Hidden From Your Eyes

This is a picture of a pew in St. George’s Coptic Church in Tanta, Egypt.

I do not want to look at it. I cannot stop looking at it.

I’d rather it was hidden from our eyes.

There is blood on this pew because a Daesh terrorist detonated a bomb in this sanctuary during worship, killing 27 people and wounding 78 more. (A few hours later another Daesh terrorist detonated another bomb at St. Mark’s Cathedral in Alexandria, Egypt, killing 17 more people and wounding another 48.)

It was Palm Sunday.

It was the day on which the Bible says Jesus said these words: “As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.’”

I wish I could stop looking at this picture. There is a smear on the back of the pew, apparently made by someone’s fingers in the drips of blood running down. Had those fingers been moments earlier waving a palm branch?

Hosanna, indeed.

We waved palm branches on Sunday, too. Young and old alike sang familiar songs from pews not that much different from the ones in this picture. As we did, our kids paraded around those pews a few times, holding their branches over their heads, smiling at the grown-ups smiling back at them, caught up in the joyful energy of the moment.

And then, you know, we went home and ate lunch.

I suppose I’ll never really understand what motivates violence like this, how such hatred and fear of the other takes root in the human heart, corrupting us, eroding us, minimizing us.

A sensible explanation is hidden from my eyes. Hatred warps the human soul. Violence only ever causes more violence. Fear distorts truth, casting instead a shadow of grotesque and horrifying false reality.

It’s the Palm Sunday juxtaposition that won’t let me go this time. Save us! From halfway around the world, a picture of a bloody church pew. A phrase from Jesus Christ Superstar that says “To conquer death, you only have to die.” A so-called “triumphant” entry, deeply misunderstood then as well as today. A cheering crowd of people who know not what they do. Waving palms, breaking bread, driving nails.

What has changed?

We’re just stuck here. Stuck between Palm Sunday and the cross. Cheers and lament. In between “Hosanna” and “Crucify.” The next big thing is already old news. That which is in plain sight is simultaneously hidden from our eyes. Spiritual déjà vu.

If I didn’t know better, I would say that it feels like we need a resurrection.

There Is More Than One Way

The other day my friend Valerie asked me, “Can I come to your church?”

I replied, “Yes! Of course!”

And then her face lit up and she said, “I never realized there was another way to do it!”

The “it” she was referring to was the sacrament of Holy Communion. We had just had pre-opening night Communion on stage together with many of the cast of “Jesus Christ Superstar.” It was a wonderful, holy moment. And it was different from what she had experienced before.

Valerie had grown up in one particular tradition, and thought that there was pretty much only that one way that “counted.” And of course it is deeper than just how you do Holy Communion. The antecedent of the pronoun “it” in Valerie’s statement truly refers to the church in general. Her observation is profound, and the church needs to listen hard.

Yes, there is more than one way to do church.

How many people grew up being told that there is only one way to do it? Or how many were told, “Well, there may be other ways, but there’s only one right way?” Or how many of us grew up maybe not being told that explicitly, but at least were never encouraged to seek other ways of being in relationship with God?

I believe that people long for meaning. And some stuff that is very meaningful to me is not going to be the slightest bit meaningful to you, and vice versa. And that’s okay. It’s not that my way is “right” and yours is “wrong,” it’s just that my way is meaningful to me and yours is meaningful to you. Unless, of course, someone’s way does harm to another - then that’s not okay. That way is wrong and it needs to be challenged.

When it comes to our relationship with the divine, our religion, who am I to say that the meaning you have discovered in your way is not right, just because it doesn’t work for me?

Is not God capable of relating to people in whatever way God chooses? Or would I dare to suggest a limit on God’s capacity to interact with the world? (Spoiler: No, I would not.)

And so listen up, Church. Listen to my friend Valerie. She wants to know that there are other ways to do it. She wants to discover her own unique relationship with God, not be told what it has to look like. She wants a relationship with God that means something to her, not necessarily the one any of the rest of us would find meaningful. And of course, she’s not the only one.

So, we have to quit insisting that one, narrowly defined, rigidly constructed way of being the church is the only way to do it. Our systems and structures have to be flexible enough to offer connection and community for a diverse collection of people, such that each one of us finds opportunities to encounter God in our midst.

There is more than one way to encounter God. There is more than one way to follow Jesus.

There is more than one way to be the Church.

Playing Pilate

“Because it’s fun to play a bad guy,” is the superficial answer I give when someone asks me why I wanted to play Pilate. And that is true. It is engaging for me as an actor to portray a “bad guy” in a show. There are more layers of the character to reveal.

But for me, playing Pilate in Jesus Christ Superstar is much deeper than that. Ever since I was a kid listening to my parent’s LP, I have been intrigued by how Pilate is portrayed in Superstar. In fact, the Bible itself portrays Pilate as a more complicated figure than he is often given credit for.

And his story, as the early church told it, is similarly complicated. Some early documents indicate he converted to become a follower of Jesus himself. The Coptic tradition considers him to be a martyr. The date and manner of his death are subject to scholarly debate, which is odd for such a notable figure. Augustine believed that Pilate was sincere when he wrote, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (see John 19:19-22). “It could not be torn from his heart that Jesus was the King of the Jews,” Augustine wrote.

So I am working with a lot of “back story” to enter into this character and attempt to convey at least some of that nuance and complexity on stage. And here’s what I’ve got…

Pilate has been appointed to Jerusalem, in the Jewish nation of Judea, to be the head Roman in charge. But he is not the least bit engaged with governing the people. In fact he would rather just isolate himself in his palace and let the temple leaders handle their own business. As long as there’s no trouble, as long as the people stay quiet and continue to pay their taxes, as long as Caesar’s attention is not turned this direction, all is well. No news is good news.

Enter Jesus.

Jesus draws the aloof Pilate into the story against his will, kicking and screaming. The first pull comes when Pilate is haunted by a vision in which Pilate sees Jesus, though he only knows him as a random Galilean. Pilate confronts him, but gets no response, and since Pilate is a man accustomed to people responding, this alone is noteworthy. Suddenly Pilate witnesses Jesus attacked by wild and angry men who disappear into the mist, a puzzling development. The vision shifts into an image of countless people grieving for Jesus, and the deepest cut of all, they seem to be leaving Pilate the blame for his death.

This dream has shaken Pilate, enough that he feels compelled to share it, to talk about it. He has no idea what it means, but he cannot let it go. The most amazing Galilean in his dream has looked directly into his hidden self, and left an imprint that cannot be erased.

And so, when the temple leaders bring Jesus to him, it comes as somewhat of a relief to see that he is a rather ordinary, unfortunate man. Not a king at all. Pilate is actually bemused,  if somewhat annoyed, at this initial encounter with Jesus, and he even connects with him on a personal level, bantering a bit, admiring how cool Jesus is under pressure.

But Pilate gets bored easily, and after all this is just a random smelly Galilean, so Pilate dismisses him - Herod’s race? Herod’s case!

Jesus does not stay long at Herod’s place, however. All too quickly he is dragged back to Pilate, and the point is clear. His role in the drama is limited. “We need him crucified, it’s all you have to do,” say the leaders of the temple.

Pilate resists. First of all, Pilate does not take orders from anyone in Judea. He is naturally inclined to minimize the significance of a demand coming from the temple. And so he initially attempts to laugh it off, to wave it away like a persistent swarm of gnats.

And then there is a moment. The crowd is still, Pilate kneels next to Jesus whose eyes meet his, looking directly into his hidden self, and a phrase from his dream floats through the room. In this moment things begin to change; from here the energy builds relentlessly toward the inevitable conclusion.

Hoping to avoid killing him, Pilate decides to flog Jesus. Many times before, public flogging has been enough. Perhaps that will satisfy the crowd this time, too. But something happens as the punishment is enforced. What begins as a mundane event, chilling in its ordinariness, becomes a disturbing, horrifying, and convicting act of savagery.

Something inside of Pilate cracks.

It is just at this moment, when he is the most vulnerable, the most exposed, that grace comes to Pilate. “You have nothing in your hands,” Jesus tells him. “Everything is fixed and you can’t change it.” Jesus absolves Pilate of blame, removing from his hands the shame and guilt of this atrocity.

But grace, as it often is, is difficult to receive. The shock of it terrifies Pilate, and deepens the fissures in his soul. He struggles to keep himself together, to regain control.

The crowd spots the weakness and intensifies their pressure, leaning on Pilate, pressing him, shouting at him. “Remember Caesar!” they yell, which of course adds a whole new dimension to the torment. If news of this disturbance somehow gets to Caesar’s ears, the consequences get serious for Pilate. The weight is enormous, unrelenting, eroding his resistance, crushing him.

And finally … he breaks.

Pilate shatters into a thousand pieces, his thoughts reduced to a nearly indecipherable shriek. “DIE, if you want to! You innocent puppet…”

And he exits. He has become the broken man, the unfortunate, good for nothing but cluttering up a hallway. He tries to wash his hands of Christ’s great self-destruction, but finds them indelibly stained.

And yet, there was a glance. There was a hint. A seed of grace has been planted deeply in his hidden self. We are left to wonder if it will take root and blossom.