CHRISTOS ANESTI! ALITHOS ANESTI!
As the crow flies, it’s at least 80 miles from Bethsaida to Jerusalem and, although the Days of Unleavened Bread were still some time away, the urgency of the journey was palpable. The Teacher had said there was still much to share with his followers; yet the crowds - even in the tiniest hamlets - demanded to see him and his heart seemed filled with the pain of the widows and orphans, the lepers who had been rejected by their families, and the most physically and emotionally broken.
With the first rays of morning light breaking over the hillocks to the East, the day began as had all the days of this pilgrimage – gifts of bread, boiled eggs and fruit provided by those who offered them shelter in their stables or olive groves as expressions of gratitude for the healing and Good News that had been so freely shared with them.
Like the Teacher himself, the travelers had embarked on this journey without extra cloaks or coins in their pockets; at midday they would rest from the heat and he would share his message with all who would hear and they would serve – finishing a widow’s roof, healing the sick, reaping the harvest of strangers; and, as the sun settled and the air cooled, he would continue to teach and heal. Relying on the kindness of others for their evening meal, they would finish their day at the Teacher’s side, listening carefully, absorbing every word.
This night, as he had so often before, the Teacher invited Peter and James to join him for an evening walk under the star-lit sky. After all, he had entrusted to them the task of sharing his message if – when – anything happened to him. But this night was different from all those others. This night, with a smile that conveyed an unspoken message, he nodded to the boy – a teen, really – saying, without words, “Join us.”
Away from the others, he began – in a voice measured and gentle, quiet and profound. “My Friends.”
The three stopped. He had never called them “Friends” before.
“My Friends, days of fear and cowardice, of treachery and courage, of betrayal and newfound hope are coming.
The three stood frozen – amazed, surprises, sensing that something – they knew not what – had changed. “Friends.” Until this moment, they had been “disciples” and he had been “Rabbi,” “Teacher and Lord,” never “friend.”
Looking directly at the lad, he began, “Days of cowardice and betrayal are coming, and I am trusting the care of my mother to you. We still have a long way to go and, when we arrive in Jerusalem, the cowardice and betrayal will begin. In the morning, please start toward Jerusalem and when you find my mother, take care to keep her safe. We will follow you and will be in Jerusalem with time to be ready for the Feast of Unleavened Bread. But the crowds….” His thoughts seemed to wander for a moment.
The lad did not understand “find her, take care to keep her safe.” He knew only that the Teacher had asked. He would comply.
“It will be a long journey,” said the Teacher. “But we will be behind you. There’s still teaching to be done, and the sick… So many sick… We will be behind you. A few days later… Now, it is late and you have a long way to go. It’s time for you to go to sleep. Peter and James and I still have much to talk about.”
As John turned back to camp, the Teacher addressed the two. “My friends, difficult days are coming. They will be days of corruption and fear, of cowardice and renewal and courage. They will be days that will last the rest of your lives and there’s still so much to learn.”
They were still confused. “Corruption and fear?” Peter questioned.
“Peter,” said the Teacher, “So many men want power – power over others, the power of money, the power of power. When they achieve it, they begin to think they are power. They will make laws to cheat the poor, to defraud the honest man, to enslave others and have authority over others. To always have power. Because they have power, they have respect for no one but themselves. And, many will believe their lies as they proclaim that they are doing God’s will; they hate the stranger and the foreigner in their land and see them and treat them forever as ‘the other.’ They respect no one but themselves.”
The two listened, but did not understand. And, watching their faces, the Teach knew and He understood.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “the day when we fed the multitude?”
The two nodded in agreement. Who could forget! Five thousand men and thousands of women and children seemingly fed with just a few fish and a few loaves of bread. That was the story everyone told. But the Teacher’s friends knew there was more.
“We were all so hungry. You. The crowd, especially the children and the old people. We felt the same hunger they did. Because we felt what they did, we felt for them and with them. And we shared the little food we had… and so many others in the group had food with them. When they saw that we – you and I – did what we said, they did the same thing. They shared.
“The widow in Nain. I thought of my mother. I remembered her pain as a widowed mother with an only son. In a sense, I’ve spent years walking in the widow’s pain. I had to do something.
“The young couple whose wedding we attended. We have all known the pain of embarrassment. We could not let the most important day of their life be marked by that pain.
“The lepers. They’ve spent lifetimes being chased off because of something over which they had no control. In years to come young and old men and women will suffer – as I will suffer in Jerusalem - not because they have done anything wrong but simply because they are different. They will know our pain, just as we know and will know their pain.
“I go to Jerusalem – we go to Jerusalem – because I must share the message that we can only love God by loving one another.
“Lazarus is my friend; I love him, as I love Martha and Mary. Their pain when he died was my pain; my pain was theirs. He lives now because we shared each other’s pain and grief.
“When we get to Jerusalem those who enjoy their power and authority – those who exercise authority and lord it over others and lay huge burdens on the poor and the stranger – will bring me to trial and put me to death. But I know that my Father, the Father who loves me and who loves you, will not let death conquer His love. Death will be swallowed-up in the victory of the Father’s love; death will lose its sting.
“But there are those, too, even among you, who live in such fear that they will reject truth and cling to lies; they will lie so often – even to themselves – that their lies will become their truth and truth will become lies.
“Caesar,” he reminded James and Peter, “lives half-a-world from here. He has no power – no real power. Yet those in authority in Jerusalem live in fear of him. That he will speak badly of them, that he will ‘primary’ them. They live in fear of the loss of prestige and their places of honor at the table.
“I know that when we get to Jerusalem those who hold power and authority will kill me because my message is a challenge to their wealth and position. But, as I loved Lazarus, my Father – our Father – will experience the pain I felt at the death of Lazarus and He will never let death be the end of His love; he will never let death be the end of our love.”
Passover and Palm Sunday have come and gone. Jesus has entered triumphant into Jerusalem; his honesty, his courage, his empathy for the suffering of others and born of his own pain, terrified those in authority. Judas, who handled and stole the money meant to help the poor and worried that his mere association with the Teacher might place him in danger, sought the favor of those in power and authority and betrayed the man who called him “friend.” Thus, began the Days of Cowardice and Deceit.
Pontius Pilate, terrified by the threat “you are no friend of Caesar,” collapsed in fear and attempted – in vain – to wash his hands of “the blood of this just man.” Fearful political and religious leaders sold their souls. The question of the Teacher – “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his immortal soul” – echoes through the halls of power.
From the stable to the empty tomb and beyond, the story of Jesus – the Easter Mystery and Message – is one the cowardice of politicians afraid of angering a distant tyrant and live-saving, life-giving empathy.
Cowardice – the fear of being “primaried,” of loss of prestige or power or public acclaim - destroys empathy. Empathy was born in the poverty of the stable and found its expression in kindness to the outcast, the Samaritan woman at the well and a despised Roman officer. Empathy was lived at the grave of Lazarus, extended to the newlyweds of Cana and the widow of Nain, and nurtured the multitudes. Empathy was lived in the words to the lad John “Son, behold your mother. Mother, behold your son.” Empathy found it expression in the assurance to Dismas, “This day, you who suffer as I do – shall be with me in Paradise” – and the forgiveness of the Crucified in grilling fish for Peter, who, one night, was overcome by his fear.
Empathy finds its ultimate expression in the grief of the Father who, having Himself been overwhelmed by the death of his Only Begotten Son, knew our grief and pain and called Jesus to “Come forth”
Empathy is the acceptance of Jesus that – in answering the Father’s call – he would for the briefest instance re-experience in his body the pain of the cross but chose to gift his family and friends with the consolation of Resurrection.
Passover and Palm Sunday are over. The days of cowardice and shame have passed. The tomb is sealed, awaiting the Father’s call and our eternal freedom. Death will be swallowed-up in victory!
And, with a joy that rings through the centuries, we will proclaim
Christos Anesti!
Alithos Anesti!