I remember Brooks' ordination in Newport, Arkansas. Lots of clergy and family and friends all crammed into little St. Paul's Church. And, being that it was an ordination, it was very formal. Everyone had their holy roles to play, like all the parts of the body, that St. Paul tells us about. And the bishop did holy things, and the people responded with holy words, and then there was the holy descent of the Spirit upon Brooks' head, and I was there to be a part of it all.
And I imagine that, for a lot of people, these images of Brooks are what people will remember, because that's the only time they interacted with him...as a priest, preacher, pastor. All those things we expect. And we will remember that wonderful day.
But I remember something else the next day. I remember the man, the friend. The guy who piled up the next day on the couch, with a Miller High Life and Cotton and Lola as we watched The Longest Day, a movie about the Allied invasion of Normandy. The guy who relaxed into the role of best friend by dreaming of road trips and the next order of take-out Chinese. The guy who still laughs at stupid things I say, and who pretends to be interested when I talk about the fact that I've started reading The History of Rome by Titus Livy.
The friend who is comfortable enough with his friend that he can admit that he has no idea what to do next in these troublesome times. And is facing the every day with all the emotions that come along with not knowing what life has in store, but also knowing that there's work to be done and standing up to be stood up and people to love and protect, who was willing to stand up yesterday in his hometown and be counted and have his voice heard.
Something we should all be considering as today becomes tomorrow, and people still dwell in darkness and fear, in want and need. There's a lot of work to be done. And I'm already exhausted thinking about it.
Today we are headed to a home in the Jerusalem suburb of Bethany, where Jesus stopped in to see his old friends Mary, Martha, and Lazarus before he entered the city for the last time. He loved them, John tells us, although he does not tell us why. Maybe there is no "why" to love.
They called him Lord, just like so many people have done. And just like so many more will do when he enters Jerusalem. They knew who he really was, they saw the spark of the divine in his eyes. And they had seen his power up close and first hand. They had been blessed by him and his power in a very real way that people were still talking about.
Just days before, Jesus had worked a miracle right here at their home. He had been across the river, doing miraculous things, when the sisters' urgent message reached him. "Lord," it read, "he whom you love is ill." So he had come to them, knowing full well it was too late.
Lazarus was so dead that he stank, so dead that Jesus stood in front of his tomb and wept. Then he shouted so loud at death that he scared death away. And while the people gathered there tried to decide whether to run away too, their brother and friend Lazarus came stumbling from his tomb.
This was the Jesus who was their Lord, their Messiah. But Martha and Mary and Lazarus were NOT his disciples, at least not in the way of the people were who crowded around him and were probably beginning to gather now while Jesus was inside this suburban house on this night.
No, because Martha, Mary, and Lazarus were also his friends, the three people in whose presence he could be just a man as well as a Messiah.
Jesus has come back to Bethany with the temple police hot on his trail. By raising Lazarus from the dead he has gone from the category of "manageable nuisance" to "serious threat." The authorities were wondering if the people would stop at “passive resistance.” There is not a chance Pilate is going to ignore him or his followers if the protests begin to make a difference. It is time for the government to act and act decisively. So his days are numbered and he knows it.
And when he arrives at his friends' house in Bethany, they can see it on his face.
So they take him in and care for him, shutting the world out for this one night at least. They take on their familiar roles, the roles of friends. Martha makes a stew, Mary sits around with Jesus, sharing stories, singing a song or two. Who knows what Lazarus is doing. What do recently risen corpses do except sit around staring and being stunned to be here at all?
Finally, supper is on the table and they all sit down to eat, saying what they hope and hiding what they fear. They sit with Jesus, unaware of how quickly events are about to rush over them. Though maybe they do.
And then Mary anoints his feet with nard. And I think it's important that this woman be named. In the other Gospels, the woman who anoints Jesus goes unnamed. But here, she has a name. And it's the name of a friend. Mary.
Mary, who with Martha and Lazarus, are the only ones in the world who can live into the role of sitting with the Messiah and simply caring for him. Of stirring up memories and stories. Of knowing the inside jokes and finishing each other's sentences. Of not even needing to speak at all, because at this critical time of their lives, it's all been said anyway. So maybe just sitting together is pure and sweet enough. Just like the nard.
And I think that a friend like Mary is the only one who can give Jesus this gift. For it's not a gift of anointing a king – though it is that. And it's not a ritual, reflecting the future anointing of Jesus' body taken down from the cross – though it is that, too.
But it's only one of these friends who can turn it into something so simple and loving and holy. Simply a gesture that says, “You are my friend, and you have been good to us. We know what's going to happen. Let me do this for you. Let us, the four of us, be friends, this one last time, before it happens. Let us show you how much you mean to us – not as God, not as Messiah. But as Jesus, our friend.”
I think we all have this blessing in our lives. We are all privileged to be someone's friend. And when we are, when we have that one friend that we know and love and cherish, we are able to do what others cannot do. We are able to simply let that person be. Be who he or she really is.
This is a gift of unfathomable worth. To be that kind of friend.
Next week, we begin Holy Week. We will see the crowds shout “Hosanna! Then yell, “Crucify him!” We will see the Son of God betrayed, then crucified. And when it's all over, and the Easter Resurrection occurs, that Jesus, the man, will be something entirely different, something life-giving, life-affirming, and wonderful.
And now...all these centuries later, it's coming. Holy Week is coming for many of us in this world, in this nation. A time where actions get praised for being brave, then condemned, as too rash, as too much. Out of fear, mostly. And some of us won't be able to act, can't act for very valid reasons. And that's ok.
But it's coming, have no doubt. It's coming, and there's nothing we can do about that. And yet, we can all do one thing.
For now, maybe we should make room in our hearts for our friends who go where we cannot. And we can make room in our heart for those who struggle or hide, who fight or despair. We can do this one thing. We can offer a place in the world for a person who needs somewhere just to be. A person who needs a friend – to share a bowl of stew, to say their goodbyes, to let people simply sit with them, and hold them, and cry with them, to laugh with them, to remember with them.
So it is with Jesus. So it is with all today who simply need a friend.
Amen.