Reading John 2: 13-22
Preacher Revd Neil Summers
As Lent progresses, and Jesus reaches Jerusalem, it is increasingly clear in the Gospel readings that the inevitable clash with political, social and religious authorities made his eventual death a certainty. Paradoxically, however, this death would lead to a new kind of life, the influence of which would prove to be timeless. Without it, we wouldn’t be in church today.
The death of Jesus has been central to Christianity from the very beginning. Paul, writing earlier than the Gospels, proclaimed the heart of the Christian message to be ‘Christ crucified’. All four Gospels climax with several chapters about the final week of Jesus’ life, and the details of his death. This death is central not only to the whole of the New Testament, but is also highlighted in church liturgy, not least in this service of the Eucharist: Every time we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death….
When I first began studying theology, one of the areas that really fascinated me was the distinction between the pre-Easter and the post-Easter Jesus – often referred to as the historical Jesus on the one hand, and the Christ of faith on the other. Both are to be affirmed, but it is important to see how they differ significantly from each other. The pre-Easter Jesus refers to the historical figure of the past – a Galilean Jew, a flesh and blood human being, whose life had a beginning and an end, like all of us. This Jesus doesn’t exist any more: he is dead and gone. To say this is not to deny Easter, but it recognises that what Easter does not mean is that a flesh and blood Jesus still lives somewhere. The post-Easter Jesus refers to what Jesus became after his death in Christian experience, reflection and tradition. Whether it be your patron saint, Mary Magdalene, in the garden, Paul on the road to Damascus, the disciples on the road to Emmaus, or the apostles by Lake Galilee, it is beyond question that some of his followers experienced Jesus after his death, albeit in a radically new way. They had been alongside the pre-Easter Jesus as a human being – albeit a remarkable one, yet nonetheless somebody who could only be in one place at a time. After his death, they experienced him very differently. The post-Easter Jesus is no longer a physical figure constrained by time and space; he can appear anywhere, pass through walls, be unrecognised, and suddenly vanish. Experiences like these led to convictions that Jesus is not simply a figure of the past, dead and gone, but a living reality of the present.
The distinction between the pre-Easter and the post-Easter Jesus matters greatly, because when we don’t make it, everything that is said about the post-Easter Jesus is projected back on to the pre-Easter Jesus. That means that even as a human being he had divine powers which meant he could walk on water, change water into wine, and raise Lazarus from the dead. That’s certainly the notion I grew up with, and I guess many of you did, too. But all of that would make the pre-Easter Jesus more than human, not like us, and therefore not really human at all in the way we understand it.
The core of Jesus’ being was the kingdom of God which refers not to an afterlife, but to a way of living life in the present. This kingdom is the very model of justice, truth, righteousness and peace, but establishing it meant challenging the prevailing powers-that-be, eating with outcasts and associating with the ritually impure and those of dubious repute. So, at the Feast of Passover, Jesus took this message to Jerusalem, the traditional centre of the Jewish people, but in his time it was ruled by a high priest and an aristocratic class who owed their positions of power to Rome. There he engaged in subversive and provocative actions, such as entering the city on a donkey; criticising the Temple leaders for having made God’s house a market place (as we just heard), accusing them of being collaborators with Rome and exploiters of ordinary people; squaring up to the authorities in a series of verbal conflicts, prophesying that Jerusalem and the Temple would be destroyed, and so on. Unsurprisingly, he was arrested and crucified, a Roman form of capital punishment reserved for those who dared to challenge imperial authority.
If Jesus is the decisive revelation of the character and passion of God, as his followers have affirmed from the beginning, what does his life tell us about God? In Jesus’ compassion for the marginalised, we see God’s compassionate and embracing nature. In Jesus’ passion for the kingdom, we see God’s passion for a transformed world in which justice, righteousness and truth reign, and in which no one is an outcast. God’s nature and passion as we see them in Jesus also have a confrontational dimension: they imply a severe criticism of anything that prevents the potential for all people – indeed, all creation – to flourish. I don’t know about you, but I really struggle with the notion of Jesus’ death as a payment for sin, or as satisfying some requirement for blood on the part of what would be a morally suspect Father God. However, it makes a lot of sense to me to speak of Jesus giving his life because of his love for others, and his passion for transforming people’s lives and the society they live in. And isn’t that transformation what the followers of Jesus are also called to, in every age? Here, surely, is where the pre- and post-Easter Jesuses come together.
This story leading us towards Passiontide and Good Friday tells us that a world transformed and our own lives transformed, may cost us a great deal. Paradoxically, though, it is in that sort of letting go, that sort of offering, that a new kind of life can emerge. Some might even call it resurrection. Indeed, John , in today’s Gospel, tells us that the disciples recalled all this after Jesus was raised from the dead, and it was then they realised they could truly believe in him.
It’s quite a comfort to know that even the disciples, Jesus’ right-hand men, were capable of missing the point about him, because I think I often miss it, too, not least when it challenges my own security and comfort. What things do we need to confront and drive out today, in our own lives, our society, our world, so that peace, justice, truth and righteousness stand a chance, and the outsiders can become insiders, and the Kingdom of God established? As one writer put it, the sorting out you are called to do in Lent is like inviting Jesus as a guest into your house. You might not mind him merely puffing up a few cushions or tidying up the newspapers, but what do you do when you realise he is intent on restructuring the whole house? You can’t throw him out, so you look around the house, find a suitable cupboard, clear it out, decorate it (sparing no expense), get a good strong lock on it – and put Jesus inside. Outside you can have a lamp and flowers, and each time you pass, bow reverently, so you now have Jesus under control and he can’t interfere any more. Only one problem with that: we all know what happened the last time they tried to secure Jesus as they rolled a stone over the entrance to his tomb…..