Author: Kellar

His mother treasured up all these things in her heart. [Luke 2:51, NRSV] – Her body is weary and heavy for the want of sleep, but she’s not sure she could tear her eyes away. She knows that she would not be able to rest. It reminds her of the quiet moments in the night when she nursed him, her eyes trace the lines of his face, the size of his hands, the rise and fall of his chest. He’s still…

Jesus’s birth would have gone largely unnoticed, had it not been for the star in the sky and the angels. The angels. Jesus is newly emerged from the womb, and an angel appears to a group of shepherds to tell them the good news. The Messiah has been born. The Messiah is in a manger in Bethlehem. [If it happened today, one of the shepherds would hold up a timid hand. “Sorry, did you say—a…

Emmanuel shall come to thee, o Israel

At that time there was a man in Jerusalem named Simeon. He was righteous and devout and was eagerly waiting for the Messiah to come and rescue Israel. The Holy Spirit was upon himand had revealed to him that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. (Luke 2:25-26, NLT) – He remembers, vaguely, a time before Roman occupation. He had been a boy, about to become a man. He remembers…

“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul?” (Matthew 16:24-26, NIV)

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It’s Pentecost on Sunday, it feels like the world is falling apart, and I wonder what being a peacemaker looks like in this moment of history.

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I write to process things.

I use my words to get through a problem, hoping that I will get from one end to the other and it will all make sense in the end. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. This is one of those times. Right now, in this world, there are three things that are taking up the scope of my visibility.

For one, the value of a life placed against the economy.

(is reopening the economy when you cannot guarantee the safety—as far as you can—of consumers and suppliers from a very infectious virus worth it?)

For two, the value of a life placed against material goods.

(how do I explain that I understand riots as a response to the latest “isolated incident” of a black person dying at the hands of police? that I understand the frustration of a lack of change, and sometimes it’s all you can do to shout and burn it to the ground, and then tend to the damage after in the hopes that something better will come up?)

For three, the value of a life placed against religious tradition.

(should a town council vote down a declaration in support of Pride month while citing religious reasons? should councillors separate religious convictions from their political duties? is strong-arming councillors into doing what you want them to do the right thing? how do I say, “it takes years to process the changes to religious convictions you’re asking people to make. you need to do the hard work of giving them a name and a person to Pride—right in front of them, not just on the internet”? how do I say, “your religious convictions might have life or death implications for someone else?”)

How valuable is a life? What lengths should I go to in order to preserve it, in order to fully follow my Saviour to the depths that he would go to so that he could recover the one sheep that wandered off?

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The disciples are touched by tongues of fire in the form of the Spirit, and they go out into Jerusalem propelled by that fire. That fire touches all who they come into contact with, simply because the fire enables them to communicate in a language that allows the hearer to understand.

And yet some made fun of them. Some said, “They have had too much wine” (Acts 2:13, NIV). Some people looked at what was happening right in front of them—this upheaval by the Spirit of the Almighty God—and decided not to pay attention because they were obviously drunk.

What are we missing right in front of us?

Are we hearing what is being said?

What if the next revival of the Spirit doesn’t start with us, those in the privileged positions, who have very rarely been oppressed? Those whose voices are heard above the other ones that say, “I can’t breathe?”

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Why did Jesus come? What did the Spirit lay on his heart?

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,    because he has anointed me    to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners    and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free,   to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18-19, NIV)

Have we lost sight of the mission? Do we not know what reconciliation in all of its forms looks like? Have we allowed our politics to become more important than our call?

If Ecclesiastes 3 is true, then there is a time to uproot (v.2). There is a time to tear down (v.3). There is a time to scatter stones (v.5). There is a time to throw away (v.6). There is a time to tear (v.7).

There is a time for undoing. There is a time for upheaval. There is a time when the powerful and the privileged have to reckon with the fact that what was working for them is not working for all, and that God works with those that are oppressed and far off and downtrodden.

I’m so tired. You know how tired I am. You know how much I want to be settled, how much I want my own house, how much I want to be there, because maybe then I will be content. It’s hard moving back in with his parents because it feels like failure, or a regression, and I’m worried I’m never going to be completely comfortable there.

I’m sick of being uncomfortable. I know there are people who are more uncomfortable than me, but I would love any sort of a balm

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

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“Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego replied to him, ‘King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.’” (Daniel 3:16-18, NIV)

Even if he does not.

God is good, and he will deliver us—but even if he does not, we will still worship him.

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Easter morning dawns, and most of the disciples are hiding.

(Except for the women—they are at the tomb, ready to anoint the dead body of their teacher after the Sabbath.)

Their teacher is dead, so they must be next on the chopping block. They hide out of fear for the authorities, of the crowds. Peter already had a close brush on the night that Jesus was crucified; if people didn’t recognize them, they would hear their accents were different. It wouldn’t take long for the people to put two and two together. To guess that these Northerners were the Nazarene’s disciples.

But inside, the tomb is empty. They don’t believe Mary when she tells them, but they believe Jesus when he appears right in front of them, when they can touch him, when they can eat breakfast on the beach with him like the good old days. When they watch him ascend out of their view.

And then?

Well, really, you can’t shut them up.

Nobody can shut them up.

It starts out peaceful, followers of Jesus growing in number every day, but it quickly turns sour. Christians are arrested, Christians are assaulted. Stephen is arrested and, at the end of his testimony, says that he sees Jesus at the right hand of God and gets stoned for it.

More people are arrested. Followers are crucified. Paul, at one point, escapes a city that wants to kill him by exiting in a basket lowered out a window.

And yet: they won’t shut up.

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Sometimes, it seems like we in the west are a little too eager for persecution to come. Maybe it’s because we think our faith isn’t real if we’re not risking our lives for it, but at the same time, as soon as the going even gets a little hard, we call for a time out. We want a return to our comfort. There are some that say the government preventing people from going to church on Easter Sunday to try and prevent the spread of a pandemic is persecution, like we need to be in the building or it doesn’t count.

Christ’s church has never been defined by the building, though. Defined by fellowship—yes. There was something bittersweet about taking communion on Good Friday over a livestream with others who were far away that pierced me to the core and almost made me cry. In much the same way, the point of persecution isn’t so that people can see God delivering us.

The point of persecution is to stand firm. To say that, even if God does not show up in ways that we think or hope he will, we will not stop worshipping him.

That even if we do not get miraculously delivered, Jesus’ resurrection is still, to borrow a phrase from Rachel Held Evans, the thing that we are willing to risk being wrong about.

If we are to be persecuted, let it be because we can’t shut up about Jesus. Because we can’t stop living like him—being the peacemakers in our communities and the world, being merciful, reaching to the pure in heart when they might not be the first choice of person to reach for. Let it be because they don’t understand why we act this way, even in the face of opposition for disrupting the status quo of the earthly kingdoms in which we live. Let it be for loving our neighbours and our enemies, for drawing close to the poor and the oppressed and the widow and the foreigner.

Blessed are the peacemakers,    for they will be called children of God.

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What marks someone as a child of God?

Is it how many Bible verses they know? Is it how often they go to church, or how often they help in ministry? Is it by what spiritual benchmarks they hit? How often they pray?

Jesus makes it simple: the peacemakers. The peacemakers are the ones who will be called children of God.

Jesus himself, after all, was a peacemaker. He is the one who made peace with God for us. He is the one who suffered for us. He is the one who laid down his life for us. What atonement theory you subscribe to (or don’t subscribe to) doesn’t matter—we all agree that Jesus made peace for us. In John 14:27, Jesus says he gives peace to us.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

We are being conformed to the image of Christ, and that means we are called to be peacemakers, too. If a peacemaker is “a person who brings about peace, especially by reconciling adversaries”, then how do we bring that about in our day to day lives?

Why are we so often the ones asking, “where is peace?” when we are the ones tasked with bringing it about?

Being a peacemaker doesn’t always involve big acts of glamour and sacrifice, and maybe it shouldn’t. It’s not something that should be done in front of a crowd. Peacemaking involves risk—there’s not much of Christianity that doesn’t involve risk. There’s no guarantee it’ll work out, there’s no guarantee that we’ll see a reward.

We aren’t called to just stay back and watch, though. If we are children of God, we are called to bring light into the shadows of the world and to make peace.

We are called to help bring about the kingdom of heaven on earth—a kingdom that is marked by peace.

Blessed are the pure in heart,    for they will see God.

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It’s another day, another sunrise, another crucifixion.

He doesn’t have the most glamorous job as a centurion. It pays the taxes, and it supports his young family, and he serves the empire. It’s a noble job, one that his father and his father’s father have done.

Rome is far away. He does not get sent to war, he does not get sent to guard Caesar, he doesn’t even get to guard Pilate. His noble call as a centurion is to keep the crowds back during the crucifixions.

He rubs a hand over his face. After a while, it just gets old. A crowd, large or small, will gather. The criminal will trudge down the street, exhausted, dragging the cross. They will be nailed to it. The cross will be lifted. He will listen to them struggle and wheeze until they no longer have the will to stretch for a breath.

There is a buzz around Jerusalem, these days. More people. That’s what happens at Passover, though, and they’re going to squeeze in one last crucifixion before the Jewish holiday.

It’s another day. Another day for the armour. Another day where he’ll wither under the sun. Another crucifixion.

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When he arrives, there’s a…strange energy about. He gets the attention of his commanding officer. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Two rebels will be executed today,” his commanding officer says.

“There’s three crosses.”

“Two rebels,” his commanding officer repeats, “as well as the man from Nazareth.”

His eyes widen. Now, he knows very little about the man from Nazareth. He knew he was making waves in the Jewish circles, and there was whispers that he had healed a centurion’s servant in Capernaum. He came to Jerusalem every year for Passover, but that was the custom of the Jews, and he had never seen the Nazarene.

Crucified? What happened? They just welcomed him into the city with palm branches days ago.

“How?” he asks.

His commanding officer shrugs. “Their religious leaders claim he said he was the Son of God, and according to their law that is deserving of death. Pilate gave his permission. Now go on, they’ll be here soon.”

The two rebels and the man from Nazareth.

To be crucified.

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He is sweltering in his armour, for all that it just turned to the afternoon. The three men struggle on the crosses, working for their life’s breath, as the crowd—larger than he’s ever seen it—shout and jeer at the man in the middle. At the man from Nazareth. At the man who has “THIS IS JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS” hung on a sign above his head.

This man? A king? Of the people who wait for him to die?

The sky grows—dark. Not the dark that comes with a mid-afternoon storm, but the kind of dark that wishes he had a torch. For a moment he worries it’s a trap, but how could his followers cover the sun? He grips his spear more tightly, though it will do little to help him in the face of one who has the power to darken the sky.

Which god could this belong to? Apollo? Or—

He looks at this man from Nazareth. This Jesus, whom the Jewish religious leaders said claimed he was the son of God.

Which God?

He flinches when the man from Nazareth cries out, loudly, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The man whispers something after that, but he’s not sure what it is until one of his followers comes up, brandishing a soaking sponge. He holds out his spear. “No. You cannot come closer.”

“He’s thirsty,” the follower—a young man, barely younger than the centurion—says sharply. There are tears in his eyes and running down his cheeks and the centurion ignores it. He has seen tears before. The follower tenses, like he’s thinking about taking a run at the cross, and then holds out the sponge. “Just—here. Please.”

The man from Nazareth is dying, and the sponge smells sour, but he still puts it on the end of his spear and holds it up with shaking hands.

The man drinks. The sky is dark. So, so dark.

A whisper from nearby: “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to save him.”

But the man cries out again, and he slumps.

He does not rise again.

It’s just another crucifixion. It should be, except the sky is dark, darker than it sometimes gets at night. It has been for hours. It’s just another crucifixion, except the crowds around cry out as the ground shakes and rocks split and there’s no way it’s tied to this man’s death, is it? But it—it must be, the ground is shaking hard enough for the tomb that he’s been focussing on all afternoon to split open and what—what is coming out of it—

Is that—a person?

His heart is thudding heavily in his chest, and he’s terrified. His gods—the gods of Rome have never done something like this. He has called on them, but there has been no answer.

One man dies—one man who made an extraordinary claim—and the world shakes.

Blessed are the merciful,    for they will be shown mercy.

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Mercy does not pay dividends. At least, not in the ways that we want it to.

Its success refuses to be measured by how the world measures success. Mercy has nothing to gain. True mercy, real mercy, doesn’t wait for the cameras to show up. It doesn’t wait for the hashtags to become mainstream. It doesn’t wait for a crowd, and it doesn’t require a waver to be signed.

Just ask the Samaritan who helped his Jewish neighbour after he had been mugged and left for dead, who had nothing to be gained by saving a stranger’s life.

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Mercy is hard. That’s why we want the immediate reward, I think. When something is required of us, we want somebody to tell us that we did a good job. That we’re doing a good job. That we’re worth something.

Would we still be willing to be merciful if there was no crowd? More than that, if the majority told us that we were in the wrong, that there’s a reason the person is reaping what they’re sowing, that it’s not our responsibility?

Are we still willing to be merciful when it costs us something? Whether it be clout, or friends, or other people’s high opinions of us, or money, status.

Are we still willing to be merciful when it hurts?

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My favourite Greek word is “splagchnizomai.” It is, perhaps, the thing that rooted more deeply in my brain out of everything that I learned in Bible school. Splagchnizomai is compassion that you feel so deep, you feel it in your bowels (the ancient Greeks thought the seat of emotion was the bowels). It’s compassion that you feel so deep, it hurts. It’s compassion that you feel so deep, you are compelled into action.

It’s compassion, the way that Jesus felt it. Towards the crowds following him that just wanted somebody to lead and guide them, towards the sick people needing relief, towards the blind, towards the lepers, towards the hungry, towards a boy that was oppressed by demons, towards the widowed woman whose son had died.

He used it to describe how that Samaritan man felt towards the man he encountered on the road.

Jesus did not care what the people thought. He did not care that touching a leper made him ceremonially unclean. He did not care that if you were born blind, it must’ve meant that you or or parents had sinned.

Jesus didn’t care where the people he reached out to came from. He did not show preferential treatment.

Jesus showed mercy. Jesus stooped, even to the places where it hurt him. Where it cost him something.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,    for they will be filled.

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Hunger sinks deep.

It’s want that can be temporarily relieved, even if it’s filled with things that aren’t good for us. We are willing to sate hunger with junk, with things that aren’t good, with things that are easy to acquire, with things that will fill us only fleetingly.

What do we reach for when everything seems wrong with the world?

What do we turn to when we are parched for some good news—any good news? When it feels like the sky is falling, when it’s all we can do to hold on with our finger tips? When the wrong seems to always get the victory and when fear lurks around every corner and when it’s all too easy to lash out at those who are near out of frustration?

It gets exhausting, being hungry all the time. We strain our eyes for the people who are doing good, for the helpers, but when everything seems to be going overwhelmingly wrong the relief doesn’t last long.

Where do we find our rest? Where do we find our satisfaction?

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A man relaxes against a well. The sun is hot, the air is dry, and his friends have gone to town to get food, leaving him behind at his insistence. The man from Nazareth isn’t immune to that which every human needs, and right now he just wants to rest.

A woman approaches, bucket in hand. It’s midday, and she seems apprehensive, but he pays that no mind. His mouth is parched and dry, and water sounds so refreshing.

That she is Samaritan, and an outcast at that, does not bother him. As she prepares to get the water, he says, “Will you give me a drink?”

She freezes. “You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?”

She is an outcast, in more ways than one. The Samaritans weren’t considered righteous by the Jews. They were dirty. They were unclean.

The man says, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

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Are we willing to be patient for a future promise? Are we willing to rest securely in the man who said that those yearning for righteousness will reap their reward?

Blessed are the meek,

    for they will inherit the earth.

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Who don’t we see?

Look at the cityscapes, at the malls and the markets, at the white buildings with the tall steeples. Who don’t we see? Who are the ones that our eyes hide from us? 

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Jesus knew people.

Not in a way that could get him to places that few were allowed into—he didn’t use leverage to try and gain entrance to the Holy of Holies. No, Jesus knew people—he knew their hearts, he knew their longings and their sorrows and their joys. Jesus knew people, and he welcomed them in. He invited a tax collector to follow him. He touched the lepers to heal them. A group of friends tore a hole in the roof to get their paralyzed friend to him.

Jesus saw people, so Jesus knew people.

Who don’t we see? Who don’t we know?

Who are the meek that don’t feel comfortable inviting themselves to our Sundays?

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Who are the people who try to hide from our notice? Who think they’re not welcome?

Where is the bleeding woman, reaching for Jesus’s cloak that she might be healed? Have we noticed her? Or are we, like Peter, saying, “There are a lot of people pressing against you?”

He noticed her. He saw her. He knew her.

Would we recognize her?

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Where are the meek that will inherit the earth?

They are still here. They are still watching us. They are still waiting for an invitation to be seen, to be known.

Blessed are those who mourn,    for they will be comforted.

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grief rolls in like a storm

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What do you do when the clouds roll in? When the wind starts to howl? When the thunder booms and crashes and it feels like the sky is falling?

What do you do when you can’t reach for the ones you love because they’re not there? Because they’re far off? What happens when a wall is built between you and all that you reach to for comfort?

You strain for normal You strain for light You strain for good

And your feet start to sink in the mud.

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does the sun stop burning stop lighting when you can’t see it anymore?

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It’s okay to grieve It’s okay to mourn You are not weak for doing it The Son does not lose sight of you And you are not alone because he sits in your grief with you

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Blessed are the poor in spirit,    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

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You don’t want to look at your bank account, because if you don’t look at it then it can’t hurt you.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least.

The bills are mounting. You only have to worry about yourself, but between the phone bill and the utilities and rent, but your job laid you off. Is it any wonder that they did? At least now you can hope for unemployment, but will your bills care if your claim isn’t processed in time?

And you’re doing this all alone.

It’s not easy to be alone, especially now. Keeping all others at a distance for the sake of safety, for the good of all. You ache for the loss of the schedule you’re used to, things which bring you comfort, the people who have championed around you since you joined their midst. You yearn for the fellowship.

You miss someone giving you a hug and looking you in the eye and asking how you are, not because it’s small talk but because they care about you. You miss the little glimpses of Jesus you got in everyday life, out in the world. Where can he be found in times like these?

Palm Sunday, however, is still on the calendar in spite of a pandemic. Palm Sunday does not stop. Easter does not stop.

You just have to do it. Alone.

At this time any other Saturday, you wouldn’t be afraid of your bank account. You’d be enjoying day of relaxation before the all-encompassing reflection that comes along with your favourite week of the year. Instead, you’re in your pyjamas, perched on a stool, wondering what the dress code is for a live-streamed church and wanting to be there. Wanting to be with other people during the Holy Week.

Wanting to do something. But—

Your eyes catch on the loaf of bread you’d taken a few slices from for toast this morning.

Maybe there’s something you can do after all.

You grab the bread from the counter and the half-full bottle of wine from the fridge, but after you put them on the counter you stall.

The tears come to your eyes, blindsiding you with how stubborn you are. They well up for all that you miss, for all that you grieve, for all that you’re worried about, for all that you’re afraid of—

But the words come as easily as the tears. You take shuddering breaths as you free a slice of bread from the loaf. They’ve been written in your heart from childhood, etched even at a time when you didn’t care much about what the adults were doing in church. There are some days when you don’t care much about what the adults are doing in church today, if you are the most honest with yourself. You struggle with where you fit.

The words still come.

“On the night that Jesus was betrayed,” you whisper, like someone is going to overhear you in the kitchen in your otherwise empty apartment and chastise you for the noise, “he took the bread and, when he had given thanks, he broke it, saying, ‘This is my body, given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”

Your fingers shake as you take a pinch of the slice of bread and tear. Your tears are steady, now, and your shoulders hiccup with sobs you’re trying to hold back, and the bread melts on your tongue.

You take a shuddering breath, trying to swallow back the knot in your throat. “In the same way,” you say slowly, because it’s the only way your voice doesn’t shake into silence, “after supper, he took the cup, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me’.”

You take a drink of the wine. You’re still crying, and the ache in your chest is too tight.

And you take a deep breath. And you open your bank account.

You cannot change the circumstances you’re in. Who knows what tomorrow will hold. The taste of the wine, though, is still fresh on your tongue.

The taste of grace. The taste of hope for tomorrow.

You take a deep breath. And another. And another.

And then you say, slowly, “For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

“Moreover, some women of our company amazed us. They were at the tomb early in the morning, and when they did not find his body, they came back saying that they had even seen a vision of angels, who said that he was alive.” (Luke 24:22-23, ESV)

It’s a different day, a different morning, a different sunrise. The third day dawns and, as far as the disciples know, Jesus is still dead. The journey is over. The world moves on, even as it feels like they are rooted in their grief.

How do you get over a death like Jesus’s?

The women go to the tomb early on the third day—the third day, because the second day was the Sabbath, and anointing Jesus’s body with spices and ointments was considered work. When they get there, though, the stone is rolled away. Jesus is not there.

It is a different day, a different morning, but an angel still appears to herald the news.

“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.” (Luke 24:5-7, ESV)

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It’s a different day. An angel appears to herald the news. The body is not in the tomb. The disciples do not believe the women. Now what?

Jesus doesn’t leave them waiting long.

He doesn’t immediately reveal himself right away—not to the two men walking to Emmaus, at least (v.13-35). He walks with them for a little bit, interpreting “to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself” (v.27), and staying with them at their own insistence. Even after a day of having things laid out to them plainly, even after spending a day with Jesus—even though, to be fair, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (v.16)—they don’t realize who he is until “he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them” (v.30).

He made himself known to them in the breaking of bread. Jesus could teach all day about himself, but what opened their eyes was sharing a meal with him. It was relational intimacy.

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It’s a different day. An angel appears to herald the news. The body is not in the tomb. The disciples do not believe the women, and they’re cautiously listening to the report of the guys who were travelling to Emmaus.

Then, he appears among them: “Peace to you!” (v.36)

They are afraid and they are doubtful and they are worried. He urges them to touch his hands and his feet where the nails went through, urges them to see who he is, but they remain in disbelief until he eats some fish in front of them.

Relational. This is Jesus—not an apparition of the man who taught us, but the physical being of the man who ate with us.

The sunrise who visits us from on high dawns again, and he dawns into a new life. A better life. An eternal life. One that he invites us into as we tonight we hold candles and herald his coming, as we prepare to honour his arrival tomorrow.

Immanuel. God with us, as a baby boy dependant on his creation. As a twelve-year-old talking with the teachers in the temple. As an adult, beginning the work of the kingdom of heaven on earth and reconciling us to God.