Even more than the usual Easter eggs, these remind me of a favorite story, passed on from the early days of Christianity.  In concerns St. Mary Magdalene, one of the companion of Jesus, who is said to have been eating supper with Caesar Tiberius and telling him the story of the Resurrection.

Laughing at her, Caesar pointed to some of the food on the table, and said, “A man is no more able to rise from the dead than one of those white eggs is to spontaneously turn red.”

Mary picked an egg up and, as Caesar watched, it slowly turned red in her hand.

This is one of many legends about Mary Magdalene, no more likely than the rest but at least a bit more pious than of the Dan Brown stuff.  It’s a popular story;  she is often depicted, in icons and other works of Christian art, holding an egg that is half-whit and half-red.

It’s also a useful story, since it demonstrates the limitations of what Christians sometimes call “apologetics,” the kind of conversation that tries to prove the truths we proclaim. It reminds us that while all Christians are called by God to share their faith, it is only God’s power than can change doubt to faith.

First, it remembers his entry into Jerusalem — often called the “Triumphal Entry,” because he entered the city like a conquering hero, coming home to be celebrated and crowned as king.  In Rome, the people would have built him an arch; in Jerusalem, they waved their palm branches and sang the old coronation song:  “Hosanna in the highest!  Blessed is he that comes in the name of the LORD.”

During this part of the service, we will bless pussy-willows and enter the nave, singing the a thousand-year-old hymn, Gloria, Laus et Honor. This hymn was written by Theodulf of Orleans, a brilliant poet and bishop who was imprisoned for treason.  According to legend, the Emperor was passing by the place where Theodulf was held, heard him sing this song, and was so moved by its piety that he set the prisoner free.

The glorious, joyful entry of the King into his sacred palace, our freedom from sin and Satan — that is the theme of what Romanians call Duminica Floriilor, the Sunday of the Flowers.  But as we read the lessons, the service takes on a darker tone.  Isaiah speaks of the Suffering Servant, who is beaten and abused; St Paul writes to the church in Philippi, reminding them that Jesus is a exalted because he “emptied himself, and took on the form of a slave;” because he “was obedient to the point of death, even to death on the Cross.”  

Then, together, we read two long and painful chapters from St. Mark’s Gospel.  In them, Jesus is betrayed by his friends, given a mock trial before the religious authorities and the government, then brutally tortured, humiliated, and killed.  It is a terrible story, and reading it straight through leaves us gasping for air, shaking in fear and horror.

That’s the point.  The death of Jesus was not a symbolic act, carried out upon a distant, impassive, untouchable divinity.  It was the brutalization of a flesh-and-blood man, carried out before his friends and family, designed to crush him and to crush those who loved him.

And the double nature of this Sunday is a sublime witness to the mystery of the Gospel.  It joins the song of victory to the cry of despair, and reminds us that they cannot be separated from each other in our faith.  Our souls were bought at a price; the ransom was the Son of Man.

Passion, as it is used in the church, does not mean a deep and abiding zeal, as when English speakers say, for example, “I have a passion for justice.”  It comes more directly from the Latin passio, to suffer.  This day might well be called Suffering Sunday.

And yet his suffering set us free; “by his stripes, we are healed.”  So even while we mourn the brutality of the Cross, we can rejoice in its power.  So we can treasure the palms, the willow-branches, the flowers, because they are signs not just of the hopeful celebration when Jesus came to Jerusalem, but of the victory he won on Calvary.

Photo by Brian Johnston, 2012. The Protestant Theological institute is in the background.

A few weeks ago, our Sunday worship was interrupted by the sound of voices chanting out on the street.  They weren’t loud enough to be truly disruptive, but they were certainly loud enough to get my attention.  During the Sharing of the Peace, I stuck my head through the doorway to see what the fuss was about.

Outside, there was a long stream of people, marching down the Bulevard 21 Decembrie 1989, carrying sheets of paper and cardboard with slogans written in Magic Marker, and chanting a little solemnly.  It was one of the hundreds of public political protests that have taken place all over the country this winter.

They weren’t all young, and (no matter what you may have read in the papers or seen on TV) they certainly weren’t all football fans.  My impression of this crowd, like my impression of several other marches I have seen lately, was that most people seemed to be well into middle age — meaning that they were young in 1989.  It seems likely that they remember the promise of the days when Communism fell, and still hope for that promise to be fulfilled.

Now, I’m not offering any opinion on the actual political questions at stake here.  The truth is that I don’t understand Romanian politics; the firing and re-hiring of the Health Minister, followed by the resignation of the Prime Minister and the appointment of new ministers, are all very dramatic — but I don’t know just how to interpret them.  As a foreigner, it isn’t my place to try.

But I do believe, with some reservations, the remark made by Joseph de Maistre, that people get the government they deserve.  And I admire the determination of the protesters, who have marched and chanted through the worst parts of a very cold and snowy winter.  Whether they are right or wrong, they are at least determined not to leave politics in the hands of the professional politicians, but rather to have a say in the future of their country.

As I stuck my head out the door during worship a few weeks ago, I waved to the protesters, and I said — although they couldn’t hear me — “Peace be with you.”  I would have said it to anybody, of course; that’s part of the church’s ministry, and its prayer. And I don’t know if they are right or wrong, but I do know that I admire their determination to make a difference.

At 12:00, we will begin our Bible study series for Lent, called “To Be a Disciple.”  We will look at who the disciples are in the Scriptures, what they do — and what God expects from us, if we are also disciples of Jeses.

At 17:00, we will meet usual for worship — but not for worship as usual!  This Sunday is our first worship service in the style of the monastic community at Taize. It is a slower, more contemplative style that we are used to, with plenty of time to think and pray.

At least that’s the idea.  The truth is that Pastor Terri and I are new to this; so are our musical leaders, Ligia Popa and Calin Ciupe.  It seems pretty unlikely that one of the Taize brothers would drop in and say, “Oh, yeah, that’s must the way we do it back home.”

But then, we’re not trying to reproduce somebody else’s church.  We are trying to create something unique and distinctive, and which we hope will help people connect more closely with God.

Come and see!

The ashes are put on in church, as part of a service.  Christians confess their sins together, and ask for God’s forgiveness.  They hear the words God spoke to Adam: Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.  This means that we are mortal, fragile, dying creatures; left to ourselves, we would dry up and blow away.  But the promise of God is that we can live — that we can have abundant life, eternal life — not because of our own strength or goodness, but as the gift of a loving God.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, the Fast of Easter as the Orthodox call it.  It is an invitation to give up worldly pleasures, to take on spiritual duties.  Less meat, more prayer; less time on Twitter, more time helping people in trouble.  But even those things are not the real point to Lent.  The real point is to turn toward God, humbled by the admission of our sin, hoping in the promise of God’s forgiveness.

The ashes themselves don’t really matter.  Some churches, including some Lutherans, don’t even use them.  After all, Jesus did say, “When you fast, don’t disfigure your faces like the hypocrites.” That’s a sober warning to all of us.  If we go through the motions — put on some ash, say some prayer, even read some passages from the Bible — but do not really turn our hearts toward God, then we have missed the entire point.  God doesn’t want our little ceremonies, any more than God wants us to sacrifice a bull on an altar.  ”The sacrifices of God are a broken sprit,” says Psalm 51.  ”A broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.”

And in return for the broken heart, God will give us a new and perfect heart; in return for our broken life, a new and everlasting one.  So come and join the company of repentant souls, the assembly of sinners who are not afraid to name their sins because they trust that God will love them anyway.  Come and join us tonight at 18:00, not for the sake of the ashes, but for the promise of a new life.

In English, the forty days of fasting and prayer before Easter are called Lent, which is related to the word “length.”  As winter turns to spring, the days grow longer, at least in the northern hemisphere.  In most Latin languages, the season is called by some variation of Quadragesima, “the Forty Days.”

But in Romania, so far as I can tell, it is simply called post, or more elaborately Postul Mare, the Great Fast, or Postul Pastelui, the Easter Fast. The name hardly matters, of course; nor do the fine details.  What matters is that all over the world, Christians are turning to God in prayer, and preparing their hearts for the joy of Easter.

Among the Orthodox, it is kept with great severity — assuming one is full-grown and healthy, one abstains from meat, fish, eggs, dairy products, olive oil, and — naturally — alcohol.  In the West, these rules have grown more relaxed over time.  Most Western Christians, if they observe the fast at all, choose one thing to deny themselves.  It is often some kind of food or drink; it may also be a pleasure, such as television or the daily paper.  Several of my friends routinely give up using Facebook during Lent.

Either way, the point is the same:  to alter our routine in some way, so that we are forced each day, and often many times each day, to remember that this is a time set aside to upon God. It is a time to reflect upon the Ten Commandments, to examine our own conscience, and to seek God’s forgiveness. These are good things to do at any time, but during these forty days, we are doing them together with Christians in every land.

There are spiritual dangers in Lent.  One is works-righteousness.  If we start to think of the fast as a source of merit, as an heroic deed which makes us worthy of salvation, we may lose sight of the Gospel, and the fact that we are saved by sheer grace, as an act of love, apart from anything we have done and beyond anything we deserve. Another danger, particularly to Westerners, is therapeutic religiosity.  That is to say that sometimes we treat the fast as if were just a diet plan, or some other opportunity for self-improvement.  This turns the emphasis away from God and toward ourselves.  Let us rather turn our whole hearts and minds to God, by whatever means are helpful — and then we will truly keep the fast.

At the International Church in Cluj, we will welcome Lent with a service on Ash Wednesday, 22 February, at 18:00.  On Sunday, 26 February, we will hold the first of our Taize Masses, services of Holy Communion designed to foster an atmosphere of meditation and reflection.  Every Sunday, beginning on 26 February, we will gather at 12:00 for a Bible study on Christian discipleship.  If you are in Cluj, I hope you will join us in person; if you are far away, I hope that you will be with us in prayer.

Here is Luther’s prayer for morning, in five languages.  Some of the translations (especially the Romanian one!) may need a little work, but you can get the idea:

If you’d like to read the whole Small Catechism, you can find it in English here, or in German here.  Those of you who come to church in Cluj can have copies just by asking me for them — and of course, any of the pastors at our church will be happy to talk about Luther and his message of Christian spirituality.

Sunday’s service is shaping up nicely.  Along with Brian Johnston, we’ll have two guest musicians — our friend Sipos Lehel on the organ, and soprano Manyoki Maria singing a selection of African-American spirituals.

These spirituals are, for the most part, songs from the days of slavery.  Many have coded meanings, even including instructions for escaped slaves.  All of them express a deep longing to be free — and a deep faith that God will set people free.

The gallery is one of Cluj’s little treasures:  a warm, intimate space devoted to art and culture.

Art critic Julia Nemeth will present an interpretation of the work.  Oláh Boglárka and Oláh Mátyás will perform music of Kodály Zoltán and Bartók Béla

Even if you can’t make the opening, you can visit the exhibition until 16 February, Monday-Friday from 10am-6pm, and on Saturdays from 10-2. (Entrance is through the Bagoly Konyvesbolt).

The celebration will kick off with an ecumenical worship service at 5:00 pm. There will be music, an address about the philosopher Karl Boehm, and the performance of a play about Heltai Gaspar, one of the Reformers of the church in this part of the world.