not alone

Easter 6, Year A, 2014

St. George’s Chapel

May the words I speak and the words you hear be God’s alone. Amen. 

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15). When I first read that sentence while preparing for my sermon, I must admit that I took a big gulp. I made a mental list of all the things I had done and left undone this week, remembered the times when I could have been more compassionate or worked harder or listened better. How I should have prayed more and eaten better and exercised and gotten more sleep. 

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus is much more demanding than in other gospels. If you’re a perfectionist like I am, that responsibility can be intimidating. We have this idea that we have to be perfect before we can be considered a leader or a professional or sometimes even before we can be a “good” Christian. But placed against a model of perfection we always fall short. A lot of the time I am so far away from this ideal that it is embarrassing, and I get discouraged. 

Sometimes you have to go away somewhere to put things back into focus. Two weeks ago I left for a CREDO conference—you may remember that Fr. Chris helped lead some of these conferences. I journeyed down to Fairhope, Alabama with 24 other recently ordained clergy. We had 8 leaders who helped mentor us in financial, vocational, leadership, physical, psychological, and spiritual aspects. Our days were filled with prayer, plenary sessions, delicious food, and honest conversations about our lives and calling as ordained leaders in the Church. More than anything, I loved being with others who were in similar situations and remembering that I was not alone in this calling. 

At the end of the conference each one of us wrote down our Rule of Life, a way of structuring our lives to intentionally put God at the center. One of the suggestions for crafting the Rule of Life was to look at our lives in three sections: our relationships with God, with our families, and with others. In each section, we examined what our needs were and then developed practices to address those needs. But instead of just being like another set of New Year’s resolutions, we were told to write down who was going to help hold us accountable for doing these practices. Almost 100% of the time, we cannot achieve things completely on our own. We have been shaped—in ways both good and bad—shaped by the experiences we have had and the people we have met. We cannot achieve things truly on our own, but rely on the support of others: family, friends, leaders, and mentors.

We hold each other accountable here at St. George’s, too. Now, that doesn’t mean we have free reign to criticize every single thing that someone does, but we instead try our best to gently encourage each other along the way. Being a Christian is hard work! We are to love each other—even, and perhaps especially, the people who get on our nerves. We are to love the world, acknowledging the beauty despite examples of hatred and violence. We are to love God, even when things go wrong and we feel like God either can’t hear or just isn’t listening to us. These aren’t easy tasks we are called to, but in today’s Gospel Jesus promises that after he dies we will not be left alone: "I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you” (v. 18). We have an Advocate in addition to Jesus in the form of the Holy Spirit, who regularly speaks through others.  

Every day is a new opportunity to reorient ourselves to God. Every day is a new opportunity to support each other on our journeys. To encourage you on your journey, I leave you with a prayer written by Thomas Merton, Catholic monk and mystic. Merton reminds us that it not about doing things perfectly that matters, but about attempting to do them in the first place" 

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone” (Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude). Amen.

image found here

goodness and mercy shall chase me

Easter 4, Year A, 2014

St. George’s Chapel

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; * for you are with me…” (Psalm 23:4). Amen.

Psalm 23 is the most recognizable psalm—and I would venture to say piece of scripture—in the Bible. People have found comfort in these words for centuries, which is why I think the psalm is so often used with patients in hospitals and at funerals (but it might also be because it’s short and easy to memorize). 

The Psaltery is a collection of musical poetry written over a span of 600 years, from the time of King Solomon around 950 B.C. to the years following the Exile in 350 B.C. Martin Luther called the Psalms a “little Bible” because they contain theology, history, drama…a little bit of everything! The psalms come in five forms, the most common of which is the lament. Some of the psalms are attributed to King David, but most of them, like Psalm 23, were written during the time of Exile. 

The Israelites were conquered by the Babylonians around 600 B.C. Most of them were sent away from their home in Jerusalem to Babylon, where they were forced to assimilate into Babylonian culture. Kept in exile away from their homeland for about 60 years, it was difficult for the Israelites to maintain their faith and their cultural identity as God’s chosen people. Many of them felt that the Exile was God’s way of punishing them for the sins they had committed. 

While most of the psalms, especially ones from the time of Exile, are laments, mourning loss, feeling betrayed and hurt, and wondering where the heck God is in all of it, today’s psalm is different. Psalm 23 is a psalm of trust. The author is saying that even though our life may take us through places of pain and suffering, that we do not journey on this path alone; “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me” the psalmist asserts (v. 4). God is with us, guiding us “along right pathways” (v. 3). When we become weary of our suffering, God “leads [us] beside still waters” and “revives [our] soul[s],” keeping us nourished for the journey (v. 2, 3).

And when the day comes for us to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will finally realize that death is just that; a shadow. Death only has the appearance of a place; it is not our final destination. God will lead us through that valley and to a great banquet hall, where we will be treated like royalty.

There’s a story I once heard about a man who dreams that he dies and finds himself in a long hallway. He comes to a door marked hell and is about to pass it by when he hears noises behind it. Unable to stop his curiosity, he opens the door and peeks in. Inside the room is a long table filled with the most scrumptious food: fresh fruit and vegetables, dishes just out of the oven with steam rising from them, all the best desserts…the smell is tantalizing and his stomach begins to rumble. He begins to wonder why exactly the door is marked hell but then he notices that there are people sitting around the table, and all of them are starving. The food is right in front of them, just waiting to be eaten, but they can’t eat because they have long spoons connected to their arms; they are unable to feed themselves because they can’t bring the spoons up to their mouths. 

Disturbed, the man closes the door and continues to walk down the hallway. He approaches another door and sees that it is marked heaven. Excited about what lies beyond the door, he opens it. The man is surprised to find that the room looks exactly like the other one. A scrumptious feast spread on a long table, with people all around. The people in this room also have long spoons connected to their arms, but this time none of them are starving. What is the difference?

In the room marked hell, everyone is thinking only of themselves, trying futilely to bring food into their own mouths. But in the room marked heaven, the people realize that they can use the long spoons to feed each other, which means that everyone gets as much as they need. 

You might be wondering why I decided to bring up this story. Did you notice in the psalm that God spreads a table before the psalmist “in the presence of those who trouble [him]” (v. 5)? I used to always think that this passage meant that all the people who had ever hurt the psalmist in one way or another would be standing on the floor below, watching the psalmist gorge himself on all that delicious food. “'My cup is running over' but you don’t even have a cup, nah nah nah nah nah nah” (v. 5). 

A few years ago I was reading Psalm 23 slowly as part of a retreat exercise, and I realized that the people who troubled the psalmist aren’t standing in front of the table, they are seated at it! There is a place for everyone at the table, including the people who have hurt us, who we would consider to be our enemies. There is a place for them to sit—I can’t attest to whether or not there will be long spoons, but we will have the opportunity to feed them and be fed by their presence. The amazing thing about the kingdom of heaven is that all of our troubles—all of our fights and conflicts and pain and suffering—will be over. We will come to know the fullness of God’s love. 

We are all one in God’s eyes, each one of us a beloved child of God, loved despite our faults and doubts. In the final verse, the psalmist writes, “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, * and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever” (v. 6). “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me” (v. 6). The word we translate as follow here doesn’t mean follow in the sense of tagging along behind like a puppy or a little sister. It means to chase, to pursue, like police pursue criminals or like our enemies chase after us. God is actively seeking each one of us out, pursuing us, desperately attempting to make us aware of God’s goodness and mercy.  

As we leave here today to go out into the amazing, beautiful, and sometimes terrifying world, remember that God is seeking us out. We do not walk this path alone; God is right there with us. And when our day comes, we know that we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (v. 6). Alleluia!

image found here

recognition

Easter 3, Year A, 2014

St. George’s Chapel

May the words I speak and the words you hear be God’s alone. Amen.

The story of Jesus on the road to Emmaus is much beloved and almost as famous as the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan, all three stories which are only found in the Gospel according to Luke. Two followers of Jesus, still in shock over his gruesome death just two days before, are walking along a road when Jesus meets them. They don’t recognize him. Why does no one ever recognize Jesus right away? Does he look different? Has he changed so drastically that he no longer looks the way he once did? Or is it just that no one is expecting him to be around anymore, so they don’t look at him the same way? Whatever the reason, they do not recognize Christ.

We, too, fail to recognize Christ in our midst. Events this week have reaffirmed that racism is alive and well in our country. But this should not come as a surprise to us. As one sports commentator explained in the case of former Clippers owner Donald Sterling, it is almost laughable that the racist comments he made to his girlfriend has triggered such a reaction. While I don’t think that his punishment is undeserved, I’m left wondering, “Why now?” Where was the outrage years ago when he was denying African Americans and Hispanics housing and evicting those already in his buildings? If it took us this long to get angry, then we have failed to see Christ in our midst. 

Some of you may have seen the video I posted on the parish Facebook page. The New York Rescue Mission is dedicated to helping the homeless of New York. In their video, they dress people as if they are homeless and then place them in the path of family members and loved ones. They record the unsuspecting family members and loved ones walking down the street to see what their reaction might be. Not one of them recognizes the fake homeless people; they all walk past after a mere glance in their direction. The family members are then shown the video tape and are told about the experiment. The shock of recognition on their faces is enough for us to see that they have been deeply moved, some even to tears. If you saw one of your loved ones on the street, how would you react? Would you even notice, or would you walk past them, thinking it’s not your problem? 

The disciples on the road to Emmaus are shocked that the man they meet has not heard the news about Jesus, but the man surprises them by interpreting things about Jesus throughout scripture. After the three of them get to a village, Jesus makes as if he’s going ahead, but the disciples invite him to stay with them. They sit down to supper and Jesus gives thanks, breaks the bread, and hands it to them. They are shocked when they recognize Jesus, who immediately disappears. What is it that makes them finally figure out that it’s him? Perhaps when he lifts his hands in thanksgiving, they see the marks of the nails in his hands, and that triggers their memories. 

What the Gospel account is trying to tell us is that we need to see the face of Christ in everyone we meet. The person living on the street as well as your millionaire neighbor. The person behind the register at McDonald’s as well as the person who cuts you off in traffic. The people living on food stamps as well as the hungry in other countries. As long as poverty, hunger, homelessness, violence, and discrimination still exist, we are not recognizing Christ within each other. 

So how do we change the cycle? I think we begin by changing the way we interact with one another. If we take the time to get to know people, really know them, to the point where we can see their scars, then we can recognize the Christ within them. Everyone has scars, and we don’t always have access to them, but even knowing that everyone is walking around with scars helps us to recognize their humanity.  

When I got to seminary I realized that most, if not all, of my classmates had experienced pain and suffering in one form or another at some point in their lives. In church they found a community that supported them and welcomed them with open arms, and the love they found there helped them to begin the process of healing. 

Now I’m not completely naïve; I know that every community comes with its difficulties, and St. George’s is no exception. But even if we disagree on who to vote for, or which causes to support, or the best way to handle a problem, at the end of the day, we are all invited to the table. Remember the saying, “you are what you eat”? The same goes for Communion. When we come to the altar rail and receive the body and blood of Christ, we ourselves become the Body of Christ. And this spiritual food nourishes us for what lies beyond these doors. 

As you leave here today, take a look around you at the people you meet; both the people you know and those you don’t know, the ones you like and the ones who are harder to like. Try to see Christ within them. We are all on this journey together; be gentle with one another. Get to know your fellow travelers and recognize that Christ dwells in each and every one of them, and also in you. 

"Supper at Emmaus" by He Qi

image found here

do not hold on to me

Easter Day, Year A, 2014

John 20:1-18

St. George’s Chapel

“On this day the Lord has acted; * we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24). Amen.

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun has risen, Mary Magdalene and some other women approach the tomb where Jesus has been buried. They speak distractedly in hushed tones, their breath visible in the chilly night air, their minds heavy with the events of the last few days. Jesus, their teacher, the man whom they followed, has died. A week ago, he had ridden triumphantly into Jerusalem on a donkey, to waving palms and shouts of “Hosanna! Hosanna to the King of Kings!” But three nights ago the atmosphere had shifted. There was another procession, but this time on foot; with the cross on his back, Jesus had become the beast of burden, carrying the instrument of his death. Instead of palms, whips. Instead of hosannas, jeers. The echoes of these insults still ring in Mary Magdalene’s ears. She had followed along with Jesus’s mother and aunt to the top of the hill. There the three of them had huddled at the foot of the cross, keeping vigil for what seemed like ages. She had heard his last words, she had seen him take his last breath, she had heard Mary’s cries of anguish. He was gone. 

Mary Magdalene had promised herself that she would remain faithful to him in his death. She and the women have come as soon as the Sabbath was over to anoint Jesus’ body. After he died, all the preparations for his burial had been rushed, so out of love for him and his mother they want to make sure that he is properly buried. 

The women ahead of her round the corner and then stop abruptly, their conversation forgotten. Mary Magdalene snaps out of her grief and peers around their shoulders to see why they aren't walking. The stone in front of Jesus’ tomb has been rolled away. 

Horrified, they run stumbling back into town. Mary heads for the homes of Simon Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved. “They’ve taken the Lord out of the tomb,” she gasps, “and we don’t know where they’ve laid him” (John 20:2). The three of them take off running. The other disciple is faster than Peter and gets to the tomb first. He peers in, but Peter walks past him into the tomb, panting. All that remains are the linen wrappings his body was wrapped in and the cloth that had covered his face, rolled into a ball in the corner. “Someone has taken his body” Peter thinks. The other disciple comes in and it slowly dawns on him all that Jesus had been trying to tell them about his death and resurrection. Then the two of them go home. 

But Mary remains. All that she had left of Jesus had been his body, but now even that has been taken away from her. Overcome with grief she begins to weep. She peers into the tomb, her vision blurred from the tears. But the tomb is no longer empty—two angels dressed in white greet her. She tells them that she’s looking for her Lord, and, beginning to cry again, turns around. A man is standing there. He asks her why she’s crying and whom she’s looking for (v. 15). Not recognizing him, she assumes he is the gardener, asks him if he took Jesus’ body, and if he has, to give it back so she can take it away. She’s broken and mourning, and just wants to know where the body of her beloved teacher is. 

In her grief and pain Mary had held on to the only thing she had left of her beloved teacher: his body. She could manage, could cope with his death as long as she had some part of him with her. She may not have had the power to save him from death, but she could take care of him and his grave, make sure everything looked nice and was done to her satisfaction. As long as she was doing something she didn't feel as if she had abandoned him or that her ministry had ended. So when she discovers that his body is gone, her walls come crumbling down. What little control she has over the tragic situation has been taken from her, and she is devastated. 

But then she hears her name, “Mary!” (v. 16). She recognizes that voice; she would know it anywhere. She runs into Jesus’ arms. “Do not hold on to me,” he tells her gently, “go to my brothers and sisters…” (v. 17). 

“Do not hold on to me.” When Jesus returns he reminds her that she cannot control what happens to him. She should not get stuck at the tomb; the tomb is not where his story ends.  

From the vantage point of hindsight, it is difficult for us to grasp how lost and frightened and confused Jesus’ followers were after he was crucified. We know how the story goes, and we’ve been retelling it for thousands of years. But as far as they knew, people were born, they lived, and when they died, that was it until some time way in the future, when everyone would be judged. But Jesus turned everything around. When Christ, a sinless man, died on the cross, he voluntarily took on himself the sins of the world. When we are resurrected, we will no longer have to fear judgement, because the only one with the power to judge chose to sacrifice himself so that we might be free. 

In our daily lives we mess up over and over again. We hurt each other. We hurt God. We neglect each other. We neglect God. We fail each other and especially God. We don’t do the things we should and instead do the things we shouldn’t. By all accounts we deserve punishment for our sins, but through the sacrifice of Jesus, our punishment has been removed. This is the Good News: God loves us so much that God became human to reconnect with us when we had gone astray. After teaching and healing and preaching, God volunteered to take our punishment upon himself. God has never abandoned us; God has always been faithful. Throughout the Bible are countless stories of God’s saving work, and most clearly in the person of Jesus Christ. 

My sisters and brothers, the tomb is not where our story ends, either. While death is still a part of this life, it no longer has the final word. Because of Jesus, the Word made flesh, we are able even at the grave to make our song, “Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! the Lord is risen!”

The Empty Tomb by He Qi

never shall the cross forsake me

Good Friday, 2014

St. George’s Chapel

May the words I speak and the words you hear be God’s alone. Amen.

Rembrandt's Sterbeworte Christ 

(literally translated: "death words of Christ"--found here)

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Psalm 22:1). In the Gospels according to Matthew and Mark, this is the final thing Jesus says from the cross before he “breathes his last” (Matt 27:46-50, Mark 15:34-37). 

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The question is understandable, coming from the mouth of one who has been betrayed, arrested, abandoned, interrogated, sentenced, beaten, taunted, and crucified. The mouth of one whose request to remove the cup from him is refused by God, even though he kneels, begging, sweating tears of blood (Luke 22:42-44). The mouth of one who out of his closest friends, all but two flee at the moment of truth, and one of them even denies his affiliation with Jesus three times (John 18:15-18, 25-27). It is not difficult to imagine how completely alone Jesus feels as he hangs upon the cross. 

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The question is understandable, coming from the mouth of someone who is bullied at school. The mouth of someone whose home is destroyed by a natural disaster. The mouth of someone who has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. In our own times of grief, betrayal, and pain, we may feel that God has utterly abandoned us, or that the distance between us and God is too great.  

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The answer to the question is in the question itself. When Jesus asks this question, he is quoting from Psalm 22. Being well versed in Scripture, Jesus knows the psalm in its entirety. The psalm starts out with the feeling of abandonment: God, why are you “so far from my cry and the words of my distress?” (Psalm 22:1). “I cry...but you do not answer,” the psalmist continues (v. 2), but the psalm does not end there. 

The psalmist is working through his or her grief. It’s as if he or she is saying, “I feel like I can’t get in touch with You, God, like You aren’t listening to me as I sit here in so much pain. But I know that You aren’t always deaf to the cries of my people; I know You have helped us in the past, and we trusted in You to come to our aid. I need you to be close to me right now; things are getting scary down here, and I’m having difficulty handling it on my own. Actually, come to think of it, you really are a pretty awesome God; you pay attention to the lowly and the downtrodden. You’ve helped in the past; you’ll help now. Praise the Lord!”

In Jesus’ death on the cross, we come to understand that God is not absent in our suffering. God is not just there in moments of joy; God did not just create the world, claim it was good, and then leave us here to figure things out on our own. No, God in Jesus Christ came down to earth and experienced life as one of us. That meant in addition to joy, love, peace, and silliness, Jesus felt fear, anger, grief, and pain. He understood loss. He understood loneliness. And he understood--intimately--what it means to suffer. 

Psalm 22 covers a wide range of emotions the psalmist is experiencing. Many psalms are classified as laments, but this one does not fit that mold exactly. It moves from total abandonment toward trust in God’s saving help. It is fitting, then, that Jesus should quote this psalm while on the cross. It reminds us that in the midst of our struggles, we are loved completely by a God who grasps the meaning of suffering.

“When the woes of life o'ertake me, 

hopes deceive, and fears annoy, 

never shall the cross forsake me. 

Lo! it glows with peace and joy.” 

--In The Cross of Christ I Glory, H441, verse 2

vulnerable before God

Maundy Thursday, 2014

All Saints’ Church

May the words I speak and the words you hear be God’s alone. Amen.

One of the things that liturgical churches like the Episcopal Church do really well is incorporate not just our minds but our whole bodies into worship. Think about it: we stand, sit, and kneel during the service, actions often fondly titled “pew aerobics.” Our ears and voices join in as we listen to, recite, chant, and sing hymns, psalms, and readings from the Bible. We shake hands with or hug one another during the peace. We cross ourselves to receive absolution and blessing. We taste bread and wine before a colorful altar lit by flickering candles. On certain occasions we hear the sloshing of water as it is poured into the baptismal font. Or we watch the curling smoke of incense as it lifts our prayers to God, the powerful aroma lingering in the church (and in our hair) long after the service has ended, a reminder of God’s continued presence with us.  

On Maundy Thursday we remember especially two sensory experiences that Jesus participated in before he died: the Last Supper and foot washing. Food is a major part of most of our relationships. Dates usually happen over meals. Hanging out with friends typically involves eating. We celebrate holidays, birthdays, and other special occasions with various types of food. As we saw tonight, church relationships are no different, after all, our motto is “Ya Gotta Eat.” Every time we gather for the Eucharist we remember Jesus’ last meal. In the Holy Communion, we consume the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Now, I’m not going to go into whether or not it really becomes Jesus’ body and blood or if it’s just a practice we do in his memory. But if we stop to think about it, the image of Communion can be disturbing; there’s a reason why the first Christians were thought to be cannibals. Yet Communion is also a deeply powerful and moving image; when we eat the bread and drink the wine, Christ becomes a part of our bodies. His blood flows in our veins. His body gives us nourishment. We are intimately connected with God.

Foot washing is a common practice in Jesus’ time and the centuries before then. As a sign of hospitality, a very important value in most cultures, a host provides water for the guests to wash their feet and hands. Along with the water is a slave who does the washing. What makes Jesus’ act so incredible is that he does the washing himself. Jesus, the Messiah, the Son of God, takes off his cloak, wraps a towel around his waist, and washes all of the disciples’ dusty and smelly feet. Even those of Judas, the man he knows will betray him just a short while later. In this action, the disciples are intimately connected with God.

Intimacy is not something Americans are really comfortable with. In fact, it tends to make people want to run screaming in the opposite direction. To be intimate is to be vulnerable, and vulnerability is equated with weakness in our society. When we get injured during a sporting event, we are often encouraged to play through the pain. When we dare to show emotion by crying, we become the object of pity and a source of embarrassment. If we are struggling with insecurity or depression or anxiety, we are told to “suck it up” or “just get over it already.” We hide our true selves from others because we convince ourselves (and society tells us) that no one cares. 

Back in December my friend Becky wrote a blog post about what she called the “Facebook Christmas Trap.” For those of you on Facebook, you probably had friends posting pictures of their newly decorated Christmas trees. In the pictures, everything looked beautiful and put together, and so naturally it felt like their whole lives were also beautiful and put together. Like everyone else, Becky took a picture of her lovely Christmas tree. But then she took a picture of the rest of the room, which still had boxes everywhere because she had recently moved. What most of us share with the world is only a portion of ourselves, a carefully positioned photograph that only captures a limited perspective of who we truly are. 

In John’s Gospel account, Simon Peter tells Jesus, “You will never wash my feet” (John 13:8a). He is probably embarrassed, mortified that the Son of God is offering to perform a servant’s job. He would rather do it himself than let Jesus see his dirty and smelly feet. But Jesus replies, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me” (v. 8b). 

Jesus is essentially saying, ‘If you are not completely open with me, then you are not letting me in and you won’t be able to fully appreciate what I have to offer. Being in right relationship means receiving as well as giving.’

God, through Jesus, is calling us to share all of who we are, the messy and smelly parts as well as the beautiful and clean ones. God loves us and wants to be in relationship with us, and an intimate relationship with God requires us to be vulnerable. 

Tonight is an opportunity for you to be vulnerable before God. I invite you to pay close attention to your senses for the remainder of the service and see what new things you experience. I invite you to take off your shoes, wash the feet of a fellow brother or sister in Christ, and let them wash yours. I invite you to come before the altar in all your brokenness and imperfection, receive the body and blood of Christ, and accept the forgiveness and love that comes with it.  

Where is God calling you to open up and be vulnerable in your life? Where is God calling you to receive as well as give? As we go out into the night, remember the intimacy of this service. Carry with you the experiences of foot washing and Communion. Know that they are signs of immense love from a God who was willing to be vulnerable “to the point of death--even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:8). 

“As in that upper room you left your seat

and took a towel and chose a servant’s part,

so for today, Lord, wash again my feet, 

who in your mercy died to cleanse my heart” (WLP 730). 

sketch of foot washing by Rembrandt

deeply moved

Lent 5, Year A, 2014

All Saints’ Church

May the words I speak and the words you hear be God’s alone. Amen.

Every time I hear somebody say that they find the Bible boring, I think to myself, “I wonder what Bible they’re reading?” Sure, there are some parts of the Bible that take some effort to wade through (like the lists of “so-and-so begat such-and-such” and the book of Leviticus, in particular), but the Bible is also full of stories of adventure, espionage, forbidden love, giants, miracles, and--depending on which translation you’re reading--even unicorns (also check out the book of Kings; it’s the biblical version of the Game of Thrones). Today’s readings are also exciting; Ezekiel tells the story of a valley of dry bones growing flesh and becoming human again, and John recounts the raising of Lazarus. For all you Walking Dead fans out there, yes, the Gospels include a real-life zombie.  

Martha and Mary, sisters who are friends of Jesus, send word to Jesus that their brother, one of Jesus’ best friends, is really sick. They are at their wits’ end; nothing seems to work and Lazarus’ health is rapidly going downhill. In desperation, they call for their friend Jesus; he will know what to do, he will make sure that their beloved brother gets better. 

The text tells us that “Jesus love[s] Martha and her sister and Lazarus” (John 11:5). But for some reason he waits around another two days before making his way to their house. Is he scared of the authorities? When Jesus tells the disciples that it’s time for them to go back to Judea, they protest, “Woah now, Jesus. We just got back from there. Remember what happened? Remember how they tried to stone you and then arrest you? You can’t go back there! Stay here; it’s safe here. You can do your ministry from right here, out of harm’s way. There’s no need to go back; wait until things cool down a little.” The disciples still have vivid memories of the angry crowds, arguing with and yelling at Jesus, snatching stones, hurling insults, grabbing at Jesus to arrest him, the mad dash to get away from the crazed mob (10:22-40). They are not ready to face death; they are not ready to lose their beloved teacher.  

When Jesus tells them that Lazarus is dead and so he absolutely has to go back, it is Thomas--good ol’ doubting Thomas--who speaks up. Even though he doesn’t expect they’ll make it out alive, he dramatically calls on the other disciples to act in solidarity with Jesus, to follow him to the bitter end: “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (11:16). The disciples have eaten with, slept next to, walked dusty roads beside, and learned from Jesus. They have given up normal lives in order to follow this man, and they are determined to follow him now, even if it means their death.

Martha meets Jesus when he arrives in town. She seems disappointed in him; she knows that her brother would still be with them if Jesus had come sooner. She doesn’t understand Jesus’ reasons for waiting, but she hasn’t lost her faith in him--she still calls Jesus “Lord,” still believes that he has a special relationship with God, and openly proclaims that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God. 

There are many people gathered at Mary and Martha’s house to help them mourn; they don’t leave the sisters alone in their grief. Death is a communal event; we gather to show our love and support, to honor the life of the person who has died, to grieve the loss of a loved one. When Martha returns to the house and privately tells Mary that Jesus wants to see her, Mary immediately leaves to find him. Concerned, the people follow Mary to the tomb because they don’t want her to be alone. 

Mary has the same thinly veiled accusation as her sister Martha, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (v. 32). But Mary openly shows her grief; she kneels crying at Jesus’ feet. The people who have followed her are crying, as well.

Up to this point in today’s reading, Jesus has seemed rather aloof. He takes his time getting back to Judea. He even awkwardly makes a joke about Lazarus being asleep, before matter-of-factly stating that he’s actually dead. But when he sees Mary crying at his feet and hears the weeping of the crowd, something changes. The text states that he is “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (v. 33). The phrase “deeply moved” can also be translated as groaning or angrily snorting like a horse (v. 33). Whatever it is, he has a visceral reaction to their tears, and begins to weep himself. Lazarus’ death is real. His sisters, having lost their protector, must now fend for themselves in a world not kind to women. Jesus knows what is going to happen next, and yet he still is intensely affected by the sorrow of his friends. “See how he loved him!” (v. 36). The Son of God is not immune to suffering. 

Jesus approaches the cave where the body is laid. He commands the people to remove the stone blocking the entrance. Martha protests; Lazarus has been dead for four days. In Jewish belief, the soul waits around for 3 days before finally leaving the body. Since four days have passed, Lazarus’ soul has already left; he is officially gone. Undaunted, Jesus calls out to the Father, showing the crowd that what is about to happen is not a magic trick but an act of God. Jesus calls his friend, and Lazarus comes out, still wrapped in the strips of cloth they buried him in. It turns out that death is not the victor, in this case. Jesus tells the people to release him from death’s captivity: to take off the cloths, leave that part of his story behind, and then begin again, restored to humanity and the life of the community. 

In John’s Gospel this is Jesus’ final sign before his crucifixion. He is probably aware that his days are numbered, and he perhaps even knows that this act is a pivotal moment; after he raises Lazarus, people tell the Pharisees about what happened and they plot to end Jesus’ life. Perhaps this is why Jesus waits so long to go back to Judea; so that his disciples will finally understand that death is not the end of the story, that love ultimately wins.  

Throughout this story wind examples of love: the sisters’ love for their brother. The disciples’ love for Jesus. The crowd’s love for the sisters. Jesus’ love for Lazarus and his sisters. Their love for him. Jesus’ love for his disciples. But all of these examples of love foreshadow an even greater love; that of God for God’s creation. In the Gospel, momentum is building up to the events of Holy Week. We’ll start with the high of Palm Sunday next week, celebrating Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem surrounded by excited crowds of supporters. But then everything will quickly come crashing down on the eve of Good Friday, when Jesus is handed over to the authorities, put on trial, and condemned to death by the same crowds who supported him a few days earlier. It will appear for a few days that death will have the upper hand, that darkness will rule the day as well as the night. But after three days a stone will once again be rolled away from a tomb entrance, and the only evidence of death will be the strips of cloth left behind. 

The biggest sign of God’s love is that God became human, experienced life from our point of view, taught us how to love one another and to reconnect with God, and then gave up life so that we might have eternal life. In Christ, death is vanquished and love rises victorious from the grave. May we be so “deeply moved” by this love that we respond in faith with love. 

image found here