Trinity Sunday (Year C) - June 16, 2019

Holy Trinity Sunday
Year C
June 16, 2019
John 16:12-15

Holy Trinity Sunday - the beginning of the season of Pentecost, the unofficial start of summer in the Church. We mark this transition from Easter to the Season of Pentecost to ordinary time - with a change in liturgy, different music and different parts of the liturgy highlighted,  with our choir breaking for the summer and special music coming in. Amid these changes, today is a festival day that is often overlooked - our last Sunday in white until All Saints’ Sunday. It isn’t very often that I preach on the “day” of the church year, over the appointed texts. But today, I’ll give it a shot. Because today is a day in which we celebrate the mystery of the Trinity - the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit - the Three in One.

The temptation today is to try to explain the mystery of the Trinity. The Trinity is like a three-leaf clover, three distinct leaves part of the same cover. The Trinity is like water - it exists in three forms, liquid, ice, and vapor - but it is all H2O. The Trinity is like a person - we can be a friend, a sibling, and a pastor/ teacher/ mechanic/ IT specialist (whatever occupation you’d like to insert there) all at once. Our God is like a fidget spinner with three spokes rotating around the same central point. I could go on.

Yes, that's the picture. Clear as mud, right?

When I was on internship, one of my internship committee members came into my office one day. He said to me something like, “You know. I’ve never understood the Trinity.” So I pulled down this curriculum that I put together as part of my confessions class. I was really proud of that curriculum; it was supposed to be an “adult confirmation” class kind of thing; admittedly, while it is okay, it needs a bit of tweaking. But I had this whole section explaining the Trinity, using the Apostles'  Creed (or Nicene creed - I don’t quite remember) - but whichever it was, it was complete with a diagram. Pulling it off my shelf, I flipped to the diagram of the Trinity, and tried to explain it. I fumbled through my “explanation” - The Son is not the Father but the Son is God. When I finished, he said, “That looks and great, but I still don’t ‘get’ the Trinity.” And at the time, I didn’t understand how, given my pretty diagram, how I still didn’t do anything to clear his confusion about the Trinity. I even had a pretty picture. I thought I had the “explanation” all figured out, and while I didn’t (and don’t) fully understand it myself (cause we can’t), I thought at least a picture should shed some light on it, bringing some clarity and understanding to a not-so-easy to understand but beloved Christian doctrine. (At least that was my hope).

The thing about the Trinity is that - try as we might - we cannot fully explain the Three-in-One God that we proclaim. Jesus doesn’t try to explain it. The Bible doesn’t try to explain it. The Divine is a mystery. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. As I look back on that conversation during internship, I am more convinced that this member of my internship committee wasn’t looking for me to explain the Trinity. He wasn’t looking for the theological constructs that get us to the doctrine of the Trinity. He wasn’t looking for me to push back against the various heresies declared by the early church. He wasn’t even looking for a pretty diagram. Why? Because, try as I might - pretty pictures and all - any explanation of the Trinity will fall woefully short of the God that we proclaim. He wasn’t looking for an explanation. He was looking to see what the Trinity means for him. While they may help to a degree, metaphors and diagrams that point to the Trinity only get so close (and each in their own way soon devolve into any number of early church heresies of varying degrees). I care less about accidentally espousing heresies. But I do wonder, if by trying to explain the Trinity, we miss something. I wonder if we miss proclaiming what the Trinity means for me, for you, for the world.

Instead of an explanation, throughout the Scriptures and throughout Jesus’ ministry, we get a promise. Our doctrine of the Trinity is how we try to understand and capture how God moves about the world, in relationship with us and all of creation. And that God is a God of promise. Jesus and the Holy Spirit (according to today’s Gospel text) reveal something about who this God we proclaim is and how this God works in the world. We get a promise that we have a relational God. A promise that nothing can separate us from the love of God we’ve found in Jesus.

We have a God, God the Father/ Parent/ Creator, that Maker of Heaven and Earth, that creator of all that is seen and unseen. This one who creates is not one that creates just “because” but rather creates to be in relationship with that creation. It is a God that creates humankind in God’s own image - in relationship with God and with one another. It is a God that calls God’s own creation, not just “good” but “very good” (Gen. 1:26ff). Our Scriptures point not to a God that is far off, distant, creating then stepping back and watching the creation unfold. No, our God has a stake in what God has brought to creation. We proclaim, in God the Father, the Mother, a God that is intimately involved in the workings of the world - and invites us into relationship with Godself - from the very beginning. Our God is a God that continues to reach out and reach into God’s creation, again and again, without ceasing. What does it mean for you to have a God that will always reach out and in to your lives, into our community, into our world?

And in the New Testament, God reaches out again in a new way. Dr. Ralph Klein, the Hebrew Bible professor at LSTC, in his musings about the incarnation of God in Jesus, says, in the incarnation, “it is as if God said, ‘I’m God not a human being, but would it help [our relationship] for me to become human?’” That comment from Dr. Klein changed how I saw the incarnation, how I saw God the Son. Would it help you to know that I am committed to you and to our relationship if I put on human flesh, literally walk among you, experiencing the joys and the pains of life and death. Would it help if I pitched my tent among you and dwelt with you? In other words, in Jesus, God reaches out and into our world again for the sake of being in relationship with God’s beloved humanity. In God the Son, we see a God that is so radically for you, for me, for us that God risks putting on human flesh, risks living a human life, and risks dying a human death. We have a God in solidarity with what it means to be human. It turns what we might expect a relationship with God to look like upside down.

We’ve been reading Rachel Held Evans’ book Inspired in our Adult Forum. This is what she has to say about this God who becomes human, in our reading for this week. “What I love most about the parables are the details. I love these details because they reveal to me a God who is immersed in creation, deeply embedded within the lives of God’s beloved. Our is a God who knows how to mend clothes and bake bread, a God familiar with the planting and harvest seasons, the traditions of the bridesmaids, and the tickle of wool on the back of the neck… [In Jesus], I met Good News that had a body. In Jesus, I met a God who spits and kisses, who yells and cries. I’m a messy and embodied person, and this is a messy and embodied faith” (161, 163). In Jesus, we proclaim God the Son as one who does not back down from our humanity, but rather embraces and embodies it for himself. No longer can the flesh we wear and the lives we bear threaten to separate us and break relationship with the God who created us. Because our God, God the Son, wore it and bore it too.

In today’s Gospel reading, we hear yet another excerpt from the Farewell Discourse. In this farewell discourse, Jesus promises the gift of the Holy Spirit - a gift that we celebrated last week during the festival of Pentecost. God the Holy Spirit is the one who remains with us and dwells with us still. God’s relationship with God’s beloved humanity doesn’t end with the ascension of Jesus. But the gift of the Holy Spirit continues that presence. This is the one that we trust leads and guides us. This weekend, I found myself celebrating that gift of the Holy Spirit among us as the ELCA elected several new bishops - an African American pastor from the South-side of Chicago, a Latina woman, and a gay man - all under 50, and we've elected a record number of women to the office of bishop. It

is an exciting time to be the Church together. The Spirit of Truth is still alive and working among us, shaping and empowering us for living out the relationship and the love we’ve found, making us into kingdom builders.

So today, we celebrate the three in one God that risks everything to be in relationship with God’s beloved - you, me, and the world that God created.
Amen.

6th Sunday of Easter (Year C) - John 13:23-29

6th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 26, 2019
John 13:23-29

“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.”

The Roman Empire promised peace for its citizens. It was a peace given to them by Caesar, the

emperor, thought to be Son of God. There’s an episode of West Wing, Proportional Response, in which President Bartlett laments that the United States is not like the Roman Empire and that the US Presidency is not like a Roman Empire. He says, “Did you know that two thousand years ago a Roman citizen could walk across the face of the known world free of the fear of molestation? He could walk across the earth unharmed, cloaked only in the words 'Civis Romanis' I am a Roman citizen. So great was the retribution of Rome, universally understood as certain, should any harm befall even one of its citizens.” While TV tends to exaggerate history for dramatic effect, President Bartlett, historically speaking gets it right.

The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace when they’ve found dominance. The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace when the troublemakers are eradicated. The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace as long as everyone behaves - as long as everyone fits into the same box.

While this sounds good (and probably is good for those in places of power and privilege), this kind of peace comes at a cost. It comes at the end of the sword. It comes at the threat of violence. It comes at the cost of those on the margins - who are often used and abused to prop up the wealthy. While for those in power, the Peace promised by Rome, seems to be a reality, for those on whom that peace is built, this “peace” is anything but that. And this is something that Jews and Early Christians alike knew all too well. During a Jewish revolt, Rome, to keep their peace, waged war in Judea from 66-73, culminating with the destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple and the massacre at Masada. Further, Jesus’ crucifixion itself was an attempt to keep the Roman peace; to keep the masses in their place. If you revolt, this is what will happen to you too. They knew the consequences of “Roman Peace” all too well.

And, if we’re honest with ourselves, our world has similar promises to us. We’ll find peace when we build enough wealth and have material security. We’ll find peace when we close our borders. We’ll find peace when we incarcerate all the troublemakers. We’ll find peace through the defeat of our enemies here and abroad. We’ll find peace when we all fit into the same box - when we’re all “American” enough or “Christian” enough. And - to an extent - this is part of the reality of living in this world as it is.

Yet at the same time, if I’m honest with you, this world promises a peace that I have yet to see. I don’t know what the peace that the world brings is supposed to look like. I was nine when my first sense of security fell - with a machete attack at one of our elementary schools. I was nine on 9/11. I was eleven when there was a shooting at our junior high school. We’ve been at war for two-thirds of my life. While we were just kids on 9/11, friends and classmates went on to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan (and I’m deeply grateful for their service and the service of all our military members. War is part of this world as it is). I’ve had friends attacked and pushed aside for who they are - because they don’t fit into the “right” boxes due to their faith, their gender identity, their sexual orientation. I’ve yet to see this peace that the world promises us - with enough wealth, power, and might, we’re supposed to find peace. Yet, we’re one of the wealthiest countries of the world with the best and most renown military force in the world, and yet I don’t see the peace. (Again, not a critique on the military; I have profound respect for all who serve and all who have given their lives in service. But this is an honest look at this world as it is. If wealth and might don’t bring about peace, what does?)

This myth of peace that the world brings comes at a cost as well. We see the death-dealing effects of the world as it is all around us. Violence against women, against LGBTQIA+ people, violence against our Muslim and Jewish siblings. Wealth disparities between rich and poor are only growing. Incarceration disproportionately affects people of color, especially men of color (while people of other demographics get shorter sentences for similar or “worse” crimes). The powers at work in the world serve to keep those on the margins on the margins, and lifts up those who already have power and privilege. What the world promises will never lead to peace - at least the kind of peace that Jesus promises to us, the kind of peace that only the Kingdom of God can bring. Here’s the thing: no one can bring the kind of peace that Jesus does - not our politicians, not our celebrities, not our activists, not our religious leaders - myself included. Only Jesus can bring about this 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.”

Peace - for Jesus - isn’t about physical or financial security. Jesus does not give as the world gives. Jesus gives peace - yet he is about to face the cross. Jesus gives peace, yet his closest friends and students face their own martyrdoms. In the Gospel of John, peace is about knowing Jesus, knowing God. It is about being in relationship with Jesus and the one who sent him. Peace is about being enveloped in the love of God that we’ve found in Jesus - that love we’ve found in Jesus is what binds us into an intimate and unconditional relationship with God. Peace is about being invited into a community defined by that love. Peace is the assurance that the worst thing is never the last thing; Neither the grave nor the powers of this world have the last word. Instead God’s word of life will always have the last word. Peace is God’s ability to bring about new life and resurrection where we’d least expect to find it.

One commentary puts it this way, “Anxiety, fear, and troubled hearts are much on Jesus’ mind. The antidote to such fear is the peace given by Jesus, and not peace as the world gives. Many people yearn for peace in the world’s terms: cessation of conflict, whether psychological tension or warfare… The peace that Jesus promises as he takes leave might include such things, but the peace that Jesus gives is nothing less than the consequence of the presence of God. When God is present, peace is made manifest.” “When God is present, peace is made manifest.” (Hoare, Feasting on the Word, Year C. Vol. 2, 495). God’s presence is made known to us through Jesus, his incarnation, death, and resurrection, and that presence continues through the gift of the Holy Spirit - as the spirit dwells with us now. That peace is something that the world can not give. And as hard as it might try, the world cannot take away the presence of God either. The empty tomb assures us of that. It is still Easter, after all. Not even death - a death at human hands - could tamp down and restrict the presence of God among us. Christ is still risen!

It is a peace that is not “of this world” but has tremendous effects on this world. While Jesus is the only one who can bring about this peace, we get to live out this peace that we’ve found. This kind of peace has the power to transform us into builders of the Kingdom of God. Because we are recipients of that peace, we get to share it with the world. With the gift of the Holy Spirit, we get to bring the presence of God to others. It is a response to the gifts that we have been given.

Where the world fosters hate and violence, we sow love - that love that we’ve found in Christ. Where the world pushes our neighbors to the margins, we welcome them into the center. Where our world tries to degrade and dehumanize the stranger, we see and proclaim the image of God and the face of Christ in them. Where the world puts up barriers, we tear them down. This is how we keep Jesus’ words; we live out the love of God that we’ve found in Jesus - EVEN when it goes against the powers of this world, EVEN if we risk getting pushed to the margins, EVEN when it means risking even death (like the disciples did with their own martyrdoms). And we can do that because we are given this peace and we know that the worst thing is never the last thing; God’s answer to us is always life - life in relationship with our divine parent and creator. Because of Jesus and Jesus’ loving embrace, we can face the world without fear and we can participate in the coming kingdom of God here and now.

“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.” Amen

5th Sunday of Easter (Year C) - May 19, 2019

5th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 19, 2019
John 13:31-35

In this season of Easter, we’ve been jumping a bit around the Gospel of John. Today, we find ourselves just after John’s telling of Jesus washing his disciples feet. It marks the beginning of what we call the “Farewell Discourse” - the discourse in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his absence. “Little children, I am with you only a little longer.”

My Dad’s likely not going to be thrilled that I use this story. But I’m going to go with it anyway. When I was a kid, I had a tendency to take a really long time to get ready. Even at like 4 or 5, I took really long showers and baths. Like the kinds of showers where you use all the hot water from the hot water tank. I had an active imagination. I was the kind of kid that could make anything into a toy or a game. In elementary school, I used to play with the crayons in my desk as if the crayons were characters in a story; so my desk had this whole imaginary world contained in it (I still don’t know how I never got caught). But bath time (or shower time) was another time where I got lost in my own world and had zero concept of time, until the water turned cold, shaking me out of it and back into reality. Once I got out, I often again got distracted by my barbies and stuffed animals while I was getting ready.

One day, my grandparents were visiting, so we were going to go get ice cream from my favorite little ice cream parlor in Red Lion that served Hershey’s ice cream. It was hard to beat Hershey’s Cotton Candy Ice Cream; and it is still hard to beat the Cotton Candy ice cream of my memory. But it was my night for a shower, so I needed that before we could go. Well, as usual, I got lost in my own world and took my own sweet time, and my Dad got, well, got frustrated with my lack of timeliness. So he thought he’d teach me a lesson (as parents do). He turned all the lights out, opened and shut the front door, and they sat in the living room. The idea was to make it *look* and *sound* like they had left without me (as they sat in the dark). To be clear, the idea was not to scare me (by making me think I was alone), but to make me think for a brief moment that they were enjoying ice cream without me (because I took too long). The “lesson” was supposed to be that by taking too long, I was going to miss out on the fun things.

Dad got more of a reaction than he was expecting. I remember hearing the front door close, walking downstairs, seeing the dark, not hearing any voices. 5 year old me was absolutely terrified. I was left alone. And I burst into tears. The reaction wasn’t disappointment at not eating ice cream (like everyone else) but it was utter terror at being left alone. In the dark. For a child, being left alone meant, not only not having the people around us to care for me, but being left alone meant that no one was there to protect me from the monsters that invaded my world - or to quote a song from the new P!nk album - “the monsters in my closet that want to come out and play” (and as a child with an active imagination, I certainly knew those monsters in the closet and under the bed quite well). I somehow knew that being left alone meant being vulnerable. Now, before saying “well, that was really mean!,” or “what a terrible thing to do!” it wasn’t intended to be so. Every once in awhile, Dad or Gram reminiscing about watching my brother and I grow up will mention it (and they still feel bad about it like 20 some years later). Oh, the things we remember from childhood.

I tell this story, of course, not to make my Dad look bad, but because it strikes me that Jesus calls his disciples “little children.” Fred Craddock imagines this scene from today’s Gospel like children playing on the floor, seeing their parents put on their jackets, picking up their car keys. There are three questions - “where are you going?” “Can we go?” “then, who’s going to stay with us?” Those of us who have kids or who have worked with kids know these questions. But I think Jesus’ language in today’s Gospel points to something even deeper than that. There’s a fear attached when there’s a possibility of being left alone. There’s something in that address, “little children.” It seems that Jesus recognizes that this fear of being left alone is a fear that is so intense for little children - in their vulnerability.

Jesus knows that he’s going away from them, and that leaving these little children that he had grown to love so deeply, was going to be terrifying for them. He didn’t want to surprise them. He was leaving them alone - or at least leaving them without his physical presence -  to face the world (the dark and the monsters of that world) on their own - many of them to face their own martyrdoms later. He knows that his absence will bring about fear. And the terror of feeling alone. As someone who has lived alone for a long time, I sometimes forget the intensity of that fear brought by “being left alone” - an intensity that children know well - including 5 year old me - the one who still believed that there were monsters in the closet, kept at bay by a loving parent. And it is a fear that the disciples will know well. So Jesus has to address the questions and the fears of his disciples, the little children, before he departs from them. And that’s what he does in the farewell discourse.

To combat that fear, Jesus unites them as a community. Not just any community - a community defined by love. And it is not just any kind of love. It is the kind love that drives out fear. It is the kind of love that provides security in vulnerability, as a parent comforting their children. It is the kind love that turns the monsters in our closets and in our world to something that can be conquered. It is the kind of love that assures us - that whatever happens - we will not be left alone. It is the kind of love that Jesus showed to his disciples throughout their time together.

In her new book, Love Big: The Power of Revolutionary Relationships to Heal the World, Rozella Haydee White writes about God as lover. She says, “when I think about God, I think about God as lover. The faith that I profess is rooted in a belief in a God that loves us deeply, desperately, and with a passion that cannot be contained. This God is always seeking us out, wanting to be with us and wanting us to experience the very best that life has to offer… This God lovingly crafted us in God’s own image, so that we too reflect God’s desires. This God created us to be lovers too” (White, 14-15).  This is the love of God that is made ultimately known in Jesus, the Word Made Flesh, the Son of God. This Word Made flesh is the one, who facing the monsters of the world, goes to the cross for the sake of the world that God so loves. And that love is made known as Jesus lays his life down for his friends. Because God is love. And that love envelopes the disciples - and us - for whatever is to come - so that, no matter what happens, we are never alone. It is a love that empowers us to take risks for the sake of our neighbor and for the sake of the Gospel.

This love is now to be embodied by the disciples as they prepare for Jesus’ physical absence from them. That love will sustain them as a community, will dispel (or allow them to face) their fears united as one body. That love is what makes them willing to face the monsters that they will face in their darkness, and to continue the message of the gospel.

Bishop Yvette Flunder, at the Festival of Homiletics this past week, puts it this way “God never intended that the Gospel would have a closed end. God intends it to be alive.” In today’s Gospel from John, we see that the Gospel comes alive as we embody the love of God in our community and in the wider world.  We get to make the Gospel come alive through our hands, our hearts, and our voices - as we bring the love of God to those around us. We get to be part of the love that breaks down barriers and brings about wholeness and healing. We get to be part of the love that dispels the darkness and the monsters of the world - sexism, racism, homopobia, transphobia, poverty, anti-Semitism and Islamophobia, violence, xenophobia - to name a few. We get to be part of the love that creates a new community - united by the love that we’ve already found in Christ - so that we know that we are never left alone. The story does not end as Jesus departs. But it continues and it is as vibrant as ever. Thanks be to God for that.
Amen.

4th Sunday after Easter (Year C) - May 12, 2019

4th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 12, 2019
John 10:22-30

I grew up as one of the kids from “in town.” Our school district was this mix of kids from the suburban-like neighborhoods, kids from “in town,” and kids from “the country.” Much of the land within the boundaries of the school district was farmland. Major crops were (and are) corn and soy. They had various kinds of livestock. In Jr. High, I took vocal lessons. My vocal teacher lived in the far reaches of the district and married a farmer. They had horses, goats, and yes, even sheep. Farming was a big deal -  to the point that the local 4-H held a “drive your tractor to school day” every year.  The town I grew up in wasn’t very big; it was a one stoplight town. But I was very much “in town.” If I’m honest with you, while I had friends that knew the ins and outs of the business, I still don’t know much about farming - or herding cattle, goats, or sheep - at least beyond what I read in commentaries and other sources.

And yet, here I am, preaching as Jesus uses sheep imagery to talk about his followers on what’s commonly known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” I know, even in my own study, because my knowledge of sheep is so insufficient, I tend to focus more on learning about the sheep - what sheep are like, how they think, how they behave. I tend to focus on digging into the role of shepherd. So the focus of my study is grounded on my own lack of knowledge rather than on the Gospel that Jesus proclaims in today. To be clear, it is well and good to better understand sheep and shepherds in order to better understand the metaphors that Jesus uses this morning. But I wonder if, in that process, I sometimes focus so much on that that I get distracted. And then, in focusing so much on sheep and shepherds (an image so common in the world in which Jesus lived), I end up missing some of the Gospel of today.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus is on a mission. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him may not perish but have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved - or made whole - through him.” Whenever we’re reading from the Gospel of John, we read it through that lens. There is acknowledgement of the reality that not all believe (so not all hear the sound of Jesus’ voice), but the end goal of God, according to this Gospel, is to bring all to Godself through the saving work of Jesus. Jesus is the one who can proclaim “the Father and I are one.” So they share the same mission, the same goal, the same view of the world and of God’s beloved creation. The world that God so loves cannot be saved - or made whole - through him unless all are brought to God through Jesus - and all means all.

Some of you know that earlier this week, I was invited to be a guest scholar with St. Mark in Yorktown at their Greek Retreat. I was honored to be invited, and I was thrilled to be able to spend some time feeding that part of me. During the retreat, we spent a lot of time talking about something so central to Lutheran theology - how we are made right with God. Are we saved by faith in Christ? Or are we saved by the faith of Christ? In other words, what is the role of faith and belief in our salvation? In each place Paul talks about this in his letters, without getting into detail, I’ll just say that the Greek isn’t clear; it can be translated either way. In Lutheran circles, we tend to focus on our individual faith in Christ. “Saved by grace through faith apart from works for the sake of Christ.” Faith is assumed to be our faith.

That sounds all well and good. But the reality is that we, as human beings, have far from “perfect” faith. We all have had struggles with doubt - your pastor included. We all fall short of what God intends for us - even in our relationship with and in our faith in God. And usually, this lack of faith is less about my “believing” or “not believing” in God or in Jesus, and more about putting my faith in other things a bit more. That belief that I can do it on my own, or that reliance on anything other than God (money is a prime example in our world - if we hang onto our money, if we have enough of it, I can solve my problems and experience the “good life”). If it is my faith that “saves” me, that scares me. When is my faith “good” enough or not “good enough” for my salvation? Faith, then, becomes a work; yet works, according to Luther, can never give me salvation. And soon I start to understand, on a different level, Luther’s own struggles with his worthiness before God. As Luther noted, we often fail at the very first commandment: you shall have no other gods before me. Our other gods - money, self-reliance, etc - all have voices that pull us away from the Good Shepherd that calls to us.

What if Scripture points not as much to my individual faith but to the faithfulness of Jesus? The faithfulness of Jesus to the mission to which he was called. His faithfulness to make whole the world that has been broken, to restore the relationship between God and humanity. If Jesus promises that, according to the Gospel of John, that as he is lifted on the cross, Jesus will draw all to himself, I trust that Jesus is faithful to that promise. If Jesus promises that he came not to condemn the world, but to save it, I trust that Jesus is faithful to that promise - and that Jesus’ will not quit until that mission is complete. It is Jesus’ faithfulness to his mission - even to the point of death on a cross - that saves. It is Jesus’ faithfulness that promises eternal life that cannot be snatched away. We proclaim that we have a God, in Jesus, that shows that God remains true to God’s promises - that God’s answer to God’s beloved creation will always be life. Jesus’ faithfulness is what makes Jesus the Good Shepherd. To borrow imagery from Luke, Jesus’ faithfulness to Jesus’ promises is what leads the shepherd to look for the one sheep that was lost - bringing it back into the fold with the 99 others. Jesus’ faithfulness is there - even when my faith isn’t. Thanks be to God for that.

My faith, then, is still important - just in a different way. It allows me to be assured of that promise. It gives me the knowledge - that despite my waverings - that Jesus gives Jesus’ sheep the gift of eternal life. And it allows me to live into that eternal life, not just in some future afterlife - but in this life, now. It allows me to hear Jesus’ voice and say “yes, that’s for me.” Our faith, our reliance on Jesus as the shepherd allows us to turn toward Jesus and to follow him. Our faith isn’t what gives us salvation - a restored relationship with God -, but our faith is what allows us to live as saved people - with the knowledge that we are redeemed and we are restored to God. It gives us assurance that no one - not even ourselves with our doubts and our failings - can take away that gift which has been given to each one of us. In other words, our faith turns us toward the one who gives us - and all people - the gift of life in relationship with God. This is indeed good news. Good news that doesn’t depend on me understanding a thing about sheep. It is good news that we can we can trust - not because we are faithful - but because we know that Jesus is faithful.

I almost wish that the lessons for last week and this week were switched. Last week, we heard the story of Jesus and Peter having breakfast at the charcoal fire. At breakfast, three times, Jesus asked Peter if he loved him. Peter responds, “yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” To which Jesus responds, “Feed my sheep.” In the light of the resurrection, we - the sheep that follow Jesus and hear the Good Shepherd’s voice - turn out to feed and to tend our neighbors - our fellow sheep in the pasture. We become sheep that feed sheep. In no understanding of sheep does that make any sense. At least as far as I know, sheep don’t typically feed their fellow sheep (and maybe I don’t give sheep enough credit there). But that’s the radical thing about the Gospel. It breaks us out of how this world as it is works. Tables are turned. We learn to expect the unexpected with the Gospel. Like with Peter, Jesus doesn’t require us to be anything we’re not - we’re called to follow as the imperfect disciples we are. And because of Jesus’ faithfulness, we are empowered to become sheep that feed sheep.

Amen

Easter Traditional (Year C) - April 21, 2019

Easter Traditional

April 21, 2019
Year C
John 20:1-18

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

The Gospel of John, like usual, records a very different set of events that followed Jesus’ resurrection. It is only in John, for instance, that we hear the familiar story that Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener, and he greets her with her name. For those of you who joined us for our Sunrise Service - we heard the story of the resurrection according to Luke. Quite different from what we’re hearing now.

In this morning’s gospel text, we get three very different reactions to the empty tomb. Upon hearing Mary’s concerns about the empty tomb, Peter and the one whom Jesus loved engage in a child-like and almost comical race to see the scene for themselves. Were they racing because they had hoped that Jesus’ word was true and that Jesus was raised? Were they racing because they too were fearful that Jesus’ body had been taken? Were they running out of curiosity? Did they think that Mary was mistaken in her grief (could she have gone to the wrong tomb?)? We don’t know. We just get this race between the two. Once they reach the tomb, there’s hesitation. The disciple whom Jesus loved won the race remained outside the tomb, leaving Peter to go in himself. Did the disciple whom Jesus loved hesitate to go in because he was afraid that the initial hope at hearing that the tomb was empty would be dashed as he looked in, if a body indeed lay there? Was he afraid of what he’d see or what he might not see? Again, we don’t know. But they went into the tomb, saw the linen wrappings, Peter has no recorded reaction, but the Disciple whom Jesus loved “believed,” and the two men returned home. Back to their lives and business, seemingly without talking to Mary.

On one hand, we encounter Mary, who upon seeing the empty tomb, worries that someone had taken her teacher and Lord from his resting place. She is overcome by grief. She thought that the worst had already happened; her Lord had died. He had suffered a terrible and gorey death at the hands of the Romans. Adding salt to the wound, now it appears that someone stole his body, and she’d never be able to properly lay him to rest.

Mary stays. Mary dwells there, in her grief. The world is even more scary and confusing than it was before (how could it get scarier than what she had experienced just days ago?). This is the place, the site of her grief. And she has to name her grief again and again. First to the disciples, then to the two angels, then again to Jesus. Each time, she says, “they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him,” her heart ripping out again, desperation growing. “Just give my Lord back; we’ve been through enough. He deserves to be properly laid to rest.” Ayanna Watkins says it this way, “Mary stays. She stays and cries; she lets grief prevail. And at grief’s mercy, she stays at the site of her loss, face to face with the empty tomb.” In a moment, that all changes. Mary presumes Jesus to be the gardener. And Jesus calls her name, “Mary.” In that moment, Jesus rolls away another stone, a figurative stone, meeting Mary where she was - meeting her at the tomb. He sends her out to tell the disciples what she had seen. Her grief turns into a proclamation of the gospel, “I have seen the Lord.” Where she expected to find death and decay, she found life. She becomes the first to preach the Good News of the resurrection.

Three disciples. Three different reactions. Peter loses the race to the tomb, but is the first inside. He sees, but returns home without a response, uncertain of what he had experienced. The Disciple whom Jesus loved won the race, hesitated, but saw and believed. Mary, dwells at the place of her grief, but is wooed into belief and into proclamation, hearing the voice of her Lord calling her name.

We all come here today for different reasons. Maybe you’re like Peter who comes out of curiosity, and will return and go about your business. Maybe you’re like the beloved disciple, while afraid to peek into the tomb, believes after seeing the wrappings left behind. Maybe you struggle to believe; or maybe your belief is sure. Maybe you’re here out of family duty - of being together as a family - and joining us because it makes Gram happy (and that’s okay; truly it is). Maybe you’re like Mary and you bring with you your grief, your fears, your confusion. Maybe you need to hear Jesus calling your name too. Maybe you’re here because you too have seen what resurrection and new life feels like and looks like. Maybe you’re some of all of these; and maybe you’ve found yourself at different places throughout your life. Easter brings with it the whole range of emotions. For whatever reason you come this morning, I am glad you are here. Today, I want to proclaim that, no matter what brings you to this place, we are an Easter people - in our beliefs, in our doubts, and everywhere in between. The resurrection is for the disciple that Jesus loved, it is for Peter, it is for Mary, it is for you and me - wherever we might find ourselves. Today, we are invited to see the Lord. We are invited to see the resurrection again and again. We are invited to proclaim that the risen Jesus changes us and changes the world.

Resurrection is a promise made - and a promise we can be sure of - because Jesus was raised from the dead. It is an exclamation point on all that we’ve experienced this week. Grace, indeed, starts at the cross; we don’t get Easter without Good Friday. It is there that God, in Christ, connects to the deepest hurts, suffering, and losses of the world. On Easter, we see the Risen Christ that bears the scars of the crucifixion. And it is this morning that, while on one hand, we can be assured that the worst moments of human life cannot separate ourselves from God, God proclaims that those same moments of grief, of tragedy, of heartbreak are not the end. God’s transformative, redeeming, and life-giving Word will always have the last word.

Thus, while important, resurrection is not *just* a promise of life after death. It is also a promise that God will keep showing up and God will keep rolling away the stones that try to contain and restrain life, bringing life, bringing love, bringing hope, where we expect to find death, decay, and destruction. Resurrection insists that love will win over hate, and life will always find victory over death. Resurrection means that God’s word to God’s people is a loud and resounding “yes,” a commitment to being our God, and to making us into God’s people - into the body of Christ for the sake of the world.. Resurrection transforms relationships. Resurrection restores the relationship between God and humanity (not even killing Jesus can turn God away from God’s beloved humanity).

Resurrection means something for us, for who we are, and for the world - not just in some future afterlife, but in the here and now. It means something, not just for our future, but for our present, An Orthodox theologian, Patriarch Athenagoras, puts it this way “The Resurrection is not the resuscitation of a body; it is the beginning of the transfiguration of the world.” Something changed when the stone was rolled away. Not just for Mary, not just for the disciples, not just for us, but for the whole world.

We are an Easter people. Where the ways of the world invite death and despair, God meets us with the promise of new life, hope, peace.  When we turn on the news, it doesn’t take long to see the ways of the world that try to contain and take away life . We see the tombs of sin, of grief, of sexism, of racism, of poverty, of marginalization, of violence, of corruption. When we proclaim, “I have seen the Lord,” we stand in defiance of all the tombs of our society, and we proclaim a different vision of being in the world. We say that none of these tombs will ever have the last word. When we proclaim, “I have seen the Lord,” we proclaim a God who brings life where we might expect to find death, and we proclaim a God who is rolling the stones away, freeing us all from the tombs that try to bind us. Our God is a God of life, and we are called to participate in life-giving ways, freeing our neighbors from their tombs, as we have been freed from our own. We proclaim resurrection everywhere we encounter God’s life-giving work happening all around us.

And so, today, we can say:

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Alleluia!

Easter Sunrise (Year C) - April 21, 2019

Easter Sunrise

Year C
April 24, 2019
Luke 24:1-12

As I said in our Council meeting last week, in my whole life, I’ve only had to have a Sunrise service be moved inside once. Early forecasts had today as a… less than ideal day for an outdoor service. But I am so glad that the weather held out. It is a beautiful morning. And I’m thankful to be out here, proclaiming “Christ is risen” with you all this morning. Sunrise services have been part of my Easter since I was a small child. We’ve been in the cemetery in the rain, after a fresh snowfall, in the chill of Pennsylvania springs. And I wouldn’t give up this service for the world. I joke with folks that I’m not an early morning nor a late night person; I’m a “is the sun up” kind of person. But this one day per year, I’m energized as I get out of bed, and go to the tomb, sing familiar and joyous hymns, and proclaim that “he is not here, but has risen.” Because it is here, surrounded by the people of God, living and dead, singing “Christ is Risen, Alleluia” that I found faith again and again.

There’s something about proclaiming that message in this place - surrounded by the tombs of our ancestors - known and unknown to us. There’s something about going to the tomb, like the very first witnesses to the resurrection, like the women who first saw the empty tomb. Here in the cemetery, is where, in the words of Joy Moore, “the beginning meets the end.” Or said another way, the end meets a new beginning.

In our first reading from Ezekiel, the prophet is looking at the death of his people. He is looking over the graves of those literally lost in battle. But he’s also looking at what seems to be the death of his people as a whole. His people have been defeated. They have been scattered, placed in Exile. Here, in Ezekiel’s prophecy, God promises that what looks like death isn’t the end. The people of Israel will rise again. And they do, shaped by the experience of exile. There comes about a new way of being God’s people in the world - even separated from the Temple that had become their place of worship and had housed their God. God makes ends turn into new beginnings.

The women who went to that tomb on that very first Easter morning were going to prepare Jesus’ body. There was no time to properly care for Jesus’ body before it was laid to rest. They had to quickly entomb his body so that they could observe their sabbath, their day of rest. As someone who has lost loved ones, I can imagine their heartache. Their Lord, their teacher, their friend was now gone. Taken by a cruel and grueling method of torture. It was now time to say goodbye to this person that loved them and that they had loved to the end (it is no accident that the women who stayed to the end were the ones that came to the tomb that morning). But the body that they had laid to rest just days ago was now gone. I can imagine that briefly panic ensued. Had someone stolen the body? Then, they were greeted by men in dazzling white - angels - literally messengers of God. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but he has risen.” In that moment, sadness, grief, panic turned to hope, to joy, to life. Their expectations had been turned upside down. They go to the tomb - that place that houses the dead - and instead find life. The tomb stone, that heavy, seemingly permanent boundary between the living and the dead was gone. What has seemed to be an end - a crucifixion and the death that followed it - meets a new beginning - a new life, a new start.

In this place, surrounded by our own tombs, holding the bodies and the remains of our loved ones, when we pronounce the good news of this morning, it is an act of defiance. Defiance to the death-dealing ways of the world. Defiance to all that tells us that these tombstones represent the end for us and for our loved ones - even as we are in the place of “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” It is an act of trust. It is an act of hope. Today, we clearly say that here death has been destroyed, and while these tombs are now literally full, we trust that because Christ has risen, death and these tombs do not have the final word. We declare that what seems to be end is only the beginning. We trust that the love of God brings about light and new life.

In a few moments, together we will affirm our baptisms. I can’t think of a more appropriate time or place to do that. Because it is in our baptism that we are linked - both with Christ’s death and his resurrection. It is our baptisms that seal us and that assure us of that resurrection promise of new life. Elizabeth Eaton in her address to us this Easter puts it this way, “Easter makes it possible for us, even at the grave, to sing alleluia. Christ is risen. Alleluia.” Even in our fears, in our doubts, in our grief, when our hope is lost, in our death, we proclaim here that none of that has the final word. Instead, we are met with risen Christ and the empty tomb - and God’s yes to us and to life. With the empty tomb, we see that God’s final answer to God’s people is yes. God’s final answer is one of life. God’s final word is one of unconditional love and an unbreakable relationship. We trust that God is always working to upend our expectations, to create life where we expect to find death. And that indeed is good news this morning. With God, in Jesus, the “end” or what seems to be “the end” will always lead to new beginnings.

Thanks be to God for that.

Christ is Risen! Alleluia!

Maundy Thursday (Year C) - April 18, 2019

Maundy Thursday
Year C
April 18, 2019
1 Corinthians 11:23-26

This year, our midweek services centered around the Seven Last Words of Christ. As Richard Cline, pastor of Olive Branch, said in his sermon on Ash Wednesday this year, we tend to want to know and immortalize the last words of people - of friends and family or of famous people. For instance, tradition holds that the last words of Martin Luther (the namesake for our own denomination) were, “We are beggars, that is true.” Tonight, I’m less concerned with Jesus’ last words (that’s for tomorrow), but tonight, we encounter a related topic - how Jesus prepares his disciples (and us) for his death. These concrete actions are actions that prepare us for life with our loved one being absent from us. If I’m honest, we live in a death avoidant culture; we don’t often take moments to look death in the face. I think that’s one gift of Holy Week, in courageously facing the death of our Lord and Savior, Jesus, Jesus prepares us to look at death. This week, we face mortality with the promise that our mortality - and the mortality of our loved ones - does not have the final word.

Often, when people know (or suspect) that they’re going to die, they take moments to prepare their loved ones for that. A text to say “I love you” when a plane malfunctions. Gathering with friends and family, to talk about last wishes and to reminisce about the good times spent together. My grandfather died early in the morning on January 2, 2006. I was thirteen and a bit naive about what was happening. At the time, I had a fear of hospitals, so I only went to see him a couple of times while he was hospitalized that last few weeks. But we all - my folks, my brother, my aunts, uncles, and cousins - went to the hospital on Jan 1, New Year’s day. Much of that day, if I’m honest, is a blur in my mind. However, That day was important to him; to this day, I think he knew he was dying. I didn’t - I was waiting for him to come home, but I think he knew. For me, it was any other time seeing Pap, but for him, it was time to show his love to each one of us. We talked. We played cards in the hospital room. We told stories. We said our “I love yous” and after several hours we went home. After we left, my mom went back to spend some time with him and to share dinner with him, as she did most evenings. That evening, he said to her, “I love you. I’m going to go to sleep now.” He was ready to go. He had his day with his family - his day with the people closest to him. It was a day to make sure that we all knew that we were loved. It was his day to prepare us for no longer having him. (Thirteen years later, I still tear up thinking - and talking - about it).

Others have more obvious ways of preparing themselves for death and preparing their loved ones for their absence. “I hope that you’ll go on that trip that we always wanted to take, in my memory.” “I hope that whenever you go fishing, you’ll have a drink for me.” “I hope that you’ll tell the good stories about me when I’m gone.” Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon, was diagnosed with stage IV Lung cancer at age 36. He took the time before his own death to look at death in the face, to write about his journey with cancer, to leave something behind for friends and family, especially for his infant daughter to have, in his absence. He never was able to finish the manuscript. His wife took on that task, writing the epilogue and getting When Breath Becomes Air published. In the last words that he wrote for the book, he writes for his daughter, hoping that she would always know the joy that she brought him, in her short time with him. He writes, “do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing” (Kalanithi, 199). In the act of writing, he wanted to prepare his daughter for growing up in his absence, assuring her of all that she meant to him.

Tonight, Jesus does an enormous thing. He faces his own death (yet again) preparing those whom he loved for his own death. We hear about Jesus’ last supper with his disciples - in two places in tonight’s texts - in 1 Corinthians with the Institution of the Last supper, and in John with Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. Like me with my grandfather, I think Jesus’ followers were a bit in denial about what was happening; this was just another passover meal. Nothing special; they’d have all the time in the world together. However, Jesus knew that he was about to leave them. Jesus knew that he was going to die on Friday. He knew that, despite telling his followers again and again that he would be raised on the third day, that his death would bring fear, sadness, grief. He knew that once he rose, he would eventually ascend back to the Father and his followers and friends would have to keep this Kingdom building going without Jesus physically being there. These acts of foot washing and sharing a sacred meal are both concrete acts that Jesus takes to prepare his disciples, his loved ones, his friends - and the future Christian community - for his impending death. In these concrete acts, he prepares them - and us - for his absence - at least physical absence from us. He gives them and us gifts that shape who we are and our identities, grounded in what Jesus does in his own death.

The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke - as well as our 2nd reading from 1 Corinthians, look at the institution of the Last Supper, Holy Communion to be the “thing” that Jesus does to prepare us for his own death. Our reading for today is the earliest known writing of the Institution of the Last Supper. For Paul, he is greatly disturbed by the misuses of the Last Supper by the Corinthians. They’ve used it as a way of reinforcing and even enhancing the differences between members of the community. In short, everyone brought their own food to the meal - so the hungry left hungry, and those who were well off left full.

Paul offers a corrective and turns them back to why Jesus instituted the last supper in the first place. After all, Jesus instituted this sacramental meal to prepare the community for his death and physical absence. Jesus instituted this meal in order to prepare this budding new Christian community for Kingdom building life, in community with one another.  In instituting this last supper as part of the Passover meal, Jesus links his death with the deliverance of the exodus. Jesus’ death (and resurrection), then is a new act of God’s deliverance. It is an act that establishes a new covenant between God and humanity as Jesus gives his own body and blood for them on the cross. Jesus’ death introduces a new way of being with one another and with God, one in which all societal norms are turned upside down - where the barriers between members of the community are broken down. It is a gift of radical grace that grounds their relationship, not just with God, but each other - those whom they gather around the table with - in the life-giving work of Jesus. They are bound together around that table. Jesus’ desire for the community is one of life, together, bound by Jesus’ gifts of bread and wine. When they gather, when they share together the bread and wine, they are to remember Jesus’ self-giving love and to trust in Jesus’ presence in the elements of bread and wine. It is a call for them to remember who they are and to whom they belong. 

When we gather each week around the table, we encounter Jesus’ death and resurrection, and we are brought back to who we are and to whom we belong. We gather in remembrance of everything Jesus does for each one of us. We gather in remembrance that Jesus did everything necessary for us to be made right with God, and nothing can ever break that relationship with God. We gather, giving thanks, for the gifts of forgiveness and new life found in the bread and in the cup.  Deliverance and salvation belong to us, as a gift. In this meal, Jesus prepares us for his physical absence by promising to be truly present in the bread and wine, strengthening and keeping us so that we may be Kingdom builders, that we may be bearers of the light of Christ. We are promised that, in the sacraments, we encounter the incarnate and risen Lord - we meet the Christ of memory, the Christ of the present, and the Christ of the future. In this meal, Jesus prepares us for his absence by binding us to one another - so that all around the table are united and become the one body of Christ for the sake of the world. So we don’t ever need to go it alone. In this meal, Jesus prepares us for his absence by binding us together in these gifts that indeed are for us and for all people. In this meal, Jesus prepares us for his absence by promising that he indeed will come again; neither his death nor his ascension will be the end to our life and our mission with Jesus. In this meal, we are invited to look at Jesus’ death, to stand in the shadow of the cross, to be assured of Christ’s presence among us, to trust in Christ’s saving act on the cross, and to be united with one another around this table.

“For as often as you eat of this bread and drink from this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

Amen.