Full of Gladness

Acts 2:14a, 22-32

John 20:19-31

There is a cute scene in the middle of The Sound of Music, when Maria and Georg first express their love for each other. They are sharing their memories of the moment when they each knew they loved the other one. When I was little, I thought it was embarrassing, but as an adult I think it is my favorite scene.

Don’t we just love to remember exactly when something good first began? The moment I knew I loved you. The moment I knew I wanted to be a mother, or a father. The moment our friendship began. These are moments that stick in our memory and we visit them now and then, for the pleasure of them. The moment when we experienced the beginning of a new thing – a life-changing thing.

Occasionally, the new thing is really big, bigger than a personal relationship but a movement that we are a part of. Like the moment when the church first began.

You and I weren’t there. But, still, we can wonder about it. When did it all begin? Was it the moment when the women at the tomb first heard, “He is not here” and ran to tell the other disciples? 

Was it the moment Jesus appeared to the men who had followed him through his ministry, breaking through the locked door, busting into that upper room?

How do we pin it down? Because the gospels give us several of these moments to choose from. In addition to this one about the upper room, there is the story of Mary alone in the garden with Jesus. And there is the story of the two disciples who encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus, and the one where Jesus cooks them breakfast on the lakeshore. And there are more such stories, apparently, John tells us. So is it possible to pin it down to a moment?

When was the church first born? The answer I have given many times is that it happened when we received the Holy Spirit. This is actually part of this story from John, when Jesus says to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit,” and he breathes on them. But, of course, there is another version of how they received the Spirit. It was on the day of Pentecost, which happens to be the day when Peter is giving this sermon we heard today from the book of Acts.

We have, you might say, an abundance of origin stories. So the question I have is, what can we make of all this?

There is one thing that I know from this; although it may not be the most obvious thing, I think it is essential. It is about community. People come to faith in community; people grow in faith in community; people nurture their faith in community; people live out their faith in community. The church was born in community.

I say this, in part, because the value of community is disappearing in this world today, the understanding of how much community is a part of being human. But I also say this precisely because there are so many of these origin stories. What was the exact moment? There were multiple moments. It happened for Mary at the tomb; it happened for Thomas in the upper room; it happened for the two disciples walking to Emmaus while they sat at that table watching Jesus break the bread. It happened for thousands more when Peter, surrounded by the first disciples, spoke the good news to the Jews gathered in Jerusalem for Pentecost. 

And, yes, the church is born when the Spirit of life is given and received – the Holy Spirit of God.

The church is born when people get moving. The women at the tomb ran back to tell the men what they have seen and heard. The men in Emmaus ran back to Jerusalem to tell the others what they have seen and heard. The 12 men gathered in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost stepped out into the gathering to tell anyone who is listening what they have seen and heard.

The Church is born when people of faith start walking and talking.

Like Peter. He stood up and said to the crowd, listen to what I have to tell you about Jesus, the man God raised up; the one whom death could not hold down. Peter reached back to the words of David, their shared history, saying, The Lord is at my right hand, so I shall not be shaken. I will live in hope, for he has made known to me the ways of life. And I am full of gladness.

“My heart was glad and my tongue rejoiced,” Peter repeats these words from David’s psalm. Because, the moment you know, the moment faith is born in your heart, is a moment of gladness, of joy.

Like the words from the beloved hymn, Amazing Grace: “How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.” 

I know what you are thinking now – many of you, anyway. You’re thinking, I don’t remember the moment, the hour, I first believed. I came to faith by osmosis – I was born and raised swimming in the waters of the church. I can’t remember a time when I did not believe.

This is the story for many of us. And perhaps there are moments you wish you did have such a memory, a moment when you felt the spark of something new and wonderful. But this doesn’t suggest a deficit in your faith life. It is only something to be deeply thankful for, to know that you were cradled in the arms of the church all your life long.

There isn’t just one moment you can point to when your faith was born. And there isn’t just one moment we can point to when the church first began. Because it was the collective words and actions of a community of people. We do this thing together.

And just like those first followers of Jesus, in our gladness and rejoicing we don’t erase the pain and suffering. The women ran from the tomb experiencing both fear and joy. The men rejoiced as they bore witness to Christ’s wounds, which were still there. The suffering and death of Christ become the center of the Apostle Paul’s gospel that he carries throughout the land. It is as we read in Isaiah, “By his wounds we are healed.”

This is probably the paradox that is hardest for us to live with, but it is an essential truth of the gospel: Because of the sin and suffering of the world, Christ died. Because he suffered, we may find healing. Through his death and resurrection we may have new life.

For us, this is indeed good news, filling our hearts with gladness. But this good news will lead us to open our eyes to all the suffering that exists in the world, to open our hearts to it – just as Jesus did. Just as his early followers did. Just as the church has always done. 

This is at the heart of the matter: We follow in Christ’s footsteps, knowing ourselves to be wounded healers. We carry out his mission: to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed. 

And we do it together, as the community of Christ. That, too, is at the heart of the matter. The church is born and lives in community.

I am glad you are here, a part of this community. And if you are joining us by livestream, I hope you will consider joining us in-person, to be a part of this community, getting to know us and letting us know you.

Remember that rhyme we used to say as children? Here is the church, here is the steeple; open the doors and see all the people. Only, sometimes children fold their hands together the wrong way and open the doors to find there are no people inside. If there are no people in the church, there is no church – at least not in the building. The church is the people. The church is the community we find in Christ.

We are the church – wherever we go. Drawing strength from one another, breathing in and out the Spirit of God, meeting fear with love and joy.

Photo by Chang Duong on Unsplash

Love Is Our Religion

Matthew 28:1-10

Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed. Powerful words we say to one another on Easter morning. But only powerful because we know the story behind it  – a story that gives meaning to everything. 

The particular story of this day is the one about the women who came to the tomb early. They came to tend the body of their beloved, but it was gone. The tomb was empty. Angels appeared and said to the women, “He is risen; you will see him again in Galilee, the place where it all began.” 

It goes back to Galilee, where his ministry began. But there is much more to it than that, isn’t there? It goes back to Bethlehem, where he was born – this child called Immanuel, God with us. Because God so loved the world. It goes back to Bethlehem.

But it goes back much further, doesn’t it? It’s a story that actually goes back thousands of years and encompasses everything we know. It’s a story about God who created this amazing world and just loves it – and all of us in it. It’s a story that was written thousands of years ago and that is still being written today in so many ways. 

And so I can think of no better way to talk about Easter, what it means to us, than to tell you a story. In the middle of an epically long book, The Deluge, by Stephen Markley, there is a story about Tony.

Tony is a scientist. Who, unfortunately, really has no friends. He is not good with people, too gruff and too blunt. He is a prickly man – with reason. Tony’s wife died years ago after a very brief battle with cancer. She left him alone with two young daughters to raise. Even decades later, he wears his bitterness like a shield.

Tony is also bitter about his life’s work. He has devoted himself completely to convincing people that they need to respond to the climate catastrophe he sees coming. But he is unable to convince anyone, and his urgency pushes people away.

As a result, Tony’s relationships are few. Aside from his two daughters, there is his brother-in-law, whom he just tolerates. Corey and Tony have absolutely nothing in common. Their lives, their values, their politics, are polar opposites. Tony is all about saving the world and Corey is all about making money – lots of it. 

One day Tony gets a call from his older daughter Holly, who is worried about her sister, Catherine. Catherine lives all the way across the country, in Los Angeles. There are wildfires raging. These fires have, of course, become a normal feature of the weather in California, and now they are encroaching on the city. Several fires from different directions coming together – they are uncontrollable. Holly is worried because she can’t get in touch with Catherine.

Tony can’t reach her either. As they watch the news coming out of California, frightened and helpless. They know Catherine is in her apartment, or at least her phone is, because the sisters have location sharing with each other. Holly and Tony, along with the rest of the nation, are watching this disaster grow bigger by the hour. 

People are calling this one El Demonio, because when they looked up at the smoke clouds they thought they could see a demonic face in it. The city of Los Angeles is about to go up in flames. The call goes out for the whole city to be evacuated. And Catherine is still not answering her phone.

Tony calls a professional acquaintance, whom he thinks might have some inside information that would be helpful. It’s hard to imagine what he might be able to tell Tony that would help, but Tony is desperate. He gets Ash on the phone to ask him what he knows about the fires. Ash sends him some technical reports. 

Ash is an interesting character. He is a brilliant man with little to no ability to engage with others on an emotional level. He is pretty far on the autism spectrum, and his human-to-human interactions are usually very awkward. So try to imagine it: you have these two guys on the phone together, neither one of which has great interpersonal skills. Ash is talking about technical matters related to the fires, which are endlessly interesting to him. Tony tries to listen while his heart is practically bursting out of his chest because he is so afraid for Catherine. Tony finally interrupts Ash. “My daughter is there,” he tells him, “and I can’t reach her.”

The tone of the conversation shifts then. Ash understands now that this not a purely intellectual interest for Tony. Ash may not experience things the same ways most people do, but he is an astute observer of life, studying humans as if they were an alien species. On an intellectual level, he understands – sort of. But he hardly knows what to say. Tony hangs up on Ash and goes back to pacing in front of the TV news. 

Pretty soon his phone rings again. It’s Ash. He has reached out to some official connections he has through his work and managed to get Tony on a FEMA plane to California. He will arrange for a car to meet him, so he can drive to Holly’s apartment. Ash will get him information about the emergency routes into the city, because all the highways are being used for outbound traffic as millions of people evacuate. 

In that moment, Tony breathes in a sense of hope, of possibility, for the first time since this all started. He says to Ash, “I’ll never forget this.” Ash says to him, “I was thinking of how my sister and her husband would behave if it were their child.”

Tony flew out of his house to the airport. Six hours later he was in L.A. He jumped in the car that Ash managed to get for him. He grabbed the satellite navigation device while listening to someone call him a crazy son of a gun who wants to drive into LA in the middle of the book of Revelation. And he drove off toward the fire.

It was like driving through Armageddon. The flames, the smoke, the heat, helicopters flying low, ashes falling like snow. As he was getting close to Catherine’s neighborhood, a backyard propane tank exploded, with pieces hitting his car causing him to crash into a tree. The car was wrecked, Tony definitely had a concussion. He got out and started walking, choking on the smoke, moving as fast as he could.

He reached her apartment, pounded on the door – no answer. Shouted her name, “Catherine, Catherine!” He tried to break down the door with his body. He managed to get ahold of a crowbar and wrench it open. He found Catherine passed out in her room, still breathing.

He lifted her up and out of the apartment. But when he got outside and looked around he realized there was no way they could outrun the fire. Without a car, it was hopeless. So Tony found a school, a large brick building. This is where they would try to ride it out, it was their only hope. He hit the SOS button on his satellite navigator; he sent a text to Holly, in case by some miracle it might get through to her, and they went down to the basement, shutting the door behind them.

After a while Tony could see, and taste, the smoke that was seeping under the door. There was nothing more that he could do. Tony sat on the basement floor with his daughter’s head on his lap. She opened her eyes and said to him, “I’m sorry.” He said, “For what? There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Then they were choking and gasping for air.

Suddenly Tony heard a siren. Was it a hallucination? It grew louder, flashing lights appeared out the window. It was a fire truck. Firefighters leaped out with oxygen tanks and axes. The basement door burst open and three women in orange jumpsuits rushed down the steps. 

As they left the building together and headed toward the truck, Tony saw a man standing there. It was his brother-in-law, Corey.

Corey had been trying to call Tony, worried about Catherine. Eventually, he reached Holly, who filled him in on the whole crisis unfolding. Corey chartered a jet from Florida to California. He bribed his way onto a rescue helicopter. He stayed in touch with Holly, who got the text Tony sent about being at the school, so Corey knew where he needed to go. 

He started moving from one group of firefighters to another trying to get someone to go out and find his family. There was a whole army of first responders – professional and volunteers – people from all over the country who had answered the call for help. But everyone he approached told Corey to forget about it. That neighborhood was gone. 

Corey didn’t give up, though. He found the women in the orange jumpsuits. They were inmates at a women’s correctional facility who fought wildfires for $7 a day. They didn’t want to do it either, but Corey was an able and motivated negotiator. He vowed to spend the next decade of his life doing whatever he could to get their sentences commuted, get them free, find them jobs. Whatever they needed, he said, because, “this is my family.”

This, my friends, all of this, is love. 

My title today is “Love Is Our Religion,” taken from a song by Ziggy Marley called, “Love Is My Religion,” and its essential message is that books, belief, doctrine, and dogma are unnecessary because all you need is love, as the Beatles would say.

And while we are not abandoning the book, the belief, the doctrine, we want to make sure that we let none of it obscure the essential thing, and that is love. Love is the power that drives it all.

Love is the power that birthed Jesus, God in the flesh, God with us. Love is the power that carried him through his ministry, his teaching and healing. Love is the power that took him to the cross. Love is the power that ultimately conquered death. Love is all you need. 

Love is the power that drew the women back to the tomb on Sunday morning, at risk to themselves. Love is the power that compelled his followers to carry the story of Jesus far and wide, confronting mortal danger, taking on great risk because love is stronger than fear; love is stronger than rage; love is stronger than death.

There is another song I have been thinking about this week: The Things We Do for Love. Tony was willing to die for his daughter. Love empowered him to do things he never before imagined. He would do whatever it took, even if that was dying. And, to his enormous surprise, Corey was willing to give everything, do anything, for love of his niece and his brother-in-law. Even Ash, ever the astute observer of humans, understood the power of love.

Love is the greatest power, stronger than guns, bombs, or missiles. Love is strong enough to carry us through any hardship. Love is the way Jesus showed us, and the way he still continues to lead us. 

Love is our religion. The power of love can be used to do great things in the world, if we only let it. 

You know the story, a story that is still being written – by our lives – here and everywhere in the world.  Let this be our story. May our hearts be open to love and let it do amazing things through us.

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

The Other Way

Matthew 21:1-11 

We wrapped up our Bible study for the season last Wednesday. We made it all the way through the Old Testament, from Genesis to Malachi. It really felt like an accomplishment. I kind of wished I had special t-shirts to hand out, saying something like “I Survived the Old Testament Bible Study.” 

In our last session we spent some time in the later prophets, those with a very far ranging vision – those prophets who speak of God’s ultimate intention for the world. One of these is Zechariah, who gets an honorable mention today.

These visionary prophets were living and writing during a time when it seemed like something big was afoot, cosmic shifts were imminent. These were the centuries just before Jesus was born. I think it must have felt like the world was about to change. It was. Most people, though, had no idea why – or what would likely happen.

The first disciples who traveled with Jesus probably didn’t have a clear vision of what was happening. They didn’t know much about where they were going as they followed his lead. But they did have some faith, enough to follow him. So, as they entered the city of Jerusalem on this Sunday, they stayed close to their teacher, attentive to his instruction. He guided them with his words and with his actions. What would they learn from him?

The day they entered Jerusalem was a busy day. It was near the Passover celebration, so there were many Jews from all over the region making their way to the city where they would celebrate, go to the temple and offer their sacrifices to God. Jerusalem was the place to be for the Passover. 

It was a celebration like no other. Passover is the yearly remembrance of how God freed Israel from their bondage in Egypt. For hundreds of years they were enslaved by the Pharaohs. But God used Moses to lead them out of Egypt and on their journey to freedom, to the Promised Land. It was a deeply meaningful celebration. And also highly charged. Because, as they remembered the way God freed them in the past, how could they not feel that it was, once again, a time to be set free from the heavy boot of the Empire?

As the Jews from out of town came pouring in to the city, so were the religious leaders in evidence – the Pharisees and Sadducees, the High Priests and the Scribes, all there to see and be seen. These were the power players in Israel.

And as the power players, they had an important role to play with the Roman authorities – the real power. Rome controlled Israel and they didn’t let anyone forget that. If this was to be a big week in Jerusalem, where anyone who was anyone would be, then you may be assured that the Roman authorities would be there too, to collaborate with the religious leaders in keeping a watchful eye on the people. The Sadducees and the High Priests, in particular, seemed to work well with the Roman authorities.

Pontius Pilate was the governor Rome installed over Jerusalem. He was there in Jerusalem, too, that week. In fact, as Jesus’ parade approaches the eastern city gate, Pilate was entering the western gate, in imperial majesty, coming from Caesarea Maritima. On the Mediterranean coast. A gorgeous place. His palatial beach city. A sort of a working resort, an ancient imperial power center – on the beach. Naturally, Pilate liked being at Caesarea. Of course, he would have preferred to stay there. But politics and power concerns dictated that he be in Jerusalem on this hot and crowded and intense week of the Passover.

It was a week that would be fraught with tensions. There were agitators. There were protestors. There was talk of getting rid of the oppressors – the empire and their collaborators, the ones who made the peoples’ lives poorer. Jerusalem was a hotbed of dissidence – I think it was something that had been brewing for quite a while. Israel was longing for something to change. 

But the empire, of course, had no interest in entertaining such change. Rome, like any sensible empire, had strict policies for dealing with dissent: stomp it out. This was the way Rome defined peace – by stomping out dissent. Jewish agitators were a potential danger, so they would keep a close eye on them and, if necessary, put them on a cross to make an example of them. Cross building was a thriving industry in the empire. There would not be a shortage, no matter how many dissidents must be dealt with.

Jesus often sounded like these ones – the agitators, the dissidents. The things he said, the values he set forth. He got angry at the authorities. He advocated for the poor and the powerless. To the empire and all who worked on the empire’s behalf, Jesus sounded dangerous.

For that reason, he knew that he should stay away from Jerusalem. He has mentioned it more than once. There was nothing but risk for him if he showed up in Jerusalem – especially now, at the time of the Passover. He could have stayed away. But instead, Jesus went.

But he took care to set up a particular kind of entrance. He made arrangements ahead of time to get a donkey. Seated on the donkey, he would ride into the city in a procession of palm branches and cloaks spread before him, with a chorus of Hosannas ringing around him. Hosanna, which means, Save us.

For those who understood, and the religious authorities surely understood, he was acting out the words of the Hebrew prophet Zechariah, one of those later prophets we read last week, who said:

Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

The triumphant king arrives on a donkey – a colt, the foal of a donkey – from Chapter 9, verse 9. The prophet Zechariah continues:

He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim

    and the war horse from Jerusalem;

and the battle bow shall be cut off,

    and he shall command peace to the nations;

his dominion shall be from sea to sea

    and from the River to the ends of the earth.

Do you see? The Lord, the Divine Warrior, will demilitarize the nations of the world. This is the prophetic vision; this is the ultimate good. And Jesus is in the midst of it. 

But on the other side of the city there is that other entrance – with Pilate and his military entourage. Pilate, atop a war horse, dressed for battle; a battalion of soldiers surrounding him – with armor, with weapons, and with all the glory of the empire attached to them – ready to crush any opposition.

***

On Palm Sunday as we draw near to the end of our Lenten journey, we ought to consider the way we have gone, and the way we will choose to go. Where have we traveled, and what have we learned? The way of Jesus has taken us through darkness looking for light; through blindness looking for new vision; he has taken us away from well-worn customary routes and onto new paths; he has shaken our assumptions about death and turned us toward the expectation of life.

Through it all, one thing has been clear: We have to choose the way we will go. We can go the normal way: the way of the world. Or we can go the other way: the way of Christ. The story of Palm Sunday shows us both: Pilate’s way and Jesus’ way.

The preacher and teacher, Tom Long, says this is a story to read on two levels. On the one level, we see the chaos, the brutality of the empire, the forces that oppose Jesus, the dangers that await him. And on the other level we see the divine plan: the steady, undeterred cadence of the will of God.

Even while, at the first level, Herod is king, Caesar is lord, and Pilate is governor; at the other level, Jesus is Lord, King, and Messiah. At one level all the rulers of this present time will come together to take his life from him on the cross, that ugly instrument of torture. But at the other level no one takes Lord Jesus’ life; he gives it freely, for the sake of the world.

The first level is clear to see. The second level can be seen only through the eyes of faith.

You have to choose the way you will go. I pray you will go the way of faith.

Photo: Adobe Stock Images

A Way of Life

Ezekiel 37:1-14

John 11:1-45

I remember the time one of my kids decided to run a marathon. He didn’t just lace up his shoes one morning and go out to the starting line. He prepared. He followed a rigorous training plan – a very impressive one. So, he thought he was ready for it, and I did too. But it was harder than he expected it to be.  He told me later that at a certain point, he was in so much pain with every step he could barely go on.  

In distance running they call that “hitting the wall,” when the pain and fatigue are overpowering.  I have heard it said that it’s like your body and your mind are having a conversation.  Your body says, “Look, you’ve had me out here for hours, running hard.  I am really, really hurting right now so I think we should just go over there to the side of the road and lie down.”  And the body has a pretty convincing argument at that point.  What’s worse, the mind will find it pretty hard to argue back because it is energy-deprived – all the fuel is going toward keeping the legs moving. As a result, the will is weak and confused.  It seems like a tough place to be.  I would imagine it feels like a dead end.

How do you go on when you have run into a dead end?  When all hope is gone?  This is what Israel wondered during their time of exile, more than 500 years before Christ was born.  The army of Babylon tore down the city walls, burned down the temple. Jerusalem was destroyed. They dragged many of the people to Babylon where they remained in exile for decades.

The prophet Ezekiel was with them in their exile, in their hopelessness. They believed God had abandoned them.  They were the walking dead. In some of the psalms they wrote back then you can hear the despair they felt. 

Then one day God gave Ezekiel a vision. God led him out to a valley filled with dry bones – heaps of the bones of those long dead.  Not a speck of life left in them in this valley of death.  Life had long ago left this place. Then Ezekiel hears a most peculiar question from God: Mortal, can these bones live?

And imagine Ezekiel’s answer in this way: “Augh – Lord God!  You know,” He doesn’t even finish his thought.  Why bother?  If the Lord wants to entertain impossible questions, who am I to argue?  

And when the Lord says to Ezekiel, “Prophesy to these bones, Ezekiel, prophesy!” Sure, why not? After all, he doesn’t have anything better to do than engage in exercises of futility. Sure, prophesy to the dry bones.  

It was the same when Jesus in Bethany called out, “Take away the stone;” open the tomb of Lazarus, now four days dead. Really and truly dead. Not just maybe-somewhat-possibly dead, but really-honestly-truly dead.  Well, there will be a stench – don’t say we didn’t warn you.  But, sure, why not – let’s open the tomb.

Why does God insist on looking death in the face as though it was not there?

When the evidence is clear, tangible, and irrefutable that it is over for Israel, God says, “Hey Ezekiel, why don’t you go prophesy to those bones. Let’s breathe some life back into them; it’s time for them to go back home.”  

When the evidence is clear, tangible, and irrefutable that it is over for Lazarus, Jesus says, “Open the tomb, guys. It’s time to fetch Lazarus and bring him home.”

Foolishness. Folly. I dare say that Ezekiel didn’t see things God’s way as he stood in the valley of dry bones. Nor did the people of Bethany see things Jesus’ way as they stood around the tomb. But here’s the kicker: they did it anyway.

They did it anyway.

In the face of clear evidence that this was the end, that there was no longer any hope of life, they acted in a way that was contrary to the evidence, because God urged them to. They looked death in the face as though it was not there.

When my son hit the wall during that marathon, he had a hard choice to make. He chose to keep going.  He kept putting one foot in front of the other. Even though the finish line seemed like it was an infinite number of steps away, even though the joy was long gone, he put one foot in front of the other, again and again and again, one step at a time.   

I understand that’s what runners do. Is that what people of faith do?

When we have stopped feeling like praying, do we pray? Even when, as we sometimes say, our heart is not in it, do we press on, putting one foot before the other?

Sometimes we feel discouraged, like we’re in a dark place with no hope. Certain situations in life can leave me feeling like that. Even just the season of Lent can do it. One day I realize that I have lost my hope, and I just have to go searching for it, like I search for my keys or my glasses. Now where did I leave it…when did I last have my hope?

Have you ever felt that way? You might even hear a little voice inside of you whispering while you’re searching under the couch cushions, “You know it’s gone. You’re not going to find your hope.”

There are days that I think we may actually have more faith in death than hope, as we said in our prayer of confession. Death is sure and certain, we have seen the evidence. 

Death was certainly what Ezekiel was looking at in that valley of dry bones. Death was the most certain state of Lazarus, four days in the dark, dark tomb.

Someone said to me once, I wonder if Lazarus wanted to come out. I said, I doubt it.

I doubt it because we have more faith in death than hope in God’s promises – promises we have yet to see fulfilled. 

I doubt it because, as we say in our funeral liturgy, “death is past, and pain is ended” for Lazarus, thanks be to God.

I doubt it because the darkness of the tomb is like a womb, enveloping him like a cozy blanket, caressing him gently, consoling him.

Does Lazarus really want to come out of that darkness, out into the light? Would we?

No matter what your answer is, though, God will keep calling you out. God will invite you to hear that this is not the way God wants it to be; that death is not what God intends for you. 

Yet, we will stay tucked away in our dark tombs, steadfastly refusing to hope for what we cannot imagine, putting our faith in death, shrugging, saying, “Augh, Lord God – you know…” 

We are persistent in our denial of God’s unfathomable love for the world God made, because if we believed it, we would have to act differently.

Beloved, come out. Come out and let the Spirit breathe life into those dry bones. Come out and live.

Photo: Author

A Way of Seeing

Ephesians 5:8-14

John 9:1-41 

[Note about the text: There are many players in this story of Jesus healing the young man with blindness, and it should be noted that all of them are Jews. This is important because at one point in the story we are told that the young man’s parents are “afraid of the Jews.” 

When John writes this he is speaking to the church that existed decades later, at the time he was writing. Many years after Jesus was crucified, his disciples were expelled from their Jewish community, which was very painful for them. From that perspective, this is a story about the pain of feeling excluded, perhaps the pain of being unseen.]

I don’t know if it is accurate to call this the story of Jesus healing a blind man. Maybe it should be called a story about all the ways people take issue with Jesus healing a blind man. The healing itself is described in two short verses. The other 39 verses describe all the controversy around this healing. Yes, once more, Jesus pushes people’s buttons.

Even though there was nothing dramatic about what Jesus did. A little spit, a little mud, and there you go: the man can see. That’s what happened. Clearly. But then we have all the interpretations of what happened, and that’s where it gets interesting.

The neighbors say: This man who was blind but now sees? He is not the man you might think he is. He is not the young man we all knew as blind. Because that is not possible. This must be a different man.

The young man, however, continues to insist he really is himself. And he is not backing off his story about the guy who came along, put mud on his eyes and healed him. This young man persists in speaking the true as he experienced it. Which seems to be a problem for everyone else. 

Then the Pharisees are asked to weigh in, so they interrogate the young man about how this happened. They are looking for the flaw in the young man’s statement, and they find it. 

Aha! The man who healed you performed this act on the sabbath. So he is clearly a sinner. Therefore, this cannot be an act of God. Case closed.

What that means about his ability to see is not clear, but it’s a distraction.

Meanwhile, the neighbors want to question the young man’s parents because they seem to think now that the young man and his family have been playing them for fools all these years, pretending that he is blind. Because if he can see now, then it is not possible that he was ever actually blind.

How frustrating it is to see all the blindness in this story! What are they seeing when they look at this young man? Jesus’ disciples see someone who is being punished for sin. The neighbors see someone who is lying to them. The Pharisees see a doctrinal problem of whether or not this healing was proper. They are all blind to what is right before their eyes. Except the young man, who says, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.” 

This is a story about a whole lot of seeing people refusing to see what is right before their eyes. The only one in this story who can see turns out to be the one who was born blind.

It is a story that asks us to face our expectations, our presumptions about the world, and just see. For all of us, regardless of what kind of vision we have, it involves getting past what we think we already know. 

We usually think we know a lot more than what we really do.

I have been thinking lately about how our experiences in life form our beliefs – and our ability and willingness to believe things that are outside of our personal experience. 

We speak sometimes about living in a bubble. If you spend any time on social media, you should know about the bubble-effect. You get online, you start selecting what you want to see and read, who you want to hang out with. Pretty soon the algorithms create an experience for you that reinforces your existing beliefs and preferences. You find that everyone in your bubble gets excited by the same things and angry by the same things. It begins to look like the way you view things is the only sensible and honest way to view things. Everyone else is an idiot.

Maybe the Pharisees lived in their own bubble of the law, their interpretation of it, and their strict adherence to it. 

Sometimes Christians live in a bubble that only includes other Christians. Sometimes only other Christians who practice the exact same kind of Christianity, who believe in exactly the same way. 

We become insulated by our bubbles. There is nothing wrong with enjoying being in community with like-minded people who share your experiences and values. You just have to make it a point to look outside your bubble as often as you can.

Wealth is a kind of bubble, because wealth insulates a person from many challenges that other people experience on a daily basis. Power works that way too. Extreme wealth and power especially. Of course, it is true that even middle-class people are able to insulate ourselves from a lot of things – but it is so much more in the case of extreme wealth.

I worry these days about the decisions that might be made by those who lead our nation, if they don’t see the effects of their decisions. Rising prices of gas and groceries don’t mean much if you don’t go to the gas pumps or the grocery store. Even casualties of war may not mean much if you don’t have any family members or friends whose lives are at risk. When nobody in your bubble is enlisting. When nobody in your bubble worries about the price of gas. 

The bubble is most certainly a hazard of the job for anyone who is in a place of power. And so it becomes imperative for them to find a way to see what they are not seeing. We need our leaders to make a point of really seeing the impact of their decisions. We have a right to demand that they see and listen. Just as we must demand of ourselves as well.

The reality for us as Christians is that this is an essential part of discipleship, to really see other people outside our bubbles. People whose lives present difficulties that may be hard for us to understand. People in our communities, yes, but also people in other parts of our nation, and other parts of the world – including Tehran and Beirut. Remember that Jesus didn’t put boundary lines around the definition of neighbor.

In the end of the story, Jesus says to the young man, “I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see may see and those who do see may become blind.” Which is confusing, yes. But it seems to fit. The ones in this story with sight are unable to see what is happening when the evidence is right before their eyes. The ones who see, turn out to be the ones who are blind.

Jesus gives us a way of seeing that leads to compassion and enlightenment. Jesus asks us to believe our eyes, even if they contradict what is too often called wisdom in this world. Jesus invites us to practice a way of seeing that acknowledges what is in the world but outside of our personal experience, our bubbles. To see and to believe what we see.

All of us are capable of doing this. And we might even be surprised by how liberating it is.

A few years ago I read a newspaper story about a woman named Marion who started losing her eyesight at the age of 40. Marion had experienced more than her share of hardship in her life already. And this hit her hard – at first.

She wallowed in self-pity. She shut herself in her apartment. But eventually it occurred to Marion that as long as she was alive, she should live. So she danced.

Marion began teaching dance classes for the visually impaired. They learned the dimensions of the room by touch. They learned line dances by everyone holding on to one another. Sometimes they’d make a circle and take turns getting into the center and showing off their moves. It is an unexpected and joyful thing to see, because their joy is so clear to see.

Jesus offers us a different way of seeing. And Marion, the teacher of the blind, has a lesson for us too.  Joy. Seeing the world as Jesus sees the world does not take away our joy. Joy is part and parcel of the faith, a precious gift we receive from Christ. Joy is a gift that nothing in the world can take away.

Can you see?

Photo: ChurchArt.Com

The Way Around

John 4:5-42

We are in the third week of our Lenten journey now, and I am thinking about the ways in which journeys to new places may change us. In my morning devotions last week I encountered some questions pertaining to this. How does what you encounter today affect your actions today, and tomorrow? How do the experiences you have now change the way you will be later? 

Questions such as these seem to get at the bigger question of whether, and how, you will be open to a new thing when it is presented to you. 

To the extent that we can afford to, many of us attempt to travel in a way that will be as unchallenging as possible. In many ways, we try to take home with us when we go away, to keep it as familiar and comfortable as we can. But then are we able to experience something new, break out of our expectations, our mental constructs?

These are important questions for the season of Lent. Are we available to hear a word from God? Are we able to receive a new thing?

These are questions raised in the story we hear from John’s gospel today. 

John begins by telling us that Jesus left Judea, probably Jerusalem, and went back to Galilee, and that he had to go through Samaria. 

But this statement – that he had to go through Samaria – raises some questions. That was not the normal route for a Jew to travel.

There were actually several routes one could travel to get from Jerusalem to Galilee, and only one of them involved going through Samaria. You could go to the west, and travel alongside the Mediterranean Sea. Or you could go east and travel along the Jordan river to the Sea of Galilee. Neither of these routes involved going through Samaria, which would be regarded as the least desirable choice.

The Jews and the Samaritans were not friendly, you may recall. There was a lot of history between these two peoples, a lot of bad blood. So for a Jew to travel through Samaria was to walk through enemy territory. It would have been a no-brainer, I think, for most to choose one of the other routes.

You could take the eastern route, or the western route, or the Samaria route. Jesus chose the third option, to go straight through Samaria. John tells us he had to, for some reason.

If he had told anyone that this was what he would be doing, I wonder what kind of reactions he would have received. I imagine his disciples tried to discourage him from going this way, it was not necessary. I am sure they would have been concerned about his decision to wait alone at this Samaritan well while they went in search of provisions. But, then again, maybe they thought there was little risk for him. Because going to the well for water was women’s work. How could a woman, even a Samaritan woman, harm him?

In fact, it is unlikely that anyone will be at the well while he is there. It is high noon in the desert. Most women would go in the early morning and the evening, when the heat of the sun is not bearing down on them. Some would say you would be unusually brave or foolish to venture out at midday.

But, against the odds, a woman approaches the well to draw water. 

She behaves as a woman in possession of herself, a woman who is at home in her skin. A woman who is ready to encounter something new.

She is not afraid of Jesus. She recognizes him immediately as a Jew. And she knows all the prohibitions that would warn her against interacting with this man. Even so, she asks him a pointed question: “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”

How is it that you, a man, are speaking to me, a strange woman?

How is it that you, a Jew, are speaking to me, a Samaritan?

How is it that you, a religiously observant son of Israel, are speaking to me, someone who is considered by your people to be unclean?

What are you doing here in Samaria? What are you doing at my well?

This woman has some questions.

Jesus is not at all put off, however, by her blunt question. He doesn’t miss a step. It is almost like he was waiting for it. It is almost as if he were waiting for her – this 5-time married and divorced Samaritan woman.

Jesus has taken this unconventional route through Samaria apparently because there was a conversation in Samaria he needed to have.

So he says to this woman: Let’s talk about the water that I could give to you. The living water. 

And they’re off. And you know what? She is a marvel.

She is a worthy conversation partner for Jesus. She doesn’t back down. She responds to every strange thing he says – at first not understanding him but staying with him nonetheless. Perhaps one of the best things that can be said about her is this: She is not afraid of what she doesn’t understand but is willing and able to continue the conversation through the ambiguity, the uncertainty.

One can’t help but compare this conversation with the last one he had – with the Pharisee Nicodemus back in chapter 3. Nicodemus sought Jesus out because he sensed that there was something Jesus had that he, Nicodemus needed. But he struggled to comprehend, he simply couldn’t make the leap with Jesus toward a new understanding of things. Yes, it is possible he did that later. But on this night, he walked away more perplexed than when he began.

The Samaritan woman, however, did not come looking for Jesus. She had no idea he would be at the well. But finding him there she was fully present with him. In the bright light of day, they speak and listen to each other in truth. She has questions: Why do you ask me for water? How would you possibly get this water you are referring to? How can I get this living water that will forever satisfy my thirst? 

Eventually, the point they arrive at is remarkable. The woman mentions the Messiah, and Jesus responds, “I am he.”

And the immense power of this is lost in the translation, because what he actually says is “I am.” Jesus is the great I Am.

The name by which God identified Godself to Moses at the burning bush. I Am. When Moses asks God what name he should give when he speaks to the Israelites, and the Lord says, “Tell them I Am has sent you.” 

And in this moment at the well, Jesus tells the Samaritan woman, I Am.

Somehow this is all she needs. She drops her water jar and heads directly back to her village to tell everyone, “Come and see!”

All because Jesus took the way around the normal route. And this Samaritan woman, in her conversation with Jesus, was willing to go all the way around with him, journeying into territory she had never before been. She becomes the first person in the gospel to proclaim Jesus as God.

So – what about you and I? Where might we be in this story?

You and I come to this place on a Sunday morning, very likely because it is our practice to do so. I travel the same route always; my car knows the way to go. My smartwatch tells me, “you’ll arrive in four minutes,” because my watch knows where I am going, too, the moment I back out of the driveway.

We come here with an expectation of what we will encounter, of how things will be. But do we expect to encounter the living God? 

Do we truly expect to meet Jesus?

And even if we don’t have a particular expectation, are we in any way open to such an encounter? Can we come to this place we have been to many times before and experience something we have never experienced before?

We know that Nicodemus was not quite ready for it when he came looking for Jesus. But the Samaritan woman, even though she was not expecting it, welcomed this encounter.

And she was forever changed by it. As we might be too.

Robert Frost wrote a poem that speaks to this notion: The Road Not Taken, a poem about a journey that takes a person to a place where the roads diverge, a point where the traveler must choose which way to go. The last lines of the poem are:

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

May you take the road less traveled – eyes open, heart open, ready to be changed. May you be ready to meet Jesus.

Photo by Jens Lelie on Unsplash

The High Way

Genesis 12:1-4

John 3:1-17

All of us have moments when we do impulsive things. Like, when your friend says, “Let’s go out for ice cream!” and you weren’t planning to do that, you were actually planning to go home and do laundry, but then you thought, “Ice cream? Why not? You only live once, right?” We have all done something impulsive once in a while. But probably not leaving your home and walking off toward an unknown destination. I’ll bet you haven’t done that.

I wonder what Abram thought when God called him to walk away from his home and his people and go to a place God would show him.  There must have been something – or a few things – on his mind.  

But we don’t know.  The text doesn’t say.  It just says that Abram went, as the Lord told him. I try to imagine why. 

Maybe Abram was a thrill seeker, always up for an adventure. But I doubt it.

Or maybe Abram was the most obedient, submissive man to ever live – the ultimate Do-Bee. I doubt that, too.

Is it possible that Abram had the sense that there was something more to his life than what he was currently living? Maybe there was a yearning, then there was a call, and Abram just knew this was what he had been waiting for. And so he went.

For all his life, Abram had been doing what was expected, keeping his head down, following the well-trod path. Then one day he heard a higher calling. And he went.

Sometimes discipleship happens like that. But not always.

Other times it’s more like Nicodemus, who approached Jesus hesitantly and stealthily.  He came in the dark of night.  And it’s no wonder he came at night.  After all, he was a Pharisee – a teacher of Israel.

He was breaking ranks with his fellows, who were, of course, emphatically opposed to Jesus.  Something pulled at Nicodemus, though, leading him to make this night visit.  But he came with all his hesitation and doubts and uncertainties, and a certain amount of resistance to being made new – some fear of what was unknown. 

And this baggage Nicodemus brought with him seemed to make it impossible for him to take that leap in understanding. It weighed him down. Nicodemus asks Jesus, how can these things be?  and you can almost hear the quiver in his voice when he asks. His shoulders slumped, his head down, Nicodemus couldn’t even see that high way Jesus was showing him.

Nicodemus arrives in the dark and he leaves in the dark, seeming to have gained nothing.  He is not able to step onto that road with Jesus. He can’t even see the possibility of it. Maybe we know, ourselves, what it’s like to be in the dark, unable to take that step into something new.

Nicodemus was asked to let go of some things.  He needed to let go of certain ways of looking at the world – this idea of what it means to be born, for example – born from above, born of water and Spirit. He needed to let go of his concepts of truth, of certainty.  He needed to let go of the way he understood God’s actions in the world, and even who he was in relation to God and all of humankind.  Nicodemus was being asked to let go of some really big things.  

And Nicodemus, as we see, was not very successful at it. This conversation we hear between Jesus and Nicodemus is funny, in a way. Jesus is speaking on a level that Nicodemus doesn’t grasp, his words seem to fly right over Nicodemus’s head, and Nicodemus responds with questions that completely miss the mark. 

The problem seems to be that Nicodemus wants answers, but answers that fit into his boxes. And Jesus is handing him a whole new set of boxes. Nicodemus can’t deal with it, he’s drowning in his confusion.

Then Jesus tries to throw him a lifeline: he tells him about God’s unfathomable love. But, maybe it is just plain unfathomable to Nicodemus. He doesn’t say anything more, and we might assume he walked away into the night.

If only he could have recognized the help he needed. If only he could have accepted the love Jesus offered. If only he could have known that such love is strong enough to make him strong – strong enough to stand up against whatever is holding him down.

We feel sad for Nicodemus, because we certainly know what it is like to be utterly confused by something, like he was confused by Jesus. We understand how it feels to be losing control of things, the way Nicodemus was losing his grasp on everything he believed to be true; to feel the dissonance between the life you are living and the sense that God is offering you a different way. We might even worry about him. Maybe you find yourself wondering: whatever became of Old Nic?  

Let me tell you. 

Nicodemus made another appearance in the story in chapter 7. Jesus is teaching among crowds of people at a religious festival. The Pharisees are about ready to have him arrested, but Nicodemus is there, and he says something to the others to slow things, calm them down. Now, Nicodemus is no longer skulking around in the dark of night. He is openly challenging the conventional wisdom of his fellows. That’s a step up for Old Nic. But there is more.

Nicodemus makes one final appearance. After Jesus is crucified. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus take his body from the cross to the tomb. Nicodemus brings the myrrh for his burial.

What could possibly have moved Nicodemus to take such a public action for a dead criminal? Only one thing. 

I don’t know where Nicodemus goes from here, but I think at this point his story is a lot like Abram’s story. Stepping out into the unknown, risking everything you have known, everything you have held close, all for the sake of following this higher calling. Living into the new story God is writing for you.

Where is God calling you to go this season? What is standing in the way of you accepting the help Jesus wants to give you, of receiving the powerful love of God? How is God inviting you, urging you, to participate in the work of saving the world?

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