As many of you know, a paradox is something that contradicts itself—defying logic, and even intuition—yet it still reveals a deeper truth. We live in a world filled with paradoxes. Consider the sleeping paradox: the moment you realize you're falling asleep, you wake up. Or the social media paradox: we use it to feel connected, yet often end up feeling more alone. And the classic forgetting paradox: we can recall obscure facts but forget why we entered a room.
These are light-hearted examples, but today’s scriptures draw us into more profound paradoxes—those surrounding death and life. If you’ve accompanied a loved one at the end of their earthly journey, you’ve touched these mysteries. If you ponder your own mortality, or reflect on the words of our United Church Creed—“In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone.”—then you, too, have stepped into these paradoxes.
This morning’s readings invite us to explore the space between life and what lies beyond. Paradoxes like: life contains death, and death, life. Every moment, something in us dies—old cells, outdated beliefs, former versions of ourselves. And simultaneously, something new is always being born. There is the death of the ego—the image we project to the world—and the birth of our true self, the divine light of God within. There’s the movement from fear to surrender. As we accept death’s certainty, we become more able to live freely. Clinging tightly to life breeds suffering. But letting go—surrendering—brings peace. In essence, these paradoxes reveal that death is not the opposite of life. It is part of life. It is a doorway, a transformation—perhaps even an illusion when seen through the eyes of eternity.
This is a significant reflection for this moment in our journey, as we prepare to walk with Jesus to Jerusalem. Today marks the final Sunday in Lent before the journey of Holy Week begins. Palm branches await. The table in the Upper Room is set. The cross looms on Friday. The tomb lies silent on Saturday. And the dawn of Easter draws near. But before we go there, we must remain here—rooted in Lent’s paradoxes, finishing this wilderness journey with intention and courage. For Jesus, the journey to Jerusalem meant entering a city under Roman rule—where legions reminded the people of their powerlessness. For us, the parallel is clear. Lent ends, and we return to a world that tempts us away from God’s way. So how do we prepare? How do we walk into Holy Week with faith, trusting that all shall be well? Are we ready to raise our palm branches, not as cheerleaders for a triumphant king, but as followers of a servant Christ? Are we ready to share a sacred meal and hear Jesus speak of betrayal and sacrifice? Are we ready to stand at the foot of the cross on Good Friday and call it “Good”? Are we ready to hold vigil at the tomb? Are we ready to greet Easter’s dawn with resurrection hope? These are difficult questions. And I believe we can only answer them faithfully if we embrace the paradox at the heart of today’s texts—the paradox of death: the call to surrender, to let go, to die before we die.
We see this most vividly in two characters in John’s Gospel: Judas and Mary. It's tempting to paint Judas as the villain and Mary as the saint. Mary is the faithful disciple—she gets it. She anoints Jesus with costly ointment and wipes his feet with her hair. It is an act of love, sacrifice, and prophetic preparation for his death. She embodies the extravagant grace of God. Judas, on the other hand, criticizes her. He masks greed with concern for the poor. And yet, as scholars remind us, it's too simplistic to villainize Judas and canonize Mary. Their stories together reveal something more complex, more human.
Judas and Mary represent a paradox of discipleship. Judas the betrayer, Mary the prophet. Judas the thief, Mary the priestess. And yet Jesus includes them both. Grace extends not just to the faithful but to the flawed. And let’s be honest—we’ve all been both. I know I have. The theologian Karl Barth devoted a full tenth of his work on election—on who belongs to God—to the redemptive significance of Judas. Barth dared to say: “Judas is an elect and called apostle of Jesus Christ.” His inclusion matters—for all of us who are imperfect. Judas and Mary offer a paradoxical picture of who is called to follow Jesus: not just the saintly, but the stumbling; not just the faithful, but the failing. This gives us hope. Hope that the Judas in us can be redeemed. That the Mary in us can emerge. That God’s grace covers the entire spectrum of human frailty and faithfulness. And that is what it means to embrace death during life—to let go of old ways, to surrender our ego, to die before we die, and allow something new to be born. What is it about the extravagant faith of Jesus-followers that compels them to offer up things that seem to die so quickly? A choir’s anthem—three minutes long, fading into silence...A teacher’s lesson—hours of preparation, gone with the bell...A grace offered at table, a prayer whispered at bedtime... Flowers placed at a grave, wilting in the wind...Do these things truly end? In John’s Gospel, wherever Jesus is, there is abundance. An abundance of bread and fish. An abundance of wine at a wedding. An abundance of life that continues beyond the grave. That’s the paradox of faith: things that appear to die are actually transformed. Like the caterpillar spinning its cocoon, dying to one form and awakening in another—with iridescent wings.
As we prepare to journey to Jerusalem, we do so not in fear, but in faithful surrender. We walk with Jesus toward the cross not with dread, but with trust—knowing that God brings life even out of death. May we take heart in the paradoxes of life and death. For in every moment, something in us is dying—and something new is being born. The ego fades; the true self shines brighter. Fear loosens its grip; surrender opens us to peace.
Let us prepare to go to Jerusalem—and discover where God is bringing life, even amid the shadows of death.
Amen.
