Reflection: v. 8, ‘terror and fear had seized them… they were afraid’
The abrupt closure in the Gospel of Mark is my favorite of the Gospel endings. I love the touching relational details and interactions, the resurrection stories and reunions of the other Gospels. And sure, it can be nice to tie a big bow around the end of a story like a prim Easter bonnet and rest in the resolution that it all finished according to plan. But there is something strikingly real and relatable about the frantic open-endedness the writer of Mark leaves for us. I feel that especially this year. As Christians, some 2,000 years after Mark’s writing, we know how this story ends, and yet, we also know that the hope and promise of resurrection do not make everything instantaneously easier or resolved.
In equal parts today, I rejoice that death has been conquered by love in Christ, while I also mourn the stark reality that I do not always quite know what to do with that as I face another difficult day. I believe in resurrection, but I am also well acquainted with the death we experience here and now. I can see hope breaking like the dawn, but I do not quite yet feel its warm rays. Right now, the chill of the morning dew still feels a lot like fear and questions left unanswered. And yet, the tomb is empty. I stand before it in awe and fear. This year I feel a deep companionship with the women still vacillating between terror and amazement, running toward they know not what, filled with new hope still strongly spiked with fear. This Easter, I embrace that this is an acceptable place to be—maybe its even a faithful place to be, as we find ourselves caught up in a cautious hope that yearns and runs toward life.
Prayer May the hope of resurrection break upon us like the dawn. May we run toward you, O Lord, in our fear, our awe, and our rampant, reckless hope.
We sure do like to blame other people. It shows up in our personal relationships and makes it’s way into our politics. It helps us to hold on to destructive addictions long past the time we should’ve let them go. It leads to wars and genocide—and every other hateful, vengeful act by which we defend ourselves through shifting the blame to someone else.
We scapegoat to explain the evil we sense in the world around us by laying it upon the shoulders of others—even whole groups of people, absolving ourselves of any responsibility in the process. We can end up heroes as long as someone else plays the villain—and all just by pointing the finger away from ourselves. But if we are to be saved, we must stop finger-pointing and take a long, hard look at who we are. That is precisely what the cross invites us to do. As we look upon the broken body of Jesus hanging on the cross, we realize God will always be on the side of those who have been victimized by violence and oppression. God saves us by standing with us in our suffering, in our forsakenness, in our wounds, in our death. God not only hears our cries of anguish but cries out in dereliction with us. Everywhere there is a cross, God’s solidarity with those who suffer has made it a sign of protest against violence, torture, and death. As we continue to behold the lonely figure upon the cross, we begin to realize he doesn’t belong there. And neither does anyone else. The cross is not only a protest against injustice, it breaks open the mechanism by which so much injustice has covered the face of the earth: our willingness to make scapegoats out of other human beings in a vain attempt to save ourselves. Looking at the cross, we are called to own up to our part in the injustices of our world, in the violence that robs others of life, in the ways we bow before the idols of death in hope of comfort and security. Yes, there is misery in beholding such mercy. But God’s love will have the last word. God chose the cross we had made for others and made it God’s own—and destroyed the power of death by it. God’s love saves us; it doesn’t destroy us. The cross isn’t about punishment but delivering us from the broken ways we harm one another and ourselves. It isn’t about guilt; it’s about being honest with ourselves and about our world. Let us look again upon the cross, and let us be saved.
Prayer God of saving mercy, by your cross you have set us free.
Reflection: v. 14, ‘If I, your LORD and teacher, have washed your feet, you too must wash each other’s feet’
Love transcends language. Jesus washes his disciples feet, considered one of the dirtiest parts of the body. He sits. He washes. He spends time with each one, and he reminds the disciples this is something they are to do, as well. They are to be humble in the ways they exist in the world
. They—and we—are supposed to show love in tangible ways. Love is simple, not because of words and phrases, but because of how we exist with and to one another. It’s the ways that we are present to each other. There is something about feet, about the offensiveness we feel about having to engage with someone else’s feet. It feels repulsive to us. And yet, for the person whom we sit and kneel before, we are taking time to care for their feet, to care for their physical body. We are showing love. We’re showing compassion, becoming humble. It is a way for us to be present to one another, regardless of speech. It’s not about what we do, but it is about our very presence. Words can often be found empty and unhelpful. Christ’s love is transcendent, and it is relational. His ministry was born of humility, honoring humanity and the value that each person holds to God. But the responsibility doesn’t reside solely with Christ. It is a responsibility we have as recipients of that love and grace—to pass it on, to be at the feet of scarred and broken bodies. Being present and vulnerable with another is a reminder that we are all beautiful and beloved by God.
Prayer Lord, may we be challenged to embody love. Amen.
I have the all time worst sense of direction. I can get lost going somewhere that I have been to a thousand times. If I stop paying attention for even a minute, I am likely to get all turned around. Thank God for GPS, am I right? It’s easy to get turned around in life. It’s easy to forget who we are, to forget that we are beloved. It’s easy to get so lost that we forget what we are called to do, that we forget to love our neighbors.
I am sure that as the disciples watched Jesus carry his cross up that hill, they too felt lost. That they felt turned around, not sure where to go or what to do next. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? The author of Hebrews offers us guidance, a GPS for running the race. The author says look toward Jesus. Keep your mind ‘stayed on Jesus,’ as the old song goes. This is a powerful image, one of being focused on Jesus, leaning into who Jesus calls us to be, pressing on to love like Jesus loves. Look to Jesus in all things—look to Jesus to find love, look to Jesus to give love. Look to Jesus in all seasons, in seasons of lament and in seasons of joy. Look to Jesus when you are weary. Look to Jesus in times of certainty and uncertainty. And if you get tired on the journey, if you get turned around, remember you do not run the race alone. You run the race with a cloud of witnesses—those who have also set their eyes toward Jesus–and this cloud of witnesses will help remind you that Jesus is there, that Jesus is calling you, and that Jesus loves you.
Prayer Jesus, it is easy to get lost. Help us to look to you for all things.
Reflection: v. 26, ‘whoever serves me, must follow me’
Just days ago, we celebrated Palm Sunday, a joyous and subversive protest proclaiming Jesus as king. Yet that happy triumph would quickly dissipate as the week escalated toward his impending death—a not so cheery, but no less poignant protest against the powers that be. Such things happen all the time—sometimes we rejoice in the image of God before us, and other times we murder it.
Sometimes we honor, respect, and care for our beloved siblings in Christ, and other times we reject their plights for our own gains. We humans, each of us beloved children of God, have the ability to love God and one another so fully, yet just as often we let ourselves get wrapped up in the wrong things—the things that hurt and kill one another. How is it that, though we want to serve Jesus and even claim him as our own, we so obviously miss the mark and forget what that means? In this passage, Jesus tells his disciples that in order to serve him, they must follow him—and where he is headed is to his death, a grace-filled giving of God’s own self for us. If we want to serve Jesus, if we claim ourselves as ‘Christians,’ we must follow this humble poor man who lays down his life. And if we find ourselves walking in the dusty footsteps of our Lord, does it not seem rather foolish that we would stop along the way to put another down? Can we walk the steps of Christ and be distracted by the folly of trying to make a profit at the expense of others? Can we climb the hill toward that state-sanctioned execution and ignore the many others who have shared Christ’s fate? ‘Being Christian,’ claiming Christ as our King, requires that we stop dealing in death and all the other ways that we keep one another from thriving. In order to serve Jesus, we must follow Jesus, a task much more difficult than any words of allegiance or songs of praise, yet the task to which we are called.
Prayer Jesus, lead the way, and help us to follow you fully.
Reflection: v. 9, ‘the former things have come to pass, new things I now declare’
Lately, I have found myself in many pastoral conversations about transitions. Some people have lost or had to leave jobs and find themselves venturing into new waters. A blessedly large number of our congregants have made the big transition into stable housing after years of living on the streets. Others have made huge strides in self-care, finally deciding to take an intentional step toward recovery or well-being.
Whether or not they are something positive or something unexpected, transitions are still difficult. To let go of things, even to make room for new or better things, is hard.
Like labor pains, even when we know new life is on the other side, getting there can still be a painful process. Recently, a member who was finally moving into his apartment expressed his concern that he would feel disconnected from his community. We assured him that even though things would change, even if he couldn’t come to Mercy every day like he might want, he was still an important part of the community. We would continue to support him, continue to be there for him, and continue to love him.
As this Lenten season nears its end, and we set our eyes on Easter at the end of this week—the second Easter we have stumbled toward and celebrated together in this global pandemic—I would like to think we too are in a moment of great transition. We are experiencing a time when old ways will pass, and new ways will begin. We can glimpse hope on the horizon as more friends and family are vaccinated, but we must still be cautious and careful with one another. We are eager for things to ‘return to normal,’ yet too much has been revealed about the economic and racial inequality in our country for us to wish for the ‘normal’ that was before. This week, as we take one more step toward Sunday, my advice for us is similar to the encouragement my community had for our member—things may change, in fact it is better that they do, but we will not make these transitions alone—we are supported, never abandoned, and always loved.
Prayer Guide us through the changes ahead, O Lord, and show us new ways.
Reflection: v. 9, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!’
Folks saw Jesus. They welcomed him into Jerusalem with cries of praise, shouts of joy, and offerings at his feet. Yet did they really know him when they saw him? There are different kinds of knowledge: head and heart. They ‘knew’ Jesus in their heads, knowing his name and possibly what they’d heard him doing and preaching. But to really know something or someone resides in the heart.
It is something that you internalize into your very being, something you experience and feel from the inside-out. The crowds ‘knew’ Jesus in their heads, but it hadn’t been internalized. They didn’t recognize that God was before them, showing them not just a way to Jerusalem, but to life. Do we know Jesus, in such a way that goes to our core? Have we been transformed in such a way that we have experienced Jesus’ compassion as it extends to the vulnerable woman who has been fearful of the men on the street lurking her way, finding her a safe space to take refuge? Do we know Jesus in such a way that we take time to sit with a stranger, to learn their name and to look them in their eyes? Do we know Jesus in such a way that we care for people on the margins, even though it may push us to the margins as well? As we come into Holy Week, I encourage us all to take a deeper look at our knowledge of Jesus Christ. To us, Christ should never be someone whom we recite accolades about. Christ is incarnate—lived in us.
Prayer God, as we read of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and reflect on what we know, may it be a wisdom and a knowledge that is formed deep in the depths of our souls. May we be a way that others can know Christ, too. Amen.
Reflection: v. 31, ‘now is the judgement of the world’
Judgement is a word with baggage. If you grew up in a judgement-heavy religious tradition (or merely breathed some in second-hand), you may have some negative connotations with the concept of Jesus bringing judgement. I certainly did. ‘The church has got enough judging going on. I need God to be loving,’ my younger self often thought.
When I heard ‘judgement’ I thought of all the ways the church gets this wrong—the way our institutions have historically judged people for their gender-identity or sexual orientation, their race or religion. I feared how the church would judge me for my worst mistakes and my worst days and my worst thoughts if they knew them. Heck, church people will even judge you for what part of town you are from, the clothes on your back, or how you do your hair. But these surface level biases are not actually what ‘judgement’ is supposed to be about—and they are certainly not what God’s judgement is about. Judgement should always be married with justice—if it is not, it is probably just your bias rearing its ugly head. Judgement is ultimately what should lead us toward justice, and justice is what makes things right. So when Jesus says things like ‘now is the judgement of the world,’ we should sigh with relief that our God wants to make things right! And if the thought of judgement still sets us on edge? Then it’s possible we may need some inward turning and self-examination. It is possible we need to be kinder to ourselves and remember that the judgment of God is not the opinion of a mean church gossip nor the voice of your inner critic on her worst day. It is also possible that our resistance to God’s judgement is for fear of our own complicity in the un-just ways of our world—things we must all work to untangle ourselves from, day in and day out. But fear not! There is much to work on, but God’s judgement has come to set things right.
Prayer Bring your justice, O Lord, and set things right!
Reflection: v. 7, ‘In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers… with loud cries and tears’
The writer of Hebrews paints a vividly contrasting image of our God made flesh, reminding us of both Christ’s glory and power as well as his humble and human sufferings. The text states that ‘in the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears.’ Before I read the texts for this week, I did not realize how much I needed this image of Jesus, how much I needed to remember that it is acceptable to break down and cry.
As a pastor, a parent, and someone who is trying their best to be a semi-functioning adult in 2021, there are times when I think I need to have it all together. There are days when I think that I have to hold the world steady for everyone else, so there is not much time for tears of my own. But here we have this lovely, even jarring image of Christ, glorious high priest who was there in all time, crying out with the same wet tears that dampen my own tender and vulnerable human flesh. Picturing this, I remember that I am human and that there is no shame in feeling human emotions. I remember there is no shame in crying out to God, filled with frustration, longing, or surrender. Human beings cry. No matter their age, position, gender-identity, or godliness—it is acceptable for human beings to feel things and cry. Withholding tears or neglecting your own feelings is not a badge of honor nor the mark of faithfulness. So in this season of turning inward and seeking truthfulness, remember that if you need to shed some tears for all the things we are mourning now or to cry out at the oft-overwhelming work that still lies ahead, do it. To cry is Christ-like.
Prayer Hear our prayers, our cries, and our tears, O God.
God, this year has tried and tested me—and I am not sure that I passed. Though I want to work for justice, when it gets hard, I still put others last.
I have made selfish allowances for myself. Yet, in my secret heart, I have judged others with a fervor—my oft-practiced dark art.
You see, I blame my fellow siblings for this devastating plague, And the tender seams it’s ripped in this quilt of life I’d made.
Forgive me for my part in this crafted, practiced hatred, And help me to be kinder with the world you have created.
God, I need your mercy, fill me up with hope like bread. Wash me in your waters, clean this ugly self-righteousness from my head.
In this slow and sluggish season, in which we think about what Lent is, Bend my heart toward love and guide me to repentance,
God of mercy, set me free, from my anger and my sadness, Mend my broken bones: let me hear joy and gladness.
Chad is pastor and founder of Mercy Community Church, a grassroots community of worship and action—a group of people who believe Jesus wants the hungry fed, strangers welcomed, and every child of God housed.
Originally from North Carolina, in the fall of 1986, he made the move to Atlanta to attend Emory University. Following graduation, Chad enrolled in Candler School of Theology, graduating with a Masters of Divinity in 1993. That same year, Chad was ordained and began to serve as an associate pastor at the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit in Atlanta.
Chad and his wife Camille began Mercy Community Church in August, 2005. A small circle of friends gathered for simple worship, sensing a call to begin an intentional community in a congregational form with an unmistakable preferential option for the poor at the heart of its worship and life. Today Mercy makes it home on the campus of Druid Hills Presbyterian Church, serving meals, sharing clothes, talking about the Bible, welcoming strangers, and trying to build a diverse and faithful community with over a hundred people a day, five days a week.
Chad is an Associate of the Missionaries of the Poor, a Catholic religious order that embodies a daily commitment to the spirituality of Matthew 25. He and Camille and their two sons, Matthew and Levi, live in Scottdale, Georgia
Brittany grew up in Jacksonville, Arkansas. She first learned about God and what it means to be a church community that loves and cares for one another from First Presbyterian Church, Jacksonville, AR. Brittany graduated from Murray State University in Murray, Kentucky. After teaching abroad and working for a travel company, Brittany began her studies at Columbia Theological Seminary, taking steps to answer a call to ministry that she had felt since her childhood. Upon moving to Atlanta, Brittany’s passion for being present with those on the margins led her to volunteer at Peachtree and Pine’s Taskforce for the Homeless and to become a pastoral intern with Mercy Church. After completing her MDiv at Columbia, Brittany began a PhD program at Emory University, but left to answer God’s call on her life to full-time ministry as a pastor to our community. Brittany was jointly ordained by the PC(USA) and Mercy Community Church in 2018. Outside of Mercy, what gives Brittany life and joy is spending time with her husband Cooper and daughter Emi, traveling via plane, train, and foot, playing Dungeons and Dragons, and nerding out over Karl Barth.
Holly grew up in Ocala, Florida where she was nurtured by her faith community and encouraged to find ways to be a leader in the community. Holly graduated from the University of North Florida with a degree in Psychology. After a period of discernment, she was called to a church community in Lady Lake, Florida where she served as the Youth Director for over six years. She began her seminary career in 2014 at Columbia Theological Seminary where she earned her Masters of Divinity and Master of Arts in Practical Theological (Pastoral Care). During her time in seminary, Holly began attending Mercy Community Church where she fell in love with the community. Upon graduation, Holly served for two years as a Chaplain Resident at Grady Memorial Hospital and specialized in pastoral care through the lens of behavioral health.
In her free time, Holly loves to exercise, travel, spend time with her family, read, and organize.
In May of 2020 Mercy Community Church ordained Pastor Maurice Lattimore to ministry in his own organization, Feet on the Streets Ministries. Before and throughout the pandemic Pastor Lattimore has worked alongside the other Mercy pastors to care for our community through his Empowerment and Recovery groups, pastoral care, and by connecting people to invaluable resources. He continues to serve and support the Mercy community while also pastoring his own community and creatively and compassionately supporting those experiencing homelessness across the city with showers, community, empowerment, and the love of Christ. Mercy is thankful for Pastor Lattimore’s partnership with Mercy as well as his own faithful work—here is Pastor Lattimore’s story:
My name is Maurice Lattimore and I'm a 62 year Black man and native of Atlanta Georgia, I'm the oldest of five siblings and the last one standing, and I'm the one that did it all wrong. I was raised in the projects during some very racist and discriminating times. With the bias that developed in me during those times I quickly got off to a bad start. I was 12 years old when I did my first piece of real drug, and from that point the next 35 years of my life were like a rollercoaster of drugs, incarceration, and eventually homelessness. What a vicious cycle! A change of events did come about in 2004 in Phoenix Arizona in a jail cell--I found Christ, Amen! The best and freest years of my life until then were lived in that prison. This is what accepting Christ as my personal Lord and Savior did for me. Today I am in the life of my daughter and my grandchildren, and God saw fit to give me a wife. At the ministry that God has entrusted me with, Feet on the Streets Ministries, as well as here at Mercy Church, today I get and give service to a community of brothers and sisters whose lives I can identify with on a personal level. Glory be to God the father and our Lord and savior Jesus Christ forever and ever Amen!