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     The shooting death of Trayvon Martin has grown into a national discussion.  In this Holy Week, a re-read of the biblical record gives us cause to ponder another unjust death.  With the background of the Trayvon Martin case, I’ve become further aware of the injustice bestowed on the first century Teacher from Galilee.   

     The death of Trayvon Martin has rekindled national debates about racism, stereotypes, and profiling.  At the heart of the emotion and outrage is a deep sense of injustice.  

     It is remarkable that there was no petition for justice in the case of Jesus of Nazareth.   No protestor proclaiming, “No justice, no peace.”  Nothing like the “I am Trayvon Martin” t-shirt.  The gospel writers clearly underscore Jesus’ innocence, but absolutely no one stands up for him.  Neither did the early Christians protest.  Instead they actually celebrated the injustice.  The very “logo” of Christianity is the device by which Jesus was unjustly executed.     

     The death of Trayvon has permeated the news media cycle.  Family and friends say, “We will not forget.”  But as is typical with tragic events, they slowly dissipate from memory.  The 24-hour news cycle grabs the next tragedy. 

     It is remarkable that news of the cross event has not gone away.  Not only has Jesus “not been forgotten,” but he has advanced into the very lives and activity of his followers for 2,000 years.  He is not only a memory, but a “living present,” and “future.” 

     The death of Trayvon has vilified the shooter, George Zimmerman.  Rightly or wrongly, he is clearly the national “bad guy.”

     It is remarkable that Jesus dies for the “bad guys” and villains.  For the thief on his periphery.  For his executors as he says, “Father, forgive them.” 

     What we have in the case of this first century Jew is nothing short of remarkable.  No news media outlet could have spun this story.  Maybe there is a divine author after all.    



 
 
    I walked into my local coffee shop this morning.  Cara was working.  She my lesbian, roller-derby, barista friend.  I was wearing my clerical collar, which I don't normally do.  But Ash Wednesday made it appropriate attire for a few things on my schedule.  I zipped my jacket up tight to conceal the collar.  She doesn't know I'm a pastor.  I'm afraid she'll freak when she finds out. 

     After a friendly exchange, she helped the gentleman behind me.  She noted the ashes on his forehead.  He proceeded to explain with pride that he did his Ash Wednesday duty by going to 6:30AM mass.  "I got it out of the way early."  This made me reflect on how Cara may have heard this:  A useless religious ritual.  An arduous duty.  A cultural rite no different than fireworks on July 4th and roses on Valentines. 

     I walked away praying to God that if anyone had a mindless inclination to go to church today, that he forbid them from entering the church door.  "God, if anyone is going to church out of cultural obligation, spare them of the vain effort."  I'm not sure how sanctified my prayer was, but I had to go somewhere with my frustration.  If it doesn't matter, don't do it.  Don't insult God and don't make Christians look so mindless. 

     Ashes on Ash Wednesday find their origins back in Genesis 3:19.  In light of the fall into sin: "for you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  Adam's basic ingredient was dirt.  He would simply be an inanimate object, except that the living God blew life into him (Gen. 2:7).  Unfortunately, Adam and Eve's violation in Genesis 3:6 had a damning consequence.  From then on, when breath leaves a human, they go back to dust.  Ash Wednesday reminds us of this universal consequence. 

     Dust became life with a breath.  But now our last breath means death and a return to dust.  But that's not all.  Resurrection means that the dust comes back to life again.  Jesus is the breath of God to make lifeless dirt become truly human again - to put us back to God's original intention.  Dust - Breath - Life - Death - Dust - Life again.  Wear ashes mindful of your mortality.  And hopeful that dust will breathe again. 

Maybe I should go back and see if Cara is still working.  This time, I'll wear my ashes. 

 
 
     From Christmas Day, 2010

     A lovely day.  Five inches of snow.  Kids wide-eyed with wonder.  Their chins on the window sill, smudging up the glass.  We light the candles on the wreath and sing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus.  They rip into presents, hug us, and say "thank you."  I hold my baby and we observe all the activity with full moon eyes.  We do not start the car this day.  Time matters to no one because we have nowhere to be but here. 

     Wearied by joy, the kids fall asleep quickly tonight.  Dozing in warm corners, bunked tightly.  I go for a walk in the cold.  I can tell by the tracks that exactly 6 people have walked the sidewalk in the last two days.  I'm the street's lone wanderer.  I like these nights.  The snow affects everyone, driving them behind warm walls. 

     Christmas Day, more than any other day, affects every citizen in the most powerful country in the world.  Jew, Muslim, Christian, and atheist.  Even those who work on this holiday have their day altered.  No one is unaffected - from the president to the plumber. 

     Jesus' birthday has all our attention, but no one notices.  Everyone observes a holiday and most don't know why.  Many attend a service and never get beyond the fine music.  The rituals that once pointed to Christ are diluted to motions with mixed meaning. 

     The whole world stops, but few see.  The empire slows, but in vain sentiment.  And the Christ Child again slips beyond recognition.  A Caesar or a President.  Rome or Washington, D.C.  A census or a national holiday.  It matters not.  The child is hidden.  No one sees him.  They're all looking in the wrong place. 

     All in all, a lovely day . . .

John 1:10

   
 
 
My soundtrack for this season has been "Songs for Christmas" by Sufjan Stevens.  If you are weary of the usual Christmas renditions, I highly recommend.  If you like Mariah Carey for Christmas, I would avoid it. 

Stevens provides thoughtful renditions of classics (as well as some fun originals) unlike anything I've heard before.  A quiet folk/Americana style aligns well with a theology of humble, earthy incarnation.  The classics can become redundant, but Stevens' approach causes you to hear the words as if for the first time.  Such sounds provide great devotional material for this pre-Christmas week.