Unto the End

Some fragmented thoughts on these last days of Lent, a Corsican psalm, fried chicken, and ridiculously good pastries

Apr 06, 2023

Thursday, April 6
Charleston, S.C.

Hello, gentle reader.

This has been such an odd Lent. Or perhaps it has just been a Lenty Lent—with grief and joy in sharp relief. Throughout the past weeks, this world has continued to be on-brand, as humans continue to human. In the news as well as in our own little lives, we’ve seen the profane and the sacred, the heartbreaking and the lovely: political shenanigans and never-ending violence but also moments of gorgeous tenderness and glimpses of profound beauty, recrimination and retribution but also goodness and mercy.

Through it all, again and again, I’ve found myself drawn back repeatedly to John 13, to the meal that Jesus shared with his friends not long before he was killed, and particularly to the first verse of that chapter. “He loved them unto the end,” John writes, according to the King James Version.

“The Last Supper,” from a 17th century manuscript of the Gospels by Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rahib, who is believed to have been a Coptic monk in Egypt. From the collection of the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore

He loved them unto the end.

It’s an especially remarkable thing to say, knowing what John knew about what was still to come, including Judas’s betrayal and Peter’s denial.

He loved them unto the end.

The end of what? Unclear!

He loved them unto the end.

If the Christian story is to be believed, then the end of Jesus’s life wasn’t really the end. What does it mean to be loved like this, with a lavishness that defies time and place and space? What does it mean to be loved like this, with a tender ferocity that can overcome our deepest fears and our greatest shortcomings and even the darkest grave?

I don’t know. But I do know that I want this story to be true.

I don’t see any other way through the mess we’ve made, the stress we inhabit, except for this love. I can’t imagine any real possibility for survival, let alone flourishing, for us or for any other creature, except for this love. I don’t think we have any hope, except for this love.

Over recent weeks, it has been my privilege and my joy to write postcards to so many people for whom you care. (Yes, yes, I still have some postcards to write. I will get to them, I promise!)

You have written to me with stories of heartbreak and grief. You have given me glimpses of unbelievable pain and unspeakable sorrow, reminding me how much people carry behind their “I’m fine!” facades. You have told me about remarkable self-sacrifice and tremendous perseverance, even as the way forward seems so frustratingly unclear.

Daughters have written to me about their mothers, and parents have asked me for postcards for their children. Students have shared about their teachers. Parishioners have shown me their affection for their pastors. My inbox overflows with accounts of those who are trying to mend souls and spirits amid broken relationship, those who are seeking to push through the pain even as bodies fall apart, those who are attempting to quilt something resembling wholeness when all they seem to have are scraps and remnants.

In each of the stories I’ve received, you have demonstrated so powerfully how to walk alongside other humans over the rocky terrain of life. In your attentiveness to others, in your expressions of stunning empathy, you have quietly testified to how love ripples out into a world that so desperately needs it.

He loved them unto the end.

I wonder if you know just how loved you are.

Perhaps you, like me, aren’t quite ready for the forced celebration of Easter. We live in a culture that is so marked by death and grief yet also does its best to rush past these things. Yet who can fully appreciate the power of the resurrection if they haven’t really faced the reality of death?

I wonder if you know just how loved you are:
You who are tempted by silver as Judas was.
You who are overwhelmed by a sense of self-preservation as Peter was.
You who make questionable choices, as Pilate did.
You who tried to offer your wise counsel and words of warning, to no avail, like Pilate’s wife.
You who, standing at the foot of the crosses that abound in our unjust world, cry out in sorrow, echoing Jesus’s friends.
You who, amidst grief, busy yourself with burial spices as the Marys and Salome did.
You who have questions and doubts, much like Thomas.
You who, in times of confusion, just find yourself doing the thing you know how to do; the aftermath of a beloved friend and teacher’s death might seem like an odd time to go fishing, but maybe those fishermen-disciples just needed something to do with their hands and their hours.

A richly painted page from a medieval Armenian manuscript showing women with burial spices at Christ's tomb — “Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ,” from a 15th century Armenian Gospel manuscript by the scribe Aristakes. Also from the collection of the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore

As those of us who celebrate turn our gaze from Lent toward Easter, this is what holds me—and this is what I hope will hold you too: Jesus loved them unto the end, and Jesus will love you unto the end too. That love endures. It is still here, in all its mystery and in all its beauty and in all its constancy, for me and for you.

What I’m Listening to: Late on Sunday night, as I was trying to stumble my way toward sleep, I fell down a rabbit hole of new (to me) music. I happened upon a song that I’ve had on repeat over the past several days: “Hosanna in Excelsis,” by the Corsican singer-songwriter Jacques Culioli.

I love about experiencing music in a language that’s foreign to me because there’s an inherent invitation simply to feel it: Even when you don’t know what the words say, you can often still sense something in the song. The first time I heard Hosanna, I felt a wistfulness, a plaintive longing. The cello didn’t hurt; even though I grew up playing the violin, I’m a sucker for cello, which always feels beautifully melancholy to me.

After listening to the song a couple of times, I did some reading about Culioli. He sings in Corsican, and his work draws on the rich heritage of the Mediterranean island. Now ruled by France, Corsica has struggled to maintain its unique identity, language, and culture.

Then I found the lyrics, which grabbed hold of my heart and have not let go:

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For those lives welcomed at the gates of heaven,
And for whom life’s four seasons are a memory on our lips,
For all the pages of history we wrote that morning,
And the many sighs we offered for the dreams that disappeared.
See what has become of our lives
Our times have become so difficult
Hosanna in the highest
In unity with the Holy Spirit
Hear my prayer
My prayer

I realized as I read these words that Culioli’s song is a psalm of lament and a cry for help. That morning, I had just preached on the Palm Sunday story, and I recalled that, when the crowds shouted, “Hosanna!”, it was not a word of adulation. It was more of a desperate plea: literally, “Save us!”

Amen.

What I’m Eating: Tristan and I have been in South Carolina visiting a friend for the past couple of days. We’ve taken lots of long walks, and we’ve eaten some delicious food. We’ve been to Charleston many times before. We always try to go back to some old favorites; Leon’s Oyster Shop, for instance, has some of the best fried chicken we’ve had anywhere, and also outstanding grilled oysters, and it did not disappoint.

But we also try to sample one or two new places. A favorite discovery on this trip: Welton’s Tiny Bakeshop, which just opened a few months ago. The kouign amann is one of the best we’ve had anywhere, and the sourdough-rye biscuit with sharp cheddar and egg was divine. (We were trying to be good lololol, so we skipped the maple sausage that you can also get with it. I imagine it would be amazing.)

This kouign amann! So many layers. Such perfect lamination

We head home tomorrow. I’m ready to be back with our Fozzie, puttering around our little house and digging in the garden. But let me leave you with a glimpse out the airplane window from the other day.

When you’re on an airplane, do you choose the window seat? If not, why not?

Notes of a Make-Believe Farmer

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