Jesus Christ

C. S. Lewis “An Easter Hymn”

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From a June 10, 1958 letter to Francis Turner (at which time Turner was President of Magdalene College, Cambridge), in which Lewis wrote: “A challenge is a challenge, so here comes my (Easter) hymn. It aims at little more than to be mouth-filling. If the numbers are unpleasing, the sentiments, since they are scriptural, must surely be just.”

Lords coëval with creation,
Seraph, Cherub, Throne and Power,
Princedom, Virtue, Domination,
Hail the long-awaited hour!
Bruised in head, with broken pinion,
Trembling for his old dominion,
See the ancient dragon cower!
    For the Prince of Heaven has risen,
    Victor, from his shattered prison.

Loudly roaring from the regions
Where no sunbeam e’er was shed,
Rise and dance, ye ransomed legions
Of the cold and countless dead!
Gates of adamant are broken,
Words of conquering power are spoken
Through the God who died and bled:
    Hell lies vacant, spoiled and cheated
    By the Lord of life defeated

Bear, behemoth, bustard, camel,
Warthog, wombat, kangaroo,
Insect, reptile, fish and mammal,
Tree, flower, grass, and lichen too,
Rise and romp and ramp, awakening,
For the age-old curse is breaking.
All things shall be made anew;
    Nature’s rich rejuvenation
    Follows on Man’s liberation.

Eve’s and Adam’s son and daughter,
Sinful, weary, twisted, mired,
Pale with terror, thinned with slaughter,
Robbed of all your hearts desired,
Look! Rejoice! One born of woman,
Flesh and blood and bones all human,
One who wept and could be tired,
    Risen from the vilest death, has given
    All who will the hope of Heaven.//

Lewisians will hear echoes of Narnia (and Malacandra and Perelandra) in this poem — especially in stanza 3 when all manner of animal and nature romp with joy at the onset of New Creation, and in stanza 4 when Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve are called to look and rejoice because one who wept and could be tired has risen and given the hope of Heaven to all who will receive it.

Lewis wrote other things about Easter, but this little poem, tucked away in a non-Eastertime letter, is not well known. Read it today and with all other Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve who feel weary, twisted, mired, pale with terror, thinned with slaughter, and robbed of all your hearts desired, Look! and Rejoice! For Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Palm Sunday (Holy Week Day 1)

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Today – Palm Sunday – begins what we today call Holy Week or Passion Week. It marks the days leading up to Jesus’ death and resurrection, allowing space and time to listen, focus, and remember what happened on these days almost 2000 years ago.

Just before this day, Jesus had been in Jericho. He’d met and spent time with Zacchaeus – a Jewish tax collector who worked for the Roman occupying government, doing a job which his family, neighbors, and fellow Jews despised and looked down on. And yet Jesus spent time with Zacchaeus and befriended him, giving a glimpse of how very upside-down the kingdom of God truly is. 

Shortly after that, Jesus met a blind man on the road, and in usual fashion, he stopped, listened, and healed him, giving physical sight to a specific man, giving a glimpse of what was to come — clear spiritual sight for any and all who ask.

From Jericho, Jesus headed to Jerusalem, the capital city, where faithful and devout religious people traveled regularly for feasts and other temple celebrations.

Like so many others, Jesus was going to Jerusalem for the coming Passover. But he was mostly going there for another reason: to not just celebrate the Passover but to be the Passover lamb and to die the Passover lamb’s death.

If you’ve ever been in church on Palm Sunday, you’ve likely experienced the joy and energy of young children walking the aisles, a chaotic mass of little bodies, smiling at parents, poking younger siblings, waving their palm branches wildly (like the children they are) or methodically (like the adults they may grow into), shouting at the top of their tiny young lungs, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

They’re re-enacting what the people did when Jesus himself rode into Jerusalem. Riding on a donkey. Think about that for a moment: Jesus – the Creator of all, the King of all, the Savior of all, the long-awaited Messiah, God himself — riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The Jewish people had long been living under the oppression of different occupying rulers, currently the Romans, and for hundreds of years, they’d been waiting for God to send them a conquering Messiah, someone who would overthrow their oppressors and set things right with a strong military reign. 

But Jesus came to set things right in a different way, at a deeper level: in our very souls.

And for that monumental task, he arrived on a donkey.

We might think of a donkey as nothing more than a work animal. In the ancient world, thought, donkeys were associated with kings, specifically with peaceful kings. A warrior king arrived on a horse, a peaceful king on a donkey. Already Jesus was making a statement about how his Kingdom worked. 

Long before Jesus was born, the prophet Zechariah had spoken about this very thing when he said, “Rejoice, O people of Zion! Shout in trumph, O people of Jerusalem! Look, your king is coming to you. He is righteous and victorious, yet he is humble, riding on a donkey — riding on a donkey’s colt.” (Zech 9:9) Over the years, people focused and clung to the first part of those words about victory and justice. The humility part, the donkey part, somehow got lost in the days and years and generations of waiting.

Today when we hear Hosanna, most people either have no idea what it means, or they think it means, “Praise him!” or “Honor him!” or “Worship him.” But Hosanna simply means either “God saves” — a statement of fact, or “God, save us” — a plea for rescue.

Jesus does in fact save. At that moment, people were hoping and expecting him to save them and their city in a very specific way. But the way he eventually saved was actually more amazing than anything they imagined, for he came to save everything — all of broken humanity, all of cursed creation.

Jesus saves. Hosanna. When he rode a donkey into Jerusalem that day, he rode into a crowd of branches and praise. But mostly what he rode to was betrayal, rejection, and death.

For you. For me. For the whole world. For all of creation.

Maundy Thursday thoughts

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(This blog post was originally published on April 17, 2014.)

During this Holy Week, I’ve thought quite a lot about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. I’ve worked my way through some tricky Greek words, wrestled with the exasperating response of Peter (who can always be counted on for that kind of thing), and contemplated the gravity of the coming days.

But mostly, I’ve just thought about Jesus – the son of God, the Almighty incarnate- kneeling down in willing service to wash 24 dusty, dirty, calloused, cracked, leathery, worn, and smelly feet.

It was an insignificant and lowly job, that foot-washing thing, worthy of nobody beyond the lowest servant. It’s a task that doesn’t get noticed, an action that doesn’t get lauded, which is perhaps why the three earliest gospel writers don’t even record it: because it wasn’t something people paid attention to; because its significance was completely lost on those who were right there to see it and experience it.

That’s the thing about foot-washing. When done in the right spirit, for the right reasons, people aren’t likely to take notice. That’s because most foot-washing jobs are entirely inglorious. Entirely. They are not the stuff of headline news or award ceremonies or viral retweets.

They are the dusty, dirty, calloused, cracked, leathery, worn, and smelly jobs. The jobs that absolutely no one wants to do. Ever. Not even a tiny little bit.

Except Jesus – who consistently throws a wrench in the way humanity would choose to live were it left to its own devices.

Like many others in a ministry community, I have washed another person’s feet – one set, anyway, after a month of really hard work during which some of us didn’t perhaps love each other quite as well as we should have all the time, so, you know, we washed feet to make things right and to publicly express unity and grace, forgiveness and humility, which, though beautiful in its own way, isn’t really the point of that foot-washing thing.

What Jesus did when he washed those 24 feet – two of whom belonged to a traitorous friend – certainly embodied unity and grace, forgiveness and humility. But more importantly, it displayed an attitude that says:

  • I will do the task that no one else will do.
  • I will do the task that most others consider to be beneath them.
  • I will do the task that promises no rewards or accolades or notice.
  • I will do the task that goes unnoticed and unappreciated.
  • I will do the task that others overlook.
  • I will do the task that everyone else takes for granted.
  • I will do the task that leads to nothing bigger and better and grander.
  • I will do the task that is unpleasant and messy and sometimes even disgusting.
  • And I will do it quietly, discreetly, and humbly, to the best of my ability, with a gracious spirit.

As moving and beautiful and sincere as our actual foot-washing ceremonies may be – whether in the context of summer camp, large ministry communities, or intimate small groups – washing feet isn’t Jesus’ real challenge for us. Rather, it is to have a foot-washing attitude. In every situation. All the time.

We are all incapable of this on our own. Entirely. A foot-washing attitude cannot grow except in a soul overflowing with the Spirit’s love and grace and strength. A foot-washing attitude cannot thrive except in a life that is totally surrendered to the Lord’s sovereignty. Even more elemental, a foot-washing attitude cannot even be except in those who know their true identity in Christ, know their purpose, and have an eternal perspective – just as Jesus did.

Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything, and that he had come from God, and would return to God. SO – he got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet.

During this Holy Week, when the cross proclaims his immeasurable love and the empty tomb proclaims his infinite power, that foot-washing thing that Jesus did proclaims his wholly servant-minded and humble attitude. We would do well to remember it and do likewise.

The First Night of Christmas (signs of humble with-ness)

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‘Tis the first night of Christmas. The heavens proclaim:

  • Emmanuel.
  • God with us.
  • Deity made flesh.
  • Lord sent to earth.
  • Christ the Savior is born.

This story of Jesus’ birth (and all it portends) is foolish in all worldly ways. Collective humanity is far more wont to desire:

  • Myself.
  • Us as God.
  • Flesh made divine.
  • Earth bereft of Lordship.
  • Death of saving doctrines.

This list of worldly desires (and all it portends) is a fools’ game, leading to nothing but empty souls full of self.

Surely the arrival of humanity’s Savior indicates this, at the very least: humanity is in desperate need of saving.

Surely the Savior of humanity deserves this at his arrival, at the very least: a crown, a robe, a throne. These are signs worthy of God made flesh, Christ the Savior, Lord of all, Creator of heaven and earth.

As so often happens in the Real Story, things do not progress as one might expect, for the actual signs of Christ’s arrival are shockingly unspectacular and superlatively unpowerful.

And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.

No crown. No robe. No throne. Not a single thing that speaks of royalty or divinity in even the smallest degree.

Sign One: “You will find.”

The finding itself is a sign, for without a specific roadmap or address, how is one to find the Savior of the world, especially a Savior who on the first night of his life was hidden among the vast masses of lowly ordinary folk? Simply by looking. “Let us go and see this thing which the Lord has told us about.” It really is that simple.

Sign Two: “A baby, wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.”

A baby. A baby.

This is the sign of Christ’s arrival? This is the proclaimed Savior and Lord of all? This is God among us?

“Sign” (sēmeion – σημειον) means this:

a mark, a token, by which a person or a thing is distinguished from others and is known; transcending the common course of nature.

The grown Jesus was often asked for miraculous signs that would prove his identity, that would distinguish him from others, that would transcend the common course of nature. As a general rule, he refused such requests. He knew that signs, spectacular as they may be, can be misused and finicky things.

Still, the grown Jesus, at the most inopportune and unexpected times, displayed sign after sign after sign – most often to the benefit of the vast lowly masses among whom he was born rather than for the morbid curiosity of those who would deny and disown him.

But the newborn Jesus did not display any signs that would qualify as signs, per se. There was no crown. There was no robe. There was no throne. There was no blinking neon sign splattering the peaceful night with its urgent message: MESSIAH ON TAP! OPEN!

The signs, rather than distinguishing Jesus from others, identified him with others. He arrived as a helpless babe, just as we all do.

The signs, rather than proclaiming Jesus as one who transcends the common course of nature, identified him as one who descends to the common course of nature. Humanity. Suffering. Rejection. Death.

If you expect God to give you a sign that Christ IS, perhaps you must do as the shepherds did:

Go and look for this thing that has happened, this Person who has arrived.

Look in the least likely of places, where worldly power is absent and heavenly humility reigns.

The shepherds hurried to the village and found it … the baby, lying in the manger. After seeing him, they told everyone what had happened and what the angel had said about the baby. Then they went back to work, praising and glorifying God.