"Guided in Truth" - Sunday Sermon, May 27, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

John 15:26-27; 16:4b-15

May 27, 2012

“Guided In Truth”

The Pentecosts of my past are some of my favorite church memories. It should be no great surprise that it was the food element rather than the Holy Spirit which propelled me to get dressed extra quickly on those Sunday mornings. For years, my childhood congregation would celebrate Pentecost by hosting a church picnic with a “mile” long ice cream Sunday as the main attraction. Gallons of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries would be hauled out into the lawn and placed on wax paper on top of at least fifteen folding tables. Ok, so it wasn’t quite a mile, but it was definitely the most ice cream I had ever seen in one place. As long as I didn’t get a position at the table, too close to either of my parents, no one was going to stop me from eating more than my fair share. Dressed in my Pentecostal red, I would salivate through church, with one thing in mind-- the ice cream that would be waiting for me once church was over. Looking back, I realize that sanitation that day was at an all time low. Between the ice cream melting in the Florida sun and the double and triple dipping, we likely received more germs that day than the Holy Spirit.

Some of you are probably relieved to know that Easter is officially over--finally. Jesus is risen so much so that He is now ascended into heaven. Today we celebrate both the coming of the Holy Spirit as well as the birth of the church, hence the need for an ice cream party. Throughout the liturgical world, vestments will be turned from white into red, representing the fiery nature of the Spirit as it descended upon the world in a violent rush.

It is no coincidence that we also happen to share this holy day with our Jewish cousins. For them, the festival of Shavuot is the fiftieth day after the second day of Passover, commemorating both the harvest and God’s giving of the Torah, the commandments to the people of Israel. This “law” was considered an expression of God’s will and a way for the Israelites to be guided in truth, justice, and peace. Similarly, the Holy Spirit is the church’s guide, helping her to act according to God’s will, in ways of truth, justice, and peace. For both Christians and Jews, this is a day of reception. It is the day when we all remember that it is not what we achieve ourselves, but what we are willing to receive which really matters, at least where faithfulness is concerned.

Of course, part of “receiving” is being open. My days as a tee-ball player definitely demonstrate this important principle. I had a terrible problem catching the ball when I first started playing. Every time the ball would come my way I would close my glove and my eyes, too, turning away from the catch. I must have been hoping for a tee ball miracle, that somehow, without any effort on my part, the ball would end up squarely in my glove.  I would be responsible for the final out, ensuring our tee ball World Championship. Logic told me, even at five years old, that without my hand- and my eyes- open, I would not be in a position to receive the ball, but my fear of ball as it sailed toward my face always got the better of me. Fear does have a way of thwarting even our best laid plans.

Reading our passages over and over again this week reminded me that whenever the Holy Spirit moves, things get shaken up. Change is unavoidable. In Acts, we have an account of the coming of the Holy Spirit. With the rush of a violent wind, tongues of fire rest on the mouths of the disciples who had gathered together for Shavuot. It is important to remember this next fact. Jews from every nation and every language had traveled to Jerusalem for this holy day. Suddenly, these masses, from every tribe and land, could understand what the disciples were saying. No longer was the gospel limited to the language of Galilee or even to the original group of disciples. From this point forward, through the Holy Spirit, every nation and people would be able to receive this Good News.

Likewise, in John’s gospel, we are told that the Spirit will guide us in all truth. This sounds good, if where the Spirit guides are green pastures and still waters. But, it includes into hostile territory as well, where Jesus says, we will be called upon to testify this message: “that he will prove the world wrong about^* sin and righteousness and judgment…  ⁹because the ruler of this world has been condemned (Jn 16:8-11).” Those who have ever testified this kind of news have learned, some even unto death, that the powers of world are not often thrilled to hear it.

What we learn in our readings is, more often than not, the Holy Spirit can be more of a pain than a consolation. After all, it is the Spirit which pushes us beyond our comfort zones. It is the Spirit which drives us to overcome our fears. It is the Spirit which helps us see the right choice, often the harder choice, even when we would rather not face this truth. When we pray for the Holy Spirit, we are not praying for the status quo, for things to stay the same. We are praying that we might be pried open and made new in God’s image. We are praying that we might transcend our complacency and inwardness. We are praying for courage to overcome our tendencies to hide behind what we have always known just because it is easier.

Earlier this week, as a part of our Thursday lunch book club, a group of us discussed the meaning of Truth. Most of us, from whatever place on the theological spectrum we hail, agree that Truth with a capital “T” belongs to God alone. Yet, many are quick to claim unequivocal knowledge of what God’s Truth is. Somehow, they have figured it out perfectly and anyone who comes to a different conclusion is not only mistaken, but on a slippery slope to a very bad place. As if any one of us, any one church or denomination, has that kind of absolute authority. One member of the group told a story of a conversation that recently happened to her. When she shared what she had been reading and praying about in her own faith journey with one of her church friends from home-- about loving her enemies, about tolerance, about how God’s love was bigger and more powerful than human sin, that in the end, no one but God has any say about heaven and hell-- this friend told her that she needed to start praying because she was entering dangerous waters.

But if Pentecost tells us anything, it is that we are supposed to go into dangerous waters. We are supposed to go down paths that are dark, paths that are unknown or uncertain, because only by doing this can we share the Good News with the whole world. Admittedly, it is scary. Dangerous ground always is. But this is what God is calling us to do, to follow in Jesus’ footsteps by loving those who have hurt us and may even hurt us again, by reaching out to those who see God differently than we do, by being open to this truth, that the Holy Spirit is moving and shaping and pulling and stretching us, always, whether we like it or not. What we think we know for sure, may shift and change over time. But this is not because Truth is changing. On the contrary, Truth like God is always steadfast. Instead, it is because we are changing, growing in wisdom and knowledge, through God’s grace and love, transforming into more than we ever thought we could be.

As much as we may face a world that is wrought with peril, pain, and even evil, we never face these things on our own. This is the gift of Pentecost; this is the presence of the Holy Spirit. For as much as we are sent into the world, to preach and pray and love and suffer and share the light of Christ to the very ends of the Earth, we are guided by the Spirit, guided into all the Truth. And that’s Truth with a capital “T.” But, sometimes I wonder if we really believe it because if we did, we would trust that God isn’t going to lead us astray. We would trust that in coming together to pray and to discern where to go next, as a church, and as a people, our choices would not be driven by our fears, but instead they would be inspired by our desire to love and follow God, no matter where that love takes us, no matter who we embrace along the way.

In this season of our lives, we are gathered here, working in the largest US held and operated detention facility in Afghanistan. Some of us deal with detainees. Some of us work with Afghan partners. All of us are briefed daily about the dangers of green on blue attacks, about how we need to be watchful and pay attention because it just might save our lives. It is true. We must be vigilant in our care of one another and ourselves because there are those who want to bring us harm. But, I also wonder if what we gain in this Pentecost is another kind of reminder-- that even here, especially here, we are still guided by the Spirit into all Truth. If we truly believe it, we will have courage to go out in peace, prepared to serve and support and honor all people of every nation and language and tribe. We are sent out into this place to love our neighbors, friend or foe, and everything between. When we follow Jesus, we often find ourselves in dangerous waters. For now, this may cost us our lives. In the end, though, this will also save us. Amen.

Book Club

For the past five weeks, I have gathered with an assorted group of soldiers over Thursday's lunch hour. My lunch partners come from a variety of religious backgrounds. Our ages range at least thirty years, and most of us, at one time or another, have been on “the ins” of a faith community, even if as an unwilling participant, sleeping through worship in the balcony pews. Our differences- gender, class, education, political affiliation and ideology- are likely greater than our similarities.

I was a little nervous the first time our faith-based “book club” met to discuss Martin Thielen’s recent publication, What’s the Least I Can Believe and Still Be A Christian? I chose the book months ago, before we even left the US for Afghanistan, in a desperate scramble to find theologically sound reading material which might be enticing enough to peak the interest of younger, perhaps even doubtful, soldiers. Announcing the book title out loud in church one Sunday, I realized that there could be a number of Service Members put off by its pithy ring. When I picked the book, I didn’t think I would care. Yet, facing my small but faithful early service congregation, I realized that there wasn’t much room to loose members by being offensive, even if unintentionally. I finally understand many a pastor’s dilemma when introducing something that might be considered even the slightest bit “edgy.” 

The group was open to anyone on camp, including civilians and third country nationals, which could have proven to be another disaster altogether. In fact, during our first lunch discussion, one of the younger female soldiers pulled me aside, a little worried that one of the other, older soldiers, might not be as open to some of our theological ideas and conclusions. She had been in a Bible study with him earlier in the year which was far from open-minded.  As I set my tray down at the table and greeted the crowd, I wondered if I was in way over my head.

In the five weeks that we have met, we have covered perhaps the most challenging issues and debates which face the church-- hell, homosexuality, and hatred to name a few. To my utter surprise, our conversations have been some of the most refreshing in my short stint as a pastor. I could not have asked for a more thoughtful or open group, so much so that I have come to look forward to Thursday lunch as a time of renewal instead of just another laborious chaplain duty. We have never argued with one another or left lunch in a huff. Instead, this random crew has found a way to hold the hard things in both hands.

As we sit together in the large tent which serves as our “chow” hall, nibbling on some kind of mystery meat, I marvel at this seeming religious anomaly. We were each introduced to Jesus in vastly different ways, from the austere worship of the Church of God to the trendy vibes of a mega church, yet we have all arrived at this same place along the path toward Truth. Despite the baggage we carry, notions of which sin is worse or who will be saved, we have come together, realizing that God is bigger than any fear which threatens to shackle us. We may be engaged in war in Afghanistan, serving in a variety of capacities from prison guard to intelligence collector, but we all see the immense need for honoring Afghanistan and her people, including her understanding of God, despite the risk of hurt or harm. In some ways, by family members or even through church teaching, we have all been taught that openness and tolerance may take us down a dangerous road, but, here, gathered around cardboard tables, we have decided to trust that in our Divine seeking, no matter where it takes us, God will guide and guard us. Really, we have nothing to fear.

Though our book was finished this past week, we decided to meet again next Thursday. Throughout the afternoon, after returning to our respective duty posts, different members have emailed various theological articles for next week’s discussion. At first, I jokingly announced that we would be revisiting the topic of salvation- heaven and hell- since this was the theme of our reading materials. I realized, though, that may be a better description for our discussion topic-- God’s continual grace for creation, all of us included, despite all the ways we thwart justice, mercy, and love. Thursday won’t come soon enough.

"Ascension" - Sunday Sermon, May 20, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

May 20, 2012

Luke 24:44-53

“Ascension”

When I was very small, and church consisted almost solely of coloring the children’s bulletin and sneaking Trident gum from my grandmother’s purse, back when it was only the original flavor, my favorite place to sit in the pews was on the inner aisle. Those were the most coveted seats in the house, as far as I was concerned. It was the best place to see all that was going on throughout the service and the best position to be in for a quick escape from church and certain arrival at the cookie trays before my father had a chance to tell me, “No.” Even when I wasn’t on the aisle during worship, I somehow, stealthily, found a way to wiggle my way there by the end of the last hymn.

Sugar was always at the forefront of my mind. But, Sunday after Sunday, holding my breath as the priest spoke his final words of blessing, I began to look forward to the blessing almost as much as I longed for an opportunity to crash the coffee hour.  In my Episcopal church the words were short and simple. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” the priest would say. And, as he moved out into the afternoon sunlight, the congregation would exhale, almost as one.

This moment of blessing was our tipping point, where we would be transformed from a people facing inward unto ourselves into a people turned inside out, facing the world with arms ready to embrace whatever came next. At this point, there was no going back. This blessing was the moment that solidified all that had come before in our worship, the praise and prayer, the reading and learning from the Bible. These few words were our reminder that our worship was shaping, molding, and preparing us to go out into the world, ready to be the hands and feet of Christ, ready to witness the Good News. We were ready to go in peace to love and serve the Lord, or at least that is what it felt like in those first moments as we filed out of the sanctuary.

If you didn’t notice the front of your bulletin this morning, this is the Sunday that we celebrate the Ascension, the day that Jesus rose up into heaven, to, as one of our earliest creeds puts it, sit at the right hand of God. As a church, we have mostly struggled with what to make of this feast day. Even artists have struggled to express this moment in our history, often depicting Jesus shooting up into the sky like a rocket or even painting Jesus’ feet dangling from the clouds as the disciples look up in wonder. Recently, a pastor friend from home reminded me of a few of her favorite depictions of the Ascension. One, found in the Church of the Ascension in Jerusalem, is, according to legend, Jesus’ last footprint on earth, an indentation in the stone floor which the church was later built around. Pilgrims come from around the world to see and touch this stone. Perhaps, placing their hand into this “footprint” is a palpable way to remember that once upon a time, Jesus walked the earth.

Our struggle to wrap our heads around the Ascension should not be altogether surprising. The story of the Ascension begs a few important questions, particularly for a modern audience. We know what comes after the clouds, and even after the earth’s atmosphere, far beyond what our eyes can see. It’s not the “heaven” with which we are familiar from our scripture. But, it’s space and another planet’s gravitational forces and then eventually another solar system and galaxy, ever expanding, or so the really smart people tell us. So, my question is this: just how far did Jesus have to go to get to God’s right hand? To the very edge of the universe? It’s hard not to have visions of God and Jesus, as his right hand guy, on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, on the final frontier, going boldly where no one has gone before.

For this reason, I am grateful that the Ascension is really about so much more than what we gain from any literalistic interpretation. It is clear, as we read our gospel for this morning, that we are at a point of transition, quite similar to that moment in the end of worship when the minister raises hands and says, in so many words, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” For three years, the disciples had been with Jesus, experiencing the day to day, learning from him about the scriptures, being shown through his example what a life of faithfulness looks like. In this moment, there is a cosmic shift. After a time of training with Jesus, they stand on the precipice of a new season. What comes next is the birth of the church, a time for disciples, present and to come, to go out into the world proclaiming repentance and forgiveness to all nations, loving and serving God as they go. These are the chapters which follow, beginning with the Acts of the Apostles and continuing even to this day.

As much as I absolutely dread Saturday night and the blank page which always seems to be waiting for me, no matter how hard I try to get a jump start on my sermon earlier in the week, I am often reminded that if I wasn’t tasked with preaching, I would never spend enough time with the text. I would never uncover the little pearls tucked away in a single, solitary verse. This week was a perfect example. I have been a diligent churchgoer my entire life, so excluding both my youngest years when I was focused on coloring and my teen years when I was a little distracted by looking at some of the cute boys in my youth group, I have heard the Ascension story preached at least twenty times. And, never in all these occasions, not to mention the times that I have simply read the story, have I noticed a detail which is paramount to the story-- the fact that Jesus was blessing the disciples as he rose to heaven and that he never stopped blessing them. “While he was blessing them... he was carried up into heaven (v.51).” In his last moment on earth, Jesus is pronouncing a blessing, his final benediction.

When I was in Hebrew class, my favorite word was barak, meaning “to bless.” The word appears thousands of times in the Hebrew Bible and then carries over into the Greek Testament. My interest was peeked when we were reading through the book of Job. Though the first lexiconical entry for barak is the expected translation, “to bless,” one of the later entries is, surprisingly, “to curse.” And, while many of the translations that we read, like the New International Version which we read today, for instance, have Job and Job’s wife “cursing God” in some moments, the King James Version actually has Job “blessing God,” instead.

I have always found it fascinating that one word can encapsulate such divergent meanings. We all know that there is a chiasmic difference between a blessing and a curse. Somehow, though, the meaning of this little word in Hebrew gestures to something much bigger, much more hopeful. The life that unfolds around us is waiting to be received and responded to. Whether we receive a blessing or a curse has much to do with our own attitudes, our own ability to trust that God is steadfast to his promises, making something good out of the ashes we hold on to after enduring tragedy, loss, or disappointment. Even when it is too dark to see the ways that we are blessed by God, the blessing still endures.

If the story is any indication, Jesus doesn’t ever stop blessing us, even as he disappears into the heavens. He is physically gone. We can no longer see him or touch him. But, the gift that he gives us as he goes, keeps on giving. Despite losing Jesus to heaven, the disciples worship him still and they even take it one step further. They go back to Jerusalem filled with joy, and they were continually in the temple, blessing God. As one writer puts it, “Blessing begets blessing.”^[1] Because Jesus’ blessing lives in us and is re-gifted to others, in a way, he isn’t really gone. And, this is how Luke’s gospel ends-- Jesus blessing the disciples and the disciples, filled with joy, sharing his blessing, prepared to witness the Good News of Jesus Christ to the world.

In a way, though, we can’t forget what I might call the shadow side of the Ascension, which is Jesus’ departure. He may have blessed them, but he also left them. We can’t overlook their sense of loss and dismay, not so much in those immediate days when they believed his return was imminent, but in the long, sometimes deadly days which followed, days that are still unfolding, even now. Next Sunday, we will celebrate Pentecost, when the fire of the Holy Spirit covers the earth, empowering us all to continue the witness, to spread the blessing to the ends of the earth. This is the spirit which Jesus promises to send to us as our Advocate. Nonetheless, we are still waiting for Jesus, sometimes still looking into the heavens, wondering where exactly he has gone off too and when he will be back with us again.

Perhaps this is why Jesus’ perpetual blessing is so significant. Jesus knew what they, and we, could not know then, that his blessing would be manna in the wilderness, that the seasons which would pass before his coming would not be without suffering and hardship. His blessing would sustain them, and us, when the sight of God’s kingdom had been lost. His blessing would renew them, and us, when strength was all but lost. His blessing would be their reminder, and ours, that because of what Jesus has done, revealing himself, opening minds to understand the scriptures, they, and we, have a job to do.

What we remember in the Ascension, watching as Jesus rises into the heavens and receiving his never-ending blessing, letting it wash over us, is that, from that place and from this place, too, from every place where we praise and pray and give thanks to God, we go out into the world in peace, ready to love and serve the Lord. Thanks be to God. Amen

---

^[1] Thomas Troeger. “Luke 24:44-53.” Feasting on the Word. p. 525

Going On

I was reminded recently just how vast the spectrum of ministry can be in any given day. One minute, life is clipping along as expected, and the next, in a breath, everything changes. I have come to dread any surprise knock at my door, though, most often, it is only a friendly face wanting to say hello. The few times it has been a real emergency ensure that any knock, because of its potential for seriousness, makes my heart beat a little faster as I walk toward the door. Even though our camp is small, and there are not many places where I could stay hidden for long, I still worry that people may be looking for me if I have been away from my office for a few hours. It would help if my cell phone worked. Sadly, Afghanistan’s cellular network is not the most reliable. 

I have come to anticipate the worst, particularly, when my assistant shows up in an unexpected place looking for me. This past week, I was in the gym, about ten minutes into my run. We had a Red Cross message and, according to the news relayed to me, it was extremely serious. As I grabbed my IPOD and keys from the cubby holes, I started to pray. Those few minutes of waiting to know who the message is for and how devastating the message is are some of the worst. Delivering bad news is never easy in any circumstance, and in hopes of being at least a little prepared, I have tucked away in my mind some of the worse possibilities, bracing myself for what could happen. Of course, I hope that they never come true.

I go back and forth on what I think is more difficult, delivering a red cross message to a stranger or to someone I know well. This past week, I had only ever seen the young man in passing. As I waited with his chain of command, I wished that I knew at least something about him, that we had some encounter or memory which would have connected us before this tragic moment. This was wishful thinking. 

It was the worst kind of news we delivered that day-- death, by suicide. There is really nothing to say which can soften the blow. Despite the fact that I know it was an impossible situation, I still felt like a monumental failure. As we stood around, waiting for him to call home, not wanting to invade his privacy as he cried into the phone, I wracked my brain for some kind of strategy for what would come next once he hung up the receiver. It was going so badly. I was just wanted to escape, knowing that if I, myself, had heard similar news, I probably wouldn’t want an awkward stranger trying to talk to me. 

To my surprise, something unbelievable happened. One of his friends showed up. Pushing all the leadership and superfluous people through the door, the three of us sat down on the floor. As much as I didn’t want to intrude in this moment with his friend, I also didn’t think I should leave them alone. I didn't want her to bear the burden of his grief, not if I could carry some, too. I knew this was where I was supposed to be. We sat there-- crying and laughing and cursing-- simply absorbing the news and letting it settle around us. I couldn’t help but think about Job and his friends. 

What did they do right when they came to his side after he had endured such loss? Had they listened, expressed their care and sadness? Had they helped him feel less alone? What had they done wrong? The details escaped me, but I knew that this moment was not a time for trite platitudes or empty explanations of why this had happened. It was a time to be quiet and responsive. It was a time to be present.

I have no idea how much time passed, but at some point, our pow-wow was over, and he was ready to go to his room and pack his bag for the journey home. When I looked at my watch, I realized I had twenty-five minutes to shower and change and be ready to lead the Mother’s Day worship service. I was in charge, and everyone was waiting for me. It was the last thing I wanted to do, not then, not after my morning. How could I lead praise and prayer when I had spent the last few hours sitting with Job? It was jarring and unfathomable. 

But, this is what it means to minister to others-- whether one’s flock is a congregation, a classroom, or a household. Life doesn’t ever stop, even when we have the breath knocked out of us. We don’t have much of a choice but to pick up whatever pieces are left over. We go on, though sometimes with our eyes still wet with tears. 

"Love: Part 2" - Sunday Sermon, May 13, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

May 13, 2012

John 15:9-17

“Love: Part 2”

Throughout the week, as I have been emailing some of my minister friends at home who were also preparing for sermons this Sunday, a few of them have mentioned just how “over” love they are. I admit, when I looked up our gospel for this morning and realized it was just about the same tune as last week, I agreed with them. Love just keeps coming up, and I am running out of things to say about it. And, as one person mentioned to me during the week, “Love is hard really to imagine when each day because, for one reason or another, I’m just trying not to hate.” This is true, especially here, where there is very little space or opportunity to get back to neutral. In some cases, love may begin with a subtle change of heart. In the absence of negative emotion, space is made for something more, something even hopeful which might eventually turn into love. It’s all about the baby steps.

But, whether we like it or not, we find ourselves in the same exact spot we left off last week, hearing again about Jesus’ command to love as he has loved us. This is his final discourse, his Last Supper, with the disciples. Now, though, they are not only his followers, but they are also called his friends-- no longer servants but friends. It is an important title, worthy of our attention. I should have looked ahead and realized that these two weeks are really the same passage, just broken in half. Don’t ask me why. If I had been paying better attention I could have easily entitled these sermons, Love: Part 1 and Part 2.

If we took anything away from Part 1 last week, hopefully you at least remember the vine and the branches, God is the source of life without which we wither and die; love is only possible through God. God supplies love, enabling us to love in response. There is an ancient hymn, possibly as old as some of the first Christian gatherings, which is typically sung in Catholic churches either on Maundy Thursday, during the foot washing, or in preparation for Communion, which says, Ubi caritas et amor, deus ibi est. Where there is love, there is God. Without God there is no love, no true love. This was LOVE: Part 1.

So, now, Love: Part 2. In many ways, Part 2 is all about friendship, a word often misunderstood and even more often overused. I am one to talk, since I have just surpassed 1700 friends on my facebook page. The word friend is derived from the Greek word phileo, meaning “to love.” A friend is literally one who loves. It is an active, present tense verb. Around the time that our gospel was being written, the ideal of friendship played a prominent role in society. Aristotle once said, “It is true the virtuous man’s conduct is often guided by the interests of his friends and of his country, and that he will if necessary lay down his life in their behalf.”^[1] We heard echoes of this same calling in our gospel when Jesus said, “No one has greater love then this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

The idea of laying down one’s life for one’s friends seems a little dramatic in our contemporary culture. I can honestly say that I don’t even remember half of my facebook friends. I don’t even write all of them on their birthdays, so I can guarantee that I am not prepared to die for them. In Greek and Roman times, friendship was an ideal often espoused philosophically as well as theologically. This is not to say that people back then were better, more dedicated friends, it’s just that they used this language to articulate the extent upon which a true friend would sacrifice himself for the sake of another. Being a friend was something that was aspired to. It was a distinction that held special honor. Friendship spoke to both the calms and storms of life. It indicated longevity and commitment. Friendship was based on the good of the other person, rather than personal need or gain. It did not aim to possess or control. Therefore, true friendship was and, continues to be, very rare.

The first time I was asked, as a chaplain, to do a funeral for a fallen soldier, I had about sixteen hours to prepare. I had nothing but a blank page and a general’s aid who was calling me on the half hour to see if he could get an updated order of service. I wanted to tell him that he would get the information a lot faster if he would stop calling me. I didn’t know any of the circumstances of his death, just that he had died in Afghanistan and had a wife and three little girls all under five. But, in a way, I didn’t need to know the details. Whatever he was doing when he died, whatever happened, love was surely a part of it.

As one writer puts it, “Soldiers in battle fight for their friends. They make friendships more intense, more intimate than any they have ever known before. And when Jesus says ‘Greater love has no one than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends,’ soldiers know exactly what he’s talking about. You don’t hurl yourself into the shelling and rifle fire of no man’s land because you believe in freedom, justice or the flag; you do it because you see your friend has been hit, and you can’t bear for him to die because he’s dearer to you than your own life.”^[2]

While I have never been in a fire fight, never had to walk through the rubble of a mortar attack where a team member has been lost, never been a breath away of someone who was hit by a round or shrapnel, being here has made Jesus’ words a lot more real. They are no longer some abstract thought or distant possibility that will likely never come to pass. But, these words are now about faces and names, about Libby or Paula or Kathy, about Doug or Greg or Kyle. None of us know if or when we will ever be faced with the choice, but we know this, true friendship changes everything, even one’s need for self preservation.

In his novel, A Soldier’s Return, Melvyn Bragg tells a story of battle buddies serving in the British Army during the Second World War. Sam and Ian are their names. Like most battle buddies, Sam and Ian, meet somewhere along the road to war. Though their friendship has been short in number of days, it is matured by the intensity of their shared experience. Thousands of miles from home, fighting the Japanese in “the Far East,” they clung to one another. They depended on one another for just about everything from personal protection to keeping each other afloat during the long, interminable slog of war. In that space, there was really nothing else to hold on to but friendship.

Sadly, as we know too well, many who go to war don’t always return home-- alive. This was the case for Ian. In the book, Sam recalls the setting of Ian’s death-- it was a fine day, in a safe clearing.  Soldiers from different companies were enjoying a moment of rest after a few fierce days of fighting. Some were lounging, while others cleaning their weapons. It was a long needed break. Sam was right there next to Ian, enjoying a cigarette, no more than three feet away from him.

Sam describes, “I can see it now. Ian was cleaning a grenade... he pulled the pin before removing the fuse... he had a count of five before it blew up. That look. Sam could not, would not want to forget that look. For both had known, instantaneously, that there was nowhere to throw the grenade without killing some of the others. There was nowhere at all to throw it. Ian’s look had been of wonder and then... Ian had smiled, gently, sweetly… He had tried to say something before he violently twisted himself over and flattened himself on to the grenade, taking the full weight of the blast into his own body”^[3] To lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

Love is always a sacrifice. Ask any spouse who has given up his or her dreams to do what was best for the family as a whole. Ask any mother or father who has been up all hours of the night nursing a sick child. Ask any good leader who has given up the last seat on the bird home so that his soldiers might get to see their families while he stays back and misses out on spending the time with his. Being a friend, being “one who loves,” always comes with a cost.

We hear a lot of talk about the ultimate sacrifice, particularly when someone dies in combat. This language has always bothered me a little bit though, and I haven’t figured out why until now.  When Ian wrapped his body around that grenade... it wasn’t philosophical; it wasn’t patriotism; it wasn’t even about doing the right thing or even following Jesus. In those five seconds, there was no time to figure any of that out. Instead, it was simply out of love. 

Perhaps Jesus’ command to love as he loved is the most radical idea we find in our whole gospel because it seems to claim that the same love that Jesus had for the whole world which landed him on the cross is also possible within each of us. On some days, it’s hard to imagine. But, with Love: Part 1 in mind, we realize that this kind of love is possible because of the love, without condition, which God has so freely shared with us and continues to share even now.

A few years ago, long before Lance Armstrong’s yellow LIVE STRONG bracelets were popular, another bracelet hit the church youth circuit. On each bracelet was four letters: WWJD. This stood for What Would Jesus Do? For the high school aged kids in the Bible belt where I am from, I am pretty sure the bracelet was supposed to be a subtle reminder of Christian ethics and morality. In other words, don’t have sex; don’t drink; don’t do drugs.

Reflecting on this passage, on this Easter season as a whole, I wonder why we need to ask What Would Jesus Do. After all, we already know the answer, and I don’t think it is about sex or drugs. Loving as we have been loved, true love, is much harder than abstaining from any of those. Instead of the question, maybe what we need is a prayer, that we actually strive to do what Jesus has done and is still doing in the world, that we would go out and bear the fruit of love, the fruit of the Spirit, the fruit that will endure unto the very end. Amen.

---

^[1] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics IX.8 (1169a18-25) quoting from Gail O’Day, “I Have Called You Friends.” Center for Christian Ethics: Baylor University, 2008, p 21.

^[2] Sam Wells, Sacrificing War. A sermon preached at Duke Chapel on April 13, 2008

^[3] Melvyn Bragg. A Soldier’s Return. Arcade: 2003, pp 114-117