MAUNDY THURSDAY

March 28, 2024

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

The Liturgy of Maundy Thursday commemorates our Lord’s Last Supper with his disciples on the eve of his death: the occasion when he washes his disciples’ feet, institutes the Eucharist as the Sacrament of his Body and Blood, and ordains the twelve apostles to the priesthood of the new Covenant. 

 

The key point I want to make this evening is that these events are not merely a prelude to Good Friday, a few last-minute items to be checked off and gotten out of the way before Jesus can get down to the real business to take place on the next day. Instead, they’re integral and interrelated parts of a greater whole: the one mystery of our redemption.

 

At supper, the Lord bids his disciples continue gathering to share ritual fellowship meals, just as they’ve been doing regularly for as long as they’ve been together. But to the usual Jewish blessings said at the breaking of the bread before the meal, and the sharing of the cup after it, Jesus now adds new, unprecedented, and indeed shocking words: “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me … This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

 

Known as the Words of Institution, these words demonstrate that the Last Supper and the Crucifixion mutually interpret each other. At the time, the disciples likely have no idea of what Jesus is talking about. What he says over the bread and wine will make sense only in retrospect, once his body is lifted on the cross, and his blood spilt for the life of the world. And thereafter his words will carry that same meaning whenever Christians gather to break the bread and share the cup in his Name. His death thus fulfills and interprets the words he speaks over the bread and the wine.

 

Conversely, those same words interpret and explain the meaning of his death itself. We’re able to understand the full significance of his Crucifixion only in light of his words spoken at the Last Supper: “This is my body, which is given for you …” “This is my blood … poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” So, we fully understand the Last Supper only by anticpating the Crucifixion; and we fully understand the Crucifixion only by remembering the Last Supper. Neither event is fully intelligible on its own. Saint Paul sums up this dynamic of mutual interpretation in his First Epistle to the Corinthians when he writes: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

 

But there’s more. When he says, “Do this in remembrance of me,” the Greek word translated as remembrance, anamnesis, means something more than mere recollection in a subjective psychological sense. It signifies instead a transformation of time itself, a making present of past events. So, his words, “Do this in remembrance of me,” really mean something like, “Do this to call me into your midst again so that I will be present among you as I am now.”

 

This “making present” refers first to the bread and wine of the Eucharist, in which from the beginning the Church has discerned the real presence of Our Lord’s Body and Blood. It refers secondly to the Church itself, the Body of Christ, which continues Our Lord’s life and work on earth until he returns to judge the living and the dead at the end of time. 

 

So, Jesus gives us another sign to show us what his becoming present in his Church looks like when it happens. He girds on a towel and washes his disciples’ feet. On Maundy Thursday we repeat this ritual foot-washing as the symbol of our desire to obey his commandment to love one another as he has loved us.

 

But it would be a grave mistake, reflecting a fatal flaw in our understanding of the Rites of Maundy Thursday, to take the foot-washing merely as a bit of exemplary moral advice given as a parting shot to his disciples—along the lines of “here’s how I want you to carry on without me.” For again, like his words over the bread and the cup, the foot-washing derives its full meaning only from the Lord’s death on the cross the next day. 

 

A key text for interpreting Our Lord’s washing his disciples’ feet is the passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians that we heard on Palm Sunday: “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross.” 

 

This passage makes explicit the connection between Christ’s taking the form of a servant and his becoming obedient to even death on a cross. By taking the role of a domestic servant and washing his disciples’ feet, much to their horror and dismay, Jesus points to his ultimate act of servanthood the next day when he dies on the cross for the sins of the world.

So, the foot-washing and the crucifixion are also mutually interpretive: the foot-washing symbolizes death to self in the service of others; and death to self in service to others receives its ultimate expression in the spilt blood that washes us clean from our sins. Understood this way, the foot-washing exemplifies the Christian life’s cruciform pattern of self-sacrificial service: loving one another as Christ has loved us, always mindful that the cross is the place where his love for us reaches its perfect fulfillment.

 

In short, the events we commemorate and re-enact on Maundy Thursday—washing feet, breaking the bread, and sharing the cup—are not so much discrete moments following one upon another as they’re interrelated aspects of the single mystery of our redemption, culminating in the Lord’s complete self-offering in love for those he came to save. We understand and appreciate each of these elements only in light of all the others. 

 

This evening’s liturgy invites us, then, to answer Our Lord’s call to take up our cross and follow him—precisely by meeting together regularly to break the bread and share the cup, and then by going out into the world to serve others in his Name. 

PALM SUNDAY

March 24, 2024

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

Mark 11:1-11

Mark 15:1-47

 

An iconic moment in the concluding stages of the Second World War was the Liberation of Paris on August 26, 1944. One commentator remarks that it was neither the most dramatic nor the most decisive event in the war, but certainly one of the most romantic. The day after the commander of German forces in the city surrendered, General Charles de Gaulle led a victory parade down the Champs Elysee from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde, where he addressed the wildly cheering crowds. He then went into the Cathedral of Notre Dame, which was packed for a Solemn High Mass offered in thanksgiving for the city’s liberation.

 

Consciously or not, de Gaulle was re-enacting the ancient pattern of a ceremony known as the Royal Entry. In the time of Jesus, the ceremony was known as the Adventus or “arrival” of the King or Emperor. 

 

Whenever such a ruler would arrive in one of the cities or towns in his realm, a delegation would go out to welcome him and escort him in through the city gates to the acclamation of the crowds lining the road. Then, in the town square, arena, stadium, or some other public place, the ruler would address the citizens, exchange gifts with local officials, and bestow public favors or privileges on the town or city itself.

 

A well-known variant of this ceremony was the Roman Triumph. After a great wartime victory or successful campaign of military conquest, the conquering emperor or general would return to Rome and stage a festive procession into the city, featuring exotic animals, like elephants and camels from far-away lands, captives in chains, and wagons loaded with the spoils of war – some of which would be used to pay for the ensuing public entertainments. This procession always included two spotless white oxen; the conquering hero’s first stop was always the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill, where the oxen were sacrificed in thanksgiving for victory and military supremacy.

 

This background illuminates Our Lord’s Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. All four Gospel writers want us to understand that the King is arriving at the gates to take possession of his capital city. He rides on a donkey in fulfillment of Zechariah’s messianic prophecy: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on an ass, on a colt the foal of an ass." 

 

The crowds come out to meet him, spreading in his path their garments and—as Mark’s Gospel puts it—“leafy branches that they had cut in the fields.” (only John’s Gospel specifies that they were palm branches.) Palm leaves were signs of victory and dominion; coins minted in Judea in the early second century show children bearing palms to greet the Emperor Hadrian. 

 

The acclamation hosanna means something like “Lord, save us!”—said not in despair but in joyful anticipation of imminent deliverance. Drawing on verses of Psalm 118, the crowd’s acclamations “Hosanna!” and “Blessed is the one who comes in the Name of the Lord” clearly identify Jesus as the Messiah, the Lord’s anointed, the true King of Israel arriving to take possession of his capital city and end its long subjugation under enemy occupation. 

 

Upon entering the Holy City, Jesus goes into the Temple. This, again, follows the standard pattern of the Royal Entry: the first thing the Emperor did in a Roman Triumph was to offer sacrifice in the Temple of Jupiter; the first thing de Gaulle did after his victory parade in Paris in August 1944 was to enter Notre Dame for Solemn High Mass.

 

None of the four Gospels tell us, however, that Jesus offered any sacrifice in the Temple. The reason for this omission may well be that Jesus is himself the sacrifice. Here, then, lies the deepest connection between the two liturgies of Palm Sunday, the Liturgy of the Palms, and the Liturgy of the Lord’s Passion. Unlike the Emperor bringing oxen to be sacrificed in a Roman Triumph, Jesus, so far as we know, brings nothing to sacrifice in the Temple; he enters the city not only as the triumphant King of Israel, but also as the spotless victim who, within the week, will shed his own blood upon the altar of the cross.

 

Every year I like to incorporate the hymn “Ride on, ride on, in majesty” into the Palm Sunday procession. For its lyrics make explicit this deep connection between the Lord’s Triumphal Entry and his coming Passion:

 

         Ride on, ride on in majesty,

         The angel armies of the sky

         Look down with sad and wondering eyes

         To see th’approaching sacrifice.

 

The great irony is that many among the same crowds who shout “Hosanna” to welcome the Lord into the Holy City shall, within the week, also be shouting “Crucify Him.” The same Lord who enters in through the city gates shall, within the week, carry his cross outside another set of gates on the other side of the city to the place of execution. Palm Sunday thus challenges us to open up the gates of our hearts to him—and, having done so, to remain faithful even at the cost of taking up our cross to follow him on the road to Calvary.

 

Today, then, with joy we commemorate the Lord’s Entry within the walls of Jerusalem, and we contemplate with sorrow his Passion and Death outside those same city walls. Still, as we shall see next week, both events are the prelude to a greater victory than anyone present can possibly imagine:

 

         Ride on, ride on in majesty,

         In lowly pomp ride on to die;

         Bow thy meek head to mortal pain,

         Then take, O God, thy power and reign.  

 

 

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR B

March 17, 2024

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R.I.

 

 

Jeremiah 31:31-34 

Psalm 119:9-16

Hebrews 5:5-10

John 12:20-23

 

From today’s reading from the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah: “Behold, the days are coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Jacob and the house of Israel …”  And that raises the question: What is a covenant?

 

In the ancient world a covenant was like a peace treaty or a legal agreement between two usually unequal parties. The stronger party would typically promise protection and care for the weaker party, who would promise loyalty, obedience, and maybe the payment of tribute or taxes in return. The parties to the covenant would often erect some sort of monument, such as an engraved plaque, or an obelisk, to stand as a permanent and perpetual reminder of the agreement they’d made.

 

During these past five Sundays in Lent, the Old Testament readings have focused our attention on a series of covenants made by God with his people.

Four weeks ago, on the First Sunday in Lent, we listened to the story of God’s covenant with Noah after the Great Flood. God promised never again to destroy the earth by water, and in return he required obedience to certain minimal commandments, which some theologians have identified with the natural moral law binding on all people in all times and places. And the sign of this covenant between God and all creation was the rainbow.

 

A week later, on the Second Sunday in Lent, we heard of God’s covenant with Abraham. God promised Abraham and his wife Sarah that they would become the ancestors of a multitude of peoples, kings, and nations, as numerous as the stars in the sky. Abraham’s part in return was simply to trust in God’s promises. And the sign of this covenant was male circumcision, a practice continued to this day among all who consider themselves descendants of Abraham.

 

Then, on the Third Sunday in Lent, we considered God’s covenant with the children of Israel given to Moses on Mount Sinai. Here God promised to bring the Israelites into the Promised Land where they would be his People and he would be their God. In return, they promised obedience to the Torah, or Law, God’s gift to regulate their life and worship and to mark them out as God’s own possession among all the nations of the earth. And the sign of this covenant was the two stone tablets of the Law, which Moses brought down from Mount Sinai and placed in the Ark of the Covenant.

 

Although not included in the Lenten Sunday readings, some biblical scholars suggest that in the Old Testament God made a further covenant, with King David, promising him a royal house or lineage in which his descendants would sit on the throne of a kingdom that would last forever. As Christians, we understand this promise to have been fulfilled in Jesus Christ, who sits on the throne of his ancestor David not on earth but in heaven, and who shall return as universal king to judge the living and the dead on the Last Day.

 

Now, a very important point I want to make before proceeding is that all these covenants remain valid and in force. None of them has been broken or superseded. God’s covenant with Noah still extends to all creation. God’s covenant with Abraham still encompasses all the Semitic peoples who claim descent from him. And God’s covenant with Israel still upholds the Jews’ special status as God’s Chosen People.

 

Still, as we read the Scriptures, it becomes clear that these former covenants, while entirely good and enduring, could accomplish only so much. In last week’s Old Testament reading from Numbers, for example, we saw the Israelites grumbling against God in the wilderness and suffering a deadly plague of serpents as a result. None of the former covenants was able to bring about the obedience it demanded. None of them addressed the deep causes of rebellion in the human heart. And so today, on the Fifth Sunday in Lent, the Prophet Jeremiah foretells a new covenant, in which God promises: “I will put my law within them, and I will write it upon their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”

 

A new heart is what we need above all. As Psalm 119 puts it: With my whole heart I seek you; let me not stray from your commandments. I treasure your promise in my heart, that I may not sin against you.

 

Today’s Collect expresses so beautifully what we need. It begins by calling upon God who alone can order the unruly wills and affections of sinners. It then asks God to make us love what he commands, and desire what he promises, so that among the manifold and sundry changes of the world, our hearts may surely there be fixed where true joys are to be found.

 

Imagine that: a heart that loves what God commands and desires what he promises; a heart that finds obedience to God’s law no longer burdensome but rather the source of our deepest joy. 

 

The promise of today’s readings is that Jesus is the one who can accomplish all this in us. Today’s reading from the Letter to the Hebrews describes Christ as “a high priest according to the order of Melchizedek” – that is, not an Aaronic priest of the Old Covenant but rather the mediator of the New Covenant foretold by Jeremiah, and “the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.” 

Speaking in today’s Gospel of his coming passion and death, Jesus proclaims: “Now the ruler of this world will be driven out; and I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” As we approach Holy Week, then, we do well to pray that as we gaze upon Jesus, lifted high upon the cross, we may receive that new heart, surely fixed where true joys are to be found. 

FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR B

March 10, 2024

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R.I.

 

 

Numbers 21:4-9 

Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22 

Ephesians 2:1-10

John 3:14-21

 

 

Today’s readings highlight God’s mercy. Psalm 107 exhorts God’s people to “give thanks to the Lord for his mercy, and the wonders he does for his children.” And in the Epistle reading from Galatians, Saint Paul describes God as “rich in mercy.”

 

A good definition of mercy might be “undeserved favor or forgiveness.” The well-known judicial ideal of “justice tempered with mercy” suggests a certain tension between the two. If we follow Aristotle in defining justice as “giving everyone their due,” then mercy is opposed to justice, because when we receive mercy, we don’t get what we deserve. The astonishing paradox, however, is that God embodies both perfect justice and infinite mercy. And today’s readings afford us glimpses into this wonderful mystery.

The episode in today’s Old Testament reading from Numbers occurs near the end of the Israelites’ forty years in the wilderness, just as they’re poised to make their final approach to the Promised land. For much of their wanderings they’ve camped near oases where food and water have been at least available if not plentiful. But now, traversing an arid desert known as the Wilderness of Sin, they begin to grumble and complain.

 

In the past, these incidents have fallen into something of a standard pattern. First, a threat to the people’s survival emerges, such as hunger or thirst. Second, the people find fault with Moses and accuse him of leading them out into the desert to die. Third, in desperation and fear for his life, Moses prays to the Lord. Fourth, in response to Moses’ intercession, God provides a miraculous deliverance in some such form as manna from heaven, or water from the rock. And then, fifth, the people cease complaining and the journey resumes.

 

This time, however, events take a slightly different turn. In response to the people’s grumbling and complaining, God sends a plague of fiery serpents, which bite the people so that many of them die. (That particular area is home to several species of venomous vipers, whose bites can be life-threatening. The description “fiery serpents” most likely refers to the burning sensation their bites cause.) 

It turns out, however, that the Israelites have actually learned something during their forty years of wandering, for now they recognize without being told that they’ve sinned. And they’ve also learned that the right course of action in this situation is to entreat Moses to pray to God on their behalf.

 

This time, however, God answers the prayer not by taking away the snakes, but by providing a remedy for the snakebite. Think about that for a minute. It would be easy for God to drive the snakes away. But instead, he provides a means of healing the bites. The underlying theological point is that even though sins can always be forgiven, the consequences of sin cannot always be undone. In any case, God’s remedy for the snakebite is to direct Moses to make a bronze image of a snake and set it on a pole, so that anyone who’s been bitten may look on the image and live.

 

Anthropologists have a field day with this story, pointing out how primitive religions often use images of dangerous animals to protect against those animals, and also how, in many cultures, snakes symbolize medicine and healing. But in the Bible the serpent has a deeper significance still. Remember that in the Book of Genesis, it was the serpent who first tempted Adam and Eve to disobey God. 

 

In the wilderness, the Israelites are disobedient to God and suffer death by fiery serpents, just as in the beginning Adam and Eve became subject to sin and death by succumbing to the primordial serpent’s temptation. So the Israelites’ grumbling in the wilderness figuratively symbolizes human sin in all times and places, and the fiery serpents symbolize sin’s poisonous consequences.

 

Why, then, should healing come by means of a bronze serpent on a pole? One explanation is that in order to be healed, the Israelites need to face up to the reality of their sin. The bronze serpent brings them face to face with a visual symbol of their transgression, so they can look upon it, acknowledge their sin, and repent—in response to which God, in his mercy, will forgive and heal them.

 

This background helps explain the significance of our Lord’s words to Nicodemus in today’s Gospel reading from Saint John: “As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”

 

The healing of the snake-bitten Israelites by means of the visual image of a bronze serpent on a pole foreshadows the healing of our wounded humanity by the cross of Christ. There’s no more powerful symbol of sin’s horror than the crucifix. It reminds us that when the Son of God came into the world, this is what we did to him. For this very reason, however, the cross becomes the most powerful remedy for sin. The image of the cross confronts us with the consequences of our rebellion, so that we may gain the opportunity to avail ourselves of God’s mercy and healing.

 

To do so, we need only turn to God in repentance and faith. Notice that the indispensable prerequisite to the healing of the snake-bitten Israelites was confessing their sins and casting themselves on God’s mercy. As the psalmist sings, “Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress.” 

 

The reassurance here is that God desires for us only eternal salvation, and he’ll go to any lengths to get us there: even becoming incarnate as a human being and dying for us on a cross. As Jesus says to Nicodemus in today’s Gospel, “God sent his Son into the world not to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him.”

 

So, Christ’s sacrifice on the cross simultaneously fulfills God’s justice and God’s mercy. In today’s Epistle, Saint Paul emphasizes that the gift of salvation is given by grace and received in faith: “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and this is not your own doing, it is the gift of God—not because of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.”

 

In other words, we cannot do anything by ourselves to merit eternal life; we can only accept in faith the salvation that Christ has already won for us at such great cost to himself. But then, out of gratitude for such amazing divine mercy, we’re drawn to devote our lives to the service of God and our neighbor—again, not to earn heaven, as if that were possible—but to glorify God for the salvation that he’s already bestowed upon us in Christ Jesus our Lord.

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT, YEAR B

March 3 / 4, 2024

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

Exodus 20:1-17

Psalm 19

I Corinthians 1:18-25

John 2:13-22

 

Several years ago, after attending a family funeral, I got involved in a lengthy after-dinner conversation with some relatives whom I hadn’t seen in years. Despite the sad occasion, it was rollicking good time, with fond reminiscences, funny stories, and gales of laughter as the evening wore on and the drinks flowed freely.

 

Eventually, the conversation turned to church and religion. My relatives wanted my professional opinion of the funeral service and the sermon—some aspects of which puzzled them—and I obliged by trying to interpret it as clearly and positively as I could.

 

Eventually, one of these relatives made the pronouncement: “Well, I’m not religious at all, no believer; but I went to a church school.  We began every day in chapel, and I’m very grateful for the moral principles I learned there. My religious training made me a morally upright person, with a clear knowledge of the difference between right and wrong.”

 

For once, the perfect answer occurred to me right there and then, rather than the next morning in the shower. I replied: “I’m sure that’s all true, but it’s not the point of Church. The Christian Gospel really only becomes intelligible, really only gains traction, when we realize that no matter how high our moral standards may be, we always fall short of them.” 

 

They all looked stunned; it was obviously a new thought to them that the purpose of going to church might be something other than just being a good person. As I went on to explain, Christianity isn’t as much about being good as it is about being forgiven; not as much about pulling ourselves up by the moral bootstraps as about relying on God’s grace to accomplish in us what we could never accomplish on our own. As the opening words of today’s Collect acknowledge: “we have no power of ourselves to help ourselves …”

 

Today’s Old Testament reading from Exodus recounts God’s delivery of the Ten Commandments to Moses on Mount Sinai. Along with the rest of the Law, the Ten Commandments are God’s good gift to his people Israel. Some philosophers see them as a distillation of natural moral law: rules to live by that are valid for all people in all times and places. There’s some truth to that, but the Ten Commandments are so much more. They stand at the heart of God’s Covenant with his people Israel, which as Christians we know as the “Old Covenant.”

 

A Covenant is an agreement in which both parties make certain reciprocal promises. In the Old Covenant, given through Moses at Mount Sinai, God promises the twelve tribes of Israel that he shall be their God, and they shall be his people. In return, they must promise to keep all the Laws and Commandments that he’s given them. Observance of this Law thus sets the Children of Israel apart as God’s own People, uniquely chosen from among the nations of the earth. The Law thus represents not merely a set of rules to live by, but a corporate identity. A short time previously, the Hebrews had been nobodies, oppressed slaves in Egypt, but now they’ve become more than somebodies: a people for God’s own possession. So, Psalm 19 rejoices in the great gift of God’s law to God’s people: “The Law of the Lord is perfect and revives the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, and gives wisdom to the innocent.”

 

The temptation of any law or moral code, however, is to become legalistic: to focus on the minute details rather than to embrace the animating principles. For this reason, much of the teaching of Jesus in the Gospels, especially in the Sermon on the Mount, aims at a radical reinterpretation of the Law. His goal is not to abolish the Law but to fulfill it: showing forth and embodying the Spirit that stands behind the letter. The point of observing the Jewish Law is not to keep a detailed set of rules for the sake of the rules themselves, but rather to learn to love the Lord God with all one’s heart, mind, and strength, and to love one’s neighbor as oneself.

 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus makes a whip of cords and drives the moneychangers and merchants from the Jerusalem Temple. Down through the centuries, biblical commentators have debated what exactly his problem was with this selling of sacrificial animals—oxen, sheep, and pigeons—within the Temple precincts. After all, the sacrifice of these animals was part and parcel of the Temple’s religious practice, itself specified in detail in the Law of Moses, especially in the Book of Leviticus. And to purchase such animals for sacrifice worshippers needed Temple currency, rather than Roman coins bearing idolatrous pagan images.

 

One explanation that I find compelling is that Jesus is objecting to the reduction of worship to a series of commercial transactions. In Saint John’s account, Jesus commands: “Take these things out of here! Stop making my father’s house a marketplace.” The implication is that people are attempting to buy God’s favor by paying the money to have the priests offer the sacrifices on their behalf. But the fullness of worship and prayer must engage our whole selves: our hearts, minds, and wills. The rote performance of ritual cannot substitute for the living relationship that God seeks with each of us. Religious observances are meant to be a vehicle of that relationship, not a substitute for it.

 

The religious authorities challenge Jesus: “What sign have you to show us for doing this?” In other words, anyone who dares to disrupt the Temple’s established practices in this way had better have some sign that he’s acting on God’s authority, such as perhaps a miracle, or the fulfillment of a prophecy—or else he’s in real trouble. Jesus responds enigmatically: “Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” But, John adds, “he spoke of the temple of his body.” In other words, the definitive sign of Jesus’ authority for doing this, the definitive sign of his authority as the Son of God, will be his death and resurrection.

 

The important point is that both the moral system of the Ten Commandments and the sacrificial system of the Jerusalem Temple were God’s good gifts to his People Israel. We need to avoid the trap of an anti-Judaism suggesting anything less. But we run into trouble whenever God’s gifts become more important to us than our relationship with the Giver. Today’s readings remind us that true progress in the Christian life goes beyond fulfilling moral codes such as the Ten Commandments, or getting the ritual details of worship right, and comes instead through an ever-deepening relationship with the God who gives us his very self in Jesus Christ.