Jesus can sometimes be … a disappointment.
But to be fair, we do sometimes ask a lot of him. We want Jesus to save us, but we are not always clear (and maybe not always honest) about what exactly we mean by “saved.” Saved from death? Yes, we want that, even as we all know that each of us will one day die. Saved from sins? Maybe … yes, of course yes!, though sometimes it is hard for us to acknowledge what we mean by sin, or to admit certain sins, to ourselves, to others, to God. From what, exactly, do we want Jesus to save us?
Often enough we want Jesus to save us from calamity. “Help me, Jesus,” we might pray, when the plane is taking off. Maybe if you are a parent, you pray this prayer whenever your child crosses a street, or moves into her college dorm. “Help!” is a prayer Jesus has heard many, many times.
I personally pray a slightly longer prayer every time the plane takes off: “Help and bless us, Holy God, and keep us in your care.” I know that I want God, or God in Jesus, to save us from crashing. I know that is what I really want. But I also know that that’s not exactly how it works, so I have diplomatically softened the language of my runway prayer, while the engines roar around me and the immense metal tube holding us all lurches forward, impossibly attempting to heave itself seven miles into the air. “Help and bless us, Holy God, and keep us in your care.”
Not, “O please, Jesus, save us from crashing!” My disappointment in Jesus, then, is built into the very prayer I whisper to him. I seem to be praying, “Jesus, I know you’re not going to magically save us if the plane goes down, but, I don’t know, can you be here with us?”
Even so, my careful prayer to God in that moment is asking a lot. I want help. I want blessing. I want someone to keep me, to care for me, to hold me.
Is Jesus that someone? Is he … the One?
John the Baptist wasn’t so sure. He was languishing in prison, and so far, Jesus had not met expectations for the dazzling political revolution John was expecting. John’s question today, his prayer, is, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” It is as if John the Baptist is being played by Carrie-Anne Moss, dressed in black leather, the warrior named “Trinity” in the 1999 film, “The Matrix.” Trinity can’t be sure that Neo, her love interest, played by Keanu Reeves, is “the One.” A good portion of the film is preoccupied with this question. We viewers know that of course, of course, Keanu Reeves has to be the hero who saves everyone at the end. (We could also safely guess that he will be a Christological hero, sacrificing his life so that others might live.) But his new friends aren’t so sure. Is he the One, or are they to wait for another? Only Mary Magdalene, played by Laurence Fishburne, has unwavering faith in Neo.
At one point Neo consults the Oracle, a computer program that appears as an older woman baking cookies in her kitchen. He is eager himself to know the answer to this burning question. Is he the One? Is he? “I’m not the One,” he says to the Oracle, anticipating her discouraging judgment. “Sorry kid,” she says, confirming his worst fears. “You got the gift, but it looks like you’re waiting for something.” “What?” he asks. “Your next life, maybe. Who knows? That’s the way these things go.” At this low moment in his hero’s journey, Neo is discouraged, confused, crestfallen. He truly doubts that he is the One.
Our actual hero, Jesus himself, is not often portrayed in our holy book as discouraged or uncertain. Often enough, he is self-assured, serene, sure of his identity and calling. Matthew portrays Jesus as the New Moses, the fulfillment of prophecy, the One. But in this little exchange between Jesus and his cousin John, while Matthew doesn’t show Jesus feeling discouraged, he does show Jesus being a little defensive. “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John asks, from prison, that is, from a place of terrible powerlessness and disillusionment. And here is what Jesus says in reply:
“The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
It is a stirring list of accomplishments, even if it is interpreted non-literally: the short-sighted now understand; those knocked off their feet by life are lifted and empowered; those who were judged impure can now enter the temple as full citizens; those who were deaf to the Word are now listening to God’s song of justice; those whose hope has died are raised with new confidence; and finally, the poor have good news brought to them. (That last one is maybe the most unlikely outcome of all.) This is a good list. And yet, Jesus adds, “and blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
As impressive as this list is, Jesus is not saying that he will overthrow the government, or usher in a new Messianic era that cleanses the whole land of all injustice and suffering. The poor receiving good news: that sounds nice, but if I am languishing in prison, what does that really mean, for me, for my friends, for all of us who are still under the crushing heel of Rome? Jesus sounds more like a social worker than a savior.
But Jesus has read his Bible. He knows about Isaiah’s prophecy, which we also have heard today. Jesus knows that the One will not appear like General Patton, or Captain America, or Neo. Jesus knows that that is not what God means by salvation.
Poor John will not escape his predicament. He will be killed, as part of an evening’s entertainment. Jesus himself will also be killed, in an execution designed to rob him of every mark of dignity and stature, an execution that sends the people a warning: if you rebel, if you create unrest, if you try to overthrow the powers of the world, this will happen to you. You will be stripped, whipped, nailed to a pole, and left to die. You will become less than human.
Jesus can sometimes be … a disappointment.
And yet, this same Jesus returns as the Risen Christ, and the Risen Christ is indeed the fulfillment of Isaiah’s deepest hopes. The Risen Christ meets us, his hands and feet still wounded, but very much alive. Death, then, is defeated not by making us immortal superheroes who never die, but the beloved children of God who follow Jesus through death into unending resurrected life. The power of God is Good News for the least among us, for the outcasts, for the poor, for all who are judged “unclean” or “undesirable.” The power of God is Good News for them as revealed in our own actions, which we learn how to do here, gathered around Word and Table.
In a little while, after we say our Table prayers, Rosemari will say, “The gifts of God for the people of God.” St. Augustine says the same thing a little differently. Augustine says, “Become what you receive: the Body of Christ.” We are the answer to John’s question from prison. We restore sight to the blind, and we help people get up and walk. We unstop their ears, and we even raise the dead, lifting people from the grave of despair, from the belief that their own death is the end, the last word. You and I, when we become the Body of Christ, preach good news to the poor. Is this a disappointment? It is, definitely, if what we are expecting is a magical solution to all of our problems. Even Neo, in The Matrix, can only launch and lead a new movement of resistance to the evil powers of his world.
“Help and bless us, holy God, and keep us in your care.” That is my runway prayer. It’s … not such a bad prayer. I do not ask for magical solutions, but I do ask for the abiding presence of the Risen Christ, in life and in death, in times of trial and times of celebration. That is a big Ask. But the Risen Christ will not disappoint us. He is here, as always, extending his wounded hands. Let us get up, then, and become what we are about to receive.
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Isaiah 35:1-10
Psalm 146:4-9
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11