Witness to the Resurrection: Simeon the Zealot given 4/19/15

            One day, a few small boys from our village stood by the side of a road and watched a column of soldiers march by.  For all our playing soldiers, we had never seen real soldiers, wearing real armor before. As they marched by, the flags and the glistening of their armor and the red of their cloaks seemed so beautiful it almost took my breath away.

            I was so caught up, so drawn to the sight of them, that I didn't see the officer on the horse who almost rode over me without stopping. I didn't have the sense to get out of the way until his horse's hooves almost trampled me. I heard him curse me in a strange tongue.

            He sent one of his soldiers after me, to catch me and beat me. I got away, but when I told my father what had happened, he beat me. He called the soldiers "Romans" and cursed them. That was the beginning of my realization.  These were not the heroes of Israel whose stories we had  been raised on. There were  foreigners who had no business in my land. I hated them.

            In years to come, my father began to train me in his trade of carpentry.  And as I grew into adulthood, I begin to hear more and more stories of these Romans--their beatings, their executions, their brutality. The more I heard about them, the more I hated them.

            I slowly became aware of those of my people who served the Romans and profited from their rule, especially the tax collectors and the priests and the rich merchants in the city.  I came to hate those Jews who bent their knees to the Romans. I even became ashamed of my own father because of the crosses he sometimes made for them to crucify our own people.

            As I grew up I revelled in the stories of David and Joshua  and Barak, and Hannah, who celebrated God’s deliverance But I also heard of patriotic Jews in my own time who fought the Romans. They called themselves Zealots--because of their Zeal for the Law. The Romans simply called them bandits in the hills.  I heard of Judah of Galilee, a Zealot leader who claimed to be a direct descendant of the great Judah Maccabeus.  Judah of Galilee had been fighting the Romans, since before I had been born. I was proud to hear of Judah and his son Menahem and the band who lived and fought in the very hills around us.

            And I began to take solace in my heritage, the heroic faith of my people.  I spent more and more of my free time in the synagogue studying the history of my people, learning and later arguing with the rabbi. I came to see that what was wrong with my country was not the Romans-- they were merely God's instrument of punishment for us. It was our faith, which had become weak. It was our own failure to enforce the Laws of the Almighty to the most exact and scrupulous degree.

            Oh, we stoned the occasional harlot.  But what about her customers? What about the other sinners? What about those who did not honor the Sabbath? What about all those who libeled and charged usury and collaborated with the Romans? What about those who did not keep kosher? What about the lepers? Why were we tolerating them? Why were we not stoning them?

            And worse, what about those so-called Jews who’d lost their heritage, who spoke Greek and even took Greek names? What about all the other foreigners with their dirty ways and stinking food and strange religions and different colored skins?  How dare we allow them live among us?

            It became clear to me that Israel needed to be cleansed with the sword and with fire, that our purity as a people needed to be reestablished, that our nation must recapture her former glory, at any price. I had become in my heart, a Zealot. I knew I was ready to give my life for Israel’s freedom.

            Finally the day came when I could no longer bear to remain at home.  I ran away from my family and my village, with the vague idea of heading into the hills to join Judah and his band. I was convinced that Judah of Galilee must be the Messiah, the mighty leader who would save my people

            I never did find Judah and the Zealots. As the days passed I began to hear of a prophet, a teacher like Elijah of old, who preached against the Romans and Herod, their corrupt puppet king. I heard that the teacher promised the day was coming when God would come to cleanse the land with a winnowing fork and with fire. I knew that I had to see this preacher, this baptizer, this John.

            But when I found him, John denied that he was the Messiah. He denied that he was the one who would save Israel. Instead, he pointed to another-- his cousin, some said. I had never heard anyone speak of this Jesus of Nazareth.

            When I found him, I was again disappointed. He looked like nothing more than just another Galilean.  One look at him was enough to make me realize that he too, had  made his living by the sweat of his brow and the skill of his hands. So I was not surprised to learn that Jesus too, had been trained in his father's carpenter's shop.

            But there was something else about this Jesus. His teachings were very different from many of the things that I had come to believe. He did not preach strict obedience to the Laws of Moses and the ancient ways of Israel.

            He did not preach rebellion. He did not preach resistance to the Romans.  He did not preach against the collaborators and prostitutes and tax collectors. He did not even preach against those Jews who had lost their faith, their culture, their language. Indeed, some of his closest followers seemed to come from those very groups I hated most.

            But when this Jesus spoke, there was wisdom in his words. When he preached, there was love in his eyes. When he taught about life and God, it made sense. And when he touched a leper, a blind man, a demoniac, a cripple, there was healing and wholeness.

            I followed this Jesus. I saw him feed a crowd of thousands with a little bread and a couple of fish. I saw him calm a storm. I saw him raise his friend Lazarus from the grave.

            I followed him, because I thought that he was the Messiah. I thought he was the one who would deliver Israel. I knew that the power of God dwelt within this Jesus. And I expected that any day he would call down an army of angels to drive the hated Romans from our land.

            I still was expecting it, right up to the moment when they crucified him.  Three days later, those of us who had followed him all along huddled together in a room, despondent and anxious over what had occurred.

            It was finished. It had been a good campaign while it lasted. But he hadn't succeeded. We had been wrong. Jesus hadn't been the Messiah. I wondered what I was even doing still among this motley group. All of my unease with them-- this gang of peasants and Greek-speakers and publicans and ex-prostitutes and sinners-- was coming back.

            I didn't belong here. I belonged out in the hills with those who still fought for Israel. I was about to leave when I suddenly became aware that there was someone else in the room with us. A stranger.  An intruder.  And yet, somehow I

            "Shalom. Peace be with you." He said. But the truth is, I was feeling anything but peaceful at that moment. None of us were, I suspect.  The truth is, we were startled, we were terrified. Then suddenly, we all recognized him—Jesus!

            He began to explain everything.  It was like our eyes had been opened to everything in the scriptures and in history that led up to this moment, led up to Him. It all made sense. For the very first time in all those months that I had followed this Jesus, I finally understood who He truly was and what He had come among us to do.

            He had indeed been God’s Messiah. A different Messiah than the one I’d expected, but the Messiah. And now I knew I could give my life for Him. We, who had known Him best in life, now knew Him beyond His life.

            We saw.  We touched.  We believed.  Jesus had come back to us, and He had given us what we needed in order to turn the world upside down. He had given us what we needed in order to learn to love.

            Even me. As He left us, He again blessed us with His Shalom. And this time, I did know peace. Perhaps for the first time, in my life, I knew Peace. For the first time, my heart was cleansed of the anger, the resentment, the hate, the violence I had carried since I was a boy. For the first time, I knew that I could accept, appreciate, forgive, even love those who were different from me. And then, Jesus named us as His witnesses, and sent us out into the world.

            Language, color, past history, gender, none of those were important anymore. All that was important was that Jesus was still in my heart, and in their hearts as well.  All that was important was that others heard. All that was important was that He had indeed been the Messiah--not just of Israel, but of the world.

            Tradition has it that like most of the other Apostles, Simeon the Zealot was eventually martyred for his faith.  Whenever and however he died, I believe he gave his life willingly. In that Upper Room Simeon the Zealot at last found something better, something to live and to love for, something well worth dying for.

            In the year 70 AD, the Jews of Palestine rose up in rebellion against the Roman Empire. After a bloody three year war in which Jerusalem was sacked and the Temple destroyed, the last pocket of rebellion committed mass suicide on a mountaintop called Masada. Masada was held by a group of Zealots and others under the leadership of Eleazar of Galilee, son of Menahem and grandson of Judah of Galilee.

            Less than a hundred years later, that same tragic scenario of fruitless rebellion was repeated-- in what is known as the rebellion of Bar-Kochba. Again-- the rebels were wiped out by the Legions of Rome. With them died Jewish self- determinism for almost two thousand years.

            What unfortunately did not die with them was the all-too-human mindset of radical nationalism, of fanatic tribalism, of chauvinism, of militant religious bigotry, that would rather hate than co-exist.   That dream, that nightmare is all too alive in our world today (as any glimpse in the paper will confirm.)

            What did not perish was the individual attitude of petty intolerance and suspicion of those who are different in faith or color or culture or tongue or gender identification, or even simply those of different opinion that would rather back-bite and oppress than accept.

            What did not perish is blind patriotism that does not dare to question authority or examine the facts, but would rather point the finger of accusation, or even of treason, at those who do.

From Kabul to Damascus, from Africa to Russia, from Belfast to Baghdad,

from the tiniest rural village to the neighborhoods of Chicago,  from the “Aryan

Nation”  enclaves in the Pacific Northwest, to the prosperous suburbs  to our own

towns and neighborhoods-- still, hatred and racism and parochialism  lingers-- a

powerful, demonic, sinful grip upon humanity broken nature..

            There is only one cure. No army, no outside force--not a Roman or a British or a Russian or an American or even a United Nations army can keep people from hating one another. With enough might, you can maybe keep them from killing one another— even for hundreds of years-- but the hatred won't die. We pass it on from one generation to another in our mothers' milk.

            Only new hearts, willing to forgive, only lives touched by the power of love, the power of Christ's Shalom can free themselves from that hate.  Only hands of help, only mouths willing to witness, only feet willing to carry the good news of the Messiah, only followers willing to live their lives after the example of God's Messiah and give them for the sake of the Gospel, can change this sinful world, can change all the hearts that hate, can change us all—from ourselves.

            Let us pray,

            Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on us.

             Melt us, mold us, fill us, use us.

            Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on us

            and give us hearts freed from hate and prejudice,

            hearts freed from grudges and anger.

            Give us new hearts--

            hearts touched by the power of the Messiah,

            hearts dedicated to building your Realm Shalom and Salaam.        Amen.