Intermingling

Text: Matthew 28:1-10

Theme: "Intermingling”

The Resurrection of The Lord/Easter Day

April 24, 2011

First Presbyterian Church

Denton, Texas

Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

In the Name of Jesus

¹ After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.

² There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. ³ His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. ⁴ The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

⁵ The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. ⁶ He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. ⁷ Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”

⁸ So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. ⁹ Suddenly Jesus met them. “Greetings,” he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. ¹⁰ Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”

Not much changed except everything. After all the high drama of the betrayal, arrest, trial, execution, death, and burial of Jesus, two women – both named Mary – woke up Sunday morning to life without Jesus. He was not good as dead. He was dead, period. That much was certified by the Roman government. In order to ward off any further instances of high drama, in the hope of putting a stop to any possible shenanigans, the government had even agreed to seal the tomb and to place guards around it. Whether or not the women knew this, we are not told. What we are told is that they went, at dawn on the first day of the week, to look at the tomb.

When the hopeful course your life is taking comes to an abrupt halt, when your fondest hopes and dreams lay shattered as so much broken glass at the foot of your heart, what do you do? It was the first Sunday morning of the rest of their lives without Jesus.

When nothing changes except everything, what do you do? You do what you determine to be the right thing to do that is right there in front of you to do – whatever it may be. When life takes a dramatic turn, some people simply cannot do anything at all; they lose the power of choice. They are shocked, stunned, and even immobilized. These two women, though, did not fit that description. They had not lost the power of choice. They went to the grave. I say that that was a gutzy move. You can discover many interesting things about many interesting people when you find out what motivates them to do what they do and why. What motivated the women? Perhaps it was their loyalty to Jesus even though He was certifiably dead. It could have been propriety or tradition. When a family member or friend dies, you seek to pay your respects – a civilized and caring thing to do. It could have been something as simple as curiosity. Who knows what motivated them? I’ve outlined a few possibilities. Take your pick, or come up with one of your own!

More certain is what they expected to see: a grave. From this, we can deduce what they did not expect to see – or experience, for that matter. They didn’t expect more drama. Death, in our experience, is anti-drama; death itself is pure silence. That much the women knew, and we do too. After the flat-line registers on the monitor and the machines are turned off, there is silence, deafening silence. The only sounds that ensue come from those who remain: from the ones who mourn and the ones who console. There was no other place that they wanted to be than there for one another at the tomb of Jesus to mourn and to console. If we stopped right there in the story, that pretty well says what we might reasonably conclude.

What happened next is, among other things, what we are here to celebrate this morning. We’re not here to become better at grieving or better at caring. We’re here for something else. It all started with a violent earthquake.

The last time I heard about a violent earthquake, which happened most recently in Japan, I was certainly not in the mood to celebrate. But today is different, isn’t it? I rejoice that there was a violent earthquake on that first Easter. I celebrate what the Gospel gives me to believe: that an angel of the Lord came down amid that earthquake. I am ecstatic that the aforementioned angel rolled back that damnable stone and sat upon it like it was Lazyboy recliner. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. It tickles me to no end that those Roman guards were so afraid of this mighty angel that they shook; they all but went into convulsions, and became like dead men. I draw strength from the image in my mind of these powerful soldiers – the best the Roman empire had to offer – curled up in the fetal position as a result of what your God, my God, and our God did that day! On the first Good Friday, we saw religion and politics at their very worst. On the first Holy Saturday, religion and politics attempted to solidify their gains. But on Sunday, through a violent earthquake and the descent of an angel of the Lord, God called a halt to all the puffery of religion and politics and reduced it to the fetal position.

And the angel spoke. That angel had words to say not to the mighty soldiers lying there in fear of their lives. Instead, first word goes to the women: “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him. Now I have told you.”

It is not what motivated the women or even our speculation about what drove them to the tomb that matters at all. The Lord’s angel answered the question: “You are looking for Jesus,” he said. If we can clear away the cobwebs and peel back the onion, what are we really hunting for on this Easter Sunday, eggs? No, in our heart of hearts we’re hunting for an answer. More than that, as a matter of ultimate reality, we want the answer – whatever it is – to include us and to be victorious!

My friends, it’s all yours this morning –right here and right now. There’s a seat at the victor’s table for you.

While the soldiers were left trying to get their bearings straight, the women left; they hurried away from the tomb. The Gospel says they were “afraid yet filled with joy.” Fear and joy: those were the emotions. They were doing a little dance in their hearts. Have you ever felt like that? Have you experienced mixed emotions? Oil and water do not mix, but emotions often do; they intermingle. And we try to identify them, put them in the right order, pinpoint them on a flowchart, and highlight them in a PowerPoint presentation. Skip it.

When nothing changes except everything, there can most definitely be the emotion of fear. But when the everything that has changed is the finality of death, who cannot also be joyful this day? For Christ is risen! He beat death at its own game. And, believing in His victory, an unconquerable and indestructible life is ours.

As our women hurried away from the tomb, as their emotions of joy and fear are intermingled, there’s yet more drama! Look at who they suddenly run into: It’s Jesus! Jesus met them, we are told. The risen Jesus, taking fear out of the intermingled mix, said: “Greetings!”

What a great day this is at First Presbyterian Church! Jesus Christ greets us too – in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup. Whether our friendships are old, new, or yet to be forged, we greet one another as victors this Easter, for Christ is risen; life wins, and joy carries the day!

Amen.

The Arrangements

Text: John 19:25-27
Theme: “The Arrangements”
Good Friday
April 22, 2011
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

In the Name of Jesus

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Dear woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.

Yesterday the Starbucks Coffee Company, through a popular social networking site, reminded its friends that today is Earth Day. Upon reading that post the thought occurred that, while being duly reminded that today is earth day, our friends at Starbucks might, in turn, be reminded that today is Good Friday.

While there is evidence of the misuse and even abuse of our natural resources, there is also evidence – staring back at us from the pages of Holy Scripture and banging into our eardrums – of the misuse and abuse of God’s Son. As an old children’s hymn puts it:

There is a green hill far away outside a city wall
Where our dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.

We may not know, we cannot tell, what pains He had to bear;
But we believe it was for us He hung and suffered there.

The Gospel records are long on the events of the day. But they are understandably short on capturing the mental, emotional, and physical anguish of Good Friday. In The Passion of the Christ, Mel Gibson took some literary license in his Hollywood portrayal of the day, and that is unfortunate. But he did capture, graphically, that particular kind of torture known as flogging. Some scholars are convinced that this abuse had so weakened Jesus that it made sense that they forced a man named Simon of Cyrene to carry his cross. Many criminals, having endured flogging, died before they were even crucified. Overall, as Martin Hengel has pointed out in his work, Crucifixion, the Roman government was grimly efficient in the task of execution by means of a cross.

But, for the moment, pay no heed to the manner of death. The fact remains that, with any kind of death looming, arrangements must be made. At the same time, arrangements are made to remember death in memorial observances that dot human history.

During the years of Ronald Reagan’s U.S. presidency, arrangements were made for Mr. Reagan to visit a cemetery in Bitburg, Germany to honor American war dead from World War II buried there. When it was discovered that high-ranking officials in Adolph Hitler’s Third Reich were also interred at Bitburg, loud voices sprang up like Morel mushrooms in May. “Mr. President,” said Elie Weisel (a holocaust survivor), “Bitburg is not your place.”

For some folks, including some Christians, Good Friday is “not their place.” Simply stated, it’s too horrific, too surreal, too much like a bad dream. It’s a nightmare looped over and over again each year. It doesn’t fit with the notions of sweetness and light that we’re all so easily drawn to in our interactions with others. It’s a period that simply has to be endured as you look forward to the feasting and festiveness of Easter Day. Despite the fascinating series of events – both religious and political – that led to Christ’s execution, the ultimate reality of it all defies our understanding. And we tend to turn away from things we don’t understand. We Christians have an alliance with Good Friday; that much is true. But it is an uneasy alliance.

In the early years of my public ministry, I found myself involved in arrangements for the funeral of a beautiful little girl, six years old, who died of spina-bifida. Together with the little girl’s parents and other family members, we put together what I thought was fitting memorial service. But once the day arrived and the service began, something inside me told me to set aside my notes and, in a sense, wing it. Instead of a meditation, I invited the children there – and there were many in attendance! – to come forward for a children’s message. My point is that sometimes you can make the best arrangements only to have them change in the twinkling of an eye due to circumstances seemingly beyond your control.

On another occasion, making arrangements, I was sitting in the office of a funeral director in Muncie, Indiana. There was a plaque on his office wall with two artistic images. Upon closer examination, they were the faces of Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. These are the men, as you’ll recall, who made arrangements to care for Jesus’ body after He died. The plaque declared Joseph and Nicodemus to be the “Patron Saints of Funeral Directors.”

Even our Lord Himself, with lifeblood pouring forth from His wounds and with time running out, made arrangements. He saw His own mother at the foot of the cross. There she stood with Jesus’ friend and disciple, John. Jesus said, “Dear woman, here is your son.” And to John He said, “Here is your mother.” We are told that from that point on, John welcomed Mary into his own family. If anything in world history qualifies as a touching moment, this is it. There was no raging by Jesus at the unfairness of it all. There was only love for His family.

But the ultimate and final arrangements, the arrangements that qualify this Friday to be called “Good”, are what I hope you will take with you in your mind and hearts when you leave this sanctuary in a few minutes.

Good Friday is “Good” because arrangements have been made for us all. Through Christ’s sacrifice, arrangements have been made for our sins to be forgiven. Arrangements have been made to tear in two the veil that separated us from our Maker. Arrangements have been made that we live today with fullness of joy simply because God loves us like this. Arrangements have been made for us to have a new estimate of the human race. We are completely free to consider every single human being – heedless of race, color, creed, or economic status -- as, first and above all else, a child for whom Christ was willing to die.

Nothing has changed except everything. This makes everything different, does it not? This is what makes Good Friday “Good”. Arrangements – good ones! – have been made for us all.

Amen.

All That He Had

Text: 1 Corinthians 11:23-26

Theme: “All That He Had”

Maundy Thursday

April 21, 2011

First Presbyterian Church

Denton, Texas

Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

In the Name of Jesus

For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

His name was Oscar Bredthauer. That’s a good, solid, substantive German name! He lived in Nebraska – Grand Island, Nebraska, to be exact. He farmed and fed cattle during his productive years. He was president of the National Livestock Feeders Association, a city councilman for thirteen years, and then Mayor of Grand Island. He served as president of the National Meat Board, the Fonner Park Race Track, and Memorial Hospital Board. He was president of the Trinity Lutheran Church congregation, a member of the church’s board of elders, and served on the education and building committees as well. He was my mother’s brother’s wife’s father. He died on Christmas Eve of 1993 of an apparent heart attack.

Given what Oscar Bredthauer did during his earthly sojourn, it becomes pretty clear that Texas isn’t the only state in the union that raises good cowboys! One thing, however, Oscar Bredthauer did not do during the days of his life. He did not prepare a last will and testament before he died. To use the legal term, he died intestate. As a result, a portion of his estate – that he could have earmarked for his children, children’s children, or posterity – went undesignated. In death, he lost the right of say so.

In my previous place of employment in the church, Sunday bulletins would often carry a question at the bottom of the page: “Have you remembered the church in your will?” Some might call that “soft” fund-raising. Others might call it a “stewardship reminder.”

Tonight, we’re not attempting to raise funds or dish out periodic reminders. We have come this evening – this Maundy Thursday evening – to the Lord’s Table, the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist, the blessed sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, the feast of victory for God. In a few moments, we will receive what St. Ignatius once called the “medicine of immortality” – the very presence of Christ with the bread and the wine.

The good news of Maundy Thursday is that our Lord did not die intestate. He did have a last will and testament – and He spoke it and enacted it the night before He died.

It was Passover time. Jewish families were in their homes remembering Moses and the exodus so long ago. Jesus, however, was not at home or in the temple. He chose an upper room. Likewise, we’re not at home tonight. Neither are we in our sanctuary. We’re in a different setting – perhaps a more intimate one. We are, to use the Biblical phrase, “at table” with one another. We hear the words of our Lord again: “Take and eat. This is my body given for you. Take and drink. This is my blood of the new covenant shed for you for the forgiveness of sins.”

The word for covenant, in the original Greek language, is diatheke. Interestingly enough, it can also be accurately translated as “testament” -- as in last will and testament.

At the Lord’s Supper, it’s as if Jesus is reading His will. Are we beneficiaries of His will? What, if anything, will be our inheritance? Clearly, He did not bequeath to us a substantial sum of money. There were no deeds to property and the mineral rights to go with them. There were no personal effects, life insurance payouts, or any golden parachutes funded in trust. He gave us none of those things.

But what He was able to give, He gave. He gave Himself – His body broken and His blood shed.

In our Lord’s Words of Institution – that we’ve already heard in the New Testament Reading and will hear again in a few moments – body and blood is spoken of separately. Take the blood out or away from its body, and there will be death. Body and blood spoken of separately denotes sacrifice.

At Passover time, there was always a lamb that figured prominently in the holiday feast. In the upper room, however, there was no lamb for the feast. But the more you think about it, you realize that there was: for Jesus is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.

Tonight we partake of the fruits of that sacrifice at table with one another. With Christ’s presence and the joy of sins forgiven, we rejoice that Jesus did not die intestate. Rather, He gave us all He had. What a rich and blessed inheritance is ours to share!

Amen.

Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?

Text: Matthew 27:46

Theme: “Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani”

Palm/Passion Sunday

April 17, 2011

First Presbyterian Church

Denton, Texas

Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

In the Name of Jesus

And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

In the last few days, I have had email correspondence with a retired minister who is a dear friend. He hosts a book club – or reading group -- in which I’m glad to participate in every couple of months or so. In between gatherings, we’ve sent along internet links with articles and commentary on the state of affairs in American Christianity in general and the Presbyterian Church in particular – you know, it’s all the stuff pastors are supposed to be interested in! With all kinds of problems in the church, both from within and without, my friend, bemoaning the loss of members and influence in mainline churches, suggested: “It certainly appears as though we’re hanging over hell in a hand-basket.” In the midst of such thumb-twiddling pessimism (which, at times, I often feel myself), I wrote back. I said: “If we’re hanging over hell in a hand-basket, if the church is falling apart at the seams, if the world is going to end soon, then I want to know who is going to make the potato salad. More than that, I ask that whoever makes the potato salad for the end of life as we know it to make it with dill instead of pickle relish.” My friend replied, “Well, I like pickle relish.” I said, “Then we’ll have to have two people sign-up for potato salad duty – one to make it with dill and the other with relish!”

As Mary Poppins says, “A spoon full of sugar” does “help the medicine go down.” In this instance, the sugar is humor. But the painful truth can’t be sugar-coated: ours is an age of apathetic faith. Christian faith in America is at present, by every reliable indicator, a mile wide and an inch deep. In America, there are pockets of church growth, but, overall, very little church depth.

One of the books we’re reading in our group is by author Kenda Creasy Dean; she’s the Professor of Youth, Church, and Culture at Princeton Theological Seminary. The book is titled Almost Christian with a sub-title that reads: What the Faith of Our Teenagers is telling the American Church. After surveying the results of a three year study called the “National Study of Youth and Religion”, conducted from 2003 to 2005, Professor Dean uses the book to comment on the results.

In a Publisher’s Weekly review, one writer said that Dean has “thrown down the gauntlet”: “…the faith of America’s teens is not durable enough to survive long after they graduate from high school…and we are responsible.” Dean describes what faith there is as a “moralistic, therapeutic deism.” Try to say that ten times real fast: a moralistic, therapeutic deism. Let me unpack that statement. The faith of our American teenagers is moral, and the kids are okay with that says the study. That is, their faith has a thing or two to say about what’s right and wrong. It’s therapeutic. That is, faith can provide guidance and support as young people experience the ups and downs of life in their formative years. And it is deistic. That is, teenagers are willing to believe that there’s a God out there, but that God – full of loving energy as he, she, or it may be – is not felt to be directly involved in their lives, and that’s okay too.

If this is the faith that we elder Christians have bequeathed to the majority of America’s teens, then I, with all the politeness I can muster, have to ask: who is going to make the potato salad?

Moralistic, therapeutic deism! Stop and think about it: we don’t need Christianity for any of that. We don’t need Christianity for morals. You don’t’ have to be a Christian to live a moral life or to have a conscience. The history of the world is littered with noble heathen who rarely – if at all – darkened the door of the church. They’re the good people; they’re not the mean people, and whether they are Christian or not is irrelevant . What Judaism and Christianity did was to simply codify the morals that are already there. Neither do we need Christianity for therapy. There are all kinds of therapists, physical therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists of all sorts, and various and sundry mentors and hand-holders that can provide therapy for nearly everything that ails us. They help to give us the sense that we’re not alone. Some of them, out of the goodness of their hearts, do it for free. Whether they are Christian or not is thought to be immaterial. And finally, we don’t need Christianity for deism. Take a look at your 52”, super high-definition television set. Broadband technology hooks it up to all kinds of programming of both the basic and premium variety. Did intelligent minds put all that together, or is it all the result of a random explosion in a steel mill? By now, you get the idea! We don’t need Christianity to put forth the kinds of deistic ideas that have floated around since people began thinking of such things. Most folks think that there is a force of some kind out there, and, as the Star Wars series triumphantly declares, “May the force be with you.” That’s deism, folks.

In the 1930s Yale Professor H. Richard Niebuhr offered a vivid description of mainline Protestantism’s message then, and I think much of Christianity’s message now, in his book, The Kingdom of God in America. Niebuhr wrote: “A God without wrath brought men without sin into a world without judgment through the ministrations of a Christ without a cross.”

That sounds scrumpdillyishus, does it not? Take out the wrath! Take out the sin! Take out the judgment! Take out the cross! And don’t ever talk about that stuff again. Some people are going to think, “Hey, that sounds like a pretty good idea; people will like that” – as if all Christianity needs is a boost in its likeability!

But wait! As unsavory as all those things sound to our polite Sunday morning sensibilities – things like wrath and sin and judgment and the cross and all that, if you take them out what’s left of Christianity? I think I know. It is an Americanized form of religion. It is moralistic, therapeutic deism which essentially consists of being nice, taking care of yourself and others, and entertaining the possibility that there just might be a god out there. This is the kind of thinking that has turned Easter – the chief holy day of the Christian year, the feast of the resurrection of the Son of God from the grave – into only a little more than a Hallmark holiday replete with milk chocolate bunnies and Easter egg hunts and Sunday brunches. It’s a celebration that celebrates what, the arrival of spring? I don’t want to spoil anyone’s Easter holiday, but moralistic, therapeutic deism produces a faith that, if Kenda Creasy Dean is right, won’t last for very long past high school. It is just not going to happen, folks. So we’re back to the question: who is going to make the potato salad?

Actually, a better question is this: what’s it going to take to sustain Christian faith past high school? More generally, what’s it going to take to sustain a lively and dedicated faith for the long haul, for the duration? Do we need more central planning? Some would say that the more the plans fail, the more the planners plan – and we’ve had lots of planning, or “visioning” as it is called nowadays. Do we need to find a way to make Christianity more palatable – more exciting and entertaining and dynamic and relevant and “cutting edge” and fun? The fact is, well-meaning Christians have tried all that. I’m not pointing fingers at them. In fact, I commend them. They understand the bind that the church is in, and they’re doing some things.

But I am persuaded that the most important thing of all is the easiest one to overlook. Allow me to state that differently: I am persuaded that the most important person of all is the easiest one to overlook. I speak of Jesus Christ. The question on a million and one yellow bracelets of yesteryear was captured in three letters: W.W.J.D. It stand for “What would Jesus do?” That’s a moral question. The answer is: He would do whatever the “right thing” is, and that’s a moral answer. I would rather we would have had ten million and one red bracelets with three different letters: W.D.J.D. That stands for “What DID Jesus do?” That’s a faith question, and the answer is – drum roll, please – Holy Week!

If there ever was one week in the year to be introduced and/or re-introduced to Jesus Christ, this is the week: Holy Week! The gist of the Christian message – which alone can create and nourish that genuine faith that goes the distance – is what this week is all about. On this Sunday, on Maundy Thursday, on Good Friday, and, yes, on Easter Sunday, you can hear again – or maybe for the first time – that Jesus Christ is more than long hair, beard, sandals, and white robe. He is far more than the mental images that our minds or any artist have ever assigned to Him.

Here was a man – here is a man! – that has a passion for you and me that is breathtaking in its scope and defies description. All of our sweet testimonials about Jesus are well and good, all of our stories about what we’re sure He’s done for us are fine and dandy, but during this week let’s let Jesus have His day in the sun. Let’s not be saying “I am second.” That still makes us the main point of reference – even though we claim to be at point number two. Instead, let’s say “Jesus is first”, leave it at that, and see what unfolds this week.

Allow me to close with a quick, step-by-step preview and snapshot glance at today and the days that lie ahead by asking some questions. Have you ever done some things that made your part of the world a better place? I have no doubt. Were you humbled and gratified to hear words of thanks and praise for what you did? Again, I have no doubt. On that first Palm Sunday, Jesus welcomed the thanks and praise for what He had done during three years of public ministry and work.

Have you enjoyed the company of close friends? Jesus did. On at least one evening in the first holy week, He headed out of Jerusalem to Bethany and hung out with what we might call his “BFF’s” (His “best friends forever”): Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Have you ever had a sense of longing and anticipation for a dinner out with your friends? Jesus did. “How I have longed to eat this Passover with you,” He said to His disciples.

Has someone ever betrayed you? Have you ever felt that particular kind of sting? Jesus did. One of His own disciples sold Him out for thirty shekels of silver. Have you ever had moments or periods of melancholy, or depression, or anguish? Have you thrown up your hands, said “What’s the use?”, and considered throwing in the towel? Jesus did. “If it’s possible, take all this away from me,” Jesus said in the Garden of Gethsemane. His turmoil, His tears, His sweat, and His blood all ran together in that hilly garden on the night before He died.

Think back. Have you ever been laughed at, or mocked, or derided, or bullied? Jesus was. Have you ever felt as though you’re going to crumble because it seems that the weight of the world is on your shoulders? Jesus did have the weight of the world’s sin on His shoulders. Have you ever experienced that genuine justice denied to you and a fake and phony justice put in its place? Jesus did.

Have you ever felt totally alone and utterly forsaken? Jesus not only felt it; He endured it. Have you felt as though life is a living hell? Jesus didn’t feel it. He actually endured it – so none of us would ever have to. Nailed to a Roman cross, an implement of execution, He cries out: “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” (“My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?”)

As we have observed, there are some things, in the last week of Christ’s life, we can relate to. There are other things, though, that we can’t relate to. For example, if Christ is God in flesh, how is it that God could forsake God? My mind can’t understand that, but I can be in awe of it. I can be in awe of the love and faith of Jesus, which, at the worst moment of all, was able to say: “My God! My God!”

It is time to politely ask moralistic, therapeutic deism to depart the premises. Christianity has had quite enough. This is Holy Week. Jesus Christ has center stage.

Amen.