Through Stained Glass: Choosing Community--a sermon

Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.

“Choosing Community”

Acts 2.42-47 & John 10.1-10

Sunday, May 3, 2020

Community.

Since I first felt a nudge to ministry, people have asked me why. My answer is honest and straightforward--I believe in community.

When we get right down to it, we are to live life together. Since the beginning, as our faith story has it, humanity has lived in a relationship with all created things: all creation, fellow humans, and God.

The church is Christ on earth. It is a paradox of faith. Christ is our Good Shepherd, the one who seeks after us, but by the Holy Spirit, we are the Good Shepherd, too. Christ never abandoned us, so we are never to leave each other. We are the church, and we witness to Jesus as a peaceable, virtuous, ethical, just, serving, and diverse-but-unified community. We are to be an alternative reality community in the world. Community guided by the Holy Spirit, rooted in the practices of Christ and committed to the abundant life offered by God is how the world, our town, and our own lives, will come to know peace. Here's how.

The church of Jesus Christ can speak life and hope into a fracturing and divisive world. It can proclaim and embody the new creation in Christ, the new humanity, and show a different ethic and way of life in the world. God gifts us, as God's one, unique, and transformed people to recover our humanity and help change the world. The church is the continuation of the incarnation—the body of Christ—as Christ is our good shepherd, so we are the shepherds to our communities.

Breaking this down a little more, the church, as we are discovering in this pandemic, is not the building. The church is the people—the community of faith. As the church, we care for each other, love our neighbors, welcome the stranger, and pray for our enemies. As the Good Shepherd looks after the sheep of their fold, risking whatever it takes to see the lost lamb found, so we are to be shepherds to each other. Doing this takes practice, however.

Growing up, as an athlete, I heard this misleading but good intended phrase a lot, "practice makes perfect." The meaning of this phrase is if you hone your skills, you will put yourself in a position where you won't make any mistakes. Talk about pressure! However, the phrase makes sense in light of being on a team. We practice honing our expertise, as do the others on our team so that when it comes time to the performance, we work together to succeed. If someone makes a mistake, we will have prepared enough to adapt and respond in a way that moves us towards an emphatic finish. Whether you’re playing on a team, a part of a play, performing in the orchestra, or building a house—the completed goal is rarely the result of one person working alone. It is a collective effort by a community of folks who put in a lot of discipline and practice to get to the finish line. The same goes for the church.

We see the church practicing community in our Acts lesson today. Chapter two of Acts tells the story of Pentecost, the day the Spirit [according to Luke’s account] was poured out upon the disciples. The disciples in our text today were gathering after the Pentecost moment.  After a transformational moment, the community returned to the essential practices of faith: the apostles' teachings and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. With the memory of Jesus in the upper room with the disciples is still fresh in our minds, we see the early church practicing what they learned from Jesus. Last week the disciples on the road to Emmaus recognized Jesus after the breaking of bread, and today, we see the church committing themselves to be a practicing community. In their practice, we see a pathway towards the promise the Good Shepherd makes in John's Gospel—a life of abundance.

In this honeymoon time of the church, the Jerusalem community is filled with the Spirit, and God's Spirit motivates their life together. Perhaps, the author of Acts is using some hyperbole here. Still, the world he describes presents an ideal human community, the beloved community, the body of Christ, toward which we strive, and which is so different from our individualistic, self-interested, win-lose, competitive world. Whether or not the description of the early church is idyllic or not isn't necessary. What is important is seeing how the first communities of the faith committed to bringing the extravagant and inclusive love of God to all people. They were becoming by way of these particular practices the new humanity—the Body of Christ on Earth. Through their practices, they were able to discern, discover, and deliver the promise of the Good Shepherd.

Friends, the good news is that Christ unifies the church. Christ is our Good Shepherd, goes before us, seeks after us, and when Christ finds us, Christ calls us by our name. As Christ promised the early church, so Christ promises us not just a new life—but life abundant. Christ doesn't offer the church new life—Christ infuses the church with Christ's very life-giving presence and power. People from every nation, tribe, and tongue join to receive this life. We are a community of diverse people set out to be Christ's body in the world.

We must choose community. We must choose to be the community Christ left for us. Of course, to be this community, we need each other—all players, actresses, dreamers, and creators. And we must return to the practices Christ left us to know where and to whom we are being called. As a new creation, embodying a distinct way of life that witnesses to Jesus and the reign of God, the church needs these practices to become that alternative community.

The alternative community Christ breathed into us is why I do what I do. In a world deeply divided by so much injustice, it is the church by the presence and power of the Holy Spirit that the world can experience renewal. To be the beloved community of faith, we must embrace and take the teachings of Christ seriously. We must seek unity in our diversity, pursue justice at all cost, and tell the story of our faith not only with our words but through the way we live our lives. We must not play gatekeepers, but be the ones who open wide the gate to the extravagant love of God. Choosing community then means participating in the re-creation of the world; it means joining in the ministry of reconciliation; it means to be a light to a divided and broken world by breaking down dividing walls of animosity, hatred, fear, and discrimination.

Here’s the thing about community, friends. God exists as a community: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Trinity is a community of selfless love poured out in mutuality and reverence. We are to exist as the Trinity exists—pouring ourselves out in the name of love while also accepting the love poured out to us. Our Acts lesson puts into perspective what the Good Shepherd promises and what the Trinity proclaims—that the community of faith is always about love and life abundant. The Good Shepherd calls, and it is easy to miss Christ's voice because of our busyness, our pursuits for power, and the distracting idols of individualization. God wants one thing for us: abundant life.

So, church—let us choose community. Let us open the gate to the love of God by loving each other. Let us proclaim the good news that God is for everyone. Let us invite as many as we can to this community of faith because without them, we are incomplete, and with them, we have everything we need. Above all, let us choose community because when we do, we choose to be a part of something astonishing—that something is the marvelous work of God restoring, recreating, and resurrecting this good and beautiful world.

           Community is a gift. It is the very way of life for God and with God. Life together rooted in the apostles' teachings and fellowship, the breaking of bread and the prayers is the way we find abundant life. And this community is patient, humble, polite, hospitable, warm, forgiving, hopeful, trusting, and persistent. Who wouldn't want to be a part of this community?

When we choose community—we choose Love.

And that is what makes the world go around.

Through Stained Glass: What Is Saving You? A Guest Post

“be content that you are not yet a saint ... 

Then you will be satisfied to let God lead you 

to sanctity by paths you cannot understand.”

~Thomas Merton, A Book of Hours

Today's midweek reflection is by First Presbyterian Church member, mother, writer, poet, photographer, adventurer, and whimsical warrior, Kelli Owens. You can check out more of Kelli's writing at her blog, Chronicles of Grace, by clicking here.

The days slip by. They are at once a lifetime and yet only a second. Time has taken on more of her inherent wild and nonlinear nature as we move further into a world undomesticated by clocks.

What strikes me is what’s left. And what’s left has a lot to do with noticing how resistance sings her song alongside surrender. How they exist and interplay baffles me and yet somehow in this observable tension resonates the hum of life’s current chord progression. Each is a part of the other – belongs to the other – as two partners in a dance.

To say it again, each is a part of the whole.

Arriving at this conclusion is what’s saving me today. Not only the passing experience of being alive on a day of 75 and sunny where surrender is easy, but being alive in 55 and rain where resistance raises her hand to be counted.

Perhaps salvation has more than one shape. Perhaps the spaciousness that enables observation is the best way to number our days.

Also perhaps it’s time to document such saving. While our face-to-face conversations are limited right now, I wonder if we could meet in the comings and goings of our personal resistances and surrenders. I wonder if we could take photos and share them of times we notice the tension and what beautiful, frail thing opens us to it. In short, that we could share what’s saving us today.

It doesn’t have to be something as fabulous as a sunset or silver raindrops strung on a spider’s web. It could be the face of a playful pet, the messy kitchen in need of scrub, or mud in the driveway. The dance is to notice resistance and surrender, not to fix them, not to conclude.

Through Stained Glass--Choosing Astonishment, a sermon

Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.

“Choosing Astonishment”

Luke 24.13-35

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Third Sunday of Easter Year A

What does it mean to be astonished?

It means to be greatly surprised, impressed, or amazed.

To be astonished, we must be open to a sense of freshness, wonder, gratitude, and awe instead of taking things for granted or getting numb from the pressure of work and life.

As I write this sermon, the world is celebrating Earth Day. Across the world, the human family is expressing gratitude for this beautiful, yet fragile, but also resilient, gift that is the earth. The intricacies of creation leave me astonished for many reasons. One is the fact that creation is the first expression of God’s love. It is one way we get a glimpse at the heart of God.

The towering presence of an oak tree tells me that so much life has happened before me, and it endured all of it. A wilting daffodil offers a perspective that there is a season for all things, but also, they’ll be back next year, reminding me once more of the promise of resurrection. The geese honking overhead calls me to morning prayer, and the indigo color of the night sky beckons me to rest from a day's work, praying, “Stay with me, Lord, for the day is almost over.”

If you haven’t figured out, it doesn’t take much for me to be astonished. It doesn’t take much for me to ponder the reality that we are here, now, nearly fourteen billion years after the cosmos bubbled into being. We are here because of a Love that breathed it all into being at the beginning. Such astonishment brings you into the truth of things, into a relationship with the inherent mysteries and overwhelming gifts of existence, scaled from the molecular system of life to the love and forgiveness in human hearts to the dark substance that glues the universe together.

The road to Emmaus is full of astonishing moments. Two disillusioned, dejected, and downcast disciples are in the middle of a seven-mile somber saunter on a road of broken dreams when the incognito Jesus joins their journey. We aren’t sure why they don’t recognize him, but the author gives us a clue in the way they respond to Christ's question—they stood still, looking sad. The helplessness and hopelessness of all that happened have their attention. Perhaps this is why they are bewildered at the fact that the stranger hadn't heard the news. However, it is his question that initiated the astonishing transformation.

To put it simply—the disciples needed to stop. In their stopping, they can name their grief, express their bleakness, and confess how they've lost heart. We know this, don't we? How many of us have been so distressed ourselves that we miss God's presence right in front of us? The story resonates with us because we've been there. The soles of our shoes have traversed this road of broken hearts that seems to lead us away from resurrection. Still, Jesus listens to it all.

The lonely road reveals to us how Christ hears our anguish and our disbelief. As Jesus leans into their frustration and walks along with their dejection, he leans into our lives as well. Jesus shares our feelings.

Jesus knows what it means to be human and even die a death like ours. When Jesus falls in with these two dejected men, he knows very well what is in their hearts. Christ knows death and the tomb; Christ knows what it means to be mortal. Which is why he responds the way he does to Cleopas.

At first, Jesus' response startles me a bit. However, at a closer look, it is quite astonishing what Jesus is telling them. By opening the Scriptures to them, Jesus recounts the salvific story of God and reveals to them that death and dissolution of life are real. He takes seriously not only their feelings regarding death and dissolution but also their longing for freedom as well. He tells them that the Jesus on whom they had pinned all their hopes, the Jesus who was indeed dead and buried, this Jesus is alive. He says them that for the Jesus whom they admired so much, death and dissolution have become the way to liberation.

Here is when the disciples felt their hearts begin to burn—the sense something new is happening, opening up before them. Jesus kindles in them something for which they had no words, but which was so authentic, so real, that it overcame their dark night of the soul moment. I love how Jesus cares for the disciples at this moment. He doesn't offer a, "Oh, it isn’t as bad as it seems,” or “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” comment. Instead, he said something entirely new, “The most tragic, the most painful, the most hopeless circumstances can become the way to the liberation you long for most of all.” Jesus challenges the disciples, as well as the readers, to see human existence from an entirely different angle, one that is beyond the reach of our common sense. Jesus brings into focus the paradox of faith.

It wasn’t a moment of enlightenment that came upon them. Luke doesn’t say, “Then it dawned on them,” nor does Luke say, “A light was turned on." Instead, he makes it known that the disciples knew who Jesus was by the burning in their hearts. The burning heart revealed something utterly new to these disciples. At the center of their being, at the core of our humanity, something was generated that could disarm death and rob despair of power. It was something much more than a new outlook on things, new confidence, or a new joy in living; something that can be described only as a new life or a new spirit. 

In their astonishment, the disciples ask the stranger who appears to be heading elsewhere to stay. What happens next is something anyone who has ever hosted a party doesn’t expect—the guest suddenly becomes the host, and we see the movement of the Christian life. “When he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” The eyes of the disciples were open, and Christ vanished from their presence.

As I mentioned earlier, it was more than an epiphany. It was a moment of astonishment. Not only their eyes and minds were opened to something greater happening to them, but their hearts were consumed with fire. Maybe they had a flashback to the last supper they shared with Jesus, or perhaps it is as simple as the text suggests. Either way, the opening of Scripture to them on their walk, and then in the breaking of bread in their home, the doorway to grace opened. All because the disciples took a risk to welcome the stranger into their homes and their hearts. We see a mutual relationship rooted in trust and hope.

To do that is scary. To open our hearts, let alone our doors, to the stranger in our lives. Even to one another, it can be intimidating. Hospitality expresses deep vulnerability; welcoming a stranger or allowing someone to see us at our most real self, is always risky because the tables might be turned—for good or ill. However, the revelation of Christ to the disciples took time, right? Seven miles and then a meal, to be exact. What this story reminds us is how God's story, God's grace manifest in our sacraments, transcends our pitiful attempts to constrain God’s love. Today’s story tells us how Christ meets us whenever we gather not only at the Lord's Table—but any table that provides a self-giving welcome.

Today's story is a bit ironic for us as we shelter-in-place. At the heart of this story is a movement away from isolation towards community. Christ joins himself with those along the way, who then make space for him in their home. The astonishing thing about God is how God always, ALWAYS, creates space for the other so that real community can be experienced—for us to enter into the flow of selfless, self-emptying love of the Trinity.

My challenge for you, friends, is to find ways to be astonished by the presence of the Risen Christ. How might we do that? Keep walking. Keeping telling the story of God’s salvific work in the world. Keep honoring the stranger. Pay attention and be astounded by the things that make your hearts burn.

Remember, Christ is risen. The Risen Christ is no less on the road to Emmaus than he is in the parking lot at the Knights of Columbus.

Look for him. Listen for him. And when he shows up, ask him to stay, and then, be astonished.

Through Stained Glass: The Worst Run Ever

For the last six months, I’ve been training for a half marathon. Three times a week, for the first four weeks, I ran or worked out three times a week. Weeks five through ten, I worked out and ran four times a week. The last two weeks before the race are the taper weeks when I reduce the volume of my weekly training mileage.

Yesterday was the last long run before my race this Saturday. And …

It.

Was.

The.

Worst.

Run.

Yet.

My headphones wouldn’t stay in my ears, Tecumseh stopped twice, which meant I had to run with a doggy bag flailing around for most of the run. Then I ran into two herds of people, my hair tie fell out twice, and I was distracted mentally. I grew frustrated and felt trapped behind these frustrating events.

Not what I needed on this last long run of training.

In the past, if when this happened, I would have stopped and ‘tried’ again later.

Not this time.

Instead, I persevered, and by the last interval of the run, I was able to redeem the outing.

Running has made me confront a significant growing edge—the all or nothing mentality. I may not settle in right away, but I can find my stride as I go. Usually, when this happens, I return to my Epiphany star word, “free,” and I remember that there are no expectations on me other than to finish. It settles me, returns me to the ‘why,’ and lifts my eyes forward.

It wasn’t pretty, but we did it.

Our faith journey is like that at times. Some days it is easy to find God in the sunrise, hear God’s voice as the choir sings, and feel God’s presence when we are sharing a meal with someone we love. Then there are those days, weeks, seasons when it is challenging to recognize the Divine in anything. Floating heads on TV tell us there’s no hope, we can’t go get comfort food from our favorite restaurant, and seeing the Cubs lose is better than not seeing them at all.

Still, God shows up.

God is present to us when all is well and when all is going to hell in a handbasket.

We are not left alone.

The Holy Spirit, the one Christ breathed into the disciples, and the one that hovered over creation, is with us now offering sustenance during our faith journey.

We may not start off on the right foot. Nor will we quickly find the flow all the time. However, even just showing up puts us in the race of possibility of encountering the Divine in whatever it is we are doing.

We may not always feel it, but God is there. And that is freeing to me.

Through Stained Glass: Choosing Peace-A Sermon

“Choosing Peace”

John 20.19-31

April 19, 2020

{Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.}

In 2013 I had the fortunate experience to travel to Kerala, India, to study spirituality and social justice as part of my Master of Arts in Spirituality program through Bellarmine University. For sixteen days, we traveled up, down, and all-around Kerala, learning from spiritual masters of the great world religions: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, and Jainism, to name a few. At the intersection of all these world religions, I saw a harmony I haven't experienced anywhere else. The faith of the human family is beautiful, especially in the various ways we express it.

            The connection of India to today’s worship is the Apostle Thomas. According to tradition, it was Thomas who took the Good News of Jesus Christ east to India. The picture on today's bulletin cover is a shrine to Thomas at the harbor where Thomas first landed sometime around 52 C.E. The Apostle Thomas went throughout India proclaiming the good news, starting seven churches, four of which I visited while I was there. For a person known for their ‘doubts,’ Thomas had a remarkable faith that took him to the ends of the earth proclaiming the Good News of Jesus Christ.

            Thomas is one of my favorite apostles. Not only because I have stood where he stood preaching and baptizing the first Christians in India, but also because his faith story seems the most relatable. Did you notice how it took time for Thomas to believe the news of Christ's resurrection? We give Thomas the title 'doubting,' but let's not forget he was the one who said, "Let us go with Jesus, and die with him," as Jesus made his way to Jerusalem. Labeling people is not always helpful, so let us not do it to Thomas. More importantly, if we focus too much on 'doubting' Thomas, we might miss the gift the Risen Christ gives to the disciples by way of a body that refuses to hide its suffering, its sorrow, its brokenness.

Hours have passed since the first Apostle, Mary, proclaimed the good news to them that she met the Risen Christ in the garden. The disciples are afraid, scared of what might happen to them now that the body of Jesus is missing. Amid the confusion, the chaos, and the stomachs churning with uncertainty and fear, Christ appears to them and says, "Peace be with you," and then shows them his wounds. As they rejoice, Christ speaks peace to them once more, only to add more to his greeting. "As the Father has sent me, so I send you," the Wounded Healer says and breathes the Holy Spirit into them.

Amidst this peaceful exchange, images of God breathing creation into life come to mind. In Genesis 2:7, God breathed into human nostrils God’s breath, the breath of life and humankind came alive, alive with God's new life. God breathes a valley of dry bones back to life in Ezekiel 37. Now, in the new creation, the restoring life of God is breathed out through Jesus (v. 22), making new people of the disciples, and, through them, offering this new life to the world. Jesus promised to give the disciples his peace at the last supper, and now by the Holy Spirit, they receive it. 

Herein lies perhaps the most critical component of this story. In the giving of the Holy Spirit to the disciples, the Risen Christ makes them one. The instructions for the disciples after their equipping of the Spirit is to forgive the sins of any. In this teaching, the Risen Christ once again brings back an extraordinary memory—the washing of the disciples' feet. Jesus tells the disciples that they should wash one another's feet as he has washed theirs. He is an example, and they should do it to one another as he has done to them. His washing of feet symbolizes the forgiveness of daily post-baptismal sins. So, if the disciples do as he has done, they will forgive one another as he forgives them. The great commandment to love is the core teaching of this new creation—and in this context, to forgive one another is to love one another. By forgiving each other's sins and not retaining them, the disciples prevent the most significant obstacle to their life together—the undoing of Christ's peace.

At all costs, the disciples are to love extravagantly so that the world will know God's love. The Risen One gives the Holy Spirit to the disciples so that they will be one, and the world will know they are God's own. The mission is made possible by the power of the Spirit, who simultaneously represents the continuing presence of the Risen Christ with the disciples and the creative power of God always at work to enliven creation itself. The explicit purpose of this Spirit-breathed mission is to offer a new life promised by the Risen Christ.

            Of course, all of this happens without one of the disciples being there, Thomas. The story goes that after Christ greets, equips, and instructs the disciples, they tell Thomas who doesn’t believe them. Thomas, the dour, dogged disciple who suggested they might as well go with Jesus if only to die with him (11:16), who complained that Jesus hadn't made things anything like clear enough (14:5), just happened to be the one who was somewhere else on Easter day. He sees the others excited, elated, unable to contain their joy. Thomas will require hard, physical evidence to believe. Which is, if you think about it, what happened to other disciples. After all, Mary told them about Jesus, but they didn't believe it until Christ showed them his wounds.  If anything, Thomas is only requesting the same assurance Christ offered the other disciples a week earlier. It isn't that Thomas doubts, but that he needs to know that the one in their midst now is the one who called them together when it all started.

Hard evidence is what Thomas gets. Again behind locked doors a week later, Christ appears to them; and once more, offers them peace. The Risen Christ turns to Thomas and says, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." While we do not know if Thomas touches the wounds, we do know this, Thomas is the first to declare Christ as God. Thomas had seen Jesus, and now he experiences the Risen Christ—and believes what he sees. The journey for Thomas took time. He didn't believe right away. What the disciples told him didn't make sense. He needed to experience it himself. He needed to hear the Risen Christ assure him of his faith.

Thomas, like you and me, wrestled with the mystery of the resurrection, and was unafraid to name is skepticism. The Risen Christ responded to it not by shaming or scolding Thomas. Instead, the Risen Christ meets Thomas right where he is, freely offering the disciple the testimony of his wounds, his pain. Love is patient and kind, slow to anger, and healing.

On Thomas Sunday, we receive the assurance that sometimes, we have to go a different route to arrive at faith. We receive comfort, knowing that our faith might be wounded, tested, and even, at times, full of uncertainty. We remember that faith looks and feels different for everyone and that it is okay. The truth, friends, is that we can be a resurrection people, while also being a hurting people. No matter where we are in our journey of faith in this particular season, this year especially, the scarred body of the Risen Christ speaks with great power, tenderness, mercy, and truth. Allow them to speak to you.

The story of Thomas is a remarkable one when we free him from the title of doubting. It is a story of faith, yes, but it is also one of what it means to be human in the midst of considerable uncertainty. It is a story about the gifting of the Spirit to us and how we have the power to bring peace to the lives of our family, friends, neighbors, strangers, and even our enemies. Moreover, it is a story about the Risen Christ coming to us at all costs to bring us peace, no matter how strong or weak we may feel.

Above all, it is a story about despite our brokenness, our weakness, our uncertainties, we know Christ's glory because the Spirit is guiding us there during these hard times, dubious days, and season of separation. Mary Magdalene, Thomas, and the disciples knew these feelings, too. Even in their despair, but only after Christ offered it to them, did they choose peace. By choosing peace, they came to embrace the resurrection. The same Christ who stood before them, stands before us, offering his wounds so that we might know peace, too. Choose it, friends. And let love breathe new life into you, allow your faith to blossom, and let resurrection happen all over again!

May it be so. Amen.

Through Stained Glass: An Easter Sunday Sermon--Choosing Joy!

Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.

“Choosing Great Joy”

Matthew 28.1-10

Easter Sunday

4/12/2020

Today is an extraordinary day, even in the midst of these uncertain days. In the life of the church, today is the highest of Holy Days, the day we celebrate Christ's resurrection. With new life bursting forth all around us outside our windows, new life is born within us as Christ's death and resurrection give us victory over the powers that enslave us, ushering in a new reign of peace and love. Indeed, my friends, today celebrates the best and boldest news ever told: "The tomb is empty! Death is undone! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed!"

Despite the great joy we proclaim, this year it feels different. Instead of being packed tightly in our favorite pews, we are celebrating the good news safe at home, sheltering-in-place. Instead of singing the great 'Hallelujah' chorus while the organ leads us in our resurrection worship, we gather in the simplicity this day has to offer safe at home. While I wish we were together declaring in word and song Christ's victory over death, the irony of an empty church on the Sunday that we celebrate an empty tomb does not escape me. No matter how different today feels, the message remains the same as it did back then, resurrection happens and Love triumphs over death.

The irony runs deep in Matthew's account of the resurrection. Not only the details of the story itself but the way the feelings and energy of the story are present today. The numbness, fear, despair, and sorrow are all things I have felt during these unprecedented pandemic days. Up to this point in the story, and dare I say our lives today, so much has been upended. I think of what the Marys must have felt approaching the tomb that morning, particularly their sadness and grief over what was seemingly lost—the life of their friend and the dreams they shared. I think about the fear that startled them when an angel who looked like lighting, dressed in attire white as snow, moved the stone in front of the tomb and then sat down on top of it. Imagine the shock they felt when they saw the powerful Roman guards shaking and becoming like dead men, but also when they received the news that Christ wasn’t there.

Let’s take a moment to sit with irony in that, right. It was the guards who represented the mighty empire that crucified Christ that "shook and became like dead men." But it was the women, who at that time had little to no power and yet they were not afraid to enter into the fear. In Matthew's story, there is no moment of desperate pleading from Mary to the angel. Instead, as the angel did to Joseph at the beginning of Matthew’s story, the angel tells them not to be afraid because Jesus has been raised. The angel invites them to see for themselves. So, they look, and then they go as the angel instructs to tell the others what they saw…or didn't see, for that matter. Unlike the other Gospel lesson, there is no white cloth neatly folded in the corner. They saw nothing. The angel tells them to go and as they went, verse 7 says they left the tomb with fear and great joy. If there is ever a line that adequately captures the human response to the beautiful tragedy that is life, verse 7 is it. How comforting it is to know that despite the angel's assurance that the Crucified One is now the Risen One, the Marys still felt fear. But also joy, proof that faith is a paradox.

The surprises keep coming for the Marys. As they go, "suddenly Jesus met them and said, 'Greetings!' And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him." Perhaps this moment is unanticipated, or maybe it shows what can happen when you anticipate based on what you have seen and heard and believed -- or at least seek further understanding. Regardless, the women fall down and worship Jesus -- like the magi (and not like Herod, who said he wanted to worship Jesus only as an excuse to seek him out to kill him). The Marys experienced the Risen Christ. In them, we see what not only awaits us but what we have right now. In the early morning, the hour darkest before the dawn, transformation happens to a pair of women that would forever change the world. The Marys knew the fear of the darkness but also believed the great joy of the light.

So much darkness and so much light in this story. But it is fitting, right? Jesus has always been about reconciling darkness and light. The entirety of his ministry was bringing the light of God's love to the world. Light shined when Jesus brought the shunned, the seedy, the sick, the shameful, all those who had been driven from the community into a life he called heaven, where light and shadows mingle. The restored brought their darkness with them, for it had been their home and was now part of their light. The Resurrection story isn't about the absence of night, but instead, it is about the triumphant of Light over it.

The story of Christ's resurrection, the story of God, and the story of our lives is one full of tension between darkness and light, despair and hope, death, and life. In Christ's resurrection, we are freed from fear, and we experience the power of God to overcome hatred, injustice, and even death. The good news we proclaim on Easter and every Sunday—not even death separates us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Friends, I need Easter this year, unlike I've ever needed it before. I resonate with the Marys—their fear, their sorrow, but also their hope in a dark time. I find comfort in the way the Marys fall to worship Jesus and took hold of his feet, and that he welcomes it.  I find hope knowing that even in the presence of fear in their darkest hour, the joy of Light greeted them in the morning. In choosing their great joy, they met the Living One, who commissioned them as the first Apostles—witnesses to the resurrected Christ.

The Marys went and told the disciples, and the world has never been the same.

Friends, Jesus' resurrection gives us the grace, the power, we need to be to live with God forever. Faith in the resurrection means we believe in life beyond this life, and that eternal life begins not when we die, but in our baptisms. The resurrection affirms all that is good and beautiful and holy right now. God has given us life and promises to give us life forever. I love what Jesuit theologian Karl Rahner says about resurrection. It isn't like a change of horses where we ride off into a far distant sunset on another stallion. Instead, it means we become all we could ever have been. All the limits of this life are lifted, and we are all we could ever hope and desire to be.

Resurrection Sunday reminds us that we are moving towards resurrection always. That when all is said and done, God will have the last word, as God did in Christ's resurrection. No matter how many deaths we die, God will raise us to new life. The final act of the most excellent show on earth, our lives, will end with resurrection. In the end, just as it was back then and is right now, Love is stronger than death.

Indeed, when we choose the great joy of the resurrection, we are choosing a life lived in the light of God's love. When we choose to live life in light of the resurrection, no feeling is final, no depression is too deep, and no darkness is too dense.

As a people who walk in the light of the resurrection, we know the good news of Easter: that God in Christ is saying, "This is what will last—my life and my love will always and forever have the final word."

Church, Easter feels different this year. However, as God accompanied the Marys in their darkest hour, so God is with us in ours. As the Risen Christ called out to them, so Christ calls out to us. We are a people of faith, hope, and love--the greatest, of course, is love.  The good news today, and every day, is that the God who destroyed death is ever able to turn our tears into joy. All is not lost. Remember: we have seen the Lord.

Church, Happy Easter!

Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!

Through Stained Glass: A Good Friday Reflection

Atop a high mountain or in the dark valley below,

in the corner of your room,

or in the hustle and bustle of the busy city centre,

may you find a ‘thin place’.

It is a place, or time, or event so unique, so full of wonder, so sublime.

A place where Heaven and earth collide,

and the diaphanous veil of separation is unusually thin.

A time where you can almost feel angelic wings beat against your cheeks,

and see the Divine smile shining through.

An event where your heartbeat quickens,

and you experience the mystery of the Other in the ‘mundane’.

A ‘thin place’ is a threshold, a limen, a holy bridge,

a door to the Throne Room, slightly opened.

It is a moment in time and space,

in which we can dwell, and dance, and move, if aware.

A ‘thin place’ is an encouragement, a sacred invitation to draw near,

to approach barefoot, in humility, in reverence and awe.

It is both seen and unseen.

Invisible we see you!

May you, in the wilderness of the countryside, or the city,

find a ‘thin place’ today, and be blessed.

Celtic spirituality calls them thin places.

They are the places where we feel inexplicably close to the Divine. Think geographically. For me, the thin places I've gone to are the Badlands in South Dakota, Mount St. Thomas in Kakkanad, Kerala, India, and beneath a giant oak tree on my parent’s property. Other examples are the forest, the beach, and even the desert. The thin places are where a window opens up, and we get a glimpse into the heart of the Divine. We transcend the moment and become completely aware of Holy within and around us. 

The Celtics also have a great phrase to describe these places. It goes something like, “Heaven and Earth are only three feet apart, but in thin places, that distance is even shorter." What makes it great is that it is true. We are irrevocably intertwined with the Divine—creations in the image and likeness of the Creator.

Another concept that speaks to me is the idea of liminal space: the threshold between what is and what will be. Think of the changing of the seasons: the end of winter when creation appears dormant but beneath the service spring is already in motion. 17^th-century mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer, and philosopher, Blaize Pascal, summed it up best when he wrote, “Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.”

To get technical with liminal comes from the Latin root, limen, which means "threshold." The liminal space is the "crossing over" space – an area where you have left something behind, yet you are not yet fully in something else. It's a transition space.

Thin places.

Liminal spaces.

These are the meanderings occupying my mind tonight.

Good Friday does that to me, though. It is the second day of the Three Days, the Triduum—the part of Holy Week commemorating the crucifixion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The older I get, the more these days, especially today, become passageways into something more significant. Don't get me wrong. I understand what today is about theologically: forgiveness, the setting in motion the triumph of life over death, and the proof in the pudding of God's love for all creation. I’m also aware of all the white dudes who have created all the atonement theories as to why Jesus died, if Jesus knew he was going to die, and what it all means to us.

All of it is important.

The part that moves me deeper into the story is the thinness and the liminality of it all. The thin place isn't the crucifixion—but what follows. You know what I mean, the silence after death when all is said and done, and the phone calls quit, and the casseroles stop showing up on your doorstep. The thin place for me in the drama of it all is what happens when Christ is in the tomb, and Mary is alone—either Mary, you pick.

Remember, thin places are those geographical places that open us up to the Divine. The thin place of Good Friday is the deafening darkness that comes when we are left alone in our grief. Yes, the love of God is in full display in the crucifixion of the cross, but the heart of God opens up in the silence like a curtain opening on a sunny spring morning. The thin place of Good Friday is in the realization of God’s uncompromising love for us, even when we turn our backs on God. Of course, to get into this thin place, we can't rush to Sunday. We have to sit in our suffering, we have to name our shame, and we must stay in our scorn. Moving too quickly through this grief might cause us to miss what just happened—and what is happening right now. When the body is gone, the disciples have scattered, and Mary, the Mother of God, won’t make her evening check in on her baby boy.

What I'm saying about the thin place of Good Friday is this: we must enter through the window of death's stark reality to be present entirely to God's presence in our sorrow. Good Friday offers thin places as a spiritual discipline—invites us into a place of prayer. Tonight, we've remembered and retold the story when the incarnate God experiences the fullness of what it means to be human. I discover once more the interconnectedness of the human family—and our place in the economy of the Trinity. The thin place of Good Friday comforts me by revealing that God knows my suffering and, at this moment, when the people of God hold their breath between what has just happened and what will be, God holds Her breath, too. 

The thin place of Good Friday opens up to the liminal space of Holy Saturday.

The trouble for me during the Triduum is knowing that as the famous preacher said, "Yea, it is Good Friday, but Sunday is a’comin." As I mentioned above, I want to rush to Sunday. Rushing has always been a problem for me. At parent-teacher conferences, the teacher always told my parents, "Adam is a great student…when he slows down, doesn't rush, and takes his time." As an adult, when things get hard, like when I'm sheltering-in-place, and I desperately want to be with the people I love, I want to just get through it already. I'm not always appreciative of liminal spaces.

Tonight is a liminal time. We are in the in-between. The cross is empty, the body is in the tomb, and the world [read, my heart] is in chaos. I love what Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue says about thresholds and the in-between. He says:

• “To acknowledge and cross a new threshold is always a challenge. It demands courage and also a sense of trust in whatever is emerging. This becomes essential when a threshold opens suddenly in front of you, one for which you had no preparation. This could be illness, suffering or loss. Because we are so engaged with the world, we usually forget how fragile life can be and how vulnerable we always are. It takes only a couple of seconds for a life to change irreversibly. Suddenly you stand on completely strange ground, and a new course of life has to be embraced.”

In these unprecedented pandemic days, I don't think we have forgotten how fragile life is. However, I do believe we are missing the new life resurrecting right beneath our feet because we all want to get back to 'normal.'

Let’s get to Sunday already so we can sing our ‘alleluias,’ and our preachers can use every metaphor possible when discussing what the Great Fifty Days of Easter will look like during COVID-19. I say let's pump the breaks. Let’s take a moment to catch our breath, listen to what we are experiencing during this liminal time of what was and what will be on the other side of shelter-in-place entombments, and let's allow what’s happening in the unknown to change us.

I guess what I’m saying is this: tonight look for the thin place, and when we find it, we will most definitely enter into the liminal space. The passage is where transformation happens—it is where resurrection begins. 

Tonight is uncomfortable—even if we know the ending of the story. Ease into the discomfort and sit with God who's heart is broken along with ours. Tonight, resist the temptation of "business as usual." Instead, just be. Hold the tension lightly, and do not judge yourself with whatever you are feeling. Linger as long as you can in this liminal space and ask what the thin place is revealing to you. Tonight, beloved children of God, we sit in the ash heap of what was and embrace what is. Death is our thin place, and it is the liminal space we need to understand the promise of Sunday fully.

That promise is, of course, that heaven and earth are three feet apart. After Sunday, we remember all is entwined in the love of God.

I hope so anyway…

But I’m not going to rush it.

Through Stained Glass: Monday of Holy Week

Christ Cleansing the Temple by Bernardino May, Italian circa 1655

             The story of Jesus in the temple tossing tables is in all the Gospels.

Though John’s version differs slightly than the Synoptics. Mainly the location—Jesus in the temple happens at the end of the Synoptic, a kind of “the last straw” for Jesus. In John, it is placed right at the beginning—setting the scene for the pushback Jesus would experience from the get-go.

Today we read from Mark’s Gospel. Jesus rides into Jerusalem triumphantly only to end up in the temple. He isn’t pleased with what is happening. Without getting into too much detail, the holy place had become a place of business transactions—in a way that left the poor poorer and the privileged untouched. Again, without wading too far into the weeds, the surcharge for exchanging money into currency suitable for temple offerings, the poor could not afford to encounter God in this sacred place.

I like as one poet from Iona put it:

Then he,

            the holiest one among us,

            went through that bizarre bazaar

            like a bull in a china shop.

            So the doves got liberated

            and the pigeon-sellers got angry.

            And the police went crazy

            and the poor people clapped like mad,

            because he was making a sign,

            was embodying a truth,

            that God was for everybody,

            not just for those who could afford him.

            He turned the tables on Monday ...

            The day that religion got in the way.

The pandemic that is COVID-19 has moved us out of our common worship spaces and into new worship spaces. What we are learning is what the early church learned—that we don’t need a building to worship God. This statement is not meant to condemn our Jewish siblings or to make a dig at our modern-day building campaigns. After all, when John wrote his Gospel, the temple was already destroyed, and both Judaism and Christianity found ways to continue their faithful journeys in serving God. Nor am I saying this pandemic is God’s way of tossing the chancel tables as a way to wake us up. Any theology that suggests this is hurtful and unfaithful to the Gospel.

What I am holding up is how we are rediscovering how God isn’t confined to the things we build—whether they are buildings or the theologies we cling tightly to. God is more than this—God is in Christ and by the Spirit in us. We are the bearers of God’s image and likeness—breathing the Spirit that hovered over the waters of creation in the beginning.

On the Monday of Holy Week, when Jesus tossed temple because of the injustices he saw happening to the poor, might we consider what tables in our lives need overturning. What barriers stand in our way from seeing the presence of God in those we meet: neighbor, stranger, sibling, or enemy? How might we emerge on the other side of this pandemic with a fresh perspective regarding what really matters as a church? What area in your life—work, relationships, self-care—might need a different perspective—a glance from the gracious, tender eyes of Christ?

The temple tables were tossed. Jesus is moving us away from the darkness and into the liberating light of God’s love. Will we follow Christ as he moves closer to the cross?

Through Stained Glass: A Palm Sunday Sermon

Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.

Choosing Flesh and Love

Matthew 21.1-11

Palm Sunday

04/05/2020

Palm Sunday is when things started to change for Jesus. Some two thousand years removed; it continues to be a pivotal point in the life of the church that moves us from the frailty of life to the fullness of life in Christ. Today starts the high point of the church’s cycle of feasts and fasts during which the mystery of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection unfold as the pattern of our life as Christians. Today sets in motion a series of events that will change the world forever.

Even today, this Sunday, things are changing. Outside, creation is stirring, and flowers are slowly emerging from their tombs beneath the soil. Birds who spent the winter days in warmer weather frequent our birdfeeders and the Spring sky stays illuminated well past 7 pm. Change is inevitable, and creation's change when left to herself, is always moving toward restoration. The dormancy of winter will not deter creation from springing forth and answering the stones who are shouting ‘save us!’

Inside the church, things are changing, too. Currently, our pews are empty, our hymnals are left unopened, and the church mouse gleefully roams from room to room without any interruptions. We are living into Christ's command to love as he loved by remaining safe at home and worshipping together separately. The disruption of this pandemic will not deter us from being Christ’s body to each other and responding the pleas to ‘save us!’

            Today we change from the purple of Lent to the red of Passiontide and see first hand the inauguration of God’s reign on earth. For the last five weeks, we have walked with Jesus on his way to Jerusalem. With ashes on our foreheads, we've wandered lost with Jesus in the wilderness, discovered our purpose in the darkness with Nicodemus, and encountered the Divine at the well with the Samaritan woman. We paid attention to the glory of God in a man who "was once blind but now could see," and were liberated by Christ's grief and command to be unbound by whatever entombs. Our journey leads us to the start of a parade where we see once more Christ’s unwavering faith to God’s call of justice, mercy, and love. God’s people shout, ‘save us,’ and by way of solidarity and not sovereignty God responds in Christ.

            All of this comes to a head today, Palm Sunday. It is Sunday when things start to change. The gospel writer tells us in verse 10 that the city was in turmoil. Because the crowds can’t see beyond their fear, they no longer hear the promises of God in Christ, and so they change their 'save us' to 'crucify him.' The anger of the people thickens the plot to kill Jesus, especially as he confronts the religious leaders and their complacency in serving the empire instead of God. Perhaps the most significant change comes from the disciples. In a matter of a week, they go from saying, "Let's go to Jerusalem and die with him," to pretend as if they've never met their rabbi.

            Change. So much change, and it began with a triumphal entry into Jerusalem.

 It all seems to be going well, right? Jesus enters the city, the crowd cut branches from the trees and waves them, singing hosannas in royal welcome. The chants, the welcome, and even the donkey indicate the coming of the Messiah in humility and peace. It is such a joyful occasion. The one whom the people have been waiting for; the one whom they've heard stories about; the one whom will deliver them arrives, and they shout, "Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!" The prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee is here, the people declare. The world is about to change.

 The hailing of Jesus as Sovereign is troubling for the established order. In their shouts, the people express their new hope in Christ, which means Messiah—confessing Jesus as the Sovereign One challenges the dominant culture's accepted norms, and thus, the last straw for the religious leaders. Jesus was a threat because the power he embodies is that of reliance on God and God's way of sharing extravagantly so that all are included in the divine blessing. Christ is no ruthless and domineering Caesar but a loving companion. He does not bully, tweet, name call, or bloviate. He rules from among us, embracing our mortality, feeling our pain, and rejoicing in our success.

            The implications of the new reign of God Jesus is revealing has direct consequences to his followers. Chances are, they will not be easy friends with economic leaders or shopkeepers who benefit from bilking the poor. After all, in a trickle-down economy, these are the folks defying the imago Dei of people by seeing them as expendable objects—either in person or as market share or symbolic notations on a strategic battle plan. Furthermore, Jesus isn't about being exclusive and at the beck and call of a few holy people. Instead, Jesus is embodying God's radical hospitality and expanding the love of God to include all people--especially those are on the margins. Jesus came not to be served, but to serve. In Christ we see the love of God poured out for all the world, Afterall, God sent Christ not to condemn it but to save it. Palm Sunday is the inauguration of the new empire—one rooted in justice, mercy, and love.

            So, what happens? Why the change? The crowds following Jesus in Matthew's gospel are very clear about who they believe him to be when they hail him as the Son of David at his entry into Jerusalem. This title ties him to the hope that someone like David would come and lead them back to when things were good, like the good ole days of the past.  

And yet, they change. Declarations and expectations fade quickly. Hopeful pleas of deliverance, "Save us "(which is what Hosanna means), turn to cowardly chants for crucifixion. The people wanted immediate political liberation, and Jesus offered a different kind, one that considered the entirety of the world. Where the people wanted a legion of soldiers, they got a humble Christ riding on a donkey. Where they wanted the pomp and circumstance, they got a gentle servant who preached good news instead of an oligarchist who proliferated false news. Too caught up in their fear and the collective uncertainty of the city, the crowds couldn't see the new reign of power unfolding right before their very eyes. They couldn't see that in Christ, the marginalized are no longer shunned but are touched by the holy despite their imperfections, and they are ushered into the very presence of God in Jesus. When Jesus does not mount a military campaign because his reign is not of this world and because he chooses to use his power to fulfill the promises of God, the crowd turns on him, and that’s when things started to change.

The truth of the matter is that we see a bit of ourselves in the crowd, especially this year. As life changes daily during this pandemic, our prayers sound like the crowd’s shouts, “Save us!” With so much of our lives as individuals and as a community in turmoil, we are faced with the question, “In whom do we place our hope?” Blessed is the one who comes in the name of God—the one who emptied himself in order that we may know life fully. No market manipulation or crude ruler will save us. Only God can do that and has in the person who came riding humbly on a donkey.

The story is comforting, too. It reminds us that as a people of faith, we’ve been in situations like this before. The week ahead reminds us that in the tragic beauty of life, we will experience plenty of grief – the ambiguous Last Supper, the surprising betrayal, the violent cross, and the liminal uncertainty of Holy Saturday – before we experience the Joyful Resurrection of Jesus and ourselves.

We are in the midst of change unlike we’ve ever experienced.

Except for one thing—Christ’s faithfulness to God’s love for the world.

The question before us, church, is will we be faithful until the end?