“I love my friend Jim Tomiser.
He and his wife Stacey are dear to the Early family. They moved up to Whidbey Island two years ago. They live in a beautiful little neighborhood not too far from the ferry. In the summertime, the blackberries are everywhere, of course, and their flowers and tomato plants are in bloom (though this year wasn’t the best for most of us when it comes to tomatoes). It’s so nice to walk around the corner to Mrs. Elizabeth’s home, pick apples, and trot down to the most wonderful little lake. Jim and I helped her pick up some heavy pottery one afternoon and move it around on her deck. She thanked us as like we were true Catholic Saints. Anyway, Jim has a boat and a tube to go behind it. The lake we play on is special. The water is warm to swim in, the trees are as tall as ever, and the blue sky just goes on with a puffy white cloud here and there. It feels as though they live in another world, and you know, sometimes, they really do.
Last Friday morning, Jim caught the 9:00 AM ferry to Seattle. We went to Cafe Fiorre there in Sunset Hill. Jim got his 12 ounce Americano and I got a London Fog. We hiked down to Golden Gardens. He’s lived here his whole life and had never actually been to Golden Gardens nor Mt. Rainer! Can you believe that? We had a laugh over the fact that sometimes you can live close to things everyone else in the world knows about but never actually go ourselves. “We’ll get around to it sometime.” When I lived in London, I’d ask my classmates about whether or not they’d been down to Bath or to Stone Henge or up to Cambridge or over to Oxford. So often my friends said “No! Of course not! We could do that anytime!” Hopefully time doesn’t run out, you know?
Jim and I sat on a dock. I pointed out the dock next to us. “Me and Chad and I jumped off that dock one summer. In fact, Chad and I just jumped off another dock the other day on his birthday!” We had a good laugh at that, too. So there we sat, staring out at the slate blue water, slapped up against the grey sky. The orcas where out there splashing around between two sailboats. The train went by and we enjoyed the smells of the shipyard.
We talked about all the kinds of things anyone talks about with their friend and pastor. The ups and downs and unknowns and of course, we talked about grief and joy, the unpredictable nature of life, and God’s surprising faithfulness through it all.
Afterwards, we hiked back up to Sunset Hill and sat on another bench. Old men huffing and puffing checking our smartwatches. Kind of proud of ourselves. Kind of sad that we get winded so easily. Jim noticed my striped socks. They were pink, brown, and yellow. He said “Boy, I like those socks!” with a laugh. “Oh let me tell you about the wonderful person that gave me these socks! The Great Mrs. Sharon Sellers gave me these!” I told him that she and her precious husband Walt, (who I call my Papa Walt), came into our lives nearly 12 years ago. They came to our church in Georgia that I was in the midst of planting. (I’ll tell you another day about, Papa Walt). Mrs. Sharon is absolutely brilliant! She is perhaps the most well-read person I’ve ever met in my life and I’ve never known anyone to enjoy literature more than her! She taught at the University level for many many years.
The thing I love most about her is how she asks questions!” Jim stopped me right there and said, “Wait. The thing you like most is how she asks questions? That’s really special.” “Oh yes! I so want you and Stacey to meet her! Yes, she can talk literature and story telling and philosophy and history, and theology and all the rest as well as anyone. But the the thing she does so well is ask questions. Such is the gift of a true teacher. Teachers not only instruct from the outside, they know how to ask good questions, and force the listener to reach inside and pull out some things. That’s what she does. She’s a teacher to the bone.
I have learned so very much from her. And if there’s one thing I can boil it down to is this: It’s not so much the answers we give but the questions we ask that determine the quality of our relationships. She’s good at asking questions and therefore she’s deeply loved by so many. When it comes to Jesus himself, consider some of the questions he was asked….
”Why do you speak in parables?”
”Can a man enter his mothers womb and be born a second time?”
”Shall we strike down the Samaritans with the sword?”
”Who sinned? This man or his parents?”
”When shall these things be? What shall be the sign of thy coming?”
Of all the questions Jesus was asked, the unnamed thief, asked the the best one. Church tradition says the man’s name was “Dismas” which means “sunset.” How appropriate. I don’t know if that was his name and I don’t know that it matters all that much to anyone other than his mother, really.
“Jesus, when you come into your kingdom, remember me.”It was as much an instruction as it was a question; a beggar in the last hour, asking for pity. Perhaps it is the question that sums up all the other longings and questions that people have brought to Jesus’ ears for the last 2,000 years. There he was all strung up there; dying in the merciless sun, the way rebels and riffraff ought to die; with nothing left but a heart purified by pain and watching how Jesus was dying, belted out the most pure question, the question beyond all questions; this last question…. ”Jesus when you come into your kingdom, would you remember me?”
This last request of Jesus, was more than a Hail Mary thrown by Russel Wilson down at Century Link. This final question is the one we all ask of Jesus, when the sun has gone down in our own lives. After fighting with a spouse or friend. After blowing it at work or doing something impulsive or giving into temptation. Especially on our deathbeds, that’s the thing we ask of Jesus once more, “remember me.”
And to put yourself there on Skull Hill, looking up at this utterly helpless situation, what on earth would you make of it if you actually heard the man’s request? Surely it would’ve sounded utterly absurd. Who of the three hanging there appears as though he’s actually bound for heavenly glory? I can think of plenty of others that when they die, we assume, they’re headed straight for pearly gates, crystal seas, golden streets, and the rest.
Mother Teresa, a faithful priest, a sacrificial mother, fathers who teach Sunday School, and courageous missionaries, philanthropists, and doctors laboring in developing countries. But that One up there in the middle, the One all bleary-eyed, and battleborn, torn from limb to limb, with a voice gone hoarse from all the writhing in agony - what on earth could he possibly offer anyone? What does he have? His hands are pierced. He could no longer hold someone in his arms. His feet were pierced. He could no longer walk across the room and say hello. His clothing belonged to the winning gambler at the base of the cross. There was absolutely nothing left the eye could see. It appeared to be completely over.
However, there’s a catch! the thief knew something. Thieves know where to look for valuables. They know that you have to really seek out a hidden treasure. They know that the jewels are in a big black locked safe. They know that the cash is two stories under ground at the bank. They know where things of worth are stored. So, even from his cross, he had scoped out the situation, he had cased the joint, and in the right moment, he made his less-than-sinister move.
He asked for the only thing Jesus had left. He asked for his memory. He asked to be remembered. Will you remember me? Surely some scoffed at the pitiful request. But was it all that pitiful of an ask? If you’ve ever been truly remembered by someone else, then you know the power of the man pinned to the wood was asking for the moon. Think of those people throughout your life who cared enough to pick up the phone or come by, or send you a letter in the post. The people you moved away from or those who moved away from you that still remember you.
Yes, they would be right to laugh were Jesus not Jesus. It would be right to laugh if he didn’t possess the keys to the Kingdom of God. It would be right to laugh if he really were some nonsensical charismatic wisdom sage pseudo-rabbi from a backwater town. But as we know, he is God’s Son and in his darkest moment as the sun is blotted out in midday, is still somehow running the whole miserable show. Truly, right then and there at his darkest, our darkest, the world’s darkest moment all was still working according to plan. “I lay down my life and I will take it up again.” Or to Pilate he said, “You have no power over me. The only power you have is that which my Father gave you.” Oh, yes, it would’ve been right to laugh at Dismas and Jesus were Jesus truly just another man. So after giving all that he had, from time, attention, food, clothing, and even the blood in his veins and skin off his back, Jesus still had one thing left to give. He would give his thoughts away to a dying stranger.
I recall on one occasion years and years ago, our beloved Brennan Manning commented on Shel Shel Silverstien’s “Giving Tree”, being the best modern parable he had ever heard in reference to Jesus’ self-emptying love. Do you recall the story of the apple tree who lived right along side a little boy who grew to become an old man? Oh how she loved him! The little boy would come and climb up in her branches and swing, eat apples, and be happy. They’d lie in the shade. One day the boy said “Tree, I love thee.” And as the boy grew up, the tree gave all that she could. He became to old to climb, but wanted money. So she gave him her apples to sell in the city and make money. Later he needed a house, so she gave him her branches to build a house. After that he wanted to sail away from the world in a boat and so she gave him her trunk to build a boat. At the end of the boy’s life, as an old man, he came to her, the old stump, and she was sad that she had nothing left to give. And then it dawned on her, “An old stump is good for resting! Come boy, sit down and rest a while!” The boy sat down and the tree was happy.
Do you recall Jesus’ command of the disciples the night before he would end up on the cross? He broke bread, poured wine, and said “do this” and what? “Remember me.” The Christian faith isn’t merely a thinking faith in the sense of theology, reason, rationale, and apologetics, though all of those are very important keys. The Christian faith isn’t only, solely a mental, cognitive exercise of the brain. It is an exercise of the heart, the willingness and pleasure derived from remembering someone else. When it comes to the eucharist, holy communion, the table or whatever you call it - believers have debated as to whether or not Jesus is physically present or absent or somewhere in between since the beginning. But let us not overlook the simple fact that the meal is commanded to be taken not merely with the intention of straining out just how close Jesus is to the elements but just how close your mind is in remembering the one who makes the elements sacred. Jesus wants to be remembered as much as we want him to remember us in his kingly power coming at the right hand of the Almighty.
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