Time's almost up. We round off this lap leading us to that most dreaded of weeks: Holy Week. You know, it's strange. Our Lenten promises to ourselves have either been long-blown by now or have become part of the ego's plaster.
Human nature, we've probably learned on this journey so far, isn't free of the universe's one plight of selection amid world's of adaptation. Life is a chaos-to-balance dance--an intense, passionate dance, like the Tango. (Trust me, I'm a Libra; so, this "Bo does know Diddly" about balance.) Taking on the responsibility of achieving balance by introducing chaos into the system (a Lenten promise of giving-up or taking-on) is to go to war not just against a small-"s" self--the ego--but, rather, to fire the first shots in a preemptive push to war against whole kingdoms already set in place (Ephesians 6.12). Can we ever truly win that war? Of course not. Why? because we aren't free of the universe. We're part of it. Truth probably looks more like a big-"S" Self with small-"s" self as sort of an illusion. Thanks to the small-"s" self, there will be chaos. The big-"S" Self, therefore, will shift for balance. Chaos-to-balance, on and on it goes (Genesis 1.1-5).
Holy Week, Lent's last lap, leaves no doubting room when it comes to this war. The universe will adapt to your being here, and it will adapt to your not being here. We can push, strike, hope, dream, do what we will to create change. The universe is attached to none of it. Therefore, it is forever (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 7). Yet, we, like our first from-Eden-tossed parents, will die. We will cease despite our worked-for, hard-earned, fate-found, breaks-of-luck-landed success (Ecclesiastes 2.18-23). If we continue to crave our existence; then, the road ends for us next Friday; then, Jesus dies bewildered at God's absence (Mark 15.34-37); then, all who followed him fear the chaos of the universe balancing them out of the equation and, thus, abandon him in the hope of saving their own lives (Matthew 16.24-25).
We will enter the temple with Jesus next week. He will curse a fig tree, which will wither in a day. Jesus will turn over the fundraising tables of those who totally misunderstand God-thoughts and God-ways, and they'll seek his death. He will have one last Passover meal with his closest friends, who will betray him and flee at his arrest. Jesus will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the domination system's law and, thereby, executed. The winners will win again, as usual.
Look up at your dead Master next Friday, Christian. It'll just be you and a Pagan soldier beneath the cross because the church will lose all her members that day. Yes: look up. No: he's gone; don't wait for something to happen there. You must look within and listen (Luke 17.20). Look. It's hard, I know. Here, you gaze upon one who did not crave his own existence. He, like the universe, was attached to none of it (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 50). Jesus is the very possibility of our living life from that big-"S" Self. Even here, at the ninth hour, it's true--all of it is true (Mark 8.31): his preaching, the mountain-top lessons, his mission.
Fix your eyes upon this savior. Look at him closely.
Don't you see yourself?