How appropriate then that the meat of John’s Gospel begins with a wedding mishap story:
On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there, 2 and Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine was gone, Jesus’ mother said to him, “They have no more wine.”
4 “Woman, why do you involve me?” he said. “My hour has not yet come.”
This seeming protest in the face of the missing wine mishap is short-lived. Jesus follows his mother’s command and proceeds to turn water into wine. And this, of course, precipitates the moment when the sign is revealed and the master of the banquet says “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests are too drunk to notice; but you have saved the best till now.”
As we begin to look for meaning in the ‘miracle that follows the mishap’ we are caught between the suggestion that somehow the meaning is obvious and the equally convincing suggestion that the meaning is largely hidden—and it will take skilled interpreters to reveal it.
So the first suggestion is that perhaps it’s an allegory. Remember allegory? In an allegory, the literal meaning points to a more complex layer of meaning that may not be readily obvious. Think George Orwell's book “Animal Farm.” On one level it’s a delightful children's story about a group of animals who take over a farm and try to run the place on their own. But Animal Farm is also a detailed allegory representing the history of the first 30 years of the Soviet Union. It’s a book that any 10 year-old would enjoy, but a book that few 10 year-olds would read and say “this character, 'Old Major,' he must represent Vladimir Lenin.”
So some argue that the water represents the end of Jewish purification rituals, rendered null and void by the first sign of water into wine. Some interpreters highlight Mary in the story, and naming her the personification of the church. Or the wedding becomes the advent of a new era in Israel's history, with God as the bridegroom and the church as the bride. Or the water is baptism, the wine is communion, and the meaning-making goes on and on. Even the biblical literalists get in on it, arguing that any passage that portrays Jesus as a winemaker must always be symbolic and not literal. Apparently they make the same argument concerning debt forgiveness in Leviticus.
Back to the text, seems it’s a scholars' rite of passage to write a commentary on John's Gospel. That’s why they number in the hundreds. New Testament scholars will inevitably lend their voice to the choir of voices trying to find meaning in the signs presented throughout John. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the variety of interpretations and forget the very intuitive act of reading and trying to understand the story.
“Sometimes,” Freud said, “a cigar is just a cigar.” In other words, we sometimes get so caught up looking for symbolic meaning that we neglect to enjoy the story in front of us. Imagine Jesus goes to a party and people are having such a good time that the wine runs out. The Walmart is closed, and Mary—well aware of her son's unusual relationship with the physical world—asks him to fix the problem. As with any loving mother-son relationship, he gives her a bit of a hard time—but she ignores him (another feature of their relationship) and tells the servants to follow his directions, the thing she knows he will do. Water becomes wine and the party continues. As a clever end to the story the caterer stops by and says “why serve these drunks the good wine now, isn't it wasted on them?” It's easy to imagine wide grins on the faces of mother and son.
At some point we stopped enjoying scripture and became far too serious. Grim-faced interpreters don't laugh when Jonah gets eaten by a whale or wee Zacchaeus climbs a tree to get a better look. We forget to read joy into a joyous occasion such as the wedding at Cana and instead burden the text with all sorts of deep and vexing meaning. Well, no more.
Or at least, not as much. John is, after all, the “signs Gospel,” a Gospel that is filled with signs of the new age. And what is the new age? The new age is the beginning of a new relationship with God, a new way of being in God's world. Some will argue that the new age is still to come, that the Kingdom and its promises are yet to appear. But not John. For John the new age is here and we need only see the signs. Listen to part of his famous prologue:
He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him...but to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
There goes John again, always talking about truth. Well, he wasn’t alone, and he certainly wasn’t alone in the ancient world. Even as I struggle to spit out this next bit of wisdom, you’re quietly thinking to yourself, ‘wine and truth, wine and truth. Wait a minute, didn’t Pliny the Elder say “In wine, there is truth”? In fact, he did.
Pliny the Elder was nearly a contemporary of Jesus, and sadly died when Mt. Vesuvius had other plans for Pompeii. Anyway, Pliny said “In wine, there is truth,” meaning that by the time you get to the Boone’s Farm phase of the wedding feast, people are generally more candid. This isn’t always a good thing, but may have some bearing on the Wedding at Cana.
Just as an aside, it seems the ancient Persians had their own version of Pliny's insight, making the decision whether to go to war while drunk, then revisiting the decision in the harsh light of morning. The Persian empire had a good run, so I suppose it worked. Fast-forward a few centuries and we meet the Vikings, whose variation of the practice skipped the next morning after part and rushed headlong into battle. It explains a lot.
Ignoring the Vikings, the use of intoxication (which I in no way endorse) was considered one way to tackle fundamental problems of reality and existence. Wine was considered an aid, something that might facilitate the apprehension of truth. Therefore, “In wine, there is truth.”
Back to our wedding, the link between wine and truth may have had some bearing on the construction of the story, with the added element of a parable that Jesus enjoyed telling, and also seems to speak to Cana:
“No one,” Jesus said, “pours new wine into old wineskins. Otherwise, the new wine will burst the skins; the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, new wine must be poured into new wineskins.”
Taken together, the good wine is served first, then the inferior, and you never put new wine in old wineskins.
Jesus, then, is the good wine, and he is the new wine that is new to every generation. The good wine is the best source of truth, the new wine that will allow us to overcome the old ways of being, the ways of sin and sorrow. God has waited to serve the good wine until now, because now is the moment that reconciliation with God is possible.
If Jesus is the new wine, then it remains a story about a relationship, between you and me and everyone at the banquet, where we can see God in a new way, and become guests at this great occasion called new life. No longer shall we fear God, or live with the inferior wine of being distant from God, because God is as close as the bread we break and the wine we drink.
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, full of grace and truth.
And we have seen his glory, described in stories of joyfulness and humanity.
And we have seen his glory, revealed in moments of compassion and release.
And we have seen his glory, shown in moments of healing and new life.
Thanks be to God.
New Covenant—17 November 2024 (18 Nov 18)
Mark 13
As Jesus was leaving the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher! What massive stones! What magnificent buildings!”
2 “Do you see all these great buildings?” replied Jesus. “Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down.”
3 As Jesus was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John and Andrew asked him privately, 4 “Tell us, when will these things happen? And what will be the sign that they are all about to be fulfilled?”
5 Jesus said to them: “Watch out that no one deceives you. 6 Many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am he,’ and will deceive many. 7 When you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. 8 Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines. These are the beginning of birth pains.
Well, since politics has been top of mind for the last few days, we might as well embrace it. Time for a literary quiz, this one focused on autobiographies by politicians and political figures. I’ll give you the title, and you shout out the name of the author. Don’t be shy.
We’ll start with an easy one: “The Audacity of Hope” (by Barack Obama)
“A Full Life: Reflections at 90” (by Jimmy Carter)
“Madam Secretary: A Memoir” (by Madeleine Albright)
Okay, we have to keep this non-partisan, so how about “An American Life” (by Ronald Reagan)
Here’s one that could compete for a best title award: “Herding Cats: A Life in Politics” (by U.S. Senator Trent Lott)
This one’s also clever: “White House Years: Waging Peace” (by Dwight D. Eisenhower)
And finally, “Going Rogue” (by Sarah Palin)
I was going to ask if anyone read it, but I don’t want to put you on the spot if you did. Interestingly, her subtitle was “An American Life,” either the most pretentious thing you’ll hear today, or the book editor with a rich sense of humour. You decide.
While we’re on the topic, it might be instructive for today to look at the genre of ‘political memoir’ (and eventually) end up somewhere near the lesson in Mark. Patience, dear listener!
Looking over a few lists, these memoirs come from former Presidents and Prime Ministers, upper level politicos such as cabinet secretaries or ambassadors, and even underlings like speechwriters and “fixers.” They promise an accurate look at the recent past, some justification, or the ‘real story’ behind the headlines. More often than not, the memoir serves to correct public perception, or defend a set of ideas, or launch a program (or career) while pretending to look back.
The classic Canadian example is “Straight from the Heart” by future Prime Minister Jean Chretien. Published in 1986, the book had everything: fond memories, a sense of conviction, and (surprise!) an outline of ideas for the future. To be fair to Jean, by 1986 he had already accomplished far more than most politicians. But timing is everything, and the future was waiting for “The Little Guy…”
Stealing questions from painter Paul Gauguin, these books ask the question, “Where do I come from? What am I? Where am I going?” They will sometimes recount the inner struggle that comes with the exercise of power, but most often they tell stories of being witness to the use of power. The memoir is useful in offering early encounters with the truly powerful: to offer insight, to affiliate in some way, and to discern the most important moment in a story from the past.
This week St. Mark is writing, and to borrow a phrase, he’s “going rogue.”
He’s writing an important memoir, a recounting of his life with Jesus, and while he seldom enters the story himself, we know that he does all the things that memoir writers do. We know that he is trying to answer ‘where do I come from, who am I, and where am I going;’ not so much for himself but for Jesus. He’s attempting, in his years beyond the hurly-burly of direct discipleship, to write a memoir that will offer insight, affiliate in some way, and identify the most important moments in the story.
Mark is going rogue this week in the telling of what most scholars call his “little apocalypse.” Later in the chapter will come predictions of arrest and flogging, the sky will darken, everyone will betray the people around them and there will be general examples of mayhem. In chapter 14, Jesus is arrested. So chapter 13 is really a hinge moment, the moment before the true action begins, and Mark is saying ‘get ready.’ But more on that in a moment.
One of the most exciting moments of Carmen’s young life was that time the Dead Sea Scrolls came to Toronto. There were a few fragments, along with lots of interesting antiquities, and more than a little explanation. Apropos to today’s reading, we also saw bits of the destroyed Temple. I have to say I went prepared to be underwhelmed, having seen the great Isaiah scroll in its special home in Jerusalem. But seeing parts of the destroyed Temple, including carvings from the entranceway that Jesus likely walked through, was a very powerful moment. I’m a bit shocked they lent this stuff out at all.
So, ‘not one stone was left here upon another; all were thrown down,’ and some were on tour! Incredible really, and incredible that Mark highlights Jesus’ prediction at the very moment the story turns, and the destruction of Jesus’ body is set to begin.
What I think we are seeing here is ‘conflation,’ the joining of two stories of equal import in the life of Mark. I think it would be fair to say that someone writing a memoir might look back and confirm that the death of Jesus, and the destruction of God’s dwelling place on earth, were two of the most dramatic things they witnessed. Assuming, as we do, that Mark wrote around the time of the Roman siege in the year 70, we can imagine the powerful way these two events might mingle in the imagination.
Mark would even be inclined to remember, of all the things Jesus said on earth, the connection between the two. So he recounts Jesus' words and lets them hang there, trusting us to make the connection.
So Mark 13 recounts the destruction of the temple (in his way) and creates a parallel to the world-ending drama of the death of Jesus. The events of 70 CE could accurately be called the 9-11 of the early church period, where the earliest followers of Jesus (still mostly Jews) imagined that their world was coming to an end. As Mark tries to answer the last of our three memoir questions (‘and where am I going’) we can trust that he found the answer in the words of Jesus: do not be led astray and try to stay calm.
I know I’m jumping back and forth in time, but it’s hard not to look for contemporary parallels. The whole “wars and rumours of wars” thing has been a popular source for biblical prophecy since the church began, and in our age seems to have new vigour. A major land war in Europe, fighting in the Middle East, tension in the South China Sea: all of these might have you believe that the Mark’s “little apocalypse” stuff is happening in our day—that we need only see the signs. I’ll let you fill in the remaining examples.
So back to Jesus, always back to Jesus. Jesus said “do not be led astray and try to stay calm.” Read the signs, try to interpret the signs, but stay calm. When everything feels world-ending, how can we sift through the signs and find some hope? We’re two weeks from the season of Advent, the season of hope, so maybe that’s a sign too, maybe it’s too soon for hope and we just need to dwell here for a while.
There are times (I have learned) when it’s best to ask the Germans, those towering 20th century theologians who emerged as young men from the trenches in Belgium and France to spend careers trying to put their experience in perspective. Before the Great War, there was an abundance of optimism, and the church believed that earnest men and women would help God usher in the Kingdom and all would be right in the world. That hope appeared to die in places with names like the Somme, Vimy Ridge, and Belleau Wood.
So what would Jurgan Moltmann have us do? How would he have us approach “the mysteries of the end-time?” First, he said “God’s future and the righteousness of his kingdom...are concealed and cannot be known under the conditions of the present age.” (Crucified, p. 167)
In other words, we have to be satisfied with signs. God will only be fully revealed “at the end of the old age and at the beginning for the new”—and until then we wait. We can read the signs, and we can wonder at the promise of the age to come, but we cannot know its full measure.
So we are left to locate our hope in the signs we have. And what are they? Well, we look around us and we find hope in each other. We are the hope of the Risen One, alive as his body, his hands and feet in the world as we tend to each other and to those beyond these walls. Next, we see hope in the coming Advent of our Lord, the days of waiting that reveal God’s willingness to enter the world in a new way. And, of course, there is the cornerstone of Christian hope—the death and resurrection of Jesus—commemorated every Sunday in this place.
But this isn’t just theology or philosophy, nerds with books like me who read and reread looking for insight. It’s a living question for Mark and his friends, waiting for the new age that Jesus said would come to Mark’s generation of believers. Meanwhile, many had passed, some peacefully in their beds, and some caught up in the events of the day. What of them, the loved ones long past? What sign of them?
Here is Moltmann’s answer:
For the Easter hope shines not only forwards into the unknown newness of the history which it opens up, but also backwards over the graveyards of history. (Crucified, p. 163)
We are at the intersection of a faithful past and a hopeful future, and the answer becomes “now is the time.” Now is the time to show others the compassion of God in Jesus, now is the time to express God’s hope for the living and the dead, now is the time to remind everyone that this reality is not the sum of all that is, and now is the time to point to our future hope, “thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.” Now is the time we see glimpses, but soon we will see God. Amen.
