Good Friday in the Busy Marketplace



Two years ago, I got to walk the Via Dolorosa, a walking path through Jerusalem that marks the same path Jesus took while carrying the cross on the way to his crucifixion. What I remember most about that path is the sheer ordinariness of it. If you ever get to walk that path, you’ll see that it goes right through marketplace after marketplace – it’s a road lined by street vendors, shoppers, food tents, and relaxed water cooler talk. And it’s probably been that way for two thousand years.

I think this changes how I think about Good Friday. It’s a little different than that time-tested hymn: “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame.” The reality is that the cross of Jesus was not on a hill far away; it was propped up along a shopping route in downtown Jerusalem. People would have walked right on by, going about their business, talking about the kids. Public crucifixion would have been shockingly common to them. Sure, Jesus had followers that gathered around and perhaps interrupted the typical foot traffic. But by and large, the crucifixion of Jesus took place in the midst of a busy crowd of shoppers that probably kept walking. It just seems to diminish the weight of Good Friday – people carrying on as if it’s not a big deal.


This is why I’m so amazed that the message of the Gospel spread as quickly as it did. How do you convince the world that a roadside attraction that barely caught the attention of the crowd was in fact the turning point of all history?

It makes me think about all of the small, dying churches that will be gathering this week. There’s 20, maybe 30 people huddled in a sanctuary built before air conditioning was en vogue, and when the unit kicks on, it clanks in a way that sounds just like the whole place looks – old, worn out, but for a past era, unappealing to younger folks. In these gatherings, there will be a meager offering, a message, communion with stale crackers and grape juice, and then a blessing. Those 20 or 30 will go back out into a world that barely notices that old building, and people will carry on with their mundane business as they drive by the old church.

That’s got to be what it felt like to be  in Jerusalem two thousand years ago as a follower of Jesus. People walking by while you wept – not even stopping to laugh at you…just walking by. Not noticing. Too interested in picking up the bread for dinner to give the roadside attraction a second look. And for those who still cling to a religion that is quickly losing ground in America – and this for many (maybe even good?) reasons – perhaps that is what it feels like today. An overlooked gathering in a roadside attraction amidst a crowd of people too busy to notice. Back then for Jesus’ followers and today for Jesus’ followers, it all feels like foolishness.

And it is foolishness. “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God,” St. Paul said in his first letter to the Corinthians. How do you market that message – and why in God’s name should anyone stop to look at it seriously?

I don’t know what to do with Good Friday ever since I walked the Via Dolorosa. I don’t know what to do with the fact that a whole crowd didn’t really notice and just kept on walking. Deep down, I want everyone to know how important that roadside attraction is – that it’s worth slowing down in the marketplace, postponing dinner, waiting a few minutes to catch up with neighbors, just taking a moment to look.

Because I think if we all paused for a moment, the crowd of 20 or 30 huddled in that roadside attraction – that old, unravelling church – might have something quasi-insane to say. They would testify that they have encountered the one hung up like a billboard on a busy road. And even though everyone keeps driving by, they would say that his death that went unnoticed by so many busy folks was, in fact, the turning point of all history. It’s just foolishness. It’s all just foolishness.

And maybe that’s why we should pause to take a look.

Late to the Funeral

Jesus wept

When she had said this, Martha went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

John 11:28-37

Jesus was late to the funeral. The text makes it clear – Mary and Martha had been mourning for four days. The Jewish people in their community came to comfort them. The funeral home director had been called, the body taken to the tomb, and the family had come in, a strange mix of uncles you never see and second cousins you wish you had never seen. And despite this eclectic mix of people who had all come, we may find it shocking… that Jesus was late to the funeral.

What might be more shocking, though, isn’t that Jesus was late because he overslept. Nor was he late because he had an important miracle to perform or a demon to exorcise. No, Jesus was late to the funeral not for some excuse such as this, but because the text tells us it was not his intention to show up on time. Somehow, Jesus had convinced himself that this tragedy of Lazarus would not result in death but would result in the glory of God. The scene really is quite startling: Jesus had gone across the Jordan when he got word that his friend was ill. The message came from his friends, Mary and Martha, and they pleaded him: “Lord, our brother whom you love is ill. Come quickly.” But the remarkably human Jesus in this episode heard the news and took it rather dispassionately. He stayed right where he was, unbothered, perhaps tempted to remain distant from death, not willing to take the risk to confront it directly.

You see, up until this point in the Gospel of John, Jesus had not yet tasted the bitter reality of death up close. He healed the sick and gave sight to the blind. In fact, Jesus even healed a Galilean official’s son from death earlier in the book – but he did it without even seeing the boy. He remained far away while the boy died alone in a distant, dusty room. Until now, Jesus hasn’t had to smell death, see death, hear death, touch death, or taste death. And so when he gets that message, he figures, “Maybe it’s not yet worth it yet. I’ll deal with it when the time comes.” And so Jesus, aloof from the bitter power of death, nonchalantly showed up late to the funeral.

I think you and I know what it feels like for Jesus to show up late to the funeral. You and I have been invited to every kind of funeral imaginable in this world. Last week, 10 people were killed in a Texas high school, and 100+ were killed when a plane went down in Cuba. In this country, we fight over rights to yield weapons that gun down children in schools and on streets. Thousands die every year from insufficient access to healthcare, and in our own homes we grieve the loss of loved ones gone far too soon. And at every one of these funerals, whether metaphorical or literal, we sit in the visitation room, staring at the front door wondering to ourselves – “Why is Jesus late to this funeral? Why is Jesus not here?”

Mary and Martha knew this sentiment deeply. When Jesus first shows up to town, Martha comes out to meet him and says plain and simple, “Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Lord, if you had just shown up. If you had taken the reality of human death seriously instead of remaining aloof from its bitter taste, Lazarus would not have died. If you had just heard our call, there wouldn’t be a funeral in the first place. Instead, we’re sitting here at the funeral home, and to make it worse, now you show up late.

But the temptation doesn’t just affect Jesus. Some of us have showed up late to the funeral. I know I have. Day by day I am confronted by the reality of human death and suffering in this world. I’m given information on TV and on my phone that people in this world need my help. People in my own community need an ally to walk with them, to join with them through my time and efforts. The Church, too, knows the calling to respond to the mass of human suffering happening right outside our front doors. But so often, when faced with the same temptation Jesus faced here, we remain aloof from the bitter taste of death, and instead of taking a risk to enter the fray – we try to explain it away, saying that it will all be worked for God’s glory so that we feel better about our decision to remain on the other side of the Jordan.

I am reminded of that ancient story of Siddhartha Gautama, the man that would later go on to be known as the Buddha. His father was a king and raised him in wealth and opulence to try to hide him from the reality of human suffering. His father would even host parades immaculately conceived so as to conceal the sick and the mourning. Yet one evening, the young Gautama left the palace and saw a sick person, then an elderly person, and then a corpse. His eyes were open to the reality of human suffering for the first time, and he was faced with a choice: do I take a risk and enter in the suffering of the world – or do I return to my life of luxury and live trying to unsee what I just saw?

In a similar way, Jesus shows up to the outskirts of Bethany late to the funeral, and after a painful conversation with Martha, he calls for Mary. Now, Jesus intended this to be a private matter, perhaps ashamed that he was late. He tells Martha, “Go to Mary, but go in secret. I don’t want my late arrival to be a big ordeal. Just tell her in secret.” But Jesus was not yet acquainted with the bitter taste of human death. He didn’t know that it affected the whole community. He wasn’t expecting there to be a room full of runny tears and the sound of sniffles that go on for days. So when Martha goes to back to the funeral home with Mary and the crowd of Jews, Mary gets up and runs out; but she does it rather publicly. And all the family of Jews that were there to comfort her, all those loved ones, uncles, and second cousins that are so often well-intentioned but just seem to make a painful situation more complicated – well they see her leave, and they get right up and run out with her!

Meanwhile, Jesus, who was trying to retain a clandestine presence outside the funeral home, sees Mary running full speed towards him followed by that eclectic crowd of friends and family. He stands outside the city walls and puts his face in his palm and says, “My Father in Heaven I did not mean for all of them to show up!” You see, Jesus was trying to stay aloof from the bitter reality of human death, but it came running out of the funeral home to meet him in person. Because before he knows it, Mary has thrown herself down at his feet. She’s weeping bitter tears, and she says to him that same line, “Lord if you had been here my brother Lazarus would not be dead.” And Jesus, who had been trying to stay aloof from this bitter reality, suddenly looks around sees how human death is causing this community to unravel before his eyes. He hears the loud sniffs of snotty noses in grief. He sees the glisten of the sun on tear-streaked faces of the whole community. He feels Mary grabbing, shaking at his ankles, reminding him of how she will anoint his feet not too long from now. He smells the anointing spices still on her hands used on the body of her brother, and he tastes the salt of the tears now coming from his own eyes. And in his mind he sees the face of Lazarus, his friend, who he loved and cared for so dearly.

It’s like this text is inviting us to watch in slow motion as something deep inside of Jesus snaps. All of a sudden, Jesus realizes that the power of human death isn’t just a private matter to be avoided. It’s a threat to the community and it’s a threat to the entirety of God’s creation. And, out of nowhere, Jesus is overcome with emotion. In fact, the Greek word used here, embrimaomai, literally means “he snorted.” Some take this to mean Jesus was angry; others say it means Jesus expressing inexpressible grief. Whatever it means, what’s clear is that Jesus, who avoided risk and showed up late to this funeral, was suddenly faced the bitter reality of human death in all of its gruesome details, and he was so overcome with human emotion that he let out a snort! We watch as Jesus sees the pain that death creates, and he doubles over, filled with grief, and clenches his fists, ready to burst out with anger or sorrow or who knows what.

Interestingly, though, most scholars think that Jesus was so overcome with emotion here not just because he was grieving over Lazarus, but because he knew that it would be a risk to raise Lazarus from the dead. If you read John 11 closely in its context, you’ll see that Jesus clearly knew what would happen to him if he revealed himself to be the Messiah. In the Gospel of John, Jesus is strangely omniscient about the events surrounding his life and death, and he knows that if he raises Lazarus from the dead, many of the Jews in his company will come to believe in him. But he also knew that if many of the Jews came to believe in him, the Pharisees will notice and plot to kill him. For some reason or another, even in the time of Jesus, whenever a bunch of people get passionate faith deep in their bones – someone is going to call a church board meeting.

I am reminded of that non-canonical work of art, Sister Act, in which casino-worker-turned-Gospel-singer Mary Clarence is assigned to a San Francisco nunnery as part of a witness protection program. The sisters in control don’t like her that much and assign her to work with the choir in order to keep her quiet (which is a wonderful bit of irony). Mary Clarence wasn’t content to just sing the ordinary mass, though. She had passionate faith deep in her bones and decided to lead the choir in a rock and roll rendition of “Hail Holy Queen.” But of course, the Reverend Mother was infuriated at the performance. It just seems to be that whenever people get passionate faith deep in their bones, someone has to call a board meeting. It’s a real risk for us to have that kind of faith – because doing our duty to stand up to suffering oftentimes gets the authorities involved. Should we still do it considering what could happen to us?

Jesus knew exactly what would happen if he raised Lazarus. If he goes through with this, people will believe, and if people believe, the authorities will come after him. The risk of Lazarus isn’t just that Jesus will no longer be able to hide from the bitterness of death; the risk of Lazarus is that if he performs this miracle, he will decisively start down the path that will lead to his own death. It’s no wonder, then, that Jesus lets out a holy snort: he’s faced with the power death has over his loved ones and his community, but he’s also faced with the reality that if he calls this man from the dead – there will be no turning back. But thanks be to God, Jesus chooses to confront death anyways despite the risk it means for himself. And so after the emotion ravages his body and soul, forces him to double over, he stands back up with authority, now a changed person – and takes a risk. Knowing what he will do, he turns to the crowd and says, “Where have you laid him?” In this pivotal moment in the Gospel of John, Jesus risks it all to confront the power of death in the world.

But that’s not all – Jesus is still confronting the power of death in this world. Take my denomination, for example. When the refugee crisis was starting to garner attention from U.S. news outlets in 2015, many were driven to inexpressible emotion when an image circulated of a young boy washed up on the beach. The image showed the bitterness of human death in all its awful colors, and there were some in the Church of the Nazarene who doubled over in pain when they saw it. They could have accepted the temptation to remain aloof from the reality of death in this world, but that’s not what happened. Instead, compassionate Nazarenes from all over America left everything behind and moved to another continent, risking everything they could to help. Why? They were motivated by the love of Jesus. Isn’t that something? 2,000 years later, and here he is again, this Jesus, risking it all even today.

The truth is, we all live in a funeral home world, a world where it seems like God is late to the service. We watch in horror as the power of human death and suffering threatens to unravel the very communities and creation that God has spoken into existence. And as we watch, so many of us feel a calling to risk it all and enter the battle to confront the power of death in this world. But so often it gets unbearable, it seems like we make no progress, and the temptation to remain aloof from death’s bitter taste becomes too overwhelming to ignore.

But John wants us to know that before we ever even had the thought or the call, Jesus risked it all first. Despite the risk, Jesus stared down the tomb of Lazarus and decisively confronted the power of death in this world, and we can be assured that day by day, when suffering and death become real in our lives, Jesus is doubled over next to us, snorting with inexpressible emotion, moved with compassion to risk it all. And as Jesus risks it all even today, we can be confident children of God unafraid of death, so that we too might double over with compassion, utter a holy snort, and boldly approach the reality of death in this world and risk it all with the assurance that Christ Jesus is right there with us, putting the final enemy under his feet, inviting us to do the same.

And if you’d like to enter into the suffering and risk it all – I know the funeral has already started, but I’m sure the crowd wouldn’t mind if you showed up late.

How Can Any of it Stand?


King Belshazzar made a great festival for a thousand of his lords, and he was drinking wine in the presence of the thousand. Under the influence of the wine, Belshazzar commanded that they bring in the vessels of gold and silver that his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken out of the temple in Jerusalem, so that the king and his lords, his wives, and his concubines might drink from them. So they brought in the vessels of gold and silver that had been taken out of the temple, the house of God in Jerusalem, and the king and his lords, his wives, and his concubines drank from them. They drank the wine and praised the gods of gold and silver, bronze, iron, wood, and stone. Immediately the fingers of a human hand appeared and began writing on the plaster of the wall of the royal palace, next to the lampstand. The king was watching the hand as it wrote. Then the king’s face turned pale, and his thoughts terrified him. His limbs gave way, and his knees knocked together. The king cried aloud to bring in the enchanters, the Chaldeans, and the diviners; and the king said to the wise men of Babylon, “Whoever can read this writing and tell me its interpretation shall be clothed in purple, have a chain of gold around his neck, and rank third in the kingdom.” Then all the king’s wise men came in, but they could not read the writing or tell the king the interpretation. Then King Belshazzar became greatly terrified and his face turned pale, and his lords were perplexed.

 – Daniel 5:1-9


For the longest time, we didn’t know what it said. In fact, at first, we were so caught up in the frivolity of the moment that we didn’t even notice it etched above the life of the party speaking out in silence. That is, until we saw our king’s face go pale, the color of his cheeks blending in with the plaster wall that held his gaze.

The king, Belshazzar, had thrown a feast for the ages. To be honest, I don’t remember much of the party before it happened…but fear has a way of sobering your memory. What I do remember, though, is that we had more than enough accomplishments to celebrate. Belshazzar was new to the throne, his father Nebuchadnezzar having gone crazy when some religious lunatic named Daniel spouted out some prophecy. Nebuchadnezzar was a powerful king, so his sudden insanity caught us all off guard. He had, after all, just defeated the stubborn Israelites in Jerusalem and had dragged many of the wealthy and educated elite back with him. I was one of Nebuchadnezzar’s lords, so to see my king not even get to enjoy the spoils of his war did strike a chord in my heart. His son, Belshazzar, took the throne, and by rule I became his lord and watched as he enjoyed the fruits of his father’s destruction.

Yes, Belshazzar had a lot to celebrate that night at the festival. He had a new throne. He had inherited servants, lords, and concubines. And he had a treasury of wealth he didn’t even have to work for or fight for. None of us were surprised, then, when Belshazzar called for the vessels stolen from the Jerusalem Temple we had just leveled to the ground. He was already so drunk. He stood on a pedestal in front of the whole crowd. He gave a lilted speech when he ordered the servants to bring them out. And he lifted his burgundy glass to the sky, toasting to the gods of wood and stone. The crowd roared with applause. Funny enough, he actually seemed at first like he could be an able king. And able kings like to have fun, too. Why not let them do what they want? No, I didn’t blame him for having a little fun. And boy was he having fun – walking around the concubine’s dressing room, imitating disabled scribes, and promising a return to greatness for the people he held captive.

And you know, even if he had been sober, I still wouldn’t have questioned his decision to call for the sacred Jerusalem Temple vessels. Remember, I was Nebuchadnezzar’s lord before I was in the service of Belshazzar. And Nebuchadnezzar told me plenty about the Israelites he looted and then took into captivity. If you think we were being opulent that night, you should hear the stories about them. The Israelites had been getting rich off the backs of their own widows and orphans. Their king even took slaves to build their magnificent temple. In fact, when we in Babylon heard how rich they were getting, we sent an envoy to Jerusalem to make an alliance, and would you know it, their king Hezekiah was arrogant enough to show our envoy around the temple treasury full of silver and gold. They were practically asking to be invaded, and what made it worse, they pretended like they took care of the poor because their God told them to, even though the king hoarded it all for himself in the palace. The Israelites didn’t deserve that gold! Why should Belshazzar feel bad about having a little fun with it, then? Why not scoff at the pride of the Israelites? Just because we stole the Israelite’s gold doesn’t negate the fact that they practically stole it, too, from their own poor. So when Belshazzar called for the vessels, I couldn’t have agreed more. Why not have a little fun?

What I’ll never forget, though, is the look on his face when he first saw it. Belshazzar had been publicly mocking his secretary of state one moment, and then the next moment I looked up and saw that his face had frozen over. He gazed up at the wall, and as he stared, I followed his eyes and saw what captivated him so, and when I did, I sympathized with Belshazzar’s countenance. Somehow, at a party that mocked the defeat of the Hebrews, the language of the Hebrew people showed up, being scribbled by – and I know even now you might think me crazy to say this – scribbled by a floating, dismembered hand. The language of our captives, the language written on the spoils of war scribbled on every gold cup and silver plate, suddenly etched on the wall above our lavish party.

As if conducted by an orchestra master of Babylon’s symphonies, heads were directed one by one first to the ghostly face of the king, and then to the writing on the wall. A decrescendo hushed the crowd, and then out of nowhere, a scream. Immediate terror and panic filled the room. Silver plates clattered. Golden cups were dropped. The language of the Hebrews was on our wall. How is this possible? Sure, we’ve seen strange things before, and we were all pretty buzzed, so the floating hand really wasn’t a big deal. What was the big deal were those giant Aramaic letters. What did they say? What did it mean?

Cued by the conductor, Belshazzar started trembling all over. In our language, we might use the expression “his knees loosened,” which in your language I hear just means “he had a little bit of an accident in his pants.” I had never seen him like this before. Sure, we were all terrified, but he was coming undone. It’s like he knew what it meant without even being told. Panic was to be expected in such a situation, but there was something more than panic in him – Belshazzar seemed to know something we didn’t. And whatever it was, it made him lose his wine. Without hesitating, he stood in his own putrid puddle and cried at the top of his lungs, “Bring in the lords and wise men and religious advisors!”

I heard his shout from the other side of the room, and, reluctantly, I walked over to the king. It’s like he looked right past me, too frightened to even notice the face of a friend. One by one the sages and diviners trickled in, pushing their way through the crowds, careful not to slip on the puddles of spilled wine or to step on fallen knives. They danced through the dropped piles of holy golden and silver vessels like an obstacle course, with an occasional clatter when they missed a step. They joined Belshazzar and our group at the front of the room by the wall, and we all stood beneath the writing, looking at our king.

“T-t..tell me what it s- says,” he quivered. But he asked as though he was seeking confirmation for something he already suspected, not as though he was seeking answers. He mumbled, “I- I want to know what it s- says.”

You want to know the funny thing, though? Belshazzar wasn’t even looking at the writing when he said that. He was just looking straight ahead, his face as though it were already dead. I knew what my king’s face looked like when it was alive and full of energy, and mark my words, this face was dead. He just looked blankly at nothing and told us to interpret the writing on the wall.

But I think it was at that moment that I began to understand. And when it sunk in, I understood Belshazzar’s terror. The Chaldeans and the sages started bumbling their opinions. The religious advisors started in with their divinely sanctioned empty promises of comfort. But I tuned it out and didn’t really hear any of it. Because what I began to understand was that Belshazzar wasn’t terrified because of what the writing on the wall said. If you really think about it, why would he be afraid about something he couldn’t even read? No, something else was going on here, and I think I had figured out the source of Belshazzar’s fright.

You see, I think he became terrified because he suddenly realized that it doesn’t matter what sayeth the writing on the wall – what matters is that the God of the Hebrews showed up! The God of the Hebrews that we had taken captive, the same Hebrews that we had been oppressing even at that very hour – that God showed up to our party. And when I realized that deep in my bones, I could understand why Belshazzar lost his wine.

 And the more I began to think about this God of the Hebrews, the more the memories started flooding back to me. I remembered all that Nebuchadnezzar had said to me about that Judean prophet, Daniel. I remembered how Daniel had said the God he worshipped was a God who didn’t put up with economic sacrilege or profane acts of worship. I remembered how Daniel had said that when Israel had started to get rich off the back of the poor, their own God didn’t hesitate to judge the people – God’s own people! – when they started to exploit the widow and the orphan. What kind of a God cares more about the poor, no matter who they are, than making his own chosen people great again? Shouldn’t gods delight in opulent worship? And what would this God think of us, who taxed the poor of Babylon to favor the top 1%? Yes, I remembered all this, and the memories didn’t stop there. I remembered how Nebuchadnezzar had told me what that lunatic sage Daniel prophesied when he was summoned to the throne room to interpret the king’s dream. He prophesied that the days of Babylon were numbered, and that all unjust kingdoms would soon topple, and somehow this God of the Hebrews would put an end to all the economic sacrilege and religiously-sanctioned idolatry, even when it’s committed by the people of God, and that a new kingdom was coming that would never be destroyed, a Kingdom ruled by one who was like the Son of Man coming with the clouds of Heaven. And the more I thought about this, the more I realized that the days of our opulent celebration and indulgent glory were numbered. And I was terrified.

And in that gathering of lords and wise men, standing in puddles of sour wine and dropped knives, the religious experts that I had been tuning out were still mumbling. Belshazzar had offered them gold if they could read the writing. Funny how the vessels of our own destruction become the only gifts we know how to give. Pretty, soon, though, when it was clear that our exercise in translation was going to fail, a still quiet fell over the whole room. We looked around and saw the gold. We saw the silver. We saw the wine. We saw the huge palace we stood in, the plates still piled high with luxury food. And as I looked, my eyes met Belshazzar’s, just for a moment. And as they did, it’s like I could see the question forming on his pale, quivering lips:

How can any of this stand…when the writing is on the wall?

Longing to Stay

vlcsnap-JTS Church 8

I should probably start by admitting something I’ve been having a difficult time admitting to myself recently: finding a home in the denomination that raised me is harder than it has ever been. I’m struggling; I’m trying really, really hard. But being a young person in a rapidly changing world situated in a denomination that doesn’t always do a great job at telling the truth about the changing world is no easy journey. But it’s a journey I haven’t quite given up on yet.

Many people my age write angry letters and vicious blog posts that list their grievances on shattered tablets of stone. I must confess that I have been tempted to do the same thing. “You could but change the rocks into bread.” But I think I’d rather just tell you my story – the story of an odd bunch of holiness people convinced that God has called them to be a blessing to the world, people convinced that the name “Church of the Nazarene” means something – that we are the church for the ones nobody thought anything good could come from. These are the people that raised me, and this story is why I’m longing to stay.


I was raised in a little Church of the Nazarene in South Charleston, West Virginia. I learned the Beatitudes in that church long before I learned that growing up in West Virginia attending a small country church is supposed to somehow make your faith journey second-rate, like choosing a state college over a public university. I would learn that unfortunate perception later. To me it wasn’t “country,” “rural,” or “backwards.” To me it was just home.


Starting at a young age, I began riding donkeys through Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. Most people would call it a “live nativity.” Looking back, I call it walking through the story that shaped me with my own flesh and blood. I didn’t care if they were props or not. I didn’t care that the Roman soldiers took hot chocolate breaks when the snow poured. To me – I was in Bethlehem. I saw baby Jesus – sometimes real, sometimes fake – and there’s no way you’d convince me I wasn’t really seeing incarnation happen before my eyes. You still couldn’t convince me as a seminarian. Whatever it was we did, the whole village gathered every year for the thousands of cars that drove by. It was our mission. It was somehow a calling to us. It was an ecclesiological act of love for our community. Of course, we didn’t actually see the cars. They didn’t have cars in Bethlehem in 3 B.C. (or 0 A.D.). Duh.


This is the church that surrounded me with love and encouragement the first time I squawked my first notes on a saxophone. I apologize to all of you. But you kept letting me play – and, if I may say so myself – after a couple years, it wasn’t so hard on the ears anymore. Many churches guard “special music” like the soldiers at the tomb – it’s reserved for the people that are actually good, that will make a beautiful sound. Everyone else gets the evening service. But the denomination I know has always said the most true and beautiful sound is a young person squawking as best they can in a joyful noise to their creator. It’s a kind of support and love that the Church of the Nazarene has always extended so dearly to children. And pretty soon, those children don’t play like children anymore.


Most importantly, this little Church of the Nazarene was where I was baptized. I remember not thinking it would be a big deal as a middle schooler. And then I remember being wrong. I left my glasses on so I could see the faces of the people that were calling me as their own. Years later, I would visit the Jordan River with a group from my alma mater. Looking back, I see that the waters in the baptismal font in West Virginia were just as powerful as the waters that baptized Jesus. After I came up out of the water, the metaphoric Nazarene dove descended on me. The community gathered around and said, “Well, now you’re one of us.”


Throughout the years at Davis Creek Church of the Nazarene, I had fun, I went to trunk or treat, I attended youth group, the choir director became my high school biology teacher. But the seeds were planted that would lead others to say that ministry was more than a habit to me – it was a vocational call that I had never seen before. I would have never sensed that calling without those people in West Virginia. I hope and pray they were right. Because if not – this is all your fault!

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Life changed when I went to college. And no, I did not start college at Trevecca. When I soon learned that the large public university I chose to attend wasn’t going to be a good fit, Trevecca called me and asked me to find a better story with them. Before I ever knew there was a Trevecca Nazarene University, Trevecca Nazarene University knew there was a me. And the love that I found in a small church in West Virginia, somehow I found on a college campus in Nashville. I never dreamed college would be a place where professors came alongside you as a mentor and friend to journey in the faith alongside you – but by the grace of God, I didn’t have to go looking for that fellowship. That fellowship came looking for me. And I’m so glad they did. I also didn’t know it was possible to have that much fun, especially with a bunch of Nazarenes. My first week on campus I ended up on the front porch of Dan Boone’s house with a group of friends while we held a contract for the return of a stuffed horse I had suggested to my roommates we steal from a girls’ dorm. (It’s a long story – trust me.) I expected that the college president would be infuriated. Instead, he just laughed and signed the document. (I’m not suggesting such a tactic to the current students of Trevecca, though. Definitely not.)


More than being a family, though, my professors reminded me of a calling to ministry I had moved on from. I entered Trevecca as a music business major, but after taking the intro-level Gen Ed course for religion, some of the professors lovingly told me that I was in the wrong field of study. I didn’t really want to believe them, because I was worried about life as a pastor. Those professors encouraged me that college itself is a calling – that one goes to college to get an education, not a job. And then my philosophy professor asked me what the one thing was that I needed out of my education – did I want to learn a skill set, or did I want to find a new story? I changed my major the next day. All because Nazarene women and men cared.


Trevecca gave me opportunities to lead, to explore and wrestle with my faith tradition, and to dance (scandalous!). I made lifelong friends that included me in a community that lived and breathed by the rule of its worship – but there was also plenty of times for play. Perhaps most impactful to me, though was the opportunity to preach. Trevecca has a knack for training its preachers by baptism through fire. I wobbled up to the front of a chapel service one morning on jelly legs and preached my first sermon in Boone Convocation Center. One sermon followed another, and then I stood in front of a group of students as the student body chaplain. A ministry was discovered because of a family of Nazarene students and teachers affirming me and my calling.

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These days my journey continues at the Candler School of Theology at Emory University in Atlanta. Seminary has blessed me with the opportunity to continue growing theologically and pastorally as I respond to a call I can’t seem to get away from. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a sort of Nazarene exile – except this time they’re not Babylonians, they’re just Methodists! (Don’t worry; I’m working for the good of my own country.) Candler has given me the extraordinary chance to engage in prison chaplaincy, to study under renown scholars, and to find a diverse and vibrant community of faith. Yet I still haven’t lost touch with my Nazarene roots. I still worship with Nazarenes, commune with Nazarenes, and minister with Nazarenes as we seek out those places of brokenness and helplessness and then “take on flesh and move into the neighborhood.”

Yet now is the time I must be deeply honest with you. As I have grown, I have seen far more of the world than I ever could have imagined I would see by age 23. And as I have seen more of the world, I have seen more of its people – its beautiful, variegated, and multifaceted people. And as I have grown, I have seen how the people I love, this Church of the Nazarene that I call home – I have seen how we have not always been faithful to our call to be called unto holiness to be a blessing to the world.

As I look at the world around me and see all the despair that permeates every square inch of the atmosphere on planet earth, I have been looking to my denomination for hope. I find that hope in who we are, yes – but sadly, I also see a people struggling with legalism (we still haven’t gotten past prohibition), a people afraid, stubborn, and unwilling to have necessary and bold conversations about human sexuality, and a people disconnected from their roots to seek out messiness. I see a people that proudly affirms women in ministry but does not always treat them well, nor peoples and minorities of all language and color. But most painfully, I see a people who, in the efforts of not becoming a stumbling block to those in need, have used doctrines and policies to hurt those in need – and in turn have become a stumbling block.

I want you to know that I’m really, really trying to make a difference. But I need you to know that it’s hard right now. It’s hard to see my people struggle to face the hard questions of the 21st Century. It’s hard to see my people systematically lose track of their young people, especially their young clergy. It’s hard to sit back and see so many companions flock to the UMC or other denominations that are having the conversations we tend to avoid.


But you are my people. You walked through Bethlehem with me, taught me to love my neighbor, submerged me in water and then raised me again to new life, educated my mind, body, and soul, and sent me to preach the Gospel. You raised me. And you have my word that I am going to stick around as long as I can. I only pray that you can see the faces of so many young people you have raised that are walking in the same shoes as me right now – people that need the denomination to speak the truth in love about the progress we need to make. So, so many of us are longing to stay.

I and so many other young people in the Church of the Nazarene want to be a part of this thing God is doing to use a called out people to be an instrument of blessing to all creation. We want to partner in the work of God alongside a people that believes with everything in them that holiness is not a curse to live by, but an instrument of redemption which finds that the most abundant form of joy is the kind that sojourns with the world’s suffering. We’re ready and willing to take up that call.

Would you help us stay?

With Grace and Peace, and as one of your own,


Through the Barbed Gate


[This sermon was delivered at Lee Arrendale Women’s State Prison on Palm Sunday,  4/9/17. The text is not grammatically precise but reflects the manner in which it was voiced.]

As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her. Untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, say that God needs them, and he will send them right away.” This took place to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet: 
“Say to Daughter Zion,
‘See, your king comes to you,
gentle and riding on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’”
The disciples went and did as Jesus had instructed them. They brought the donkey and the colt and placed their cloaks on them for Jesus to sit on. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted,
   “Hosanna to the Son of David!”
   “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
   “Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked, “Who is this?” The crowds answered, “This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.”


            Well, it was about that time. Jesus had been walking on the face of the earth for 33 years, his whole life pointing to this one moment. He preached, he prophesied, and he proclaimed the Kingdom of God. But now, the time was drawing near to finish what he started when he came to the earth. So he gathered his disciples around him and said to them, “It’s about that time. It’s time to go to Jerusalem where they will hand me over to be killed on a cross.” The disciples, of course, did not understand what he was talking about. But I have a feeling they could sense that something big was about to happen. So they gathered up their things and set out from Jericho towards Jerusalem – because it was about that time.

            They travelled 18 miles on foot to get to Jerusalem, and just before they got there, they stopped on the Mount of Olives at Bethphage, a small village where Jesus would sometimes stay overnight with relatives. This small village of Bethphage overlooks the entire city of Jerusalem – a magnificent view of the holy city. And Jesus looked out over Jerusalem and knew what was about to happen when he went in. But he knew he had to do it.

            Let me tell you something about ancient Jerusalem. The Jews had made their home there, but the Roman army had invaded the city to rule over them. The people were held captive by the soldiers who claimed they were there to protect them. The Roman army was ruled by tyrannical governors who did everything they could to oppress the unruly people of Jerusalem. God’s chosen people lived under the domination of an empire that wanted nothing more than to keep them under control. You can’t be too loud, you can’t voice your opinion, you can’t mess up a room inspection; and if you do, you’ll get rebuked. Jesus could see all of this from the Mount of Olives. He could look out and see the Holy Temple where God’s people worshiped – but he could also see the tall, towering, and terrifying outpost of the Roman army that sent a strong message of who was in control. Yes, God’s people lived in such captivity under the Romans that it was almost like Jerusalem was one giant jail cell.

            Jesus could see all of this going on from the Mount of Olives. He knew that his people were suffering inside of their jail cell of Jerusalem, that they were treated like they were less than human, that soldiers would do more to belittle them rather than to protect them, and that they couldn’t fully be who they were called to be without being put down by the Roman government. Jesus knew all of this. And Jesus loved his people so much that when they were held in captivity, Jesus was willing to do whatever it took to make his daughters and sons feel loved and cherished and cared for and worthy to be called God’s children. So he stood on the Mount of Olives and looked out over the jailed city of Jerusalem and saw the condition of his people, and said to his disciples, “Send out to get a donkey, because I’m going in, even if I have to go through a barbed wire gate.”

            In this passage that we have heard, Jesus is like the ultimate first responder at a tragedy – when everyone else runs away out of fear, Jesus runs in to save the people. He is the fireman who looks at the building going up in flames, and while everyone else is running away to avoid danger, he runs right into the fire. He is like the brave paramedics during 9/11 who look at the cloud of smoke in New York City, and while everyone else is running away, he runs right into the rubble. He is like the brave missionaries in Africa, who when everyone else is running away from the hunger and thirst and sickness, he runs right in. And let every woman in this room hear – when everyone else is running away from your life – your parole officer, your lawyer, your friends, your former employers, your hometown, your church, and even your family – when everyone else runs away, Jesus sees the disaster and runs right in. Jesus is willing to do whatever it takes to let his daughters know that they are loved and cherished and cared for and worthy to be called God’s children – even if he has to run through the barbed wire gate while everyone else runs out. And so he overlooks Jerusalem and tells his disciples, “I’m going in.”

            But, thanks be to God, Jesus can’t seem to do anything quietly. He and the disciples could have easily walked right into Jerusalem on foot. There were thousands of pilgrims pouring into the city for Passover. He could have blended right in with the crowd. But that’s not what Jesus does. Why? Because it was about that time. It was time for Jesus to finish what he started, to go to the cross for the redemption of God’s people. And knowing that his time was coming, Jesus remembered a prophecy from long ago. It came from the prophet Zechariah in the ninth chapter: “Say to Daughter Zion, ‘See, your king comes to you, gentle and riding on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” You see, it was prophesied from long ago that Israel’s true king wouldn’t come with power and might on a war horse, but would come with love and humility on the back of a humble and meek donkey. So he told two of his disciples to go out to a nearby village and untie a donkey and its colt and bring them back. And Jesus instructs them that if anyone says to them, “man, what are you tryna do with my donkey?” all they had to say was, “God needs them.” It’s like Jesus had supernatural control of the situation. Nothing was going to stop him from accomplishing God’s plan for salvation.

            In the same way people may try to question you when you are being obedient to God. But God knows this, and God is whispering in the ears of those who try to oppose God’s plan, “don’t worry; this is all happening to fulfill my purposes.” God had complete control of the situation, just like he knows everything about ours. And the disciples trusted that Jesus knew what he was doing, and were therefore obedient to him. So they brought back the donkey and its colt to Jesus. They immediately laid their garments on them for Jesus to sit on. You see, Jesus could have just walked right into the jail cell of Jerusalem, but he knew that it was about that time, that the prophecy was being fulfilled. So he decided to do something big! Riding in on the donkey wasn’t just a flashy performance; it wasn’t just Jesus saying, “Hey, look how humble and meek I am.” NO! It was a bold announcement in which Jesus said to Israel, “Do you remember that humble king prophesied from so long ago? Well I am that king! – and I am riding through the barbed wire gate to get to my people.

            But isn’t it amazing that, in Matthew, Jesus didn’t want any old donkey? Did you hear it back in verse 2? Jesus doesn’t send for just any old donkey; Jesus sends for a mother and her child. He says, “Go get me a donkey and her colt.” Isn’t that amazing? I just want to point out two things here. Number one: it was the Passover in Jerusalem, which means there were thousands of pilgrims coming to the city that would need a donkey to ride on. Somebody out there would have eventually bought this momma donkey to ride on. But – this momma donkey wasn’t just bought by any random person; this momma donkey was specifically chosen by Jesus. She was going to have to go into the jail cell of Jerusalem anyways, but now she’s not going in alone; now she’s carrying Jesus with her. And Jesus takes special care to bring the momma’s child along with him. In the Kingdom of God, momma’s children don’t get left behind – even if they may be separated from their mother some day. That brings me to the second thing – not only does this momma donkey need Jesus; Jesus needs this momma donkey. He is entering the barbed wire gate to be handed over to the cross. He is afraid. But he takes strength in the loving and caring faithfulness of this mother. She is carrying a heavy burden, but Jesus can see that it’s God’s burden she’s carrying, and he is strengthened and encouraged because of it. Yes, Jesus needs this momma donkey for strength along the painful journey he was about to endure.

            It was about that time. So Jesus mounted the donkey and began riding to Jerusalem, headed straight for the barbed wire gate to get to his people. He was prepared to suffer with them if that’s what it took. He was prepared to spend the rest of his life in the jail cell if that’s what it took. Because Jesus is intimately aware of our sorrows, and is willing to meet us in the middle of them. Jesus feels our pain with us, and isn’t afraid to suffer with us. It’s like that old African American spiritual says, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen; nobody knows my sorrows. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen; glory hallelujah.” But in the second verse the words change and it makes a huge difference: “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen; nobody knows but Jesus. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen; glory hallelujah.” Jesus knows the troubles and sorrows of his daughters, thanks be to God.

            And as he started getting closer to the barbed wire gate, the crowds start gathering around him and praising him. They instantly remembered that prophecy of Zechariah that declared that the king would come humbly on a donkey. They instantly recognized that this Jesus is that humble king come to save us. So what did they do? Did they stand there and watch? No, they prepared the way for the king! This is the king who is coming not with weapons or armor or a horse. This king isn’t coming to whip Jerusalem into shape. He’s not coming with a loud voice telling you to walk in a single file line. This king is coming with mercy and forgiveness to let his daughters know how much they are loved and cherished and cared for and worthy to be called God’s children. So the crowds prepare the way for the king. This king deserves a royal procession. So they start cutting down the branches so the king can have a red carpet. But this red carpet isn’t soft and smooth; it’s made of branches. It’s rough and messy and leads straight to the barbed wire gate.

         I don’t know if you’re able to see it – but do you know that Jesus is riding through the barbed wire gate of this place? Just like Jesus stood on the Mount of Olives and looked out over the jail cell of Jerusalem, Jesus also stands on the Mount of Georgia and looks out over Arrendale State Prison. He sees the hurt and pain of his daughters, and he sends out for mother and child and says, “I’m going in.” My only question for you this evening is this: are you willing to prepare the way? Verse 8 tells us that the crowds went out before Jesus and made a path clear with palm branches. They started singing praises to God. They shouted out, “Hosanna!” which means, “save us!” Hosanna in the highest heaven. More than that, they called Jesus the “Son of David.” The recognized that this is the one prophesied from long ago, the descendant of David, the humble king that has come to redeem God’s people. And so let me ask you – As Jesus walks through the barbed wire gate, are you preparing the way? Are you crying out, “Hosanna!” and laying down a red carpet, or are you watching from the sidelines as Jesus rides on by? Jesus has come through the barbed wire gate to reach you. He has come to tell each person in this room how much you are loved and cherished and cared for and worthy of being God’s daughter. So prepare the way! Make a path clear for him to ride in to this place this evening! Lay down branches of praise for the Lord and palm leaves of thanksgiving!

            I’ve gotta wrap up or they’re gonna throw me out. Verse 10: “When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked, “Who is this?” The crowds answered, “This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.” Jesus’ little display caused quite the spectacle. The people in Jerusalem saw what was going on and then got a little anxious. This man was causing quite the ruckus. Remember, the people in Jerusalem had to be quiet and submissive or else the Romans would come and teach them a lesson. They had to stay silent. So they started coming up to the disciples that were following Jesus on the donkey and asking them, “Who is this man that’s causing such a stir? (We’re supposed to keep quiet or we’ll get in trouble!)”

            Isn’t it amazing that, even inside the jail cell of Jerusalem, there were some who didn’t recognize that Jesus had come to reach them? They couldn’t see that this man had come to let them know how much God loves them. Do you know what I’m talking about, Arrendale? Do you know people that have yet to recognize that Jesus has come through this barbed wire gate to reach them? They see you praising and worshiping and crying out “Hosanna!” They even see you causing a little bit of a ruckus when you worship the Lord with gladness and throw down your branches to prepare the way for the humble king coming on a donkey. So they come up to you and say, “Who is this?” ….

            What are you going to tell them, Arrendale? “Who is this?” This is God in the flesh come to save us, this is the humble king of kings come to reign over us with justice and mercy, this is the innocent Son of God come to die on a cross to forgive us, this is Jesus Christ the Lord who has come through the barbed wire gate into the jail cell to tell us how much he loves us and cherishes us and cares for us and tells us we are worthy to be called God’s children. Hosanna, thanks be to God, it’s about that time! Amen.

Solomon, Charlemagne, and Donald Trump: Inauguration Days Across the Millennia



It was inauguration day about 970BC. The people of God were hungry for a new king. David had been just what they needed to make Israel relevant, but everyone knew he lost strength and competency at the end of his days. How would Israel keep up their newfound might and glory? When he died, they anticipated Solomon would make them great again – and keep them that way. They needed to compete on the world scene and start winning, just like the good old days when Joshua killed every adversary in his path. So Solomon stood in front of all the people on inauguration day. “Listen,” he said. “We’re going to build a temple, a great temple.” The people applauded. “We’ll show the nations how much wealth we have.” The Israelites were eager to be wealthy with the spoils of other nations which they did not earn. “And then we’ll build an army, a great army.” Thunderous applause came from the young men who didn’t realize he was talking about them. “We’ll put Israel’s protection first. Sure, we’ll be friendly with other nations, but Israel comes first. We’ll have so much power no one will mess with us. If they do, we’ll show them God is on our side.” Solomon was crowned the king. He built that temple. It was opulent. Israel became powerful and wealthy. Israel was happy. Israel was great again. Israel didn’t realize their leader’s quest for power would be their downfall and the end of united Israel. They were too happy with their lifestyles and putting themselves first that they didn’t even seem to care when the prophets told them that the other great nations they were trying to emulate were coming to give them a taste of their own medicine. They claimed to be the people of God, nonetheless.

It was inauguration day about 800AD. Charlemagne was a historic king-crowned-emperor by Pope Leo III. In exchange for is new power, he was to become the defender of the faith in Rome from the evil Germanic Lombards. He stood in front of his throne that Christmas day with the pope and his council and gave his inauguration speech. “Listen, we’re going to have such a great military again. God will be on our side once more. God needs us to protect the right religion, and we’re going to make sure it gets protected.” Charlemagne protected Rome. He put Rome, and his own people, the Franks, first. “Building walls around us is part of our story,” he said. Charlemagne put together a great army and protected the faith from the evil pagans, even slaughtering 4,000 Saxons in the name of Jesus, a “holy war” that won the loyalties and praise of his people. He built a cathedral in Aachen, adorning it with gold and jewels to show other nations that God was on their side. He even likened himself to that other temple-builder, Solomon, and gave his architect, who would design the Palatine Chapel, the nickname Bazaleel, the great designer of Moses’ tabernacle. The people were wealthy and powerful once more, but most importantly, Charlemagne kept his promise to make Western Europe safe again. They loved Charlemagne. Charlemagne loved his power and money. Charlemagne’s quest to protect their security distracted him from the Vikings and the bitter rivalries between his own sons. His lust for power-keeping crippled the Roman Empire and left thousands dead. The people didn’t even notice what was happening at first. They were too busy enjoying wealth they didn’t earn, putting their own interests first, and keeping the “outsiders” who didn’t believe like they did outside. They claimed to be the people of God, nonetheless.

It was inauguration day in 2017. The people were hungry for a new president. The last one had been okay, but he had done too much to look out for the interests of other nations rather than putting America first, they said. So the people elected Donald Trump. He got up in front of the crowd and gave his inauguration speech. “We’re going to start winning again,” he said. The people went wild. “America is going to be safe. We’re going to put ourselves first. We’re going to be wealthy again. We’ll have comfortable jobs, and we won’t let the outsiders have any of our stuff. God will bless us, you’ll see.” The people loved Donald Trump. He made them feel safe. He told them the Bible says America will prosper if they do the right thing. He said, “We’ll get money and be happy, and certainly won’t let the refugees drain our resources. We’ll have so much power. God will protect us, even make us an example for the world.” American Christians just couldn’t learn from their own story of temple-builders and power-seekers. They were too distracted thinking about all the money they’ll be privileged with while the rest of the world starves and dies outside the wall Americans will build to protect themselves. They were too distracted by that age-old disease of seeking power, putting our own interests first, and lusting after survival in the name of God rather than trusting in the God who calls the alien amongst God’s people worthy to sit at the table. They claimed to be the people of God, nonetheless.

Maybe we’ve missed the most important one, though:

It was inauguration day in  30AD. The people were hungry for a king. They wanted to be freed. Then some imposter-peasant came along and claimed to be that king. He didn’t have a good policy, though. “Blessed are the poor,” he said. The message comforted the weak but angered the powerful. “The Kingdom of God is like a shepherd who leaves the 99 to find the one lost.” They didn’t know what to do with such inefficient techniques. “The good Samaritan helped the man in need. Oh yeah, and do you see this temple? I’m tearing it down.” But most importantly: “The slaves are free, debts are forgiven, and the year of Jubilee is fulfilled in me. And, not to mention, you should love your enemies, even serve them.” So they inaugurated him to be their “king.” They put him on a wooden crossbeam-throne and lifted him high and exalted him. They even put a crown on him and put a nice sign above his bleeding and trembling head while his mouth leaked saliva: “This is the King of the Jews.” He finally gave his inauguration speech: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” People cried out and the crowd went crazy, but most of them ran away.That Roman centurion tried to mock him like the rest, but he was just too confounded at how such a display could be any model of “kingship.” He was kind, he was gentle, he was bold and audacious; he was righteous and just, he loved his enemies, he forgave every sinner in his path. That’s no way to be an effective king. Even so… “Surely this man was the Son of God,” the centurion claimed, nonetheless.

He certainly didn’t win. He certainly did not make Jerusalem great again. And he did not consider equality with God something to hold on to, but emptied himself. He did not keep power, but gave every bit of it – every bit of it – away. He didn’t try to find salvation by protecting himself from his enemies; he died for those that tried to kill him. “And therefore,” Paul says, “he is exalted above every name,” King of the Jews, crucified on his inauguration tree, Lord of Lords seated at the right hand of the Father.