Growing Hair for Jesus, German Village Plans for 2022

Jesus is thrilled to see you again in May 2022. 

Or, at least, Frederik Mayet, the man who will play Jesus in the 42nd Oberammergau Passion Play season next year,  is excited to welcome attendees — many of them pilgrims — back to his village, after a two-year postponement of the play due to the coronavirus.

The play started in 1633, is a reenactment of the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus, with performances taking place once every 10 years. In the intervening years, it’s only been canceled a few times: once for the Franco-Prussian War, once for each of the World Wars, and last year, because of COVID-19.

“I’m really looking forward to see people coming together again,” said Mayet, “we worked really great together as a village being on stage for half a year before the lockdown and then suddenly, from one day to the next, you don’t see anyone for weeks and months.

“We are optimistic about next year, because we really want to have this situation back,” he said. 

The passion play is now set to run May 14 to October 2 next year. The actors of the village formally began to prepare last month on Ash Wednesday, when director Christian Stückl put out an official “hair and beard decree.”

The decree instructed all the local actors to “let their hair grow out, and the males to also grow a beard.”

Mayet said, “with the hair growing, you start to grow into your role as well.” 

What You Hate Most In Others

“You hate most in others what you hate most in yourself,” Mr. Baxter said, as he looked around my seventh-grade class. Then he focused his gaze on one of my fellow students in particular. She knew those words were meant for her.

I saw her tense up. She did not take his words kindly. 

Why? Because instead of allowing for her to judge another pupil with impunity, Mr. Baxter turned the tables and pushed her into a moment of honest (and most likely scathing) self-reflection. 

You hate most in others what you hate most in yourself. Ouch. 

I don’t quite remember what it was that my classmate was upset about, or what aspect of her personality Mr. Baxter’s words called her to give consideration to, but for me, the quote stuck. In fact, it has become a kind of “life axiom.” 

Legitimate self-reflection can be hard. It can hurt. It can burn our egos and slight our psyches. In the end, however, using axioms like Mr. Baxter’s can help us have a principled view of ourselves and a more grace-filled view of the world.

The House of Cards & the House of Christ

Francis J. Underwood.

Jesus H. Christ.

What hath one to do with the other?

This week I wrapped up season 3 of the hit Netflix show "House of Cards." The show is set in Washington D.C. and follows the exploits of anti-hero Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey), originally a Democratic House majority whip from South Carolina. After being passed over for an appointment to Secretary of State he plots an elaborate plan to gain even greater power and prestige along with his wife Claire (Robin Wright). Nothing will stand in their way, except perhaps for each other, as they ruthlessly, matter-of-factly manipulate their way into positions of power. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not here to condemn the show tout de suite. My wife and I curl up on our couch and binge watch Frank's destructive, and deplorably entertaining, will to power on Netflix with the best of 'em. Nonetheless, as we finished the latest season this week I also find myself preparing a message for Palm/Passion Sunday. I could not help but connect, compare, and contrast the two. 

Like any good disciple, we will binge watch Jesus' passion next week -- taking in all the political intrigue, interpersonal drama, public conflict, and violent provocations. It will come at us in spades and spears, in backroom conversations and trials open to the public, in crowds and mocking jeers. Indeed, in many ways, the Passion of Jesus Christ is a 1st-century parallel to the spectacle of the "House of Cards."

Except for one major difference -- the protagonist. While Frank Underwood may be the consummate anti-hero (giving even Rick Grimes or Walter White a run for their money) his brand of leadership and legacy is antithetical to that of Jesus. 

As Underwood slams doors and flexes his political muscle, Jesus opens his arms and spreads them across the wooden beams of a cross to give himself as a ransom for many. As Pope Francis said last week, "The house of Jesus must be open." While Underwood struts around the Beltway and into the Oval Office, Jesus comes humbly, riding on a donkey and eventually crawling under the weight of his cross. In contrast to Underwood's legal maneuvers and political schemes, Jesus comes simply, plainly, humbly to be tried, spit upon (even Frank got in on the "spitting on Jesus" action this season, but Jesus got the touché), and convicted to the cross by a kangaroo court. 

Unfortunately, while we fashion Underwood as an "anti-hero," in reality Francis is the hero we all want. One with warts and all. One with flaws and a façade to maintain. One with weaknesses compensated by pride, political showmanship, and a coldhearted and purposeful will to power. Why? Because that's more like what we see in our everyday lives. Not only from others, but within ourselves. 

Perhaps we'd never (SPOILERS) push someone in front of a train or let them suffocate in a parking garage to maintain or increase our grasp of dominance and control, but we certainly have our own scars from sinful episodes of wrath, lust, and greed. In the real world, these deeds lead most often to faltering failure. In the world of "House of Cards," to more power and prestige. That's why we like Frank. He is the take no prisoners, take no shit, take everything for himself type of person we want to be. 

Then there's Jesus. The anti-anti-hero. To be sure, Jesus is no "hero" either. Nor is he an anti-hero. Heroes, whether they be the quintessential type like Superman or the anti-hero like Batman use violence and strength to win the day. Jesus, on the other hand, comes in humility "not counting equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant...And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross." (Philippians 2:7-8 ESV)

Instead of bolting into Jerusalem faster than Flash Gordon, Jesus saunters in on a donkey. How unconvincing is that? Instead of confronting the religious and political leaders of his day to fisticuffs he brings healing & tells enigmatic "choose-your-own-adventure" stories (a.k.a. "parables"). What a strange dude! Instead of kicking some Pilate or Sanhedrin butt or taking the seat of government by sword and force, he willingly offers himself up to be killed like a loser on the cross. That's what I call a pathetic, half-assed, attempt at being Messiah!

The disconcerting, even alarming, message here is that Jesus brings a completely counterintuitive, ridonculous, and inverted way of living and leadership. And then, he tells us to do the same, to "take up [our] cross and follow [him]." (Matthew 16:24 ESV) How dare he?!

Indeed, Jesus is the ultimate anti-anti-hero and anti-hero, all at once. His humility and sense of service to his Father and to all humanity rattles us. It confronts us. It plays tricks on us. We deny it. We try to muscularize and masculanize it. We try to refashion Jesus in the image of Superman or Frank Underwood. But it doesn't work. Because in the end, there Jesus is bloodied and beaten on the cross not really undermining the power of Rome at all. Eventually, even his church will be corrupted with the very power that crucified him. 

Failure? No, it's a beautiful fulfillment of God's plan of compassion and mercy in contrast to control and manipulation. In our heart of hearts, we know that evil cannot be conquered by more evil. That's not how Jesus works. That's how the cosmos works. Instead, in a world-shattering move he accomplishes the will of his Father by doing what heroes would never do -- surrender. He achieves the Messianic goal by doing what anti-heroes would never do -- courageously facing his own destruction. He shatters the status quo, he defeats sin and death, he proclaims victory over it all and then bids us to do the same.

Crap. 

And so, here I sit, exhausted after my "House of Cards" marathon about to head into Holy Week contemplating how Christ calls me to think, speak, and act with compassion and humility, loving my enemies, turning the other cheek, going the extra mile, and praying for those who persecute me. 

Maybe I'll finally decide to follow him in this path of peace, starting this week. Most likely, however, I'll just go get caught up on "Better Call Saul" or watch "Sons of Anarchy" per the recommendation of a pastor friend I know. Because, like Frank, I might convince myself that "humility is just their form of pride. Their strength. Their weakness." You know, justify my way out of sanctification. 

Good thing that Jesus flips the script anyways and no matter what I do, or don't do, he's already gone and done it on my behalf. Amen to that. 

Fifty Shades of Ash

Here’s a funny story. A church I was on staff with once had a “white elephant gift exchange” party. Apparently, there was this rule that if you touched a gift it became yours. As I was clearly not paying attention, I did not hear this crucial regulation. When my turn came up I started by perusing the gift options that had already been opened before heading to the table with all the still-wrapped gifts and bobbles. That’s when I came upon E.L. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey and an accompanying small whip. This is the moment when remembering that “you touch it, you bought it” rule would have been important. Attempting to ever be the jester, I reached for the book and sealed my doom. 

The book, the bullwhip, were mine. And, as added benefit, I was the butt of all jokes for the rest of the evening. 

That whip proudly hung in my office over the next couple of years, resplendent with a red bow. I never read the book. But, from what I gather it’s about a virginal college student (Ana) who falls for a billionaire (Christian Grey) with a kink for BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) relationships, and he wants the unspoiled Ana to play the submissive to his dominant.

There’s, well…how do you put this…been a lot of opinion whipping around the internet this last fortnight as the book came to the big screen on Valentine’s Day (how sweet). 

Not wanting to throw comment and critique to the way side (which is a nice way of saying I am going to) I am not about to weigh the merits and/or debatably deplorable nature of the book/film. Instead, I’m going to do what any normal person would do and make a clear connection between Fifty Shades of Grey, Ash Wednesday, and the forty days of Lent. 

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See the whip in the background? See the ambivalent look on my face? This is awkward. 

Today (February 18, 2015) is Ash Wednesday. Millions of Christians across the world -- Catholic, Lutheran, Anglicans, others — will commemorate the commencement of Lent, a 40-day penitential season of fasting and preparation preceding Easter, the celebration of Jesus' resurrection from the dead — with the "imposition" or "infliction" of ashes on their foreheads.

The symbol of ashes on the forehead are meant to serve as a reminder of the contrite believers' physical return to dust (accompanied by a ritualistic repetition of "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" or "from dust you came, from dust you shall return") and their spiritual condition as sinners in need of mourning over their sin, confession, and repentance. 

Here’s a sampling of a prayer from an Ash Wednesday liturgy, or rite of worship:

Savior, prostrate I fall at thy feet this day…to ponder upon thy passion….In spirit I appear before thee in sackcloth and ashes, in true repentance. Let not the pleasures of life….crowd thee out of my heart and out of my thoughts. Draw me to thy wounded side, and cleanse me with thy most precious blood….By thy grace let me crucify my sinful afflictions, lusts, and desires….I am dust, and to dust I shall return…chastise me, break my sinful will, restore me, cleanse me, O Lord. Amen. 

So, to recap: mourning, ashes, down on your knees, prostrate, no pleasure, sinful lust and temptation, wounds, blood, sinful afflictions, chastising, breaking. Are we talking Ash Wednesday here or Fifty Shades? 

Or, let’s put it another way, as an atheist friend of mine once asked me in Houston. After reading through the crucifixion narratives in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, she asked me, “does it ever appear to you that y’all have a ‘masochist Messiah?’ Really, with all the blood, pain, and sin payments you have a pretty sadistic spirituality. 

Do we Christians worship a "masochist Messiah?” Do we practice some sick, sadistic, 'Fifty Shades of Grey' spirituality? 

A lot of the censure that came out about the Fifty Shades book/film is that it denigrated women and promoted a myth of healthy violence. Indeed, in his book The Powers that Be, Walter Wink (excellent name, sir) called out religion’s role, Christianity included, in furthering the cause of “the myth of redemptive violence” which he saw as a literary/mythological tool that impacts modern culture and its role in maintaining oppressive power structures. Crucifixion as myth of redemptive violence anyone? 

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It’s true that Ash Wednesday, Lent, and other liturgical moments in the Christian church tend to invite us to the dark side of life, spirituality, and our relationship with the Creator of the cosmos. Yet, I don’t believe there is any good reason to say we worship a masochist Messiah or engage in a particularly sadistic spirituality replete with soul bondage and deistic domination. 

Instead, I contend, Ash Wednesday and Lent are times for us to collectively reflect on the very potent and omnipresent realities of suffering, pain, and death. It is a communal opportunity to acknowledge that there is misery, affliction, and slaughter in this world. 

Of course, we may not need to go to church to see this. We may need only look at the headlines. 

We look out on a world where a jihadist group is terrorizing its way across the Middle East and North Africa; planes fall out of the sky nearly every week; civilians are perishing in Israel-Gaza, the Ukraine, Somalia-Kenya; innocents are gunned down in our city streets, and others are wasting away under the threat of Ebola. The world, we feel, is collapsing around us. Closer to home, we are struggling with financial stress, cancer, broken relationships, piss-poor body image, binge drinking, or deeper personal pains. The world, our lives, are in such a mess that we might be tempted to cry out with the teacher from Ecclesiastes, “Meaningless, meaningless…everything is meaningless!” (Ecc. 12:18).

In truth, there is something to observing, and calling out, the wretchedness of this world. Rabbis from the early part of the first millennia said that after Adam and Eve fell in the garden that God did not assign the curses in Genesis 3, but he observed them. He said to our progenitors, “this is how it’s going to be now guys, this is the situation as it is — there will be pain, there will be sweat, there will be toil, there will be death. All because of sin.” 

Our ritual reading of the headlines, or the imposition of ashes, acknowledges the pain of the world and reminds us that we live in limited bodies, in a limited world, with death as its inevitable end. 

Bummer. Dude. 

Yet, while the headlines roll on in seemingly measureless melancholy and rancor fills our social media feeds over books, religious groups, or movies, Ash Wednesday and Lent remind us not only of the pain, but of the succor of our Savior. 

You see, there is not only one, single, shade to Ash Wednesday or Lent. It’s not just about death black and penitential purple. Sado-masochistic moods of repentance and anguish are not the sole shade of this season. Instead, the “fiftieth” shade of this season is one of heavenly hope, one of corporeal compassion, one of redemption. 

Indeed, the message of Ash Wednesday and Lent is not only that we are all going to die someday, but also that we will rise and be restored. How? Why? 

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Max Ernst's "Crucifixion" captures the pain, the agony, the violence, of the cross. 

The message of Ash Wednesday, Lent, and the Gospel is that Jesus lived amidst the pain, the suffering, the death and he felt it personally, in his body. He was touched with the same feeling, able to sympathize with our weakness (Heb 4:15-16). He knew our pain. He did not revel in it or celebrate it. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, stricken, smitten, and afflicted (Is. 53). 

Instead of inviting us into the myth of redemptive violence this season and the liturgical rhythms invite us to embrace the reality of redemptive suffering. 

More than simply going through the motions of Lent, or even endeavoring to fast our way through the forty days, the call of this penitential season is to let those forty days transform, and even transfigure, us. 

And what is the transformation? Turning from an elitist, escapist, and illusory understanding of the world as all glory and growth to a redemptive, real, and tender understanding of the suffering in our world. But we mustn't stop there. We must see the redemptive value of suffering. 

South African anti-apartheid hero Desmond Tutu wrote, “When we are able to see the larger purpose of our suffering, it is transformed, transmuted. It becomes redemptive suffering.” When we see what Christ did with suffering, sin, and death on the cross by defeating them, today’s suffering is put in its place, in its rightful perspective. And we can suffer it, knowing it does not have the final word. The pain is transformed, it is transfigured. 

Richard Rohr, a Catholic contemplative, added that pain, if not transformed, will be transmitted. Think about that. If we do not allow our pain, our suffering to be transformed by Jesus, it will be spread out to others or, in the very least, other parts of our own life. Think of all the untransformed pain and how it has spread – in bitter fights in our home, in passive aggressive rage at work, in friendships spoiled, in massacre, rape, thievery, jealousy, and acidic anger. 

But when our pain is transformed it contributes to the healing and re-creation of the world. So then how we decide to respond to the pain & suffering in our life is a very serious matter.

Just as Jesus’ life has this rhythm to it, so does our spirituality: Redemption involves suffering; transfiguration involves pain; resurrection always involves the cross. We follow in his suffering, because we follow Him in redemption. They are connected. No cross, then no crown, it would seem as Claude Nikondeha put it.

It is my prayer for you, for me, this Ash Wednesday and Lent that we may, in the smearing of ashes across our foreheads, in the hunger pains of fasting, or in the simple prayers of repentance and reminders of everyday suffering, see see the strange, mystical, and miraculous connection between suffering and redemption.  

Or as, the novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky put it, I pray “you will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again.” 

You see, as we suffer, and allow that pain to be redeemed we contribute to the transfiguration of the world in some mystical way. We are partnering with Christ in the restoration of all things. We are letting Christ do his work, and have his way with us. In this season we are not only living the forty shades of Lent or the fifty shades of ash, but embodying the many shades of God’s redemptive work in the world through suffering, pain, and death. 

And that is a thought to dwell on today, and throughout, I think, the season of Lent to come.

O King of the nations, uniting all people

O King of the nations, the ruler they long for, the cornerstone uniting all people: Come and save us all, whom You formed out of clay. 

O Rex gentium, et desideratus earum, lapisque angularis, qui facis utraque unum: veni, et salva hominem, quem de limo formasti.

Let's get political. 2014 was another year of political tension, turmoil, and terror. 

Surprise, surprise. 

*Follow @kchitwood on Twitter.

I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I once dreamed of a career in politics. During the 1996 elections I drew political cartoons of Clinton & Dole, I was president of my 5th grade class, I reveled in the opportunity to be part of a mock party convention in junior high, travelled to D.C., joined the Student Youth Council for my city, was Associated Student Body Vice President, and applied, and was accepted to, Pace University's combined BA in Political Science/JD in Law program. 

And then I dove head first into religion world. 

I'm glad I did.

Other than never being able to have a discussion at the dinner table, between my interest in politics on one hand and religion on the other, I have enjoyed studying religion and eschewing politics. 

Why?

Because I am ever more convinced that political platforms, government programs, & nation-states are not the answer. While they may prove some earthly good, they are not the ultimate solution. Whether it's government shutdowns in the U.S., "dirty politics" in New Zealand, coups in Egypt, persecution of minorities in Myanmar, or bloody sectarian violence in Syria we are all longing for something more. Sure, a candidate comes along that brings hope, a promise of change, a new look for the future...but then reality sets in, hairs gray, and promises and policies lose their luster.

God institutes the so-called "Left Hand" kingdom of earthly powers and authorities for our own, temporal, good. But he does not put them in place for our eternal good. He does not intend for them to speak to, or realize, our deepest longings for peace and prosperity. Only one King can fulfill those yearnings. 

Rex Gentium is his name, King of the peoples - Jesus. 

He is the one, the antiphon acclaims, we long for. And why? He is the "cornerstone uniting all people." 

My dreams of political prowess were one part personal excitement and other part utopian vision. I saw racial division, injustice, calamity, and infrastructural mayhem growing up in Los Angeles and I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to fix it. The truth is, I can't. We can't. No one can. 

I know, what a Debbie Downer. 

While we can work toward change and good, beautiful, restorative things can be done as we unite around a common purpose and transform hate into compassion, injustice into equality, and marginalization into agency our work is never complete, it is never universal, it is never what we truly yearn for. 

That is why we call for Jesus to come. He is the one piece we are missing from this world. As we vote for leaders, as we suffer political change, as we march in the streets, and launch into political diatribes on Facebook we are all longing for the same thing, the same person - Jesus. 

He is the stone that will unite all of us into one. One building. One people. One Kingdom. The Kingdom of God. That Kingdom has come near in Jesus once (Mk 1:15) and will come again to bring the world together in hope, joy, love, and peace. For now, we wait and we work realizing that we are but dust, and to dust we, and our feeble efforts at kingdom building, shall return (Ps 103). 

Yes, as we see the political strife and the worldly injustice, as we seek to make a change and work together toward peace, we pray together "Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come." Amen. 

O Root of Jesse; standing as an ensign

O Root of Jesse, standing as an ensign before the peoples, before whom all kings are mute, to whom the nations shall do homage: Come quickly to deliver us.

O Radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum, super quem continebunt reges os suum, quem gentes deprecabuntur: veni ad liberandum nos, iam noli tardare.

*Catch up with other O Antiphon posts: O Wisdom & O Adonai

Ensign, there's a word you don't hear very often. Simply, it means "flag" or "banner." In old military ranks the "ensign" was the second left tenant, or second lieutenant, who would bear the banner as the army corps marched forward. While most armies have done away with the rank of "ensign" it is still the most used junior officer rank throughout the Star Trek Universe (it's also still used in the U.S. Navy, Coast Guard, & elsewhere). 

In this O Antiphon, Jesus is both the "root of Jesse" and the signum populorum, the "ensign before the people." He not only lies below the earth, but stands tall above the people. He reaches into the past, but leads us bravely forward. He is grounded and yet he flies. 

The message in this O Antiphon is one that promises that destruction is not eternal. Death is not the end. What is laid deep will rise. 

David's lineage, given to him by his father Jesse (hence "root of Jesse") seemed to have died off only to be resurrected in Jesus - the Son of David by Mary (as foretold in Is 11:10). So too, his kingdom. In Jesus, both the line and the kingdom are restored and now the people who are gathered under this banner march forth.  

What of death? Many who march forth in battle are only destined to die. To not survive. To suffer mightily at the hands of the enemy. The verse from the hymn "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" reads, "O come, Thou Branch of Jesse's tree, free them from Satan's tyranny. That trust thy mighty pow'r to save, and give them vict'ry o'er the grave!" 

This is the promise - that with Christ's advent, his coming then, now, and still one day, is one that looses the bonds of death, that breaks its brutal hold on beauty, that destroys decays' despotism over life. 

The root that lay dormant for thousands of years now bursts onto the scene, into glorious day to lead his armies before the evil foes of sin, death, and Satan himself. To what end? That the ensign before the people shall be hoisted over even the gates of hell, which shall not, cannot, prevail before the Radix Jesse, who has come forth from of old. 

So "we peoples" march under the banner of the Root of Jesse. We battle death, we fight for life. As we cry out, "O Root of Jesse" we also proclaim with Paul, "O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?" (1 Cor 15:55)

It is hard to muster a rebuke of death when it stares us in the face. When children are taken from us, when spouses shrivel before us, and when loved ones depart from this life. In these moments it is right to mourn life lost. To weep. To rend our garments. Good weeps with us. His purpose was, and is, life. 

But we cannot dwell there forever, we must remember the battle fought, the skirmish won. The Root of Jesse is victorious and so we can rebuke death, we can admonish it, and reprimand it to keep silent before radiating, pulsing, everlasting life itself. 

To all of you who have lost those dear to you this year or to those whose souls are still tinged with the dank depression of loved ones who passed years ago; hear this -- death is not the end.

We who march under the Ensign can join in the unending chorus of the hosts of God and with the band Gungor sing, "This is not the end; This is not the end of this; We will open our eyes wide, wider....We will shine like the stars bright, brighter." 

Amen, come Lord quickly come.

*To hear more, follow Ken on Twitter.