And the LORD God made garments of skins for the man and for his wife, and clothed them.
It’s easy to skip over this verse and miss the mercy that is present here. We have listened to a narrative that declares the goodness of the world and all God has made – a narrative written in time of great desolation. We have seen God’s tender hand in the formation of humanity, bending down to breathe the breath of life into the first human. We have seen God’s concern for that human, creating all the creatures of the earth as possible companions, and then taking a bone from the first human to make two. We have seen the garden and heard the call to tend God’s garden, to be good shepherds of the creation. It is a wondrous word of grace to a people in the aftermath of violence, chaos, and devastation, to a people for whom the future seems lost. The prophet Ezekiel will describe the people of that time as dry bones scattered across the desert – and be given a promise of life for those dry bones.
But we have also wrestled with the tragedy of humanity’s turn away from trusting God’s voice, the manipulation of God’s word, the grasping at equality with God, the knowledge of life’s goodness and its evils. We have seen the world thrown off balance. Humanity’s relationship with God, with one another, with the animals, and with the ground itself – all of it disrupted. Humanity has come to know sorrow and tears.
This could have been the end of the story: humanity thrust out of the garden into a world of sweat and tears with no way back.
According to the stories alive in the ancient near east, the gods try to rid themselves of the humans because they disturb the peace of the gods (although the gods themselves were warring!). The God proclaimed to us in the scriptures is a god unwilling to surrender the task of creating a good and beautiful world.
Even as God has confronted humanity with the dire consequences of their rebellion, God provides clothes to those first humans. They were naked and ashamed. The best they could do were fig leaves. But God provides them “garments of skins.”
God doesn’t leave us naked. And we should consider the price God paid to clothe us. We have no killing yet in the garden. The animals all eat vegetation. God has to sacrifice some of God’s precious creatures to clothe these faithless humans. God carries that burden in order to do mercy.
The great drama of the scriptures is found here. God creates. God suffers our sorrows. God chooses mercy. God sacrifices for our sake.
We will see it again and again in the scriptures. And it will find its fullest expression in Jesus on Good Friday.
Such mercy is not to be taken for granted. It is costly. And it bids us come and follow. It bids us join God’s creating and redeeming work of healing the world.
Wondrous Grace, Daring Mercy, Grant us wisdom and courage to follow your way.
He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.
The sentence deserves to be read slowly: He bore our sins…in his body…on the cross…so that we might live…live for righteousness…free from sins. And all of these lead to the simple yet profound statement: by his wounds you have been healed.
Righteousness is a tricky word. It makes us uncomfortable. It stands too close to self-righteousness. It is too easily attached to an air of superiority or a concern for minor rules. Biblically, however, righteousness is about fulfilling one’s social obligations. It is about caring for the neighbor. It is about protecting the weak and providing for the poor. It means showing proper respect for God and for others.
The word justice has a similar meaning in scripture. It is not about proper punishments; it is about faithfulness to others. Righteousness and justice are words that connect with mercy and kindness. And all these words are related to love. Love is that mutual interdependence and care that is expected of a family and household. Jesus extends such love to all people, even enemies.
Righteousness, justice, mercy kindness, love – they are all embraced by the word faithfulness. These are the substance of faith – faith not as believing ideas but fidelity to a person, a teaching, a way of life.
Our sins were visited upon Jesus. He bore them without breaking faith with us. He endured all our greeds and rage and faith in violence and remained faithful to us. In his body are the wounds we, in our unfaithfulness, inflict on one another. He bore them that, freed from our sins, we might be healed …that we might live the faithfulness for which we were made…that we might live for righteousness…that we might truly live.
Fearful Love, Daring Mercy, walk with us that we may walk with you.
Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’
Peter rejects the notion that the Messiah, the anointed of God, could ever rightly do the work of the lowest slave. In John’s Gospel it is the equivalent story to Peter rejecting Jesus’ prediction of his suffering and death. This action of washing feet is as unthinkable for God’s anointed as the idea he could die in Jerusalem rather than rule. It’s not the way of power.
Peter’s is right. It’s not the way of power. But it is the way of God. And only if we accept Jesus washing our feet can we share in him.
Washing feet brings shame on Jesus. The cross will also bring shame. In the eyes of the world, both of these are completely degrading. It is the purpose of crucifixion: to show the utter powerlessness of the condemned person, to degrade them completely in the eyes of the people, to assert Roman dominion over life and death and make clear the price of resisting Roman rule. But Jesus turns the world upside down. Greatness is in serving. Honor is in sacrifice. In dying we live. The cross is not shame but glory.
If we reject the way of the cross, if we reject the way of mercy, forgiveness, sacrifice, service – if we reject the way of love – we have no part in Jesus. But he still stands before us with a towel and a bowl of water inviting us to die and rise with him.
Holy Wonder, Faithful Lord, keep us ever in the arms of Christ.
But this is the one to whom I will look, ….to the humble and contrite in spirit, ….who trembles at my word.
This word ‘trembles’ speaks to fear. Israel trembles at Sinai when the mountain is covered in cloud and flashing fire, and they hear the blast of a trumpet. Even the mountain itself trembles. Gideon pares down his troops by sending away those whose hearts are quaking. The heart of Eli trembles for the Ark of God when it is taken into battle against the Philistines. The elders of Bethlehem tremble when the prophet Samuel arrives, not knowing whether he brings the judgment of God or the wrath of the king. And when the prophets speak of that day when God comes to set right the world, we hear the promise: “and no one shall make them afraid” – no one shall make them ‘tremble’.
But the presence of the words ‘humble’ and ‘contrite’ in this verse suggests that trembling at God’s word means something more than just fear. It suggests a people humbled by the failures of the past and fearful of traveling that way again. It suggests a people who feel something of Sinai, something of the earth-shaking power of the divine voice, and the majesty of the divine mercy.
We can talk easily about the cross, but what does it mean to truly stand before that frightening scene of utter brutality and perfect love? Should we not tremble? Should we not tremble with awe before such simple words as “This is my body, given for you.” Should we not tremble at the baptismal font where death and resurrection happen, and we are marked with the cross of Christ forever?
Should we not tremble at the laying on of hands, at the anointing for healing, at every word and prayer? We stand in the presence of the ineffable. We stand in the presence of the first word and final song. We stand in the presence of perfect love. Here is the voice that calls forth Lazarus from the grave. Here is the voice that heals the wounded and restores the troubled. Here is the voice that forgives sinners, summons the unwanted, and challenges hypocrisy. Here is the voice that raises up kings and casts down tyrants and makes of us a holy priesthood. Before such a word we must tremble, tremble as when our firstborn child, fresh from the womb, is placed in our arms, tremble at both the magnitude of the gift and the magnitude of the responsibility.
Eternal Word, Enduring Mercy
guide our heart and lead our way
that we may always treasure your word.
God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.
It’s natural when we think about Jesus saving the world to go straight to the cross. Yes, Jesus died for our sins, but that is not all that Jesus did. He opened blind eyes. He opened hardened hearts. He healed our diseases. He fed the hungry. He calmed the troubled. He restored families. He saved a wedding. He protected a woman caught in adultery. He restored the life of a young girl, a young man, and Lazarus. He protected his disciples on the night he was taken.
The cross is the culmination of all this saving.
There is no fire and brimstone in Jesus. There is truth, but no threats. There are warnings, but no punishment. Judgment happens by default. People divide themselves, whether they want the world Jesus offers or prefer the world of our own making. But everywhere Jesus goes, salvation happens. Lives are healed and restored. The outcast are gathered in. The unclean are made clean. Hope dawns.
When the mob comes for Jesus, we are not surprised that he sacrifices himself to protect others. We are not surprised that he renounces violence. We are not surprised that he endures the spittle and forgives from the cross. There is nothing new here, only the recognition that a lamb has been slaughtered. A new Passover has happened. A new freedom has come.
Gracious and ever-present God,
whose mercy knows no bounds,
and whose arms are ever open to your world:
Call us forth from all that binds
And make us joyful in your service.
In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins.
Because the word ‘love’ in the scriptures refers to the bonds of allegiance that shape a household or kinship group, we could reword this passage in this way:
In this is faithfulness, not that we were faithful to God, but that God was faithful to us and sent his son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins.
The word used in the Hebrew Scriptures refers to covenant faithfulness and is commonly translated as steadfast love. What we encounter in God is more than affection; it is faithfulness.
The heart of the universe is not cold and distant; it beats with compassion for the world. It asks the question of us, as it asked it of our first parents, “Where are you?” not because it does not know, but because we need to acknowledge we are hiding in the bushes. It asks the question of Cain, “Where is your brother,” not because it does not know, but because we need to acknowledge that we are our brother’s keeper. Our humanity is found in community, in mutual care, in harmony with one another and the world given into our care. Our humanity is found in faithfulness.
In the aftermath of his brother’s murder, God asks Cain, “What have you done?” It is the question God asks us when the hammers fall and the nails pierce. God asks not because God does not know, but because we must see and acknowledge our brokenness. We have not shown ourselves faithful to God or to one another.
The cross stands as witness against us. But it also stands as testimony to God’s faithfulness. God does not turn away from us. God does not abandon us. God does not destroy us. God vindicates Jesus and calls us again to listen to him, to learn from him, to follow him, to breathe his Spirit, to walk in newness of life.
In this is faithfulness, not that we were faithful to God, but that God was faithful to us and sent his son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins.
There is judgment on this day. But there is also a divine faithfulness, a wondrous grace, the perfection of love, and the possibility to begin anew.
In the desolation of the Cross, O God,
you watched over Jesus,
and he kept faith with you.
Watch over us,
renewing our lives and our world
that, by the mercy of Christ,
we may prove faithful to you and to all.
He was wounded for our transgressions, ….crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the punishment that made us whole, ….and by his bruises we are healed.
On the far side of Lent stands Golgotha. We are headed there. We are headed to those three days when the joyous arrival in Jerusalem is shattered. We are headed towards Jesus stripped – first to wash feet and then to be tortured and slain. We are headed to the mystery that ends with fear and confusion and an empty tomb.
How could the followers of Jesus make sense of the sudden and brutal turn of events in Jerusalem? We have all known moments when life is suddenly shattered. We know the confusion as we try to piece together what has happened and what it means. The men are hiding. The women are looking into the face of mystery. Mary thinks she must be talking to the gardener. The disciples react with fear when Jesus suddenly appears. Even at the ascension, Matthew says, “some doubted.”
As the followers of Jesus piece together the events of those three days they find a key to comprehending Jesus in the prophet Isaiah:
He was wounded for our transgressions, ….crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the punishment that made us whole, ….and by his bruises we are healed.
Here they find reference to redemptive suffering. Here they reimagine the meaning of Israel’s animal sacrifices. The death of the lamb that brought reconciliation and fellowship with God is seen in the light of this hidden figure of history and, together with the words of Jesus, his followers begin to comprehend the mystery: The ground of the universe has shifted. The primal rupture between humanity and God is overcome. The broken covenant of the first garden is restored. God has absorbed the fullness of our cruelty and hate and exposed its powerlessness. God has shown forth the truth of God’s reign of grace and life.
It’s all there in our hands. In the broken bread is the broken body. And in the broken body is our healing. Every guilt and shame is lifted away and we taste the world made whole.
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Almighty God, Holy and Immortal,
who knows the secrets of every heart
and brings all things to the light of your grace:
Root us ever in your promised mercy
that, freed from every sin and shame,
we may walk the paths of your truth and love.
But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.
I grew up with the Revised Standard Version of the scriptures (RSV), and the phrase I remember is “while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” Whether by its familiarity or poetry I can’t tell, but I like the word ‘yet’ better than ‘still’.
And where the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) quoted above says “God proves his love,” the old RSV read “God shows his love” – a translation I also prefer. The Greek word in question is a compound literally meaning ‘stands with’. Luke uses it when describing Moses and Elijah standing with Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration. And Colossians, after saying that all things were created in Christ and for Christ, says “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” The word refers to things being brought together. God and God’s love for us are brought together, united, embodied in the death of Jesus for our sake. The cross isn’t proof as if salvation were a complex math problem; the cross is the love that races into a burning house to save one’s children.
We could play with this metaphor. We, the children, are the ones who set the house on fire. God could justly stand aside and let us inherit the sorrows of our deeds. But such is not the God who shows himself in the Exodus or at Sinai, in the nativity or on the cross. God is the parent who risks everything for his children, who rushes into traffic to push us from harm’s way, who endures shame to save his prodigal son, who offers his life blood to save us. It’s not ‘proof’; it is visible, tangible, love.
There is a whiff of smoke in this broken bread in our hands, a reminder of the broken body, a testimony to the unity of God and God’s love for us, a living witness to an immeasurable sacrifice and an infinite love “while we were yet sinners.”
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Almighty God, Holy and Immortal,
who knows the secrets of every heart
and brings all things to the light of your grace:
Root us ever in your promised mercy
that, freed from every sin and shame,
we may walk the paths of your truth and love.
He died for all, so that those who live might live no longer for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them.
There is a haunting line at the end of the movie, “Saving Private Ryan.” A squad led by Captain John Miller (Tom Hanks) is sent to find private James Ryan, the last surviving brother of four, to send him home from the war. At the end of the movie, after a heroic battle and the loss of all but one in the squad, the dying captain says to private Ryan: “James…earn this. Earn it.” In the final scene, the now elderly veteran stands at the grave of Captain Miller and, turning to his wife, asks if he is a good man. He needs to know if he has been worthy of the sacrifice those men made.
What is the shape of a life worthy of the sacrifice Christ made on the cross? What is the shape of a life worthy of the one who offered himself to endure the whip and thorns and nails? What life is worthy of Christ’s desolation and shame?
It is to live not for ourselves “but for him who died and was raised.” It is to live forgiveness as he forgave. It is to live mercy as he lived mercy. It does not mean a life of austere denial, but of hearts turned outward. It is to live compassion. The good life is not what we get, but what we give. It is not how high we rise, but how we lift up others. It is not the pleasure we find, but the joy we live.
Gracious God,
in the waters of baptism
you grant us new birth as your sons and daughters.
Keep us this day in your steadfast love
that we may walk the path of love and mercy
that is our true and eternal life.