We are invited to stand in the shadow of the cross

Click above to watch a recording of Good Friday's Sermon

Good Friday

Psalm 22

John 18:1--19:42

(The context of this sermon was 100% written

in Canada by a human)

What must the women have been thinking, standing at the foot of the cross on that first Good Friday? Standing there on that hill in Golgotha in the shadow of a nightmare. Jesus – a man they loved, an innocent man, a great and kind man – dying on the cross above them. What must they have felt, wincing as each nail was hammered into his feet and his hands?

Surely, inflaming their shock and grief, they must have felt anger burning in their souls, the anger of those who have no power to stop an injustice they see more clearly than anyone.

What of the disciples, in their place of hiding, knowing what was happening on the hill? Their friend, their teacher, the one who had led them from their ordinary lives, was even then being murdered.

What did they feel? Certainly sorrow. Regret, I imagine, that they had not stood up and done more to save him. Hate, for those carrying out this crime. Helplessness that they could not change it.

And anger, surely, the helpless anger, of those who, having failed to act, must now watch a great friend die, and know they cannot stop it.

And what of the mob, so ravenous to see Jesus on the cross? So quickly switched from cheering to jeering. What would they have been feeling? Perhaps a doubt, creeping in. Perhaps a conscience, whispering too softly to be heard. Most certainly anger, the kind that spews forth when we feel threatened, when we are afraid, when we have been fooled by misinformation, when we are offered an innocent man and told he is not innocent at all, and we believe it because we want to, because this anger – this anger that says “I didn’t get what I deserved” feels so much better than shame.

Let us consider these three angers: helplessness, powerlessness, misguidedness. Have we not felt them all? The anger of the women on the hill when they see what needs to be fixed and yet have no power to fix it; the anger that makes us want to scream -- at life, at God, at anyone -- to stop what cannot be stopped. Have we not felt this as well? The anger of the disciples that cries out in the pain of regret, with rage at what cannot be changed. This anger says, “I am sorry. I did not know.” This anger turns backward upon us, because, like the disciples, we always did know. And who among us can claim never to have been swept up in a mob, raging selfishly for someone else to suffer for a problem we caused or did not prevent or are not prepared to pay the cost of to fight today? This anger says: “You need to pay for doing this to me.” This anger avoids responsibility. This anger drowns out the shame.

These angers exist in our past, our present, and our future. They visit us when we are sitting while a loved one wastes away from a terrible disease that cannot be cured. While watching a family member walk out of our lives who we cannot bring back. History has been a long and weary witness to anger – those unable to save their family being marched off to the ovens in the Holocaust; the victims of racism who have been enslaved by violence and bigotry; the mob that flings its rage out in selfishness and cruelty and turns it back on the harm it causes.

What could Good Friday possibly teach us about what to do with our helpless, or shameful, or selfish anger? Good Friday didn’t work out. Pontius Pilate didn’t find some hidden decency and courage inside himself and set Jesus free. The mob didn’t recognize their own hate, and stop; no, they just kept yelling, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” No sympathetic Roman guard spirited Jesus to safety. No miracle from heaven lifted him off the cross. None of that happened. Jesus died an ugly, painful death. He died nailed to a cross so that he could not even be comforted with a kind touch. On that cross, in the midst of his own doubt and helpless anger, he asked for our forgiveness, at the very time we should have been asking for his. What should we do with that? Where should we take the helpless anger?

Good Friday is the darkest day of our faith: it takes us into the valley of death and makes us complicit in what happens there. It forces us to look at the cruelty and weakness of humanity and see ourselves in that same mob. It teaches us life’s hardest lesson: sometimes, here on earth, good people fall, and nobody picks them up. So we stand in the shadow of the cross and we feel that powerless, guilt-ridden, vengeful anger, and think “What is the point of anything?”

And yet, we know the answer. For Jesus taught us. He taught us when he defended the vulnerable, when he chastised the Pharisees, when he trashed the temple. He taught us that we can be angry, but only for the right reasons, only for other people, only if we use that anger to change the world, only if we wrap it in compassion and tolerance and mercy, and temper it with mindful prayer.

Anger, as Jesus taught, is not useful when it distorts the truth and conceals solutions for its own purposes. When we feel that fierce cry within us that something is wrong, we can bring it to God, who can bear all things. And our anger, once helpless and paralyzing, can become something righteous, and motivating.

And we will see, as the women at the cross will see, that if we could not save the ones we loved, we can still save the gospel in their memory. We will see, as the disciples see, that we can create something honorable from guilt.

We have our very own example today, standing guard in this time of betrayal and friendship broken by our closest ally. We feel helpless to change a government we didn’t elect and can’t control. We feel guilty, perhaps, that we did not think about protecting the values and sovereignty and economy of our own country long before it was under threat. We feel rage, the kind that wants to boo the anthem of the opposing team, even at a kid’s hockey game.

How will we transform that anger into something better?

First, we must own and carry the weight of it. This is what today is meant for. We are invited to stand in the shadow of the cross. To feel all that pain. To own all that anger. To ponder it in our hearts. And to lay it before the cross, to ask God to help us carry it, awaiting the certain answer to guide us forward. Amen.

Why is this night different?

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Maundy Thursday

John 13

(The context of this sermon was 100% written

in Canada by a human)

In Jewish culture, a child asks four questions on the Feast of the Passover. These questions provide the impetus for answering the bigger question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Jewish people throughout the world retell the story of the Exodus and celebrate the escape of their ancestors from slavery in Egypt. It is a time when they “tell the story to their children, and their children, and their children’s children, so that everyone will know” how God acted in human history to bring freedom to their oppressed forebears.

They tell of the gruesome, bloody death that swept over Egypt. The people of God ran for their lives under the fire and cloud of God’s own protection, with Egyptian soldiers hot on their heels. They remember the waters that miraculously parted to ensure people’s safe passage out of Egypt, and then reconnected to stop their pursuers. The parting of the Red Sea is a story we have all grown up with, a powerful tale of God’s act of intervention.

Now we move ahead, much farther in our faith stories. The baby born in the stable has become a man, the teacher has shared his lesson, the healer has delivered compassion, the rabbi has inspired faith, the devil has been outwitted, and now the journey has come here, to the open gates of Jerusalem and inside.

And again, we ask the same question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

On this night, we find the disciples and Jesus alone in a room, eating what will be their last supper together. And we will know there is a betrayer in the room. We will see Jesus bless the food and the wine and enjoy the company of his friends. And we will watch him kneel before them and wash their feet, an act of the ever-loving servant leader as the sun sets and night comes on.

On this night we talk about Jesus’s commandment to love, as we consider the models that he left us. We remember how he took old, familiar things and gave them new meanings for the first time. Foot-washing had simply been a kindness to barefooted travelers after walking for hours on hot sand.

But on this particular Passover night, it became a symbol of love expressed in kindness and in service to others. Recalling that the Altar represents Christ’s body, we strip it bare just as he was stripped of his clothing before he was crucified. Remembering his death on the Cross, we wash the Altar as a dead body being prepared for burial.

But unlike what happened in the Garden of Gethsemane, we do not leave him to pray alone on this night. We surround him with beauty and keep him company as we do what he did, praying for the strength to do what God asks of us as we live on, in a cruel, destructive, and pain-filled world.

“Why is this night different from all other nights?”

For generations people had seen bread and wine raised in a Sabbath blessing to a great and faithful God. But on this night, the same bread and wine became the Body and Blood of One whose death gives life. This ritual offering becomes a new act of sacrifice and redemption—the deepest expression of giving.

And the amazing thing about this gift is that it gives life without destroying life. There is no wage to be paid; there are no slaughtered bodies, no drowned souls. We gather to give thanks for the gift of a God who forgives us, restores us, and calls us to join in the creative act of “making all things new.”

And so it is that, on this night, which is so different from all other nights, we are called not only to be witnesses, not only to remember, but also to carry the touching, healing, and transforming message out into the world that God loved enough to do what had to be done.

Tonight Jesus is calling us to continue the great legacy, to keep it alive by finding new ways to wash feet and nourish bodies and give comfort to people who are in pain. Jesus is what keeps us moving forward with sponsorship and resettlement of refugees, with support for one another as Canadians in this time of trial, and by collecting for the foodbank, and all of the things we do in this place to try to make a difference in the world -to try to bring new life to it. Renewed by the presence of Jesus with us and within us, we take seriously the divine call to bring Good News, to help the hungry, the homeless, the forgotten and the lost.

“What makes this night different from all other nights?” the child asks. And the answer is: everything and, at the same time, absolutely nothing. The story is woven into our faith, but without action it is only a story. We may tell the tale of Jesus’s striving for peace and justice, but it is only words, unless we keep up the striving.

The lesson of this evening is that no matter what the world’s response may be, the wisdom of the gospel survives, the presence of Jesus persists. Let us trust this night, just as the people walking into the parted Red Sea trusted in God. Let us find courage this night, just as the disciples knew the prophecy was coming true. Let us give thanks for a Jesus who would, on this night, kneel before us and show us, for yet another time, how to serve with compassion in the world. Let us always remember the story of this night, for it is different from the days that preceeded it. But Jesus was who he always was, the teacher and healer and rabbi, caring for his flock as one day ended, and the most fateful day of his life on earth was about to begin. Amen.

April 13, Amidst the crowds, let the Gospel guide you.

There is no recording of the sermon this week.

April 13, 2025

Sunday of the Passion

Palm Sunday

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Psalm 31:9-16

Philippians 2:5-11

Luke 23:1-21

(The context of this sermon was 100% written in Canada by a human)

So now we near the end: it has come upon us almost without warning. For the last five weeks, we have heard hardly a word of dissent: Jesus has been conducting his ministry on the road to Jerusalem, and while he has been pushing all sorts of boundaries, any sign of brewing trouble has been merely whispers on the fringes.

But now on Palm Sunday, we hear the celebration and cheering on the streets as Jesus and the disciples enter the gates of Jerusalem. We can see the palms thrown on the ground before this healer and teacher on a donkey. And we know, with the benefit of hindsight, that within that jubilant crowd, a meanness of spirit is taking root and growing like a vine, turning hearts one by one. The misinformation is spreading, in whispers. Who does this man thinks he is? someone asks his neighbour. “Are we sure he’s the great man everyone says?” the neighbour wonders to her husband. “They say he’s a charlatan trying to trick us,” the husband tells her brother. And so on, and so on, until the cheers become jeers, and the welcome becomes poisonous.

Jesus, who has tried only to spread good, who has been a voice of God on earth, is thus betrayed by an angry mob, sacrificed by an indifferent leader, a self-serving religious leadership, and crucified. His last words will not be to his followers, preaching in a public square, but to the thieves hanging with him. How did we end up here?

Certainly, one reason why his death breaks us, is that it is hard to have faith in humanity when we reject the very kind of leader that we say we most desire. Long before the word had all its negative connotations, Jesus was the consummate politician. He was a master orator, able to sway a crowd with his words, to inspire faith and belief. He asked people to dream, and he gave them a reason to do so. He held himself to the same high standard that he set for his followers. And he spoke for what was right, because it was right, and not for his own political gain. And yet in the end, humanity rejected him.

We say we want leaders who tell us the truth, who warn us that change will be hard, who admit the fight may be long. We claim to admire leaders who tell us how the world really is instead of spinning a story to make us feel better. Maybe we don’t really seek a leader who says, “I will sacrifice on your behalf, but in return I call on you to practice justice and kindness, even when it is the hardest moment of all to do so.” How often has humanity been comforted by a leader who feeds us simple answers or manufactures a good enemy, even with one hand in our wallets, while crushing the values we claim to hold dear?

Jesus could have been an entirely different kind of leader. Not the kind we see in the world these days -- the kind that takes advantage and looks after themselves first. He had the holy pedigree. He had the star power. He had the talent. Perhaps we are even frustrated that he didn’t capitalize better on that strength, or fight back.

And yet to do anything differently would have been to betray the very lessons he was teaching: he knew the only way his story could end. Jesus was a person of substance. A policy guy. He looked at the root causes of problems, rather than at the quick fixes. That’s the harder sell – and certainly to the powers that be, more threatening.

Think on it: Jesus promised people freedom and hope, but nothing for himself, and he was hung on a cross.

Here we are, as Canadians, at a time when we must also consider the questions of leadership, in the most important election in a generation. Yet we have clarity, thanks to Jesus. We have the values of the gospel and the example of his leadership to ask ourselves: which candidate is speaking for the good in the world that matters most to me?

And once we make that choice, where do we fit? We are told what to do – and how to shape our response in the first lesson. I want to draw your attention to three parts in particular from which we can take some solace out of our difficult gospel.

First, we are told: The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word. So we are told – from the beginning – not to be silent.

Secondly, we are offered this passage: The lord has opened my ear; and therefore I was not rebellious, I did not turn backward. So we are told to listen. And we are told that in listening, we will learn not to rebel against the gospel and God, but how to go forward whatever the cost. These, we know, are political skills – the ability to speak when the time calls for it, and to listen when we need to. We are to look for the way, following the model of Jesus, to bring the gospel to people who need to hear it the most. And to find those opportunities, we have to listen.

Lastly, we are reminded of our secret weapon: The Lord helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; I have set my face like flint. Whenever we get turned backwards, we have the gospel to remind us of the right direction, and to brace our backs against difficulty.

Ultimately, the story of Jesus’s last day is about too many people failing to speak when they should have, or to listen. Too many people swept up in a mob that was played like a fiddle by the Pharisees, so desperate to bring Jesus down. Too many people who listened to whispers. Too many people who didn’t sit down and reflect on the full picture: what evidence do I have that Jesus says who he is and means what he says? What evidence that the sources of the misinformation might have an agenda? Have I taken my values and looked at the situation with those virtues in mind?

It is a powerful lesson in history, as we have seen time and again, when mobs have been moved like a swarm of bees into doing harm. And yet we also know it takes only a couple of people to turn the mob back. They just have to be brave enough to risk it. On this day, despite the sheer cruelty of the sentence, there was no one brave enough. And as the jubilant parade goes silent, we have to live with that.

How many in that crowd on that grim day, realized, when they were alone with their thoughts, what their anger and betrayal had done. I imagine many of them said: “I didn’t know this would happen! I wasn’t thinking!” How many times do we claim the same, even though there can be no doubt of the path we were on? How many easy choices do we make only to claim that the results were not our fault?

We stop the story this morning with an angry mob out of control, and the desires played out, and we are horrified. And we are meant to hear the warning of that lesson so that we avoid it in our own lives, so that we recognize when it is happening in our own society.

In those moments, God gives us a few rules: Speak only with a teacher’s tongue, listen with an open ear, and let the gospel guide you.

Amen.