Who Lays Down His Life

Love serves a purpose.  Love ties people to one another with durable, resilient bands.  Love causes intimate concern for those whom we love—we want the very best for them, and we hurt when they are hurt, when they wander, when they don’t strive for better.  Love guides, disciplines, yet does not seek to dictate or control; seeking to control arises from fear, insecurity, and mistrust.  Love prompts us to work, to sacrifice, to persevere.  Love grounds us, giving us a foundation.  Love gives us a vision for building upon the foundation: a temple, a hospital, a school, a rest upon the way . . . a sanctuary.

Judas left, to do what he was going to do.  Maybe he had loved Jesus, at one time; maybe, like the man sang, Judas just didn’t know how to love Jesus.  We know how to love parents, spouse, children, friends—how are we supposed to love Jesus?  How do we love God?  Let’s not just file that away for later.  We get receiving love, and we love it.  How do we give love?  How do we give love to God?

Judas has left, in every conceivable sense.  He’ll be back, but not like it was.  We encounter him, again.

Jesus came for this night that we remember this evening.  He came for all that was about to happen: three years, thirty years, eternity, for this moment.  He had told his followers, his beloved friends; they were all so intent on what was crying out in their own hearts—their fears, their frustrations and failures, their nagging sense of inadequacy, all crying for comfort—it was hard to hear Jesus, what he was telling them.  We want Jesus to be so many things for us, do so many things for us.  We’re good at listening to ourselves, even when we don’t know what we’re saying.

Jesus came to do something, be someone, for us.  Maybe even as Judas was walking out the door, Jesus tells the rest, “Now the Son of Man is glorified and God is glorified in him” (13:31).  Glorified—being given the name above all names.  “Blessed be your glorious name, and may it be exalted above all blessing and praise” (Neh 9:5).  “Let them praise the name of the Lord, for his name alone is exalted; his splendor is above the earth and the heavens” (Ps 148:13).  “I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago” (Is 25:1).  None greater, none higher.  Elevated, lifted up for all to see.  The most vivid, visceral display of the power of God since . . . since rescue out of Egypt, since . . . Creation.  Time for something new, a new demonstration.  To God be the glory.  The Son glorifies the Father; the Father shows forth His glory, in the Son.  Magnificent.  Shattering.

They will see.  Peter, James, and John had seen, back on the mountain: light that nearly blinded them in its intense purity, the voice from heaven—they heard, and lived!  Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus, discussing what was to come, giving God the glory; the law and the prophets, falling down, offering their victor’s crowns back to the Lord who gave them.  Soon, all the disciples and everyone would see, would witness the glory of God, on a hill, not so far away.

Jesus tells the eleven, “If God is glorified in him, God will glorify the Son in himself, and will glorify him at once” (13:32).  “Since God receives glory because of the Son,  He will give His own glory to the Son, and He will do so at once” (NLT).  “Now the Son of Man is seen for who he is, and God seen for who He is in him.  The moment God is seen in him, God’s glory will be on display.  In glorifying him, He Himself is glorified—glory all around!” (MSG).  We are to glorify God by our living; as we do, He will bless us.  With Jesus, it is different, all on a different scale, vastly different, global, cosmic.  Glory, glorify—“Glory is the radiance of the divine Person.”[1] We do not add to the radiance, though we do obscure it.  We can point to it, point others to it; we can praise the radiance, sing of it; we can love the radiance.  Often, when the Bible speaks of the glory of God, it is conveying the sense of God’s presence, His nearness.  The radiance is the wonder-evoking, undeniable manifestation of the presence of God, particularly in the midst of His people.[2]  The glory-presence, among other things, is for assurance that “God will shelter and protect” His own.[3]  To be in the presence of God, the presence of the glory, is to be in the presence of “the fountain and source of life.”[4]  God is near; God is here—that is the sense of glory.  We may not often feel it.  It never has been about feeling.  Jesus invites us to see, taste and see.

The Son offers himself to glorify his Father in heaven, to testify to God’s complete, perfect power, goodness, grace: a model and pattern for our own living.  The Father, never stingy in His blessings, responds by giving His glory to the Son (NLT); the eternal Son has always already enjoyed the glory he shares with the Father.  What is Jesus saying, then?  As I read it, the Incarnate Word, Jesus of Nazareth, the godhead veiled in flesh, has not at that moment fully manifested his divine splendor.  Something more must be done.  His glory made itself known, felt, and seen, occasionally, persuasively—for some.  Not everyone who came into the presence of Jesus fell down and worshipped.  No one can be in the unveiled presence of the Father and not fall to his or her knees.  Jesus is telling them that, soon, very soon now, all will see the awesome majesty of God, in Jesus.

The awesome majesty of God.  Jesus is not speaking only of the empty tomb, just a few days from now.  Here tonight, here tomorrow, we know this.

“My children,” he tells them, “I will be with you only a little longer.  You will look for me, and just as I told the Jews, so I tell you now: Where I am going, you cannot come (13:33).   Cannot come, why?  Because it is a trial they could not endure, and it was not appointed for them; they cannot come with him.  He must go, for them.   There is a thing only he can do, a place only he can go.  Perhaps that sounds exclusive to us, yet, by it, we are included.

When he has gone, what will they do?  What will I do, without you?  Peter at one point had reminded Jesus that Peter, and the rest, had given up everything—all they had built for themselves, all they had labored on for a lifetime—for the sake of following Jesus.  Now, Jesus was going to leave them?  They don’t want Jesus to go.  Would you?  If he were here, right now, here with you, would you want him to go?  Stay.  Please.  Don’t leave me.  Stay with me.

You cannot come.  We are unable, but we are able, in Christ, by grace, to do something.  There’s like an unspoken “therefore” just here: you cannot come, therefore, “A new command I give you: Love one another.  As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (13:34).  Jesus is going to the cross, and beyond the cross; he gives us our marching orders.  There is a way to love others; we live in a world filled with others to love.  We rather pride and congratulate ourselves on how we love one another—it’s on our church sign out on the road, after all.  I do not say we do not love one another.  You know you do.  I daresay you know better than I how we love one another in many ways I won’t know or hear about.  That is blessed, and we bless.  We are blessed to be a blessing.

And may I also share an observation with you, tonight, here?  Over the years I have been here we have had several deaths, as we know.  Over the years that I have been with you, others have gone away, elsewhere or nowhere, as we know.

I’m touched by the way you hold so tenaciously to those who have left, refusing even to contemplate removing from the roll of members of this congregation those whom we haven’t seen in five years, seven years, ten years, and more, including those who have been worshiping with other congregations for most of that time.  In the case of some, we call, only to leave a message.  We e-mail, and receive no reply.  We see them in the store, greet them, and see as they nod stiffly, go tight around the mouth, hard around the eyes, and quicken their pace past us.  We are tenacious in loving those who have left.

Over the years I have been here with you, several have come and remained, including those who stood up before us, taking the public step, the discipleship step, of becoming members of the congregation.  I watch as they sit here in the sanctuary on Sunday morning.  No one goes over to say hello.  I watch as they leave after worship.  No one tries to get to them before they walk out the door.  I walk into Bethel Hall for our potluck, and I notice our new people, if they come, sitting by themselves; no one goes to their table; no one invites them to a table; no one joins them.  I feel lonely for them, brothers.  I feel sad for them, sisters.  Love one another.  Let’s.  Let them take the first step.  They have.  Why are we so slow to follow their lead?

“[Y]ou must love one another.”  It’s not that we don’t want to.  We don’t see them.  They don’t rise to the level of our noticing, the level of our acting in response to what we see.  It doesn’t occur to us.  We aren’t in the habit.  We’re glad they’re here, of course; we’d be so very glad for more, but the presence of new people among us requires nothing from us.  It’s not like we owe them.

Love has a purpose, as Jesus shows us.  We are to love with a purpose, as Christ calls us.  “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (13:35).  Love looks like something, like someone, someone it seems hard to see, sometimes.  Love abides, truly.  And love goes out; love moves; love seeks; love invites.  Tonight, this table set before us, surely we remember.

And Jesus says he is leaving them.  “Simon Peter asked him, ‘Lord, where are you going?’  Jesus replied, ‘Where I am going, you cannot follow now, but you will follow later’” (13:36).  Does he mean Peter’s martyrdom, talk of which comes up near the end of John’s account?  Or maybe Jesus means Peter will come back, after running away: back to following.  “You cannot follow now.”  Why?  What matters most to Peter, in that moment, is that Jesus is telling Peter he cannot come.  It’s like getting on your shoes and running out to the car, only to be told you can’t come: not included, not wanted.

“Peter asked, ‘Lord, why can’t I follow you now?  I will lay down my life for you’” (13:37).  Is it because you doubt my love, Lord?  How can I prove it to you?  Don’t you know I’d die for you!?  Emotions are high, as we hear.  Peter wants to be with Jesus, have Jesus.  Jesus says Peter isn’t able to, now.  Of course he is able!  He has legs.  He’s strong.  He has a will.  He loves Jesus.  He’s loyal to Jesus.  How can Jesus say this, now, after three years?  Something big is about to happen, Peter knows.  He isn’t sure what.  He wants to be part of it.  He wants to show his love, prove his loyalty.  He loves Jesus, more than these!

“Then Jesus answered, ‘Will you really lay down your life for me?  Very truly I tell you, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times!’” (13:38).  Was all stunned silence, then, for a dreadful moment?  Did Peter’s shout of “No!” fill the room?  I surrender all.  Well, almost all, nearly everything.  Lay down our lives, for Jesus . . . a work in progress, surely.

There’s a hymn, it’s in our book.  It’s new, for a hymn: 1989.  The problem with many hymns that have come out over the last forty years is that we don’t know them.  We don’t know any new songs.  We don’t sing any new songs.  We don’t see the point, really: what we have already is good enough, what we had.  We don’t bother to find out.  We’re not singers, after all; we’re not really good at it.  We don’t even really like to.  Others do it, so much better.  Let others do it.

There’s a new hymn in our book.  We won’t sing it, tonight, but let me share the words:

Before I take the body of my Lord,

Before I share his life in bread and wine,

I recognize the sorry things within: These I lay down.

The words of hope I often failed to give,

The prayers of kindness buried by my pride,

The signs of care I argued out of sight: These I lay down.

The narrowness of vision and of mind,

The need for other folk to serve my will,

And every word and silence meant to hurt: These I lay down.

Of those around in whom I meet my Lord,

I ask their pardon and I grant them mine,

That every contradiction of Christ’s peace might be laid down.

Lord Jesus Christ, companion at this feast,

I empty now my heart and stretch my hands,

And ask to meet you here in bread and wine which you lay down.

[1] Robert H. Mounce.  Book of Revelation.  New Int’l Commentary on the NT.  Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1997.  163.

[2] Mounce, 166.

[3] Mounce, 166.

[4] Mounce, 167.