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I noticed for the first time a turn of phrase used only by Luke to describe the disciples at the Mount of Olives on Thursday night: Jesus returns from his solitary prayer to find the disciples sleeping “because of grief.” (22:45) In Luke’s depiction, they can read the writing on the wall and have already begun to grieve, and their grief leaves them exhuasted, craving sleep.

Within a few hours Jesus breaths his last breath, and his lifeless body is placed in the tomb. The sun setting on Friday marks the beginning of the sabbath. Referring to the women and presumably all of the disciples, Luke succintly concludes the story of Christ’s passion: “On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.” (Luke 23:56b)

It is worth noting that after recording in such detail what took place over the course of the past week, the Gospels record absolutley nothing that took place on Saturday. It is the day of rest. Nothing, humanly speaking, takes place. Just rest, and waiting.

Now, presumably something DID happen on that Saturday, something so wonderful we marvel over it two thousand years later. The resurrection took place.

But the BIG THING is not witnessed — not directly. On Easter morning the tomb will be empty, angels will show up, and Jesus will make fleeting appearances. But the actual moment in which the lifeless body of Jesus was transformed and filled with a life that could not die is never described nor witnessed.

This gap in the story calls to mind a parable that Jesus had told in his ministry: “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the round, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.” (Mark 4:26-27)

In the end, the resurrection isn’t something we do. The disciples could no more have brought Jesus back to life than all the kings horses and all the kings men could put poor humpty together again. We haven’t a clue how to pull resurrection off.

There is not a matter of pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. What takes place is a miracle; it’s God’s doing, not ours.

Lent ends with the Sabbath rest.

Now there is nothing to do but rest, to wait.

Living God, it is out of our hands. We cannot create life where there is death. Like the women who will come to the tomb on Easter morning, we cannot roll away the stone of grief. You are God and we are not, but that’s okay, because we’ve never been up to the job anyway. We will place our trust in you. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

I’ve been participating in the Community Cross Walk since we first began holding it 21 years ago. The particular old wooden cross we use was originally the property of the St. Gregory’s congregation – I suppose technically it still is — but since the walk ends at our church, it’s always been stored out-of-the-way in the little-used front entrance of our church.

Every Good Friday for the past 20 years I’ve come over to the church in the morning and loaded the cross into my car. It’s too big for my car, so it would stick out the window, and I’d drive it the 2/3 of mile up the road to St. Gregory’s, where I’d drop it off, then head back home to occupy myself until the 1 p.m. service.

This morning, though was a little different. Knowing that I needed to plan out where we’d pause for the “stations of the cross” along Beverwyck Road, and realizing what a nice day it was weather-wise, I decided today that I’d walk the cross to St. Gregory’s.

Now here I must admit that part of the reason I have never done this before is that I was afraid that I might appear to the passersby like some kind of nut-cake – a wild-eyed religious fanatic. It’s one thing to process in a cross walk as a part of a well-behaved group under the supportive shelter of an accompanying police officer – that sort of thing is pretty obviously an organized religious ritual. But to walk alone carrying a cross at the side of road – well, who knows what people will think?

I find myself needing to justify myself here, which, in itself is part of the problem. Look, there are a lot of people in this world who call themselves “Christian” that in my way of seeing things don’t live very Christ-like lives; people, for instance, who seem to associate hate with Jesus, and put themselves forward in a very public way as representatives of Christianity.

If people see me walking along the road carrying a cross – what if they think I’m one of those kinds of Christians?!!!

The truth of the matter, though is that we don’t have much control over how people will view us in this world, for better or for worse. One of the first years we did this a photographer from the Daily Record was on hand to snap a picture of me carrying the cross, and it appeared the next day on the front page, enormously blown up. I got a message on my answering machine shortly afterwards from a woman gushing over the picture, as though what I had done was the most wonderful thing in the world, when in fact, I knew it was absolutely nothing. I’d carried a couple of pounds of lumber a few paces, that’s all. I happened to be there when the photographer snapped his picture. But she thought my toting the cross down the road made me Christ-like.

Part of what it means to follow Jesus is to try to stop worrying so much about how people will view us – which can be pretty tough for some of us, given our nature and our upbringing. As I read over the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ passion, I notice that from the time of his arrest to his dying breath on the cross Jesus has very little to say. When he is questioned and mocked by the high priests, Herod, Pilate, the passersby, the thief on the cross, he makes no attempt to argue his case. It is as if he knows that it is useless at this point to worry about how he is perceived. He lets it all go — part of Christ’s great self-“emptying” that Paul refers to in Philippians 2:7.

Having refused to defend himself, it’s striking at the end when, having watched Jesus’ die, the Roman centurion declares, “Certainly this man was innocent/righteous.” (Luke 23:47b) It doesn’t seem to have been so much the words Jesus spoke, which were few, as it was his simple bearing and grace in dying.

In the end, who we are eventually comes through, over and beyond our attempts to manage our image and justify our actions.

And so I walked down Beverwyck Road by myself carrying the cross. Curiously, the very first car that drove by carried friends of mine who have moved here recently from Ghana. They waved and smiled at me. It was as if God had led them to pass by at that moment as a kind of blessing. Esse and Joseph don’t know that much about the traditions of Americans, so seeing me carrying the cross, they probably assumed that this was just something American pastors routinely do on Good Friday – go out for strolls with an old rugged cross.

In the half hour it took to make the walk, plenty of other cars passed by as well. It is remarkable the diversity in those cars. People seemed curious, but otherwise I didn’t get much of a reaction. Maybe seeing me led their thoughts in some positive direction. But then, who knows? Only God, of course.

It’s not something I can control, and it would be good for me to worry less about the things I can’t control; in particular, how people view me.

At the end of the Gospel account there is this quiet little hero that shows up who doesn’t get much attention, appearing as he does after the most intense drama of Good Friday has concluded. Joseph of Arimathea is described by Luke as being a “good and righteous man”. He was a member of the council before whom Jesus had appeared when he was first arrested, and before whom Jesus had refused to put up much of a defense. Luke tells us that Joseph resisted pressure to fall in line with his colleagues, casting a dissenting vote to their plan to execute Jesus.

And now, with Jesus dead and in need of a decent burial, Joseph does what he figures is simply the decent thing to do. He goes to Pilate and asks for permission to take Jesus’ body down from the cross, which Pilate grants. The women who had loved Jesus follow along supportively at a distance, but from what Luke tells us, Joseph seems to have done the heavy lifting pretty much all by himself. There must have been countless others who watched from afar as Joseph wrapped Jesus’ body in a linen cloth and then carried it some distance to the rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid.

Perhaps he looked like a nutcake – a wild-eyed crazy religious fanatic, but Joseph didn’t care. The man deserved a decent burial, and it was the least that he could do.

Loving God, as we would follow Jesus, help us to empty ourselves of the anxious concern to manage how others will perceive us. Allow us to be like Joseph of Arimethea, doing what needs to be done without thought to what others may think. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Last night at David’s  study group on the Lord’s Prayer, the petition we focused our attention on was:   “And lead us not into temptation.”

The petition is confusing.   On the one hand, it implies that God could choose to lead us into temptation – the time of trial.   Why, we may wonder, would a loving God do such a thing?

The Gospels, however are very clear in saying that this is precisely what God did with Jesus, his beloved son.  Before Jesus began his ministry, the Holy Spirit led Jesus out into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.

And yet Jesus instructs us to pray, “Lead us not into temptation.”

There is an implicit recognition in this petition that we are weak; that somewhere there is a breaking point for every one of us.  Where exactly that point will be varies from person to person; what temptation would mean for me is not necessarily the same for you.  But there is a point where we all will break.

I was struck reading over the Gospel account of the night of Jesus’ arrest that this petition is found repeatedly on his lips. First at the Last Supper, when Jesus suddenly turns to Simon Peter and says,

“Simon, Simon, listen!  Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail; and you, when once you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”  (Luke 22:31-32)

In response to these words, Simon Peter declares his willingness, if necessary to go with Jesus to prison and to death.  Simon Peter believes he can handle the time of trial.  To which Jesus declares that no, before the cock has crowed, Peter will have already denied him three times.

Following the Last Supper, Jesus goes with his disciples to the Mount of Olives, and before going off by himself to pray, he says to them, “Pray that you may not come into the time of trial.”  (Luke 22:40b) He repeats the same admonishment a second time when he comes back and finds them sleeping. (22:46b)

I confess, I am confused.   If what they are about to undergo isn’t a time of trial, then what, pray tell, is?

It is at precisely this point that Judas arrives with the high priests and the temple police and all hell breaks loose.   Jesus says to the authorities come to arrest him, “this is your hour, and the power of darkness!”  implying that God has given the devil a free hand at this moment in time. We know what follows.   Jesus is taken away to be interrogated.   The disciples run for cover.  Peter does in fact deny three times that he knows, and then weeps bitterly.

We do not hear anything more about Peter or the other disciples until Easter Sunday.    Jesus is crucified, with two thieves.  He dies, and is buried in the tomb.

I want to return to those strange words Jesus spoke at the end of the Last Supper:

“Simon, Simon, listen!  Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail; and you, when once you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”

In the course of the night, the disciples underwent a pretty intense shredding. Jesus anticipates Peter’s falling, but also his “turning back.”   As one who has fallen, and yet risen again, he will be in a position to “strengthen” his brothers, for they have fallen, and risen, together.

So, did Peter’s faith fail?     The faith he had in himself was lost, but that’s not the same as faith in the Lord, though it often gets mistaken as one in the same.    He loses his arrogance, but in the process discovers the deeper faith buried within him.

Looming in the background of the events of this night is the figure of Judas.    There is no further mention of Judas in Luke’s Gospel, but in the book of Acts, which was written by Luke, we are told that Judas ended up taking his own life.  (1:19)  Peter stumbled and rose again to discover the mercy of the Lord, and doing so became more transparent to the light of Christ.  Judas stumbles, but in this life never arises again.  He remains opaque.

We eventually all stumble, finding ourselves “sifted by Satan.” Sooner or later, we are broken.  In some sense the breaking is necessary.  In the time of trail we discover grace and mercy we did not know existed.

When Jesus is hanging on the cross, Luke tells us there are two thieves dying there with him.   One thief, having stumbled through life, reaches out in his dying breath to a savior who declares to him that this day he will be with him in paradise.   The other thief has stumbled, and ends his life stuck in the pit of bitterness and resentment.

And yet the good shepherd searches for the one lost sheep, and does not give up until he finds him.

Lord Jesus, as we remember your betrayal and your crucifixion, help us to trust that beyond every breaking, your grace is waiting for us.    Help us in our shared breakings to strengthen one another.  Amen.

In yesterday’s reflection I took note of five distressing news accounts of violence I came across in the New York Times.  In that same copy, I was touched by another story that caught my attention.

City officials have long been attempting to clear the streets of Times Square of homeless persons.    Apparently at present there is only one such person remaining, a man known simply as “Heavy.”

“Heavy is the last member of what (city social workers) called the Times Square Seven, the only homeless people remaining last summer out of the dozens they had been placing in housing for years.  Of the seven, three men were regularly sleeping on the steps of churches.   All of them had been homeless for a long time – on average, 17 years.  One by one, the men were persuaded to accept housing.  Except Heavy. ..

“He has lived on the streets for decades.  Day after day, he has politely declined offers of housing, explaining he is a protector of the neighborhood and cannot possibly leave…

“According to neighbors and social workers, Heavy is a gentle presence, a quiet man who does not harass passers-by or panhandle aggressively.  They say he may be mentally ill, as many of the chronically homeless are.  An employee in a deli on Eighth Avenue said that he usually gave Heavy a few pieces of bread at lunchtime.  Neighbors give him hot coffee, loose change, and warm clothing in winter.

“’He is a sweetheart,’ said an 82 year old woman who gave her name as Nanny and stopped to talk near her home on 48^th Street, where she has lived for 44 years.  ‘He sees me coming and says, “Hi, Mommy,” and I say, “Hi, honey.”  And I give him his quarter, and I go on with my business.’”

Somehow the author of the article passed on the opportunity to cite the old song title and Boy’s Town reference, but I can’t.   “He ain’t heavy; he’s my brother.”

I was struck by Heavy’s insistence that he couldn’t possibly leave; he needed to stay around to protect the neighborhood.   Maybe Heavy is right; maybe he’s there to keep people connected to Jesus.

According to Matthew, just two days before the Last Supper  Jesus told the parable of the sheep and the goats, in which the sheep are told, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me,“ (25:35-36) and concludes with “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (25:40)  Luke tells us that at about the same time Jesus marveled at a poor widow and the offering she made to the temple treasury of two small copper coins.   (Luke 21:1-4) About to die, Jesus points us to the little ones in our midst as signs of grace.

Lord Jesus, you continue to come to us disguised in the least of our brothers and sisters.  Slow us down to notice that which you notice, to be willing to both give and to receive, in this great tapestry of grace that is life.  Amen.

I picked up the New York Times today, and these are the news stories that jumped out at me, reminding me that the violence and oppression that Jesus confronted in Jerusalem are still very much in the world today:   

In Russia, two female suicide bombers killed thirty-eight people riding the subway. 

In Mexico, twenty-one persons were killed on Sunday in gang drug-related violence, including ten young people ranging in age from eight to twenty-one who were travelling together in a truck when they were attacked.

In Michigan, nine people were arrested and accused of planning the murder of a law enforcement officer.  They planned to follow this up with a bombing of the officer’s funeral caravan.  Members of a local militia, they had hopes of inciting an anti-government uprising. 

In Long Island, a trial is going on of a nineteen-year-old man accused of killing a thirty-seven year old Hispanic immigrant.  The accused was a part of a group of seven young men who were bored one evening and went out looking specifically for Hispanics to harass. 

In Massachusetts, nine teenagers have had charges brought against them for bullying  a fifteen-year-old girl.   Following three months of relentless harassment at school and in cyberspace, the girl took her own life.  

The old, old story of Jesus and his love is no less relevant today.  Arriving on his donkey, and with tears in his eyes, Jesus lamented:  “If only you had recognized the things that make for peace.”  (Luke 19:42)

Help us, dear weeping savior, to forsake the death-dealing ways of this world – the barriers we set up between one another —  the violence we commit, both seen and unseen.  Teach us how to be merciful as you are merciful.  Amen. 

Yesterday in worship we once again acted out Palm Sunday with the children. In preparation I got down some of the Christmas pageant costumes from the attic, which inspired me to incorporate more characters than I usually do.

I had two of the larger men of the congregation wearing Roman soldier armor and helmets. When I asked them who their king is, they improvised well: “Caesar!”

Most of the children dressed up as the disciples who stood at the side of the road. They knew who their king is: “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38a) Their king is Jesus, played by six year old Mark, riding into town on a donkey, played by fourteen year old Ryan.

Four children volunteered to dress up as angels.

There are no angels described in the account, but they were surely there, unseen. I was struck by the fact that in Luke’s Gospel the words of the disciples welcoming Jesus to Jerusalem echo the words of the angels announcing to the poor shepherds the birth of the savior:
“Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” (19:38b) As in his birth, Jesus comes to the little people, announcing a peace altogether different from “Pax Romana” — the peace established by soldiers waiting to crush any uprising. At the last supper Jesus would speak again of his kind of peace: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. (John 14:25-27)

Luke doesn’t mention palm branches, but he does describe how the disciples placed their cloaks on the road for Jesus to ride over. And so our children took off the multi-colored pieces of fabric I had given them, making a rainbow of colors down the center aisle upon which Jesus could arrive.

Two thousand years later, Caesar is long gone, but the king who came to town riding on a donkey, welcomed by the little people, is still proclaimed King. “Teacher,” yelled some Pharisees present, “order your disciples to stop.” “I tell you,” answered Jesus, “if these were silent, even the stones would shout out.”

O God, help us to recognize the true king in the one who came to town riding on a donkey. Let us know the peace of heaven that it may break forth in this troubled world. In Jesus name. Amen.

So I’m sitting in my office late Saturday afternoon — the day before Palm Sunday — at a loss for what to write for my Lenten reflection. Scanning Luke’s Gospel, my attention is caught by a parable recorded only by Luke, that Jesus tells just before he enters Jerusalem. I decide I will write about the parable and start to type, when suddenly I hear the sound of voices out in front of the church. Looking out my window, I see what looks like a brand new black car pulled over at the side of the road directly in front of the church. A woman in the driver’s seat is yelling at the top of her lungs at a man sitting in the passenger seat. The only words I make out are, “You’re a liar; you’re a liar!” The man is looking away from the woman. Perhaps he sees me watching from out through my office window; I’m not sure, but he looks embarrassed. He says something quietly and gestures for the woman to drive on, which, angrily she does.

It occurs to me that most of us have been in that disturbed space that the couple was dwelling in; I am glad I am not there now.

So I turn back to the parable (Luke 18:1-8). It is introduced as being about the need of the disciples “to pray always and not to lose heart.” A poor widow faces some injustice in her life, and the judge with jurisdiction over her is described as neither fearing God nor having respect for human beings. Nonetheless, the widow keeps showing up at his doorstep, crying out, “Grant me justice against my opponent.”

At first the judge ignores her completely, but eventually he gets so worn out by her “continual coming” that he gives in and grants her justice.

It is a strange little parable, evoked in Jesus’ mind perhaps by the distress he was experiencing knowing that within a week or so he would be dying on a cross. The powers in charge in Jerusalem were not interested in the cause of justice nor willing to be humbled before God.

The little vignette I just witnessed reminds me that the world continues to be broken on so many levels.

Jesus concludes by saying, “And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them.”

When exactly this will happen, only God knows, but we are assured that in the end, our cries will be heard.

Jesus finishes up saying, “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” — faith apparently like unto the quality manifest by the poor widow who refuses either to give in to the ways things are, or to give up hope.

Dear Jesus, as we ponder the brokenness of our lives and the injustice of this world, grant us faith — persistence in prayer and in action as we seek to do your will and wait for your kingdom. Bless the couple who appeared momentarily in front of your house, and every troubled soul, and bring the reconciliation to every broken relationship. Amen.

Yesterday we looked at the high and hard calling Jesus lays out in the Sermon on the Mount for those who would follow him.   Later on in Matthew’s Gospel a private conversation is recorded between Jesus his disciples.  Jesus first asks them what the crowds of people are saying about him.  Once they’ve given him the latest complimentary gossip, he puts them on the spot:  “But who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15b)

Simon Peter boldly responds, “You are the messiah, the son of the living God.” This in turn evokes a blessing from Jesus, who declares that this insight came to Simon directly from God in heaven.   He calls Simon “Petros” (Peter), which means “rock”, and says that “on this rock I will build my church.” (16:18)

It’s a high compliment for sure; the only instance in which Jesus declared an individual to be “blessed.”   In the very next paragraph, however, Jesus calls Peter “Satan”; again, the only instance of Jesus calling a human being the Great Tempter.  Jesus was talking about how he had to suffer and die in Jerusalem, and when Simon Peter tries to persuade him that it wasn’t so, Jesus loses his temper:  “Get behind me, Satan!  You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” (16:23.)

Peter represents the church; you, me and the Pope. Though blessed and called to do Christ’s work on earth, we also are his betrayer.

The four Gospels vary quite a bit.   If you examine them, it will be obvious that Mathew, Mark and Luke come out of the same tradition.  Though they have significant variations in the way they tell the story, they have a great deal in common.  John’s Gospel, however, arises from distinctly different tradition, with relatively little in common with the other three.

There are very few stories that appear in all four Gospels, and as such it is all the more remarkable that the following story is recorded in dramatic detail in all four:   On the night Jesus is arrested, Peter lingers out in the courtyard as Jesus is taken inside the house of the high priest to be interrogated.  Apparently it is cold, and Peter draws near to a fire that the servants of the high priest have built.   In the shimmering light of the fire, three separate times Peter is recognized as a follower of the man arrested inside, and each time Peter denies any knowledge of Jesus.

It’s pretty shameful, and you might think that the story would have gotten edited out of the Gospels somewhere along the line.   After all, if Peter represents we who would follow Jesus, we don’t come off too well, to say the least.  Apparently the Holy Spirit was determined that the church not have any “skeletons in the closet.” It’s not that we don’t have “skeletons”; it’s just that they belong out in the open for all to see.

It’s only out in the open that the shame can be healed.  In AA they have a saying, “Your only as sick as your secrets.”

Loving God, we would bring out of the shadows our shame and guilt, that we might know the new beginning your forgiveness creates.    In Jesus’ name.  Amen.

The Lord’s Prayer is found in a section of the Gospel of Matthew known as the Sermon on the Mount (Chapters 5 – 7). Pressed by crowds of people, Jesus goes up on a mountaintop. He is joined there not by “the crowds” but rather by far smaller group of people who would aspire to his disciples.

Matthew is conjuring up the memory of Moses going up on the mountaintop to receive the ten commandments by which the Hebrew people were to live by. Jesus is portrayed as the “new Moses,” and the sermon he gives from his mountaintop describes what the lives of those who follow him should look like. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches in saying that what he expects out of his followers goes far beyond what Moses required.

It would be a gross understatement to say the sermon is challenging. Among other things, Jesus says that feeling angry is no different from being a murderer, and having lust in our hearts is the same as being adulterers. He says if someone smacks us on the cheek we are to turn the other cheek so they can smack that one as well. Love and pray for our enemies, he says. He assumes we’ll be helping poor people, but makes a point of saying that we should do it secretly so nobody will praise us. He says to live like the birds of the air who neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, trusting God to provide for the present day. He says we’re not allowed to judge anybody.

Jesus recognizes that all this stuff is contrary to the way things work in this world, and that if we manage to do so in such a way that people start persecuting us, we should consider ourselves blessed.

Throughout the history of the church theologians have debated what Jesus was trying to say with this sermon. Some have said that he really meant what he said, and if you’re not serious about trying to live this way, you shouldn’t be calling yourself a “Christian.” Others have argued that Jesus was calling attention to the fact that we all fall far short of the glory of God — that it’s impossible to “be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect” (5:48) — and that in the end our only option is to humbly throw ourselves on the mercy of God.

Either way, the sermon on the mount should give us pause when we are tempted to easily identify ourselves as “Christians”, and in particular, when the impulse arises to pass judgment on those who don’t so identify themselves.

Lord Jesus, from that mountaintop long ago your words ring through the ages, humbling us still. We know we have stumbled time and again in our attempts at following you; nonetheless, we long to be your disciples in the present age. Teach us your way. Amen.

Suffering is an inescapable part of life. Its forms are varied; there is physical pain, grief, betrayal, loneliness, addiction, injustice, and the anxiety that arises before the mystery of death. What has been the shape of suffering in your life?

If we ponder our own experience and that of people we know, we see that suffering has the potential of either reducing or extending the dimensions of our soul. We can become bitter — increasingly closed-in on ourselves. Or we can discover new capacities for compassion and appreciate in new ways what truly matters in life. We can probably see instances of both in our own stories. Sometimes the short term effect of suffering is to shrink and the long term effect is to stretch our lives. Patience is required to see the bigger picture.

A characteristic that sets Christianity apart from other religions is that it has at the center a savior who suffered. As the apostle Paul puts it, “we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” (1Corinthians 1:23)

The possibility arises in the Christian faith that our experience of suffering can be “sacramental”, that is, it becomes an opportunity to be in fellowship with Christ who also suffered. It can put us in solidarity with all other people who suffer.

Lord Jesus, you took up your cross as an act of supreme love. Where we are compelled to suffer, may we reach out to you, that we, too may allow your light to shine in the darkness. Amen.