For sermon videos these days, CLICK HERE
In the name of God: who is love, in all its forms. Amen.
When I was a much younger man, living in south Louisiana, from time to time friends of mine and me would make quick trips to New Orleans. It started when I was working at a catering company. After a particularly busy weekend, or a particularly busy season of catering events, the manager of the company would treat some of us who were party supervisors or who had just worked a lot, to a couple of days in the city. We were all responsible for our own expenses, but the treat was that we could all ride together, and he had a friend who had a townhouse in the French Quarter where we could stay for free. We were all young and pretty short-sighted about almost everything, so once we’d made a little money, we figured, what better way to celebrate than to go blow it all in bars?
One of the traditions of those days, that maybe is still going on, I don’t know… But one of the traditions was at a Bourbon Street bar called Café Lafitte in Exile. During peak hours, Lafitte’s was a serious Bourbon Street nightclub – with loud music and bright flashing lights and sensory overload – the kind of place I would have to take in moderation, even when I was younger.
On Sundays, though, in the early evenings, Lafitte’s would transform. The music was a little older and a little quieter – you could pretty much have a conversation with your friends if you wanted to. But, about once an hour tradition would exert itself. The lights would dim and the mirror ball and the flashing lights from the DJ booth would take over, the music would get a LOT louder – demanding everyone’s attention. And the same song would play each time: the 1977 disco hit, “Love is in the Air”.
There was a certain liturgical quality about the whole thing. When the moment struck, the people gathered around would stop what they were doing, get up to dance if they’d been sitting, and start singing along. And then, each time the song came to its climactic chorus, everyone would grab fistfuls of those little white beverage napkins, and throw them into the air as high as they could, as they sang – or more likely shouted – “Love is in the air!”
To this day, one of the images of “joy” that first comes to my mind when I think about it, is looking straight up and seeing nothing but seemingly endless small, white napkins floating down. I like to imagine that when any one of us first walks into heaven, that’s how they’ll respond – countless white napkins raining down on us in communal joy.
I set up this story and this image for you, because it is about as much of a polar opposite of the scene that is set in today’s gospel as anything could be. Since I can’t think of a way to set this scene for you as effectively as I’d want to, the closest I can come is to show you exactly what it’s not. As much as there was joy in that song and tradition at Lafitte’s in New Orleans, the setting for the gospel today is surrounded just as completely by the aura of death.
You wouldn’t necessarily get that from just the words that we read today, but in the broader context of this story as it’s set in John’s Gospel, the stage he is setting is of the end coming into view.
The first, and most glaring clue is that it’s all happening at Lazarus’ house. Not long before this in the telling of the story of Jesus, John’s Gospel had Mary, Lazarus’ sister weeping at the feet of Jesus because her brother had died. Jesus joined her in that heartache, even though he believed it wouldn’t be forever. They opened up the man’s tomb and Jesus commanded him: Lazarus come out! And he did.
The next clue is that the story is happening in Bethany – a small town that’s just a short walk from Jerusalem, on the other side of the Mount of Olives. It’s a clue, because it’s on the way to Jerusalem – on the way to the place where we all know he will be killed. And, it’s a clue because of that Mount of Olives that stands as its backdrop – the same hill that stands as the backdrop for Jesus’ prayer and arrest at the beginning of the crucifixion story.
And finally, the last clue is in Mary’s anointing of Jesus’ feet. The writer tells us a lot about this anointing – that it’s fragrant, that the scent fills the house; that it’s abundant, a full pound of the stuff; that it’s costly, of a value that’s equivalent to nearly a full year’s earning for most people. But the most important thing we’re told about this anointing is that it’s the same stuff they use to prepare bodies for burial.
So, as strong as the smell of the perfume is throughout the house: that’s how strongly that evening is set in a context that points everyone’s attention toward death.
Barbara Brown Taylor is an Episcopal priest and writer of a lot of really helpful books about spiritual journeys. She has a great quote about Ash Wednesday. She says, “Ash Wednesday is the day that we all get to attend our own funerals.” She thinks of Ash Wednesday in that way because of those words that are spoken during the imposition of ashes: “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” – it’s a day that is meant to remind us of our mortality, and point us toward what that mortality obscures – true life.
Well, this dinner with friends is sort of Jesus’ Ash Wednesday. He is being prepared for death, even before he is fully and publicly condemned.
It’s peculiar – as much as “death is in the air” around this story, it’s never directly addressed. When Judas protests Mary’s extravagant gesture of love and intimacy, he doesn’t say, “Why are you wasting this stuff for the dead on one who is alive?” Instead, he protests the expense. And then, when Jesus responds, he sort of talks around his coming death, but only indirectly. He just sort of passively says, “You won’t have me forever.” He half acknowledges death, but he doesn’t speak of it as an imminent concern.
So, the whole scene feels, to me, like a scene from an almost painfully dramatic movie. It’s like when a family, or a chosen family in this case, is facing some great heartache or trauma. It’s all any of them can think about, but no one can talk about it. It just hurts too much. The hurt and the fear are both unmistakably present, and also wholly ignored.
I’ll be honest with you. I had a hard time with this text this week. I’d been reading it and praying through it for days, and then, when the time came to sit down at my computer to write, there was just nothing there. And, in the end, I think that’s sort of why. I think I got sucked into that very human, emotional experience that I sense in this story of everyone being unable to talk about what was really on their minds. The real thing they were going through was too hard, so they all just fussed with each other about something else.
It’s the kind of thing that only happens when people really do love each other. When a person truly doesn’t care for another person, then there’s nothing to fear. Nothing about their relationship hurts too much to talk about it. There is no care, so no love and no hate. Just nothing.
But in this scene at Lazarus’ house, there was a deep well of shared experience. There were relationships that were built upon sacrifice and mutual growth. They had shared legendary joy. And now, they were sharing legendary fear. This is not a room full of people who don’t care about each other. This is a room full of family.
So, as much as death is in the air in this story, love is in the air, too. Real love. Not white paper napkins floating down as a stand-in for love, but real love that is borne through deep, honest relationships.
As our Lenten observance starts to fade, and Holy Week comes in next week to take its place, I hope you’ll join me in becoming lost in these words that we share, in the same sort of way that I got lost in them earlier this week. If you encounter the words and the stories and the experiences of worship as just retellings of some things from long ago, you’ll miss the point. The point of Christian worship isn’t just what happened two thousand years ago, but how what happened two thousand years ago still happens today; and how what happened two thousand years ago can inform us as we make choices today. The point is that the hungry still need to be fed. The sick still need to be healed. The poor still need to be lifted up. The mighty still need to fall.
Empires still oppress the weak. Mob mentality – the kind of thinking that separates us from our values and our dreams – it still leads to broken relationships. It still leads to death and destruction and regret.
These stories are ancient, but they aren’t just ancient. Just look around. We still need to follow Jesus on the path to new life, because this terrestrial path isn’t taking us there. This insular path isn’t working.
So, as we move through these last days of Lent, and as we immerse ourselves into the story of the arrest, the trials, the crucifixion, and the ultimate resurrection of Jesus, I encourage you to find yourself in this story. Get lost in it. Feel what it’s inviting you to feel. Let it leave you speechless.
And then, on the other side – on the Easter side of this moment, then you’ll really know: love is in the air. And in our neighbors. And in our community. Love is in our service to those in need. Love is in everything that is done as the people of God, as the body of Christ. That’s what this story is about – even the hard parts; even the more uncomfortable parts. It’s about remembering that love is in the air. Even now. Amen.
Comments