Church of the Redeemer

The Fifth Sunday of Lent

April 06, 2003

I spent a year teaching in a village in the central province of Kenya in East Africa. The area where I lived was in the foothills of the Aberdare Mountains, a very lush, cool region of steep hills covered by small farms. The main crop in this area is tea, which grows on tall bushes that cover the hillsides. Tea is a beautiful plant; the leaves are emerald green and glimmer in the sunlight. I loved watching the branches of the plant wave in the breeze as I walked along the one road that connected my village with the rest of the universe. I loved watching the workers move in and out of the rows of bushes, pinching off the top few leaves – the tenderest, brightest-green ones – which would eventually turn up in someone’s tea cup thousands of miles away. 

One day, however, everything changed. I looked up to the hills to find that the green leaves were gone. Where large, shining branches of tea leaves used to wave in the wind, now only small stumps clung to the earth. I was mortified. What happened? 

I walked across the road to the neighboring farm to ask the family. The farmer listened to me ask anxiously after the tea bushes, and then smiled an enormous smile at me. “Teacher,” he said. ”Now we must teach you. The tea is fine. It is cutting time. We must cut it so that it may live.” 

And sure enough it was so. Within a few weeks, new shoots appeared on each stump. And before long, the plants were as beautiful as ever, and stronger than ever, because their owners had done the difficult but life-giving work of cutting them back so far that they appeared to be dead. 

“You must cut it so it may live.” As a city girl, this was news to me. As a Christian, I am still learning this lesson. All too often I cling to what looks like growth in my life,  nurture what seems to be successful, and avoid the difficult work of cutting back that which is, in fact, unhealthy, unholy, or spiritually deadening. I avoid it because it exposes my underbelly, strips me of my illusion of control, and forces me to grit my teeth, dive into the spiritual deep waters and really, truly trust God. It’s easier to just say my prayers, stand, sit and kneel at the right time, and keep on keeping on. But today’s gospel invites you and me to do more.  

Hearing news of his miraculous works, especially in raising Lazarus from the dead, Greeks have come to Jerusalem seeking out this Jesus, whom they presume to be a magician or special prophet. They are looking for a show – anticipating more spiritual fireworks. But that’s not what they get. They get a cryptic lesson in theology. Jesus says to them, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains a single grain; but if it dies it bears much fruit.”  While this was baffling to those listening at the time, to us reading it today it’s a fairly clear metaphor: Jesus is talking about his own physical death and resurrection. He’s explaining that his true glory – his ultimate, universal ministry to all of humankind -- cannot begin until he passes through great suffering and humiliating death. 

If the story ended there, it would be helpful but not particularly challenging to us, personally. But no. The focus now shifts, for Jesus is no longer speaking of himself but of his followers.  He continues, “Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”   

“There will my servant be also.”  This is the part that stops me in my tracks.  What does it mean for us to follow this savior who compares his journey to that of a grain of wheat falling into the earth? Surely, being a Christian does not require one to die on a cross?  Surely God’s will for us is abundant life, not only in the hereafter but also here on earth. So what does it mean for us to be like a grain of wheat that falls into the earth? 

Jesus is speaking metaphorically about something the Church has come to call “the paschal life” – a life in which we know ourselves to be truly liberated from the narrow claims of this world and the power of death, a life in which we can endure trials and suffering with hope, knowing that restoration will come, that new life is emerging even in the darkest night.  

While we are invited into the paschal life at our baptisms, it is something we intentionally live into over time. But how? What are the practices that deepen our paschal life? I’d like to reflect briefly on three of these practices  -- practices particularly suited to this holy season of Lent and, I believe, to a people engaged in war. For regardless of where one stands on this war, all of us as people of faith are called to ground ourselves humbly and faithfully in God’s truth and God’s mercy during wartime. 

These three practices all happen to begin with an “R” – I didn’t plan that – and they are summarized with words that may seem a bit old-fashioned or scary at first. But bear with me, because they’re good words and good practices and as contemporary as they come. These practices are righteousness, remorse, and rest. 

Righteousness is too often dismissed as a word for beloved Biblical patriarchs like Noah and Abraham rather than us scruffy, bumbling modern folks. But it’s not about moral perfection. It’s about realignment. Righteousness refers to the alignment of our wills with God’s will, so that our actions further God’s project of reconciliation, rather than our own, individualistic, often misguided projects.

 It is righteousness to allow God to “write the law on our hearts,” in the words of Jeremiah. It is righteousness to ask God in prayer to help us know His will and do it. It is righteousness to consider how well we are living into the great commandments to love God with all our heart, soul and mind, and love our neighbor as ourselves. And,  in a time of war, it is righteousness to consider how the actions of our nation align or misalign with those commandments. 

Note that righteousness is not the same as self-righteousness, which makes one too busy worrying about where one stands to actually listen to what God might be saying. In righteousness, our eyes are on Christ, not the mirror. 

The second practice is one modeled for us so beautifully in today’s psalm. That is the practice of Remorse. Psalm 51, which we read today, is traditionally associated with King David’s remorse over his misguided relationship with his neighbor’s wife, Bathsheba, and his awareness that his actions have broken lives and torn apart relationships. 

In remorse, we admit that our actions have had effects and meanings we never foresaw or intended, that our conscious and unconscious choices have affected others. Remorse is out of fashion these days, as is evidenced in the unwillingness of so many public figures involved in corporate, governmental or personal scandals to admit any responsibility.  Remorse requires the death of false images of self and the death of the illusion that we can simply reinvent ourselves after doing harm, without absolution from others, (Rowan Williams, Lost Icons). 

Finally, and perhaps most importantly is the practice of Rest. This is for many of us the most difficult one, for it requires us to die to the claims of our culture that we are what we produce and that our value is diminished if we stop to breathe.  Christ invites us to rest from the frantic pace to which we’ve grown accustomed, leave behind anxiety as our MO and live a life with room for the Holy Spirit to work in us. (Turn off CNN – if only for half an hour). When we do these things, we strengthen our capacity to rest in the promise of God through Christ: that the grain of wheat which fell into the earth has sprung up again, full of fruit, and making a place for us in God’s eternal reign. 

Righteousness, Remorse, Rest -- Three practices, all of which require a willingness to loosen our vice grip of control over our lives and let God work in us and on us and through us. To fall into the earth like a grain of wheat, following our Savior into the paschal life may feel very uncomfortable, and we may grieve that which we must cut away in order to do it. But in our falling we shall find that we are falling into the arms of our loving God and brought into communion with our glorious Savior. This is the journey that makes all other journeys worthwhile, and God is waiting for us with open arms as we fall. 

The Rev. Amy McCreath

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