By This We Will Know: The Dance of Love

 

John 10:11-17

1John 3:16-18,23-24           

Here’s a question for you: Would anyone notice if our church disappeared?

I remember the first time I heard someone ask that question. It was something I had never thought of before, because church has been a central part of my life for my whole life. Every time I have moved to a new place, finding a church was always on the A-list of things I needed to get done. I had never even given a thought to the possibility of church disappearing.

So I was intrigued by the question. But I have to admit, my first thought on hearing it was quite literal. The church we were talking about takes up almost an entire block of Market Street. If it was suddenly one day gone, leaving behind a big vacant lot, people would notice. Of course, people would notice.

It might even warrant a headline in the local paper: “Historic Presbyterian Church mysteriously disappears.”

I couldn’t get that vivid picture out of my head, the image of the void that would be left in the middle of town were the church to disappear. But even while I was imagining that, the person who asked the question answered it for me.

Yes, many people would miss this church, because if this church disappeared, the place where Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous and Al-Anon groups meet every day of the week would be gone too. It would mean that the local Salvation Army Service Center would be gone too. It would mean that the gathering place for the Mothers of Young Children Group would be gone, and the kitchen where the county extension service held cooking and nutrition classes for low-income families would be gone. It would mean that the sanctuary where the university music program holds so many of their concerts is gone. And the list could go on. Sure, the members of the congregation would miss it if it disappeared. But the reality is that there are quite a few other stakeholders too. People would notice; and people would care that it was gone.

And that is a good thing.

I once worked at a church that everyone in town drove past every day but very few had ever been inside. Because, other than a few church activities, nothing happened in that building. Monday through Saturday it was as quiet as a tomb. I always felt that was such a waste.

I much prefer to see a church building in use every day of the week by anyone and everyone we can invite in – the Sweet Adelines singing their pretty harmonies; the Garden Club demonstrating new table centerpieces; the Ham Radio Club … doing whatever those ham radio guys do. Just bring them on – all of them; bring it on.

But even while I was listening to this person describe all the groups that would miss our building if it disappeared, I felt a “yes, but …” tugging at me.

We have all heard it said many times that the church is not its building. The church is the people who are, all together, the body of Christ. And as much as we get attached to our building, we have to acknowledge that even if our building disappeared it would not change our calling. It would not change our identity as the body of Christ. So, the more important question to me is this: If our church building disappeared, how would we do that? How would we continue to be the body of Christ? Would we still be the church? and would anyone know it?

I do worry sometimes how other people would know we were the church if we didn’t have this church building. In fact, I even worry about how we would know we were the church if we suddenly were without our building.

Can we still be the church without a steeple? Without pews? Can we still be church without an organ?

Can we be church without walls?

I am asking these questions today because of all that we have been through in the past year. Suddenly in March of last year we stopped gathering within these walls – something I never thought would happen – and didn’t come back for almost a whole year. All during that time one of the questions we faced was how to still be the church in all the important ways.

This was a formidable challenge for us. So much energy went into figuring out how to livestream worship and how to hold committee meetings on zoom. The Deacons and the Mission Committee held some long conversations, on zoom, about if and how they could continue to support the needy organizations in our community that perhaps were needier now than ever before. We worked hard at these things. Yet I have to admit that because we were putting so much new energy into a few things that we had to keep going, I was always wondering if we were letting the ball drop on some other things.

It was suddenly much harder than ever before to demonstrate the love of Christ to the people who live in our town.

When we stop doing the things that we have always done, how do we know if we are still the body of Christ? How do we know if Christ still abides in us?

Even now, these questions feel painful to me. I felt like I was frantically trying to hold onto this identity during a time when all the identifying markers were being stripped away. The dance I had been doing all my life, I could no longer do. Would it be possible to learn new steps and keep on dancing?

While I was thinking about these things, I heard something that gave me a new perspective. The image of church as a demonstration plot – or experimental plot. It’s not an especially pretty image, and if you didn’t spend a good portion of your life in America’s farm belt, you might be thinking, “huh?”

At the University of Illinois, where I attended college, there are experimental plots on campus, where the College of Agriculture studies soil quality and agricultural productivity. You know, just trying to make things grow well. The plots are so important to the University that when they needed that space to build a new library, they built the library underground, so as not to disturb the plots or affect the sunlight they receive.

You see these kinds of plots all around the middle section of the country where so much of the economy is agricultural. But you see them other places too. They serve farmers everywhere to help them get the most out of their land, to help them feed the country as best we can.

So the image of church as an experimental plot was appealing to me: the church, wherever it exists on earth, as a place where we experiment with living as the kingdom of God – feeding Christ’s sheep, if you will. The only problem is, though, where to start?

Then, last year – unexpectedly – some new steps revealed themselves.

An organization called Rebirth, one of our tenants at the LMB, said they wanted to begin a virtual school support center for students and their families. When school went online, some kids were left behind. Families with limited resources, families with language barriers – these kids were struggling, or giving up. Rebirth wanted to build a bridge to help these families keep up. Would we allow them to do it in Makemie Hall on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays? We said yes, and our Mission Committee supported them with funds to purchase educational supplies they would need.

Then the organizers of CESP, the Community Emergency Shelter Project, said we have a need we hope you can fill. They wanted a location where the shelter could be set up, safely, for the entire season. Would we allow them to use Makemie Hall seven nights a week for 12 weeks to make room for up to 30 homeless men to be safe and warm and have some degree of stability for a period of time? And so we did.

We were learning some new dance steps. We were learning how to be the body of Christ in strange new times. When the Spirit led us to say yes, by this we knew that he still abides in us.

And so it goes.

When we read the New Testament we don’t see much about the church buildings, but we see the many ways the people of the church acted in love. The many ways they were led by the Spirit to care for one another. The first letter of John asks: How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? 

How, indeed?

During the hardest days of the past year when I was unsure if we were doing much of anything right, God’s Spirit worked in mysterious and powerful ways, giving us opportunities to say yes. When we were approached with a new request, it was as if the Spirit was inviting us to dance in a new way. When we say yes – when we accept the invitation to learn a new dance – we are assured that Christ abides in us.

Now we will be challenged in a new way, as we once again leave this sanctuary so the work on the walls can begin. We, too, will be using Makemie Hall, that wonderful gift we received that keeps on giving again and again. We will learn another set of steps as we figure out how to worship there; how to reach out with love and invite new ones in with us.

The Spirit is always inviting us to learn new steps, to step out in love. Last week I talked about the joy we can share with one another, and we watched Dancing Matt, share his joy all around the world with his dancing. Today, I have another Matt video to show you, and in this one Matt is learning new dances from the people and places he visits. You see, it goes both ways. Accept the invitation, follow the steps we are shown, and learn to dance a new dance.

While in Their Joy: Dancing Sure

Luke 24:36-48   

1 John 3: 1-3      

Some years ago when I was leading a church youth group I showed them how to play the laughing game. One person lies on the floor, the next person lies down with their head on the first person’s belly. Then the next person lies down with their head on the second person’s belly, and so on until you have a chain of people lying on the floor. The first person starts to laugh – it’s ok if it’s fake. When they start laughing, the second person starts laughing, then the next one and the next one and pretty soon everyone is really laughing. I don’t know why, but that’s what happens.

Laughter is contagious. That’s why TV sitcoms have a laugh track if not a studio audience, to help us start laughing. In fact, this is something I have really missed during the pandemic. When you watch TV, don’t you miss hearing the laughter of other people?

Laughter is contagious. Happiness is contagious, there are studies that affirm this. Researchers find that if you are happy, your next-door neighbor has a 34 percent increased chance of becoming happy too. What’s more, happiness has a social network effect – it can spread up to three degrees. That’s a fact. In a weird way, it turns out that maybe we are responsible for one another’s happiness.

Laughter is contagious. Happiness is contagious. Is joy also contagious? Joy is more complex than happiness. It’s deeper, if not bigger, than happiness. Joy is something that can persevere even when you are in the middle of something tragic. I do believe that joy, too, is contagious.

I don’t have the research to back that one up, but perhaps you just know it from experience. We can become more joyful when we are around joyful people. There are times in life when we just need someone to show us the way to joy.

There is a man named Matt I want to tell you about. He worked as a video game designer. His career was going well, but as the games he was working on became increasingly violent he began to have reservations. He didn’t want to spend his life writing games about killing people. He decided to quit his job and he began traveling around the world. Pretty soon he found a new calling.

Matt began shooting videos of himself dancing wherever he went. He would get someone to hold his phone and then he would start dancing his happy little jig. It was funny and fun to watch, and pretty soon, other people started dancing with him. Matt’s joy was contagious.

When we experience joy and express joy, it is contagious. In spite of everything.

There is a surprising appearance of the word joy in this passage from Luke. This is still the day of resurrection. Last week we read from John’s gospel about the appearance of Jesus to the disciples in the upper room that Sunday evening, afraid. Today we have a similar passage from Luke, with some additional context. Earlier in the day some of Jesus’ disciples were walking to Emmaus when Jesus joined them on the road. They didn’t recognize him, but he walked and talked with them. After a while, when they stopped at an inn and sat at table together his identity was revealed to them. And just as quickly he was gone. The disciples rushed back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples what they experienced. When they were talking, Jesus appeared again.

Luke says the disciples were startled and terrified – as anyone would be. They had seen him die three days before; they had no idea what was going on now. Then, Luke says something odd: “While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering.”

What in the world does this mixture of disbelief and wonder and joy feel like all together?

It is what happens whenever you are open to the very real presence of Jesus in your midst. It is confusing, it is startling, it is mystifying. It is possibly frightening, but it is also strangely wonderful. We are reminded by this story in Luke that when we are talking about Jesus – surprise! He is there too. He came right in and said, “Do you have anything to eat?”

When we are talking about God, guess what? God is there too. Because these are not just ideas we are talking about. These are real living beings. Jesus is revealed to us in all places and all times, and especially whenever two or three are gathered in his name – that is, talking about him.

The letter of John assures us that he will be revealed to us, and when he is revealed, we will see him as he is. And we will be like him. Think about that – the notion that we will see him as he is – wounded hands and feet; full of grace and truth – and that we will be like him. I find it has a humbling effect.

Last week I told you about my friend who likes to explain his philosophy of faith, which is not an original idea. It is something that is often called Pascal’s Wager. The basic idea is that you make a choice about whether to believe or not believe in God. Believing is the safe bet, while disbelieving is risky. If you are wrong and it turns out God exists then too bad for you. That’s the theory.

I don’t know if you have an affinity for that theory – and if you do, whether you were troubled by what I said last week. But I want to tell you a little more of the story.

Years ago, I was sitting around a table with this friend and a few other people talking about what we believed about God. He presented his theory, others chimed in with their own ideas, and everyone was having a really vigorous and intellectual and enjoyable conversation. Someone asked me, “what do you think?” I said, “I think God is smiling at us right now. I think God is saying, ‘Oh just look how cute they are, thinking they know so much.’”

And it makes me smile to think about God smiling. To think about God looking at us with tenderness, with amusement. Try it. It might make it easier for us to look on our fellow humans with that same kind of tenderness, amusement, love.

In any case, it can’t hurt to watch something joyful. Here is a video of Dancing Matt.

With Great Power: Dancing Together

John 20:19-22    

1 John 1: 1-4

I know someone who likes to explain to me his philosophy of religion every chance he gets. This is how he looks at it, he says. It’s better to believe in God than not believe in God. If God is real, you win! And if it turns out there is no God, what have you lost? Nothing. On the other hand, if you choose not to believe and it turns out you should have, then God might be pretty ticked off at you somewhere down the road. So, you should believe in God, because – really, what have you got to lose? It’s as safe as a bet can be.

My friend likes this argument and maybe even thinks he invented it. He didn’t. It’s called Pascal’s Wager, named after the 17^th century philosopher. So it’s been around for a while. And it probably appeals to lots of people – including, maybe, you.

What I need to confess to you is that … this theory? it offends me. And I have never said that before, because it seems inappropriate for me to be offended by it.

All I can say is that it feels like a weird way for humans to convince themselves they have it all under control. Like you can choose to believe if you decide it’s in your best interest to believe. I find so many things about that troubling. And opposed to what I read in the scriptures. And the readings today from the Gospel of John and the first epistle of John really emphasize that for me. I will try to explain why that is, but first let me take a minute to talk about the books that go by the name John.

People used to assume that the gospel of John and the epistles of John were written by the same guy called John. When you look at them closely, you can see that the writings share some of the same ideas, language, and style. So it was reasonable to assume they were all written by the same hand. But scholars today tend to think this is unlikely. More likely, they think, that they are a part of something we call the Johannine community.

The story of the Johannine community is that it was made up of people who were originally Jewish Christians. They were a part of a Jewish synagogue and they believed that Christianity was continuous with Judaism. They believed there was nothing inconsistent with their beliefs about Jesus and their Jewish traditions. They felt perfectly at home within the Jewish community. Even though there were differences between them and their non-Christian Jewish brothers and sisters, they felt at home – for a while.

But then tension began to rise. Gradually everyone began to feel those differences as being more important than the similarities. And eventually the Christians were pushed out of the community – which was painful and traumatic. And maybe you see some of that pain reflected in the way John’s gospel has a tendency to disparage the Jews.

I suppose as a result of a traumatic rejection like that, you could become a person who decides that you just can’t trust anyone, that the most important thing is to be self-reliant. You could decide that your highest value is to make sure you are doing what serves you best. Take care of yourself and don’t worry about the rest.

But in reality, it seems like what really happened as a result of the break, was they became aware of how important community was to them. So they cherished it and nurtured it. They loved it, and all the people in it. This comes through very clearly in the epistles of John.

Notice in the few verses from the beginning of 1 John how many times the author uses the first-person plural: We, us, our. This pattern continues throughout this set of epistles. The person holding the pen is always conscious of the whole community standing with him. You get the sense that the whole community has made the decision that this is who they are, that their lives individually are all dependent on one another. The community is essential to them.

And to us as well. This is a foundational belief of the church – that we are followers of Christ together. That one cannot really be a Christian alone. It is not an independent pursuit; it is something we do together if we do it at all.

And this gets back to the fundamental problem I have with the “Pascal’s Wager” school of faith. It has underlying it an essential belief that faith is self-benefitting, that it is something you do out of self-interest. That the primary reason for believing is to take care of yourself. And that you simply choose to believe, the same as you might choose to put on lipstick or go to the gym. Because, it can’t hurt and it might help.

And while faith surely is beneficial to one’s well-being, Pascal’s Wager misses out on the reason why. It is beneficial because it is community. We need one another, and in the church, we are there for one another.

The Holy Spirit, that parting gift that Jesus gave his disciples before he left them, is how we receive the power to be together as a community. That first evening of the first Easter, when the resurrected Jesus looked in on a frightened and confused little group of disciples, he loved them and gave them what they needed – the Spirit – which would give them the power to love as he loved them – and would give them the power to remain together.

The power of the Spirit is still with us today and it is what enables us to keep on dancing this dance of faith together and making a difference in the world. Pascal’s Wager would have us choose the safe bet, but real Christian faith is about taking chances for the sake of the world God loves.

For All Peoples, A Feast!

John 20:1-18      

Isaiah 25:6-9

This is an Easter like no other in our lives, after a year like no other. But the story we share today is the same as ever.

Last year on Easter morning we read the same story from the Gospel of John. That early in the morning while it was still dark, Mary went to the tomb to care for the body of a loved one, Jesus. I am sure Mary had already been shedding a lot of tears, between Friday and this early morning walk to the tomb. Possibly, she felt like she was all cried out. She had that kind of headache that you get behind your eyes when you have been crying a lot. And now she was just thinking about the task ahead of her –

Which she thought was fairly predictable. But when she arrived, she found something she could not have imagined. It must have looked to her like the scene of a crime. The tomb has been robbed, Mary thought. Injury piled on top of injury, not even the body of her loved one was there. And Mary began to cry again, for all that had been lost.

We have been there. Just a few days ago we were in this sanctuary remembering how Jesus was arrested. How he was beaten and mocked and condemned to death by crucifixion. The sky turned dark that Friday afternoon when he died. Strangely, we call it Good Friday.

We have known some Good Fridays, too; days when darkness and death seemed to overshadow everything. Days when hope seemed lost. This past Friday, St. Joseph Catholic Church in Washington DC was just finishing their service. Two men lay dying outside on the United States Capitol grounds. Worshipers were told to stay put while the crime scene was being locked down. Good Friday is a common state of the world in which we live.

But our faith reminds us again and again that God gives us reason to hope. And to celebrate.

The text we read today from Isaiah gives hope to a nation that felt all was completely lost. Beaten and destroyed by their enemy, Israel stood on shaky ground looking at the ruins of their former lives. And into this desolate landscape God spoke words of hope – the strongest possible hope.

The Lord will make a feast of rich food and well-aged wines; he will destroy the shroud of death that is cast over all peoples. Yes, the Lord will swallow up death forever.

Every tear shall be wiped away from every face. There will be no more weeping, but only laughing and dancing for joy. And it will be said on that day: this is our God. We trusted in him. We waited for him, and he showed up.

He showed up on that early dark morning when Mary stood weeping. And he shows up for each one of us when we need him.

And so in this world where there is much heartache and death, where we shed many tears, we still have days when we feast and rejoice and celebrate because we know we have a God who shows up.

Our theme for this Easter season is “Daring to dance again,” because as Easter people we know the light shines. We know Christ has triumphed over death, and we look toward a day when his victory is complete. We await the glorious feast on that day, with all Israel, because we have been given a foretaste of the feast to come.

So while we have our sorrows, we also have hope. While we have dark days, still the glimmers of joy have not disappeared. We laugh in spite of our sour moods. Because this, too, is what it is to be human: to love and to laugh and to create. And because of all this, even while we are not out of the darkness yet, we dare to dance again – if not in our bodies, then in our spirits.

You may be wondering what’s up with all the umbrellas. They might make you think of the rhyme, April showers bring May flowers – which is fitting. But more than that, the umbrellas are here to remind us of the shelter, the protection we find in life’s storms. Because even in the most threatening storms, we are covered by God’s love through Jesus Christ. We are covered by hope and the promise of life in its fullest sense. And with this cover, we may dance and sing in the rain, just like Gene Kelly. The rain cannot wipe away our joy. The dark clouds cannot obliterate our hope. During this past year we have seen this truth in many ways.

Last year, in the throes of our pandemic, an artist named Elizabeth Turk got a call from a retirement community in California. They wanted to talk to her about designing some umbrellas they could sell in their gift shop. While discussing the project with them, the talk turned to the residents of this community, and how they were impacted by the pandemic. Their strength and resilience inspired her to create a work of art that she called “Look Up.”

She used umbrellas. She filmed the residents moving around the grounds to music – some with their walkers, others in wheelchairs – all holding up umbrellas. Then she took the film footage and created this amazing kaleidoscopic work of art. You can see the trailer here.

In an interview, she said she experienced this project as grace.

Grace – what a wonderful word.

In the midst of a broken and fearful world,

In the midst of death,

In the midst of our despair, we dare to dance – dances of hope; dances of justice; dances of love.

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Holy and Whole

Matthew 9:1-8

There are very few slow news days anymore. Every day, there are more than enough problems to fill columns of newsprint and hours of newscasts. The question is which story will rise to the top and get a piece of our attention. Recently, stories about mass shootings were among them. Last week in Boulder Colorado. Ten people, as innocent as any of us, dead. And we grieve it, as we have grieved so many other similar incidents. 

We had barely finished absorbing the details of another event in Atlanta the previous week, which cost eight human lives. 

When we hear about these violent incidents, one of the first thoughts we have is, why? What reason did this person have for committing such a terrible act? Why?

“Why” is a fundamental question of life. We often ask why things happen. When a loved one gets sick, we ask: why? When they die we ask: why? When we suffer great losses of any kind, we are likely to ask the same question: why?

Why, we ask God, are you letting this happen? Are you angry at us, Lord? How have we sinned against you, Lord, to deserve this pain?

In the gospel story today Jesus makes the connection between sickness and the brokenness of sin, and brings us into that uncomfortable space where we have to examine the connection for ourselves. Which is sometimes easy, and other times impossible.

There are times when we find it easy to play the role of diagnostician. Even those of us with no particular expertise are often eager to tell others what they have done to cause their particular ailment. There are times when we are ready and willing to say, “here, let me get that speck out of your eye. No, don’t worry about this log in my own eye – I can see around it quite well.”

This is nothing new in the history of the world. John’s gospel tells the story about Jesus’ encounter with a man who was born blind and his disciples are puzzled by this matter. For them, it’s a question of “why.” They ask Jesus, “Who sinned? Was it his parents, since he was born this way? That must be it. This young man must be paying the price of his parents’ sins, that could be the only explanation.” Cause and effect – it helps us make sense of the world. 

Still, I don’t think this paralytic man in Matthew’s story, nor his friends who carried him to Jesus, were thinking at the time about his parents, or their own, sins. They had heard about this Jesus, an amazing healer, and they just wanted to get close to him. So great was their desire for healing, their love for their friend, that they came together and picked up his bed with the man in it, and carried it to Jesus.

They came for healing – and yet words of forgiveness were the first thing Jesus said to them. Take heart, son; your sins are forgiven. The reader might feel a disconnect between their need and his response – but I wonder if these men did. Perhaps they never doubted that somehow their spiritual brokenness was all intertwined with their bodily brokenness. 

Jesus’ critics took exception, however. They would not have objected to a simple healing – but for Jesus to declare forgiveness of sins, that is blasphemy. Humans can perform acts of healing. But only God can forgive sins.

Yet, we see, Jesus is insisting that they are inseparable. 

And even while I say this, I am mindful of the fact that these are harsh words to our tender souls. In our hearts we harbor the fear that, like most everything else in this world, our relationship with God is transactional. We bear the suspicion that God, like so many people we know, will be nice to us if we are nice to God. But that, if we are not nice enough, God’s displeasure will show.

Yet the message of the gospel resists such notions. Through Jesus we have come to know a God of extravagant love, of boundless forgiveness. Jesus, in his acts of healing, never asked anyone to bow and scrape, to show themselves worthy of this gift. He gave it freely.

He gave so much, so freely: he gave everything – freely.

For God so loved the world, he gave his only son. Freely.

And still, we live each day in a world that is wracked with brokenness, suffering, and death. And we cannot help but wonder why.

Many years ago I knew a family whose son had cancer. His parents did everything in their power to beat the disease. His doctors did everything in their power to heal him. His church family prayed for him constantly. They loved this boy and his family very much. One member of that church, deeply troubled by their suffering, asked the pastor: Why would such an awful thing as this happen? 

It is always dangerous to try and answer these “why” questions. But this pastor did. He answered with one word: sin. 

And the member became angry. This young child is innocent. He has committed no sin that could possible justify such punishment, Pastor. What is wrong with you? How can you say such a thing? 

But the pastor said, no. I don’t mean any particular sin. I don’t mean he is responsible for his illness. I am referring to the state of the world in which we live. This is about the brokenness of everything. It is about the human condition.

It is always about the human condition. We are part of a fallen creation, with brokenness at every level; we are suffering in every way because of our brokenness, but with a dim memory of our original wholeness. Once, we remember, we were holy; once we were created in the image of our creator, holy and whole.

When Jesus walked this earth, his every word, his every act, was a reminder of this truth. His very presence was a promise that our wholeness may be restored. 

There were many witnesses that day to the miracle of healing. When the paralytic man stood up and walked, they were all filled with awe. And they sang praises to God, who gave such power, such authority to human beings.

Human beings – Jesus … and through him, the church … you and me.

For he said: you who gather in my name are given authority to bind and to loose, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. All of us together, the community of faith, have this authority to begin to repair the brokenness.

It’s a heavy lift, no doubt. There were 20,000 deaths in our nation from gun violence last year – a year in which we had hundreds of thousands of additional deaths from COVID-19. The brokenness is on full display. Yet we are called to join in the effort, to lift up the broken, the hurting, the grieving and carry them to Jesus.

We are called to sing songs of God’s grace that rains down on all of creation. To sing our hosannas – save us, Lord; heal us, Lord!

We are called to lay a path for King Jesus to come today.

 

Different Pictures

Matthew 9:18-26

We are seeing a lot of remembrances right now from one year ago. As a nation, we are remembering together how this pandemic began a year ago. Remembering what we were doing last year at this time.

March 15 of last year was the last time we gathered in the sanctuary for worship. We knew then something big, something ominous was coming. Many of us had decided already to stay home. And for those of us who were here, we were introduced to new practices – social distancing. Hand sanitizing. No touching. 

No touching. This felt very strange. 

We knew something big was on the horizon, but we had no real understanding of what it would be. I listened to the news, I watched what was going on around me. And it seemed like every time I said to myself, “that can’t happen,” it did happen.

It just didn’t seem possible that we would shut down schools and expect families and teachers to deal with it. But we did.

It didn’t seem possible that hospitals and nursing homes would say no visitors allowed. But they did.

It didn’t seem possible to me that it could go on for so long. But it did.

I did not have the imaginative capacity to understand what was about to happen, but it happened anyway. We adjusted. We adapted. And we began waiting for the time when things could return to the way they were before.

Gradually it began to dawn on us, though, that things would not go back to what they were before. Not really.

It has been a year of letting go, and I mean really letting go. Sure, some things we just set down for a while, knowing that we would pick them back up later. But there are other things we have had to let go.

My daughter said to me last week, “Can we just talk about how truly disgusting it is to be bowling and eating at the same time? To pick up this bowling ball, stick your fingers in it, roll it down the floor, then go pick up a sandwich?” That kind of carelessness about where our hands have been? That’s gone. Although I won’t shed any tears about it.

Because there are much more serious things we have had to let go of. Our sense of invincibility – the thinking that we have dominance over anything and everything the world can throw at us. It turns out we don’t.

Or our sense of individualism, total self-reliance – this notion that I am free to do what I want and I am dependent on no one but myself. It turns out we are really much more interconnected than we might have thought.

And, of course, the loss of more than a million lives, and all that those lives might have been.

Through it all, our belief in the world as it is, without concern for what it might be – this also has been shattered.   

But hope is a very human characteristic. And as people of faith, our hope finds focus in the gospel of Jesus Christ, which shows us that, through loss, we find our way to new life.

The passage today combines two stories of healing together. Jesus has been sitting at table with some Pharisees who were questioning him about his practices, when he is suddenly interrupted by an official – a leader of the synagogue. His need is urgent. His daughter is dead. He wants Jesus to revive her.

We should pause a minute and realize how extraordinary it is that he would see this as possible. Has he seen Jesus bring life from death? Matthew give us no reason to believe so. Yet, through Jesus, this man has the ability to see something entirely new. Jesus responds by rising from his seat and following.

While they are walking, a woman who has been hemorrhaging for 12 years approaches him from behind. She kneels down to touch the hem of his cloak, believing this will heal her. Jesus turns and says, “Take heart, daughter, your faith has healed you.” And upon his words, the bleeding stops. 

Then we go back to the synagogue leader and his daughter at his house. The crowd gathered around the house laugh at Jesus because they cannot imagine anything other than death inside that house. But Jesus goes inside, touches the girl’s body, and she rises.

And in these short, sweet stories woven together the gospel reaffirms to us that Jesus brings new possibilities that shatter old assumptions about the world. The gospel shows us that Jesus touches us and, out of what was dead, gives new life.

We know this is true in a real, physical way. Every time we gather together for the funeral of someone who has died, we call it a witness to the resurrection. This is so central to our faith, that just as Jesus overcame death in his own body, he also does it for us. We believe that through him, we will rise to new life, eternal life.

But that’s not all.

It is also true in another way, here and now. We know from his words and healing actions that Jesus brings us new life even in the midst of this old life. We know that he has ushered in the realm of God and shows us a whole different way, here and now, of seeing and living.

If we can just do it … let Jesus be our vision and see something different.

Together, as we mark this one-year anniversary of our COVID-19 pandemic, we are finding our way toward something different; we are healing.

And as we journey through healing, let us each ask ourselves: in what way is Jesus calling us to new life? How is Jesus awakening us, awakening our spirts and calling us into the holy work of creativity? What are we letting go of, and what are we taking from the old life and shaping into something new? 

What kinds of dreams is Jesus giving us?

We take our broken pieces and through Jesus imagine something new. We let go of old pictures of what the world is like, and together – through Jesus – we create some different pictures of the way the world can be.

Stories

 

Matthew 9:27-33

I have been wondering recently what we will say about our pandemic experience after it is all over. When we look back on this time, with the perspective of months or years, what will we say? What stories will we tell?

I listen sometimes to Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Friar, who writes and speaks a lot about spiritual things. I heard him say that there was surprisingly little written about the great flu pandemic of 1918. The reason, he gathered, was because people were ashamed of themselves. Some people abandoned their families. Many people acted in selfishness and fear. And after it was all over, they were too ashamed to speak of it. They only wanted to forget about it.

If we are honest with ourselves, each one of us can probably identify with that in some way. There have been times in our lives that we were not our best selves – far from it. There have been chapters in our lives that we have chosen to forget, somehow – by rewriting the story; by deciding it was unimportant; by literally blocking it from our conscious memory.

We tell a lot of stories that are untrue. We learn at a young age. Many families have unwritten codes about what sorts of things can be talked about, and what topics are off-limits. Some things are just too painful to say out loud. Sometimes we cannot admit the truth because it feels like the truth will break us – shatter us into a million pieces.

Pain frightens us; fear hurts us; and it becomes hard to get out of this cycle of dishonesty.

But all over the world, in all kinds of circumstances, people find that truthful storytelling has the power to heal; that truth will, indeed, set us free.

This was so in South Africa, in the years after apartheid was dismantled. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission provided a space for both victims and oppressors to tell their stories and be heard.

This is so in every 12-Step group, where addicts practice telling their story as an essential part of their recovery.

Telling our story is a healing art, drawing a thread through the events of our lives and shedding light on them. This is why the scriptures are full of stories, especially the gospels.

Matthew tells a lot of stories about healing in his gospel. In this one he tells about two blind men who are following Jesus. They are crying out, “Have mercy on us, Son of David.” And they follow Jesus into a house, where he turns and speaks to them. He asks them if they believe. They say they do. And then he heals them. Their eyes are opened, their sight is restored. He tells them to stay quiet about this, but they promptly go out and start telling everyone they see.

I don’t know why they did that. Nor do I really understand why Jesus seemed to be always ordering people to keep his healings secret. In reality, you cannot keep these kinds of things secret – they are too awesome to hide. Possibly, the men who had received their sight simply found it impossible to be obedient. And possibly, Jesus was only trying to control the chaos that will undoubtedly follow when people learn there is a really effective miracle worker in the vicinity.

But the question that ought to be asked is why did Matthew tell the story this way? Why are these particular elements of the story important?

One detail that is easy to overlook comes at the beginning of the story: Two blind men are following Jesus. They have already latched onto him as disciples before he even speaks to them. Before they have seen him, they know who he is – Son of David, they call out to him. The Messiah.

They enter a house with him, a place where there may be some privacy, and he speaks to them. Do they believe? He asks. Yes, Lord, they say. We do believe. They come out of that house with their eyes opened.

The story tells us that, even though they had a disability they were able to believe. That even though they lacked eyesight they had a different, more powerful, kind of vision which enabled them to see Jesus as the Son of David, the Lord. In fact, maybe it was because they were blind that they could see and have faith.

Much as we might hate it, it is true that hardship can be a powerful teacher. Challenge can become opportunity for growth. Knowing – confessing – our weakness can increase our faith. Knowing who we are, in all our frailties and brokenness and scars, can help us know God. And telling our stories can help others know God.

When we are fully on the other side of this pandemic, what stories will we tell? We might choose to never talk about it – put it behind us and shut the door on it. Or we might, in some way, remain stuck in it – never letting go of the fear and anger that has been such a big part of it. But I hope we will look back at it and speak of it truthfully: speak of the great suffering we endured, the fear we felt and possibly the shame of acting not as our best selves, because we were afraid or angry.

I hope we will speak of the ways we were so interconnected, knowing that whatever way we chose to act, this would have an impact on others. For better or for worse.

I hope we will speak, too, of the beauty, the courage, the compassion we witnessed all around us.

And I hope that – even in the midst of this – we will know how God’s love and healing strength is woven through it all. There is much evil in this world – I will not deny that. But there is just as much, and more, good.

I hope when we tell our stories we tell the truth, because the truth will make us whole.