Losing our lives...

As we move into Holy Week, I keep thinking on Jesus' words: whoever wants to save their life must lose it. Perhaps this is a hinge for our march to Easter morning. After all, we began Lent in the desert with Jesus and this was Jesus' temptation: to have the whole world at his fingertips, power, control, and adoration. 

Essentially that is our temptation too, every day, every moment. Does my innermost self long for things? Do I long for adoration? Do I long for acceptance? Have I lost my very self, the person God created me to be, in the chase of worldly ambitions? Does my neediness prevent life and peace?

On the pragmatic side of things, we all have goals. And, that is a realistic part of being alive.  But Jesus comes to disrupt those goals. If we are honest, we constantly try to tame Jesus, domesticate Jesus into a mild mannered fellow, a likeable chap that looks like us. Yet, nothing in scripture suggests or supports this perception. Jesus is the uninvited guest who comes to the banquet in overalls.  He is the person that we love but don't want our friends to know how much. He is that Holy Spirit who whispers, "what are you really doing here?" He is that King who disappoints our romantic notions of grandeur and finery.

I do believe that we are here on earth to literally lose our lives.  We first most lose our childish orientation of the world revolving around us. Whether I am engaged in liturgy (the work and worship of the people) or engaged in walking with a friend, trying to listen earnestly, or even trying to understand someone else's situation:  it is not about me.  

There is a freedom that comes in finding a deep peace within, a peace that is not conditioned by the presence of any other person or thing in this world. The more of I lose of my wants, needs, hopes, and expectations the freer I am to be in this moment. This is the salvation that I glimpse in Jesus:  do you love me enough to let go? Of everything?  Drop your nets, take up your Cross and follow me.

What are we spending our lives doing? So much of life is being caught up in the commerce of this world, the frenetic pace of accomplishment and quantifiable results. What if we stopped defining ourselves by what we do? What if we could answer that we as church are spending our lives loving and giving away all that we have? Instead, have we given up everything for things that do not last? Are we chasing a love that is not real, not true, not everlasting?

Beyond the commerce of this world, what riches do I treasure in my life?  Where am I poor in spirit? Where am I grasping on to things that do not last? What sacrifices in my life have I made that make a true difference? I suppose I have more questions than answers.  These questions come back to Jesus' command: take up your cross and follow me.

I think good people of faith really struggle with this command.  We think in literal terms of picking up a cross and get lost in the abstraction of what that cross may be. Do we each have a cross to bear? Do I know what my cross is? Is it of the same essence as what Paul complained about with his thorn in his side?  Can I help another to carry their cross while also carrying mine? How does carrying my cross match up with "my yoke is easy and my burden light?" 

As we move into Holy Week the Cross will be a primary focus: were you there when they crucified my Lord? Beyond singing this heavy hymn once again, how can we answer that question with our life?

The goal of Lent is to find ourselves lost and then found on Easter morning.  What does that journey look like now? Are you seeing buds of new life out of death, seeds of transformation? What sacrifices have you made and which will you continue to make as a permanent part of your life? I will continue to hold balance as a primary part of keeping focus on that which truly matters, finding the quiet spaces to lose myself, marvel in grace and mercy, revel in gratitude, and repent of distractions.

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

You who command,

You who are our commander,

You who are our commander-in-chief;

We intend obedience, without reserve.

As we ponder your commands, they often come at us

like more nagging from our mothers,

like more rules from our teachers,

like more expectations from our peers,

like more pressure from the church,

like more defeat from our guilty conscience.

Our obedience thins down to resentment,

tired of the nagging and pressure and rules and expectations.

Then we hear your wonderful words of life,

and know that in your command is our perfect freedom.

For your command,

for Jesus' glad obedience,

for Jesus' new command of neighbor,

we give you great thanks.

We vow full, glad compliance.

Amen.