This Sunday at Nexus, we continue our series on anthropology by asking what may be the most practical question of all: what do we expect from the people we love? Anthropology can sound abstract until you are married to someone, raising kids with someone, building friendships, joining a church community, or assembling a gazebo with your spouse and discovering that “marital harmony” apparently has a Rona assembly fee. Much of relational life happens not only in what people do in relationships, but in the story we tell ourselves about why they did it. When people disappoint us, forget things, get defensive, act strangely, or fail to become the people we hoped they would be, what story do we tell? This week we will explore how a low anthropology may not make love less possible, but more honest, more merciful, and perhaps more able to carry the ordinary weight of real human relationships.

Friends, this Sunday we keep moving through our anthropology series by asking a deceptively simple question: what if the "self" is not something to be found, but something to be formed? As we start to explore the real-world implications of the anthropology we hold, I want to explore the tension between cultural aphorisms like “be yourself” and “you do you” with Jesus’ words “deny yourself.” Can you be yourself, or do you, while denying yourself? There is a tension here between the modern quest for authenticity and the strangely different path Jesus offers. So, our anthropology journey continues with a look at the "self" and why it may be less coherent and stable than we often assume, and why that might actually be good news! Along the way I want to explore the story of Peter denying Jesus, his dinner invitation to Zacchaeus, and why the movie Downhill (starring Will Ferrell and Julia Louis-Dreyfus) might offer us a clue as to why performing the "self" can come to feel less like freedom, and more like a burden. So, this Sunday, we’ll consider the possibility that grace begins not when you finally find your truest self, but when you discover something better.

Where we begin makes a big difference to our journey and to our future. We don’t pick up a book and begin at Chapter 3. Why would we do that with Scripture? The Bible begins the human story in beauty and goodness, but so often, our theology and the stories we tell ourselves tend to begin with our brokenness. We overindex on the negative. (Don’t mean to brag, but I am quite skilled at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory...like everything went well, but I will find something to berate myself for, just in case I get any ideas...) A negative theological starting point and focus impacts us in a wide variety of ways…imagine you receive an invitation to the world's greatest art gallery. You enter expectantly, but instead of being invited to take in the masterpieces, someone hands you a bucket of soap and a scrub brush and barks at you to start cleaning the floor tiles, saying you should be thankful to even be allowed inside. The orders meet your inner sense of shame and unworthiness, so you hit the floor and get to work. An unlikely scenario maybe, but many of us go through life as a cleaning crew, focused on the floor instead of the art. In a similar vein, there’s an old story about a giant clay Buddha statue in Thailand which was being moved. At some point during the move, it cracked. As the monks gazed in horror at the cracks, someone looked more closely. They saw something shining underneath the clay. Chipping away the mud, they discovered the clay had been covering a statue made of fine gold. Instead of enjoying and valuing the treasure we hold, cultivating the goodness we do find inside, many of us spend our lives trying to fix the cracks in our clay. What if we stopped trying to patch the mud and began to notice the gold - there since the very beginning? This Sunday, let’s continue the journey, exploring the highs and lows of our anthropology, considering what happens when we start with beauty. We certainly cannot deny that we are cracked. But what happens when we consider that perhaps our cracks don’t just let the light in, they let it out?

Well, with Lent and Easter now behind us, we’re returning to our Anthropology series this Sunday after a six-week pause. I want to pick the series up again with one of the biggest questions beneath so much of life: what are human beings really like? What does it mean to be human, not just in theory or only when we are at our best, but in the ordinary realities of conflict, relationships, stress, hope, and the strange ways we make sense of ourselves. This week, we move into a very revealing part of that conversation as we look at the third pillar of a low anthropology. To do that, we will need to talk about sport parents, why psychologists have identified 188 “biases” or “fallacies” humans are prone to fall into, and to my delight, Glenn Pascoe will also showcase for us an all too familiar flaw in ourselves. In the end though, I hope there may something unexpectedly clarifying, and even freeing, about telling the truth about ourselves a little more honestly.

On Easter Sunday, we gather again to step into a very different kind of morning. If Good Friday asks us to stay with what feels lost, Easter invites us to consider what we might be missing even when it is right in front of us. With poetry, song, Scripture, and reflection, we will move into a story where recognition comes slowly, hope arrives strangely, and the world may be more alive than we first imagined.

This Good Friday, we will make space for the weight of the story without rushing past it. Through Scripture, music, art, and reflection, we will linger with the cross as a place of sorrow, honesty, and difficult love. This is a service for anyone who knows that not everything can be fixed quickly, explained neatly, or tied up by the end.

Friends, we are about to enter Holy Week, and so, as we do, we’re turning to one of the most surprising exchanges at the cross. It is the dialogue between Jesus and two criminals also being executed beside him. I want to pair this moment with Andrea Mantegna’s painting Crucifixion (Louvre). There is something incredibly vivid, to me, about this painting. It kind of draws you into the scene as a spectator. If you have a chance to look at it before Sunday, which of the two criminals do you think is the “good thief?” Of course, the teaching this week isn’t really about who deserves what. Rather, it’s about what people reach for when they’re almost out of time: the things we ask for, what we bargain for, what we fear most, and what we hope might still be possible. It’s about the strange ache behind the words remember me, and the startling way Jesus answers.

Have you ever been left behind? I have been - at church, no less. And I must confess…I have also left a child at church. While I was probably 16 years old when it happened to me, our daughter was but 18 months. I know. Not a stellar parenting moment. But it’s surprisingly easy - it always involves two cars, and the abandoned person somehow falling between the cracks. A simple miscommunication and misunderstanding. (It turned out just fine, by the way, thanks to a good friend who had our phone number, some time, and patience. Well, that and the fact that the instant we both got home we realized something was awry…both of us wide eyed…I thought you had her!) I’m sure we’ve all experienced a whole range of abandonments…times of feeling forsaken. Alone. What was it like for you? On this second last Sunday before Good Friday and Easter, we continue with the sayings of Jesus from the cross. This time, a heart-wrenching question: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” Known as the Cry of Dereliction, this saying is full of meaning. We might have some curiosity about this cry of Jesus. It’s a chance for us to consider what we believe was happening in that moment…where was God? What does it mean for us that Jesus spoke these words? As we listen to Jesus’ cry, we may also notice a tension, some mystery, and some hope for us all. As with all the Lent sermons, we’ll be looking at an art piece - this time, a recent work from a controversial Canadian artist.