Someone to Watch Over You

Acts 2:42-47

John 10:1-10      

There wasn’t a lot of children’s programming on TV when I was young, but there were a few shows and we tended to love them indiscriminately. I mean, back in those days, anything that was made just for kids – that was special. But for a while when I was very small, the show I loved most was Romper Room. I planted myself on the floor in front of the TV every day to watch Miss Beverly and the lucky children who got to play with her in her TV classroom. I was so jealous of them. I adored Miss Beverly – she was pretty and kind. Her classroom was fun. I loved everything about Romper Room. But the moment Miss Beverly picked up her magic mirror at the end of the show was, without fail, a moment of preschool angst for me. Because here’s what would happen.

She would begin to name all the children watching at home whom she could see through her magic mirror: Bobby and Cathy and Barbara and Jimmy, Lucy and Davy and Billy and Nancy, and on and on. Every day I sat holding my breath waiting for her to see me, but she never saw me. Maggie. Every day I waited in hope. Every day I was tragically disappointed.

If Miss Beverly had said my name just once, I would have pledged myself to her for eternity. But, alas, she never saw me. She never knew me.

And that’s sad. It’s just nice when they know your name.

I think it’s fair to say that knowing someone, really knowing them, involves at the very least knowing their name.  That’s where we usually begin.  It means something to us, when someone remembers our name.

The shepherd, Jesus says, knows his sheep and calls them by their names.  And they follow him because they know the voice of their shepherd when he calls their names. He knows their names and they know his voice. Just as Mary Magdalene knew the voice of Jesus when she heard him call her name in the garden. 

He knows our names, too, and cares for us as his own. Whether it is as the shepherd, as he says further down in the chapter, or the sheepfold gate, as he says in verse 7, it is clear that Jesus is identifying himself as the one who watches over us. He is the one who is strong enough to protect, the one who cares enough to save us. Jesus can be trusted to guide us in and out of the sheepfold. In our coming and our going, we may rely on the one who would lay down his life for us.

This is the gospel message: we have a savior who knows us because he chooses to know us; he loves us enough to suffer on our behalf for the sin of the world so we may have life, and life abundant. He knows our names.

It gives us comfort to know that we have a good shepherd watching over us. But, just like the little boy who was frightened by a thunderstorm one night – his father reassured him saying Jesus is right beside you. But the boy said, “I know, but daddy, I need Jesus with skin on!” We need the warmth, the firmness, the tenderness of flesh and blood companions who care for us.

I know Jesus loves me and Jesus saves me. I have known it since I was very young. But sometimes I am more concerned about whether there are people who know me, love me, care for me, and are willing to protect me if need be. I know I have a friend in Jesus – I have always known this. But sometimes I am more concerned about how many true friends I have in Jesus’ church. And what’s more, I am concerned about whether my love is great enough to be a faithful friend in Christ’s name – a friend to my brothers and sisters in Christ, as well as those who are outside the sheepfold.

I am concerned that we may rest too comfortably in the knowledge of Christ’s saving love and let it go at that. The hard truth is that there is nothing Christ did for us that he does not also ask us to do for others.

As followers of Christ we must ask ourselves how well we are doing at providing this kind of love and care to others. Do we know one another’s names? and their needs? Jesus assured his followers and even those who didn’t follow him that he will know them and care for them individually. But Jesus needs us to do that.

How are we doing at the shepherding? And just as much, how are we managing the sheepfold gate? Jesus says I am the gate and whoever enters by me will be saved. Are we opening the gate to those who need comfort, who are seeking pasture?

Everybody in this world needs that – comfort, belonging. Every one of us needs to have that feeling that we are all in this together, living the life we have been given, taking turns holding one another up when we need to borrow some strength. Everyone in this world needs to have a place of safety, a sheepfold where somebody knows their name and cares about who they are.

Everybody needs somebody to trust. Are we willing to be that somebody? to earn their trust? Are we willing to love them unconditionally, showing them the grace of God and the care of the Good Shepherd? Do we care enough about them to learn their names and their stories? Are we willing to watch over them and protect them from harm?

You know, in the story from Acts we heard that the earliest disciples devoted themselves to learning and fellowship, the breaking of bread and prayer. How are we doing at that? the basic acts of being church?

These days, our forced quarantine makes it harder – to be church in the ways we know. But I read an interesting bit of information last week. The Pew Research Center finds that people are saying that since this pandemic began, their faith is growing. So how are we living that stronger, deeper faith? And how will that make it different when we come back together again?

And when we come back together again, will we manage the sheepfold gate with generosity and love?

Christ offers himself as the good shepherd and the gate. He lays down his life for us and everyone else. He calls us by name, and he expects us to be able to do the same. Let us follow in Christ’s example for this world, to know one another by name and watch over one another in his name.

That Moment You Know

Luke 24:13-35   

Something we often say to one another now is that every day feels the same. We forget what day it is, even what time it is, because we have abandoned our normal routines. It happens in my house, too – although I need to be extra careful to remember when Sunday comes around. Other than that, it’s easy to forget what day it is. Time is almost meaningless.

So, maybe it won’t surprise anyone when I point out that, in the biblical texts for this Easter season, it has been the same day for three weeks. Really. From the perspective of our reading for today, it was only this morning that Mary found the tomb empty. And they still don’t really know what’s going on.

Now, on that same day, we have two of these disciples – one named Cleopas and the other unnamed – who are walking a seven-mile journey to a village called Emmaus. As far as I can see, no one knows anything about this place called Emmaus. People have proposed that it is a place about seven miles northwest of the city of Jerusalem, known as el-Khubeibeh. Others have suggested it is a place about eight miles southwest of Jerusalem, known as Khurbet Khamasa. Just to name a couple of theories. Clearly, we have no idea about the place called Emmaus. But that’s okay, because the destination is unimportant. What matters is the journey.

Cleopas and the other disciple are walking toward Emmaus for reasons that are not mentioned. Perhaps there is something in Emmaus that matters to them. Perhaps there is something in Jerusalem they want to get away from. Perhaps they only need to walk. It doesn’t really matter why they left Jerusalem, or why they are headed toward Emmaus. What matters is the journey.

Sometimes, you just have to journey.

Bear in mind that things had been pretty chaotic in Jerusalem for the disciples of Jesus. He was arrested, then everything fell apart. The disciples scattered. Confusion and fear reigned.

And on this day, the third day, from the moment early in the morning when they found the tomb empty, it has been the peak of craziness. They are afraid. They are grieving. And they are suddenly without direction or purpose. They frantically want to know what is going on.

But they don’t know yet. As these two disciples are walking along they are talking it all through – rehashing everything, the way we do. Repeating things over and over, sharing their reactions, their confusion, their theories. It’s both an important emotional and intellectual process they are engaged in. But they still don’t know what is going on, and they won’t figure it out this way.

They say to the stranger who approaches them, “We had hoped that he was the one.” As far as they can see now, that hope is lost.

And I guess there’s no reason why they should think otherwise. Because they have seen the evidence of his death. So far, they have seen no evidence that he is alive.

We all need some kind of evidence. You know, the disciple Thomas often gets disparaged because that evening he was late getting to the upper room. And all the disciples were like, “Ah, Thomas, you just missed him! Jesus was here. Showed us his wounds and everything. It was awesome.” Thomas felt cheated. And disbelieving. He needed some kind of evidence too.

It isn’t enough for someone to tell you, “Jesus is alive.” It isn’t enough for someone to tell you, “Jesus is Lord.” We need other ways of knowing.

And sometimes we seem to forget that. We get all judgmental about Thomas, who doesn’t believe. We get sort of judgmental about the men who refuse to believe the women when they say, “I have seen the Lord,” and we are sort of amused and perplexed by these two disciples on the road to Emmaus who just don’t get it.

In the Thomas story, we feel entitled to judge him because of the way Jesus seems to judge him – in a subtle way. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” The presumption is that very few will actually have the opportunity to see the risen Christ. But there is a need to believe anyway – without seeing.

And some will say this is what faith is all about. The writer of the book of Hebrews says, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Still, we need some reason for believing.

Others will say it is all about listening and hearing. Paul writes in his letter to the Romans that faith comes from what is heard. Indeed, the gospel has been shared and has taken root all over the world by word of mouth. By one person telling other people the good news of Jesus Christ. Truly, hearing the word is essential. But we hear a lot of things we don’t believe. Just because we hear it doesn’t mean we know it. What makes this different?

National Public Radio used to have a weekly feature called This I Believe, where anyone could share their core beliefs that guide their lives. What you would hear again and again from all kinds of people, were the things they believe, the things they know to be true, because they have experienced it. The things we believe, the things we really, truly know, are the things we know deep in our bones because we have experienced them.

It takes real lived experience to really know something.

When Thomas was invited to touch the wounds. When Mary heard him say her name. These were the moments when they knew.

And for these two disciples on the road to Emmaus? There was a special moment when they, too, knew.

They discussed all these things all through that long walk; they listened to the stranger who joined up with them and pointed out to them things they had not considered – things that were in the scriptures they all knew, but were now invited to know in a new way.

The time flew past as they walked and talked. And when they arrived at Emmaus, they weren’t yet finished. The two disciples invited the stranger to join them for supper. And they sat down at table together. The stranger took the bread. he blessed it and broke it. And then they knew.

In the breaking and the blessing, the taking and the sharing, they knew.

Perhaps, as he took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread – they suddenly remembered another day when, surrounded by thousands of people, with nothing but a few loaves and some fish, Jesus did the same thing. He took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread.

Something that became the pattern of a life-changing, community-defining ritual. Still today we gather around the table and do the same: take and bless, break and give, in his name. It is something that feeds our bodies and souls, it triggers our memories and opens our hearts. It is the way that he has promised to be with us.

And we can be assured that he is with us whenever and wherever we share bread in his name. Whether it be at our table in this sanctuary or the tables in our kitchens. At the tables in our fellowship hall or the tables at the local soup kitchen. At the tables in the Langeler Building when we host the homeless shelter or the table that was set up in our parking lot to provide bag lunches to hungry children. At the tables where backpacks are filled with food for kids to take home for the weekend, so there will be enough to eat – wherever we take and bless, break and share bread in Christ’s name he is there too.

And this is one of those moments when you know.

Because the truth is, just seeing is not enough. Just hearing is not enough. It takes something more, and that is real experience – experience that involves our senses and also our hearts.

You know he is alive when you receive his love through others who know him and love him. You show others he is alive when you share his love with them. We share his love by sharing our bread, and our shelter, and our care. When we give of ourselves to others, out of our love for Jesus, then we share the good news with them. and when they receive these gifts of the heart, then

That is the moment they too may know. Christ is alive.  

And at that moment, you know that this is what life is all about: it’s about the giving and the receiving – of food and drink, of our stories, of shelter and comfort, of a healing touch. and this, of course, is the journey.

Photo: By Tahsin Shah - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=87568953

The Power of Forgiveness

John 20:19-31    

If you have ever seen the film, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” maybe you remember the baptism scene. A group of people all dressed in white, singing, as they slowly walk in single file into the river. One by one they get dunked in the water and come out cleansed, forgiven, renewed. 

Delmar, an escaped convict, gets swept up in the beauty of it and runs in to the water to get baptized too.  He comes back to his two buddies all dripping wet, smiling, and says “Well that’s it, boys, I’ve been redeemed! The preacher’s done washed away all my sins and transgressions. Including that Piggly Wiggly I knocked over in Yazoo.”  One of the others says, “Delmar, I though you said you was innocent of those charges.”  “Well, I was lying,” Delmar says, “and the preacher says that sin’s been washed away too.  Neither God nor man’s got nothing on me now.”

After that episode Delmar gets the mistaken impression that the law has no claim on him anymore, even though he is an escaped convict, because his sins were washed away in the river.  He’s forgiven … and he can’t understand why the lawman doesn’t get that.  Poor Delmar.  He has an oversimplified understanding of the power of forgiveness.  But at least he is aware that he needs forgiveness.

I appreciate that, because too often we act as though we have evolved beyond the need for forgiveness.  We find it too quaint for the world in which we live.  We believe it’s foolish to forgive someone who might turn around and hurt us again.  And we think it equally foolish to admit any need for forgiveness, lest someone think us weak.

If we think about forgiveness at all, we probably think of it as something God does, and that’s fine.  But not us, at least not when it’s too hard. 

Jesus says otherwise. He certainly did that Sunday night in Jerusalem when he walked through the door where the disciples were hiding, scared. 

It had been a ghastly weekend; they were afraid.

John blames their fear on the Jews. This is worth saying something about. You might have noticed in several of our recent readings from John’s gospel, there is some snide remark about the Jews. That is John’s bias coming through. He wrote the gospel more than half a century later, after a difficult split, at a time when Christianity and Judaism had gone in different directions.  It was a different world John was living in than the one he was writing about. It is misleading to say the disciples feared the Jews; they were all Jews. 

The real fear, for all of the Jews, was of the Romans.  It was the Romans, alone, who had the power to crucify.

But that night, aside from the fear, they were feeling alarm and confusion at seeing Jesus again for the first time.  The man who had been crucified three days before now appears before them, in the flesh, alive.  They see the nail marks in his hands and the place in his side where the spear pierced him.  And he says, “Peace be with you.”

And after greeting them with peace, he says these three things to his disciples:  First, as the Father sent me so I send you.  Then, receive the Holy Spirit. And finally … about forgiveness? That ball is in your court now.

Forgiveness is in our court now. It’s up to us. But we don’t want to.

We don’t want to forgive others.  Much of the time we would rather wallow in our resentment and nurture fantasies of revenge. Sometimes we confuse it with justice, but they’re not the same thing.  Revenge actually tastes better than justice.

This might be where we see our own inherent sinful nature most clearly – when we would rather be angry than let it go and take some of that peace he offered in the upper room that night.  It would cost us nothing, but we resist making the trade anyway. 

Photo: Baptism scene from O Brother, Where Art Thou?

I don’t know why we resist letting go of our resentments. I admit I have a whole closet full of resentments I don’t want to let go of.  I don’t do anything with them except pull one out every now and then, poke at it and remember how much it hurt when that person did that thing to me, and how angry it makes me still. 

I don’t fully understand why we resist the act of forgiveness the way we do.  But I think it is closely tied to another resistance we have: the resistance to being forgiven.

A friend once put it to me like this:  Even though we know Christ forgives our sins in general, we often doubt his ability to forgive our sins in particular.  Because, when it comes down to the particular, it gets messy.

For me to accept that Christ can forgive my very particular and ugly and hurtful sins, I have to face them myself.  To have my wounds healed they have to be addressed – each and every one.

In the old Star Trek TV show, Bones had this hand-held device he used to diagnose medical problems just by scanning the patient’s body.  No invasive procedures, no touching, even.  It was called the tricorder.  It was amazing.  Even more amazing is that, apparently, someone has invented a real tricorder now, proving again that nothing is more fantastic than reality.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could have our spiritual ailments handled the same way?  The sin-sick soul receives the spiritual scan and the instant readout provides you with a list of your ailments.  All the sins you have been sitting on; all the resentment you have been holding tightly, and all the secrets you’ve been keeping for fear that your sins are actually too much for Jesus to forgive.

I wonder; would we be willing to submit ourselves to the spiritual tricorder scan for the sake of being healed? Or would we prefer to keep on holding onto these things – our secret resentments and sins – rather than risk being exposed?

I marvel at the trade-offs we humans are willing to make – to hold ourselves imprisoned in a net of sin and unforgiveness rather than trading it in for the peace he offered us.

When I worked in college ministry, the students liked to combine weekly worship with a topical discussion about all kinds of things that were meaningful to their lives.  Sometimes it was sex, sometimes it was drugs and alcohol, sometimes it was money management.  But there was one topic I found they couldn’t get enough of, and that was forgiveness.

The first time we ran a program on forgiveness we filled the room to overflow capacity.  19, 20, 21-year-olds crowded in to listen and ask their questions about whether they were really forgiven; about whether they really had to forgive others (or if there was some obscure escape clause they might learn about); and then, of course, how they could possibly forgive the ones who had hurt them. We returned to the topic again and again. There was always a lot of pain in the room when forgiveness was on the table.

It doesn’t seem to matter how old you are, or how young you are; forgiveness is a hard thing.

You thought we were going to talk about Doubting Thomas, didn’t you?  There is a lot in this passage we haven’t even touched.  Forgiveness is mentioned in only 1 of the 13 verses.  And yet I think it might be the hinge on which this story turns.

It is Christ’s work on the cross that opens the door to forgiveness.  The wounds on his hands and feet and his side are the evidence of this: the evidence that there is another way.  Even though this world is full of sin – violence and anger and greed and hatred; and it is always possible to adopt the old “Eye for an eye” philosophy of life.  Even though the conventional wisdom says to live and die by the sword, to withhold love from anyone who doesn’t give love first, and refuse the hand of peace to anyone who hasn’t first proved his or her worthiness to you. In spite of all this conventional wisdom, Jesus Christ, in the flesh, provides the proof that there is another way.

There is this other way, in which forgiveness is offered even before it is asked.  And that’s what his wounds signify.  So, do you believe?

Do you see the marks on his hands and side and do you believe he did it for you?  And that he did it so that you could do it too?  Christ forgives you all your particular sins, and asks you to forgive one another.  The power is in your hands.  If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven.  If you retain the sins of any, they are retained.

Do you believe that, because he did it first, you can do it too?

I understand that our lives are usually too busy to think much about these things, to go through an inventory of sins afflicted on us, sins committed by us. It takes time we don’t have. But, not now. Right?

Those of us who are sheltering at home – we have time.

Who in your life, close or far away, do you need to forgive?

Who, of the people you know very well and those you barely know at all?

Who, of those who are alive and those who are dead?

Who needs your forgiveness? The power is in your hands. Believe, You can do it.

Heart to Heart Talks, Part 6: While Mary Stood Weeping

John 20:1-18      

Preachers often say that Easter is the hardest day to preach. Because what can you say about this story that hasn’t already been said a million times before? Well, let’s see if we can look at the story this morning with fresh eyes.

Mary came to the tomb so early on Sunday morning it was still dark. But when she got near she could see that something was amiss. The stone that was covering the tomb had been moved aside.

If it looked like anything, it looked like foul play. It looked like somebody had broken into the grave and taken the body away. Mary didn’t go any nearer to investigate. Mary was smart – not like some character in a scary movie who walks into the dark, empty house with the broken windows. Mary was smart; she turned and ran the other way.

She ran directly to the disciples to let them know what she saw. Peter and another disciple, probably John, ran back to the tomb to see for themselves. Cautiously, each one of the men entered the tomb to have a better look. All that was left were the graveclothes. No indication what Peter was thinking, but of the other disciple we are told, “he saw and believed.”

But just what he believed is not clear, because the sentence continues, “for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.” Was he beginning to get an inkling about this good news? Or did he only believe what Mary had said, that the body of Jesus had been taken away?

All they could know was that his body was gone. All they could assume was that it had been taken away.

Both men left, probably to share this news with the other disciples. Maybe they were going to tell them, “they’ve stolen the body of our teacher!” But Mary now stayed behind. Perhaps Mary needed some time alone for all the things she grieved. They had crucified her Lord, and now, as if that wasn’t enough, they couldn’t even let his body rest in peace.

She stood outside the tomb weeping. But then she saw she was not alone. Two angels appeared in the tomb; they asked Mary why she wept.

You know, usually when angels make an appearance, they have to start with, “Fear not!” But maybe Mary wasn’t afraid – not now. With everything that had happened already, there was no more room for fear. Just grief. Grief filled her entire being. She said to the angels, “They have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have laid him.”

She turns and sees there is someone else there. A man. He asks Mary the same question: Why are you weeping?

I don’t know why Mary had to suffer this question – twice. Why are you weeping? It brings to mind a memory of when I was a child being hurt by another child on the playground. My teacher saw me and asked if I was okay. I was embarrassed to be caught crying. She asked me, “Something get in your eye?” I nodded hard, like, “Yeah that’s it.” She said, “Tears?” I nodded again.

Why do we weep? There are all kinds of reasons, but they are usually not simple. We weep because we are human, we are mortal beings. And there are moments in life when we become starkly aware of our mortality.

We weep now because the reality of death has come closer to us all. Every day we watch the counts rise – the numbers of the afflicted, the numbers of deaths. Every day now, death is a close companion, and the reality of our finite nature becomes very clear to us. And so we weep.

We weep because we are cut off from the ones we love at the time we really need them, and from the work that makes our lives seem purposeful at a time when we really need that sense of purpose.

The coronavirus pandemic has left us alone with our powerlessness over the realities of life and death. It has left us alone, facing our own fragility.

Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return – we say these words on Ash Wednesday. The end of our lives will come and our material bodies will fade away to dust.

And so we weep. For the loss of control, the loss of life, and the knowledge of our own mortality.

And into the midst of our weeping comes Easter. In the midst of our weeping, there is rebirth, there is new life, there is hope.

A silver lining, perhaps – a phrase I have heard many people use recently, to speak of the surprising gifts we are finding in this weird time.

But I will tell you, I have been feeling sad this past week. More than usual. Maundy Thursday always makes me feel sad, Good Friday feels like a heavy weight we carry. But this year there has been a sadness, a weight, that has stuck to me all the way to Easter. Because of all the ways we can’t celebrate this year.

I have felt sad that we can’t fill the sanctuary with our bodies and sing loudly together, Jesus Christ Is Risen Today, Alleluia! I feel sad that we can’t be together and make a joyful noise. I come into this first day of the week still feeling sad, weeping for all that we have lost. It doesn’t even feel like Easter.

But, you know, it didn’t feel like Easter to Mary, either.

Christ came to her in the depth of her sadness, at the moment she needed him. As Mary stood weeping, he called her name.

Hearing him say her name broke through her distress, and she could see him, Jesus, and she was filled with joy. But then – did you catch what he said to her?

Don’t touch me. Stay away from me. Social distancing.

We are where Mary was. We can feel this story this year, perhaps more than we ever have before. In the midst of a dark and fearful time, in a place of death, comes Easter. Because this is exactly where Easter is needed.

Easter doesn’t come in the midst of pastel parades and baskets full of bunnies. Easter comes in hospitals overfull with patients and short on protective masks. Easter comes in cities using refrigerated trucks to hold the dead because the morgues are full. Easter comes in the temporary tent hospitals.

Easter comes in the nursing homes where residents are confined to their rooms for fear of an uncontrollable outbreak. Easter even comes in an all but empty sanctuary, where my voice echoes off the walls as though I am standing in an empty tomb.

And maybe, in these places, without all the usual festivity, we can see it when Easter comes – Christ resurrected, defeating the power of death out of God’s love for the world. Easter comes to us when we need it.

In the midst of a broken and fearful world,

In the midst of death,

In the midst of our despair, Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Heart to Heart Talks, Part 5: A Different Way

Matthew 21:1-11       

On the day that Jesus and his followers came into Jerusalem, it was approaching the Passover celebration. This was and is a time of great celebration for the children of Israel. Most of the Jews didn’t live in Jerusalem – just like most Americans don’t live in New York – but they traveled there for the holiday. Jerusalem was the center of Jewish religious life. The temple made it so; it was the place to offer thanksgiving to God, the place to offer repentance, the place to receive forgiveness.

But Jerusalem was more than that. It was not only a center of religious life, it was a center of political life and even financial life. It was like Washington DC and Manhattan rolled into one – the center of power in the region. It was the time of the Roman occupation; Rome placed its own chosen governor in Jerusalem to look out for the empire’s interests. The Jewish religious authorities – the Chief Priest, the Sadducees, the Scribes and Pharisees, had to work with the governor. They stood in a precarious position between the mighty empire and the people of Israel, striving to placate both sides. But where God was held in that equation seems unclear, to be honest.

For Jesus, though, it wasn’t at all unclear. And for the people he was surrounded by, the farmers and laborers, it wasn’t so unclear. For their lives were simple. They did not play the power games that occupied the rulers of the world. and they had plenty of time to wonder about where and how God was involved in the many hardships of their lives. and I’m sure they did wonder.

Rulers who govern by brutal force know that they always have to be on the lookout for signs of unrest. And there were, indeed, signs of unrest in Jerusalem.

There were agitators. There were protestors. There was talk of getting rid of the oppressors – the empire and their collaborators, the ones who made their lives poorer. Clearly, these agitators were a danger to the empire. These were the kinds of people the rulers wanted to keep a close eye on and, if necessary, get rid of.

Jesus, at times, sounded like these ones – the agitators. He too got angry at the authorities. He too 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. There was nothing but risk for him if he showed up in Jerusalem at the time of the Passover. He could have stayed away, some urged him to stay away. But instead, Jesus went.

And 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 – Save us.

For those who understood, and the religious authorities surely understood, he was acting out the words of the prophet Zechariah, 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.

On the other side of the city, at the beginning of this week of Passover, there was a different procession. As was the custom, Pontius Pilate, the governor that Rome had installed, was riding in to the city on his war horse, with a battalion of soldiers surrounding him. In case there was trouble during this festival week, the empire would be there in full force – with armor, with weapons, and with all the glory of the empire attached to them – to crush the opposition.

Quite a contrast – between Pilate’s entrance and Jesus’ entrance.

It was a stark and effective contrast Jesus made on that day.

Here is your king! A king who follows in the line of David, a righteous and merciful king. Here is one who is a model of obedience to the law of God.

Here is your king! Riding on a donkey. Showing you a different way.

Sometime later that week, according to John’s gospel, the Chief Priest Caiaphas said, “It is better for one man to die than for the whole nation to perish.” He was right.

+++

During the 17^th century the Bubonic plague crept into a small village in northern England called Eyam. It found its way there, apparently, from a bolt of infected cloth sent from London. It had been quite some time since an outbreak of the plague had been seen there, but it was soon clear that this was what they were dealing with.

Then they did an extraordinary thing. Under the leadership of their priest, the people of Eyam made a bold decision to self-quarantine. They shut themselves in and everyone else out. A boundary stone marked the spot where provisions could be left for them and messages could be sent out from them. They rode out the calamity on their own, tending to the sick, burying the dead, their numbers growing thinner by the week.

They made this fateful decision for one reason: to avoid spreading the contagion farther. It was better, they decided, for one village to die – if need be – than for the whole nation to perish.

On the day they made the painful decision to close the church, the writer Geraldine Brooks imagines that the priest reminded them: the church is not a building – a message for us as well. We shall still have church as long as we follow the way of Jesus. We shall still be church wherever and however we gather as the beloved community of God.

The beloved community that surrounded Jesus as he rode into Jerusalem spoke about following “the way” of Jesus. A way that he showed them by his example – a way of humility, of obedience to God, of love for others and a willingness to sacrifice for the sake of the least, the last, the lost.

Jesus went to Jerusalem that day because he was both following and leading the way. The people of Eyam stayed in place because they were following the way. And even, in a way, leading the way for others.

There is still, even today, surely a call for us to follow this way: a way of humility – not taking for granted any wealth or power we have been given, but rather to follow the path of servant leadership; a way of obedience to God’s law, loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves; a way of care for the beloved community of the least, the last, and the lost.

May you follow the way of Jesus – ever mindful of the need that surrounds you. May you follow him this week – to the temple, to the cross, to the hope that lies beyond death.

Photo: The Boundary Stone between Eyam and Stoney Middleton. The stone was used to pass money and provisions during the plague. By Bill Boaden, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14443173 

Heart to Heart Talks, Part 4: Grieving Alone Together

John 11:1-45      

When so many things seem to be happening so fast we begin to lose our ability to gauge the passage of time. Something that happened a week ago may as well have been two months ago, because it feels like forever ago. How long have we been “social distancing?” It feels like forever.

At the seminary I attended, every student was required to participate in a cross-cultural trip. The destination varied from year to year but the length of the trip was always the same: three weeks. When we asked why three weeks, the answer was this. During the first couple of weeks it just feels like a vacation. You feel like a tourist abroad; you are a foreigner in a strange land, observing the natives in their habitat. But when you get into that third week, you begin to push past that barrier and something shifts. You no longer feel like you’re just passing through. Now this is the place where you live.

I have tried to keep some perspective about the length of time we have been dealing with this pandemic, because it all seems to get blurry when I try to look back. So I looked it up on a reliable source – Google.  The first we became aware of this unknown virus was on December 31. The first known case of the virus in the United States was diagnosed on January 20. On January 30, the World Health Organization declared the virus a “public health emergency of international concern.”

It wasn’t until March 11 that the WHO declared the spread of COVID-19 to be a pandemic. On that day there were about 1200 diagnosed cases in the United States. As of Wednesday, over 68,000 and rising.

How long have we been “social distancing” – a new verb in our vocabulary? In Maryland, schools closed on March 12; since then, piece by piece, our world has been getting smaller and smaller.

So, it’s like we are now into that third week when we feel like we have always lived this way.

You no longer feel as alarmed as you did in the beginning, because you’ve kind of gotten used to it. You no longer feel as confused as you did, because it all feels strangely normal now. You might even feel a little numb to it.

But still, now and then something happens that reminds you we didn’t always live this way. You reach out to shake someone’s hand, or you feel the impulse to give someone a hug. Suddenly, you remember you’re not supposed to do that, but man, do you ever wish you could.

We might all feel a little numb. It’s natural. The numbness is like a dose of anesthetic that helps you get through hard things. But still, a little jolt of reality kicks through the numbness here and there. Maybe it’s hearing a song that moves your soul, or maybe it’s hearing the voice of someone you love. A little jolt breaks through the numbness – and then, maybe you cry.

I have certainly had my moments in these past couple of weeks. The first time was two weeks ago, the last time we were open for worship. I saw that morning how many of our people didn’t feel safe coming out to worship together and it broke my heart.

Over the days that followed, as I saw the boundaries closing in, I felt my heart break again and again. Maybe you felt it too.

In a strange way, even though we can’t be together, we are all grieving together. We might be grieving many things right now, but not least of all, we are grieving the loss of our communal life.

It is true that we are finding new ways to connect, we are working hard to find these ways – and this is something for which I am so grateful. But the trouble is, when it comes down to basics, we are embodied human beings. And we need embodied connection.

As long as we are living in these flesh and blood bodies, I don’t think we will ever get beyond that need. And so we grieve – and it is good to do so.

Many years ago, I led a group of children in acting out this story of the raising of Lazarus. We had fun with it. One child played Lazarus and we wrapped him up from head to foot in toilet paper – which seems terribly profligate in these days of toilet paper shortages, doesn’t it? Another child playing Jesus ordered the tomb to be opened. Another child playing Martha said in her best King James English, “But Lord, he stinketh! He’s been dead four days” And when Lazarus finally shuffled forward like a mummy, we all helped to free him from his tissue graveclothes, laughing as we did.

But the one thing I wanted the children to know most of all that day was that one little verse that we all know as the shortest verse in the scriptures: Jesus wept. When he came together with this crowd of weeping, grieving people, Jesus also began to weep. And I wanted the children to know that when they cry, Jesus cries with them.

When we cry, Jesus cries with us.

And from this we may draw comfort and strength – to know that, in spite of how it feels, we are not grieving alone.

When we rejoice we always feel like we are rejoicing with others. But when we are grieving we feel like we are alone. Celebration is a communal activity but grieving feels so solitary.

I believe this is because each one of us grieves in our own personal way. When a family experiences the loss of a loved one, you can see how each member responds differently. Some cry silently alone, others sob loudly on someone’s shoulder. Some are stoic. Some get angry. Some keep themselves very busy so they can avoid feeling whatever kind of feeling is coming.

Grieving is hard, at least in part, because it feels so very alone. But the good news is that you are not alone. Brothers and sisters, you are never alone.

I am sure you have worked hard these past couple of weeks to hold on to connections with other people, hold on to some sense of normal life. Last Sunday I encouraged you to do things like calling people, writing to people. Staying in touch even though we are apart; remembering and caring for others even when you can’t see them. And I know that at least one of you took my words to heart and has made phone calls to dear old friends. That’s really good.

But even if you are doing all these things, there are moments of sadness. It just can’t be helped.

Because there is sadness in life, even if you are trying to do everything right. Because, in this world, there is death, there is sickness. There are all kinds of suffering I would never want you to turn a blind eye to – your own suffering or someone else’s suffering.

Yet the message of this season of lent is that Jesus walked through every bit of that suffering. Jesus did not come here as a tourist, observing the natives in their habitat. Jesus came here as one of us, and every bit of sadness, hurt, fear, anger, and loneliness we feel – he felt it too.

And because he walked every bit of this human walk – and then some – we are never without hope.

Lent is a sacred season – a season of walking that walk that can feel so lonely, even in the best pandemic-free years. But soon the day of resurrection will come.

Heart to Heart Talks, Part 3: Real Connection

John 9:1-41        

I read a story in the news recently about a woman named Marion who has lived all her life with a severe hearing impairment. Then, in her 40’s she began losing her vision too. At first, she was devastated, but then she decided that since she was still alive, she would start dancing.

And then she started teaching other visually impaired people to dance. She leads classes of blind people, like herself, where they learn to do line dances. Most of them are over the age of 60. Like their teacher, Marion, they began losing their vision later in life, so they have memories of seeing. Like Marion, they have learned to find other ways of seeing. Dancing together is one.

For anyone who was born blind, like the young man in this gospel story, other ways of seeing are the norm. I wonder if that is why this young man is able to see things that others cannot see.

To read the story in John’s gospel you have to suspend judgment and just hear it. Because the people in the story are offering starkly different narratives about what’s going on. In the beginning, John does tell us, plainly, what happened, so let’s begin with that: Jesus approached the blind man, made some muddy paste and applied it to his eyes. He instructed the man to go wash it off and when he did he was able to see. So, that’s clear enough, right?

But that’s only the beginning of the story. Because then the neighbors and the Pharisees enter and they tell their versions of the story.

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 won’t be gaslighted by anyone; he persists in speaking the true as he experienced it. Which seems to make trouble for everyone else.

Then the Pharisees are asked to weigh in, so they begin to 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 at least it’s a distraction.

Meanwhile, the neighbors go to question the young man’s parents because now 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.

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 clearly turns out to be the one who was born blind.

It is a story that asks us to look beneath the surface level and really examine what it means to see – to perceive – truth. And for all of us, regardless of what kind of vision we have, it involves going beyond what we think we already know. It involves being able to see what we have never seen before.

In these last few weeks, we have been asked to envision a reality that we have a very hard time imagining, let alone believing could actually happen. Several weeks ago, an official from the CDC addressed the public and told us to be prepared to have our lives seriously disrupted. She said we should expect to have schools closed and work interrupted, and all kinds of normal activities stopped for a period of time.

When she said this, just a few weeks ago, none of us wanted to believe it. Many of us denied that it would happen. Why? Because we had never seen it happen before.

But it did happen, didn’t it? And yet, throughout these weeks, while we have seen one disruption after another, many of us still insisted that it was overblown. That people were overreacting. That the virus was really no worse than the common cold. That the flu virus kills many more people than COVID-19, just look at the statistics. We have insisted that what we are hearing is not real. Why? Because we can’t see it yet.

Our eyes are not trained to see what might happen. We see only what is before us now, and we can only imagine what we have seen before. Like the neighbors of the young blind man who tried to make sense of things by deciding that the young man was never actually blind. Like the Pharisees who are trying to get a grip on their lives by picking out holes in the logic so they can deny the truth that is standing before them.

They focus on the technical problems rather than the miracle standing before them.

When I say this, I do not mean to infer that COVID-19 is a miracle. It’s not. It’s a disease that has upended our lives completely. It has increased our stress levels dramatically. People who struggle with anxiety are finding themselves challenged to stay calm and present. People who struggle with depression are faced with the challenge of keeping themselves lifted up and functioning while their routines are deeply disrupted. People are alone and lonely. People are afraid – of all kinds of loss. The loss of health, of life, of our loved ones, of our security. We are seeing things happen now that we have not really been able to imagine happening to us before.

Covid-19 is not a miracle. It is not an act of God. People of faith, we do not believe God intentionally inflicts us with pandemic. But we do believe that God is present and active in every trial we face.

How can you see God at work here and now?

Yes, we are being asked to see beyond our ordinary ways of seeing.

We are re-imagining how we do everything. How we work, how we learn, how we stay in touch with loved ones, how we care for one another. How we hold and even strengthen the bonds of community. We are grateful for the internet in a whole new way. And, surprisingly, we are rediscovering the beauty of neighborhood.

In my old hometown, musicians are taking their instruments out on their porches and providing live music for the neighbors. Neighborhoods are holding singalongs as they open their windows or get out on their front stoops and sing and dance.

Here and other places, neighbors are checking in on one another, making sure people have what they need and that they are okay. And right here at this church, a few people have been getting together every day to give sack lunches to anyone in the neighborhood who comes to our parking lot to get one. And there is so much more.

Maybe you are calling people you don’t normally call, just to hear their voices and tell them you love them. It’s a good idea. Maybe you are rediscovering the art of letter writing, to reach out to people far away with something they can hold in their hand. It’s a good idea. How many ways can we find to love and care for one another in this time of COVID-19?

In this era of social distancing how can we connect?

The message of the story that I hear today is this: sometimes you need to find completely new ways of seeing in order to avoid total blindness. Like the blind woman Marion who dances, and all those who dance with her. They can’t see one another the way we normally see. But dancing together they see one another differently – without fear, without inhibitions.

The message for us, living in a time of pandemic is this: let us keep our hearts open, our ears open, our minds open, as well as our eyes open. Look to see how God is with us through all of this, guiding us to love our neighbors and ourselves with the same love God has for us.

Photo Credit: Kira Fischer, Family Zoom