My favorite Jesus

This is my favorite Jesus.

This is the gentle Jesus, the picture of Jesus in the nursery school hanging out with lambs and kids under a tree and sunny skies Jesus.

This is the Jesus I seek after and seek to emulate.

This is the Jesus who promises me rest and succor, the calm at sea and the shelter in the storm.

Certainly, there is the stern Jesus, the curser of fig trees and there is the righteous anger Jesus who removed tables from the Temple.

And there is the Jesus who took on all our sins and carried them with him on the road to Calvary.

Yet, this morning’s Jesus, this Jesus is the “I got you” Jesus as in rest, stay with me, my burden is light Jesus.

Feeling run down from a crazy week?

Spending Sunday almost regretting what this next week is going to bring?

Will the unease grow on this day off before you head into the evening thinking about another Monday, a day for which you might not be looking forward?

Well, spend sometime this morning in prayer, contemplating this Jesus who would lift you up?

Maybe you have a new job coming soon, maybe the expectation of new things weighs heavily upon you; I tell you honestly, I know of what I speak.

Share your nerves and burdens with this gentle and humble Jesus.

This Jesus who speaks to us this morning.

-quick pause-

There is such a thing called Ignatian prayer.

This is a method of prayer that invites the practitioner to enter into a certain passage of scripture, to really place themselves in the story.

To see themselves in the towns and villages of Jesus’time, to see yourself as a participant in the scene that is set before you.

We will be trying that out this morning, a guided bit of Ignatian prayer, if you will.

And so, I ask you to pause.

Imagine yourself in a place from this morning’s gospel.

Wonder about your surroundings; enter into prayer as an observer.

But do not let the setting distract you; maybe you are more comfortable imagining the story taking place in modern times that are more familiar to you rather than picturing Israel of two thousand years ago.

It is your choice.

And now…

I invite you breathe.

Find a position that is comfortable with your feet on the floor.

Maybe place your hands on your lap.

If you feel comfortable in doing so, close your eyes (but promise not to take a nap.)

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Exhale.

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Exhale.

And I invite you into this morning’s story.

You are in an ancient marketplace or a modern mall.

You are in the Middle East under sun Middle Eastern sun or maybe an outdoor harvest festival is more familiar to you.

Find yourself in a place that does not distract you; find yourself in a place you know.

Perhaps you are you are amongst stalls with straw roofs that let in the light just so or heavy plastic booths with tables out front holding a vendor’s wares.

Perhaps there are buildings, mostly brick and covered with a clay lining.

In some places the clay is dropping away and you can see the brick and mortar peak out from behind those cracks that lead to holes.

Or maybe your feet can feel the flattened grass trodden on by so many as people inspect hand blown glass and pottery fresh from a kiln.

You are in this place, walking from booth to booth, stall to stall

It is a lazy day but you know this is just a break in the busyness of your life.

You take with you all that needs to be done, distractedly holding a piece of fruit you mean to inspect you instead think about what needs to get done.

More hay to bale, more games to attend.

You are busy and distracted, but at this moment, you are calm.

Busy can wait.

As you pass a booth you notice a group of kids yelling at another group of kids.

Perhaps they are on opposite sides of the street, sitting on curbs shouting at one another as they wait for the holiday parade.

They shout but do not listen.

“Why did you not dance when we played for you the flute,” one group yells.

“Why did you not weep with us when we wailed,” the other group replies.

They shout but do not listen.

Joy is not seen by one group the other ignores their weeping.

You watch these children go back and forth yelling not so much as at each other but past one another.

Two groups who will shout and yell, weep and dance yet never will they communicate, never will they try to understand.

They are too perfect an example for all of us, how we become focused on our own wants and wishes and weeping; how we never listen for those nearby who might be in their own form of distress.

You think about the kids and move on from the market.

You move on from the market and think about how no one seems satisfied.

No one seems to find anything close to resembling good enough.

They insist on perfection.

They insist on their own vision of what perfection is be confirmed through their own lens and biases.

You wander now through small town streets, suburban roads or winding ancient paths.

You wander.

You walk.

You continue thinking about those children yelling and laughing, weeping and wailing.

And you think about John.

John the Baptist, that man down by the river who wore animal skins and ate locusts and honey.

He baptized folks in that river and people confessed their sins to him.

John was passionate and said fiery things; he angered some authorities.

And some were angered by John.

They said he did not eat or drink.

They said his life was austere, they looked at his camel skin tunic and strange leather belt and said he was not like them.

They did not hear his message, they saw only a man different from them and they did not like his talk of fire and the winnowing fork.

He must have a demon, they thought.

You continue on your way.

The streets are familiar and so you can walk without stumbling, you walk without thinking, you pass under shade trees, you walk past houses and homes thinking of John.

And you then too think of Jesus.

He brought joy and hope to the conversation.

He promised salvation for everybody, even me.

But sometimes even that message got lost.

They tsked and tutted just who was going to be saved.

Tax collectors?

Drunkards?

Sinners?

Those people?

They looked at the people this man came to save and they did not realize they too were those people.

And you think just like those kids in the marketplace, the ones who could not here what the other was saying for their concerns were more important than the message the others were trying to send, John’s message was never heard.

Jesus’ message was never heard.

Where John seemed too harsh, people wanted joy.

Where Jesus seemed to joyful, people wanted wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And sometimes, neither were heard.

But you hear both and you especially understand Jesus.

That he is here.

And he is.

You continue to walk until you reach a dead end or a courtyard and there he stands.

You get closer to him and see he is surrounded by a crowd full of people like you.

Weepers and wailers, dancers and joy bringers alike.

You here from the back of the crowd words like, “come to me, all you that are weary.”

And you realize you are weary.

And you wish to lay down your heavy burdens.

And you wish to rest.

You pass through the crowd as they make way for you.

You sit closer to him; sitting on the ground, your knees gathered to your chest, your arms hang loosely around your shins, your hands are intertwined; you listen to his words.

And rather than holding on to your burdens, your unease about a Monday that is soon to arrive, the many tasks you will need to accomplish, you release them.

For those tasks will get accomplished.

Monday won’t be so difficult.

You release those burdens to this man standing before you.

And he asks that you do but one thing.

He asks you to take on his yoke and his yoke are his commandments to love God and love each other.

You can do that.

That burden is light.

You can love each other.

You can love God.

You can do that.

You can love.

Amen.