Faith Works 3-31-23 & 4-7-23

Thought I'd get ahead a week as has been the usual wish in the past for Easter and other holiday weeks, so you have two columns here, in sequence:


Faith Works 3-31-23 (see below for 4-7-23)
Jeff Gill

Ride on, ride on, King Jesus
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Palm Sunday opens Holy Week for most Christian congregations, a series of commemorations of events through the culminating week of Jesus at work in Jerusalem.

Maundy Thursday marks the institution of communion in the breaking of bread and the pouring out of the cup, shared together "in remembrance of" Jesus; Good Friday follows closely with the crucifixion narrative through that fateful morning and his death from noon to three in the afternoon.

And then, of course, Easter's coming.

In some churches, the "Passion story" or the events of the week to come are marked all in this Sunday, especially where it's unlikely people will be able to come together for additional services. But my preference is to mark the entry of Jesus, hailed as king and savior by the crowds, to set off the opening of the sequence. It's been said, and rightly so, that you do yourself a disservice to leap from triumph to triumph, from Palm Sunday's regal procession, to the celebration of the resurrection on Easter; that life isn't a journey from victory to victory without a trip down into the valley of the shadow in between from time to time. You'll have to make your own choices about Thursday and Friday.

But Palm Sunday, the ancient cry of "Hosanna!" and the rejoicing of an expectant crowd, it all has a place, both in the story of Jesus, and in our own understanding of how we are called to follow him.

Because there are so many moments like this we are asked to accept, triumphs which we know in the moment will be brief. Every tournament victory gives way to the next season just around the corner; any new opportunity can feel like a grand entrance, though you know there's some heavy slogging ahead. Retirement is an occasion for cake if no longer many gold watches, but so many smile nervously as they already calculate how soon they'll outlive their savings; each reprieve at the doctor's office is also step on down the road of aging and a need to prepare for the next turn in that road to come.

Even finishing the dishes and taking out the trash are quiet celebrations which last only as long as the next plate and fork in the sink, and don't even get me started about the laundry. This is all a universal aspect of life, of living, of staying the course, for buckling down to the long haul.

All of this, I would suggest, is in Jesus's thoughts as he climbs onto his donkey, and starts into Jerusalem. The crowd is ready to celebrate a big victory for God's purposes, and has the very highest of hopes: for Jesus, against Rome, and towards as much a divine plan as their own desires. What Jesus also knows is that the joy of the moment is not going to be enough to fuel their endurance for the days and week and years to come. There's a quiet hope, a lasting intention which is all that can endure against the obstacles of this world. You can't eat birthday cake every morning, and tomorrow the dishes will need to be done all over again.

Traditional art of Jesus on Palm Sunday tends to get this right, I believe. Jesus is not weary, but he is a bit wary, aware as only he could be of what was yet to come. Celebrate, rejoice, shout hosanna . . . and be ready for the next thing. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, and keeps on going.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's cultivating endurance at this stage of his journey. Tell him how you keep going at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.


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Faith Works 4-7-23
Jeff Gill

Innkeepers on the road, in the story
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If you are an innkeeper, a tavern owner, a manager of an establishment for rest and refreshment, you have to worry.

Is there room for all those who come seeking shelter? And will they pay?

You could think having too many customers would be a good problem, but the thing about turning people away is that they might be back your way again in the future, and you want them to think of you and your establishment. This is where you want them to turn aside, to rest their animals, to feed their bellies, to lay down their heads. At your place.

At Christmas time we hear about a couple turned away "because there was no room at the inn." We can debate Koine Greek some other time on the details, but the point was somewhere they might have stayed, they couldn't, and where they did go, this wasn't how it normally would have gone. Mangers, maybe a stable, certainly animals nearby, and we'll trust Isaiah's anticipation that an ox and donkey were in the neighborhood.

This feels like a sweet symmetry to me that from Luke's nativity narrative to the stories of Christ's resurrection we go from inn to inn, from temporary resting place to a table along the road. From Bethlehem's birth to Emmaus and new birth, for Jesus and Clopas and someone else who could be anyone and whom Luke may well have intended to be us, sitting right there, unseeing until the breaking of the bread.

And in between, there's another inn, unambiguously so stated in Luke 10, perhaps just a place in a parable by Jesus, but there had to be a resting place halfway from Jericho up to Jerusalem, a caravansary along the way too far for a single day's journey by foot or even by camel. I've been there, thirty years ago, and I remember clearly the shock and delight of seeing an inn right where the story of the Good Samaritan would place it, and the sign on the door, indicating that Diner's Club was indeed accepted. Perhaps that's changed, but little else in two thousand years.

What happens at that inn? Someone who is hurting is helped; a traveler who may well have been a scamp or a rascal themselves is aided by a stranger, and not just a stranger, but an other, an alien, a Samaritan. Did the fellow fall among robbers by his own fault? We aren't told. Did he deserve help? We most certainly are not told that. The point of the story, and that inn, is that someone in pain was cared for, and that the glory of God was shown in that care, given without regard for persons.

Is there a connection, then, between these three inns? In Bethlehem, where Mary and Joseph are not welcome; on the Jericho Road, where a stranger is cared for as a neighbor; at Emmaus, where in a place of public refreshment, God's love is made known in a simple gesture of hospitality?

May your table be a place where those you love, and those whom God loves, will know Jesus, and his love which is alive and active this very day.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's met Jesus in the strangest places. Even in church! Tell him where you've seen Christ at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.