On Life, Death, and the In-Between…

Tags

birth, death, gift, God, joy, life, promise, thin space, Trinity, vocation

At the hospital where I delivered my second child, they had a practice of allowing the spouse or supporting person of the mother push a button that would play a tinkling song throughout the hospital marking the birth of a child.  The practice has many wonderful implications.  One, it makes room for joy – joy that can be experienced throughout the whole hospital community.  For those of you who have spent much time in hospitals, you know joy can be lacking.  Two, it creates a sense of mutuality between the birthing mother and her support team.  When the mom is doing most of the hard labor, it is nice to have tangible ways for the supporting team to participate.  Three, it creates little moments of celebration for the hospital staff – something they need too when bogged down with the work of health care.

But what felt like a wonderful, life-giving gift as I was delivering has taken on new layers of meaning as a pastor who visits hospitals.  More often than not, I have heard that song played while sitting with someone with a serious illness or who is approaching death.  The sense of irony about the circle of life is never lost on me, the patient, or their family.  It still feels like a gift, but a bittersweet one nonetheless.  I have also wondered what that song does for women and men in the hospital who have struggled with infertility or who have just lost a child.  That song represents so many unfulfilled dreams and heartache.

That being said, I do not think the disadvantages of the song outnumber the advantages.  I think the song actually does for everyday people what those in healthcare and pastoral care experience everyday – the thin spaces between life and death.  I cannot tell you the number of times when I have experienced life and death in a matter of days, hours, or minutes.  I have written about that here.  In a given week, I can hear the tinkling song while I sit at the bedside of a dying parishioner.  In a given day, I can hear elementary children playing and laughing, and then sit with a family member who needs a good cry.  In a given span of hours, I can bury a parishioner and then counsel a parishioner who is burying a marriage, birthing new love, or celebrating a new beginning.  This work is such that life and death are thinly separated.

The consequence of that thin space is that I get regular reminders of the enormity of God’s presence.  If I find the experience of celebrating life and watching life pass away in a matter of minutes, how much more infinitely does God experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in the human experience.  The God who created us and the world about us and called it good, and yet stood by as we sullied that creation has seen much.  The God who took on human form to experience for God’s self the complexity of the human experience knows much.  The God who breathes through life, death, and vocation in between feels much.  As we celebrate Trinity Sunday this weekend, I wonder how your appreciation of the three-in-one Godhead might help you appreciate both the promise that God is with us always, but also help you name God with us always for others.

Photo credit:  https://www.everydayfamily.com/blog/worlds-oldest-new-father/

Sermon – Isaiah 40.1-11, A2, YA, Advent Lessons and Carols, December 4, 2016

Tags

Advent, Christ Child, Christmas, Episcopal Church, hope, Isaiah, Jesse, Jesus, joy, Lessons and Carols, rooting, season, Sermon, song, story

The season of Advent and I have not always been friends.  In fact, the first Advent I experienced in the Episcopal Church almost ended my relationship with the Episcopal Church.  You see, I grew up in a Christian tradition that treated Advent as the beginning of the Christmas season.  Starting on Advent One, we were singing Christmas carols, making our way through all the old favorites.  The tradition felt perfect – instead of focusing on a secularized Christmas, the Christmas hymns during Advent reminded us all of the “reason for the season.”  Besides, there are so many familiar Christmas hymns, that there would be no way to enjoy them all during the short two weeks of Christmastide.  Since our tradition also did not have services on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, you had to squeeze in all the “Joy to the Worlds,” “Oh Holy Nights,” and “Away in the Mangers,” that you could before the holiday was over.  In that tradition, Advent felt like a family gathering around a fire, singing songs of familiarity and comfort.

Of course, the Episcopal Church we landed in did nothing of the sort.  The songs I heard during that first Advent were dreadful.  They were slow and full of melancholy.  They sounded as though whomever wrote them was hunkered down, alone, in a room without a fireplace.  They had a hollow, haunted feeling to them, and the tunes were difficult to follow.  I remember that first Advent feeling like all the joy had been taken out of Christmas, and all that was left was a sad sense of unfamiliarity.

So, if that were my first experience of Advent in the Episcopal Church, why in the world would I agree to having not just Lessons and Carols today – but Advent Lessons and Carols?  I not only agreed to, but begged for, Advent Lessons and Carols because this service attempts to capture what the whole season of Advent does in the Episcopal tradition.  Advent is not meant to be four weeks of celebrating the birth of the Christ Child.  Advent is meant to be four weeks of helping us understand the enormity of what happens on the fateful night of Christ’s birth.  And so, like the people of faith always have, we go back and tell the story.  We tell our story.  We set the scene of Jesus’ birth by using our story to understand the context of the monumental event of the nativity.

First, we go all the way back to the garden of Eden.  Then, we remember the words of the prophets who told of a messiah, an anointed one from the house of David – and yet, better than David.  We hear words of comfort, words of preparation, and words of promise.  We hear of a young, inexperienced woman and the announcement that she gets of a coming child.  And we even hear from Jesus himself, who tells us of the call for repentance in the face of fulfilled promise.  All of that – from Eden, to failed kings and judges, to wearied exiled people, to scared, young women, to the message of repentance all are needed to remember why that infant in a humble manger is so important.  His story is bigger.   His story starts long before his own story starts.  His story is our story.

I am especially grateful for the rooting that Advent provides this year because I have been feeling pretty rootless lately.  With all the noise of world news lately, we can easily become lost.  We can get caught up in the heat of politics, pandering, and promises and forget to whom we belong.  We can see destruction all around us and wonder whether hope is lost.  Into the face of that loss, destruction, and longing, Isaiah says today, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”  At the time of Isaiah’s oracle, the people of God had been in a time of high tensions.  “…The northern kingdom of Israel and the Aramaeans of Damascus tried to force Judah and King Ahaz to join their rebellion against Assyria.  On Isaiah’s advice, Ahaz refused; but then, instead of joining the rebel alliance, he called Assyria to intervene.”[i]  Of course, this led to disaster and eventually the end of the northern kingdom.  You can imagine Isaiah’s frustration with a king who does not trust God, and who only half-way follows God’s instructions.  And with the massive destruction of the northern kingdom, Isaiah could have been tempted to lose hope.  But the text we get today is not a text of damnation or even chastising.  Instead, Isaiah is able to hold on to hope.  In the midst of what feels like total destruction, Isaiah proclaims, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”

Those of you who read my blog know I am not all that great with plants.  Most plants survive only a few weeks, maybe months if I am lucky.  The running joke is that I pretty much have a brown thumb instead of a green thumb.  The one exception is a little bonsai plant that my husband and I were given as a wedding present.  Somehow, miracle of all miracles, I have managed to keep that plant alive for the fifteen years since our wedding.  I had taken to calling it our “love plant,” because I surmised that only our love was keeping the plant going.  But when we moved to Williamsburg, having the brown thumb that I do, I assumed that the plant would be just fine sitting in my car for a few days.  When we finally moved into our house, I realized something was wrong.  The heat of the day must have scorched the plant, because every leaf was turning brown.  Within a week of moving in, all the leaves had fallen and even those 15-year old branches were looking withered beyond repair.  I was pretty sure the plant was dead, but I couldn’t bear to toss our love plant.  For some odd reason, I kept watering the plant, hoping something would happen.  But even plant-lovers who saw my plant looked at me with pitying eyes when I showed them the plant.  Two months later, I looked over at our sad, presumably dead plant, and at the base of that bonsai plant were two little new shoots of growth.  I couldn’t believe it!  After a period of mourning, new life was emerging.  Hope emerged that our withered love plant might just have a little more life left.

Isaiah’s promise is similarly powerful.  “Out of something that appears finished, lifeless, left behind, comes the sign of new life – a green sprig.”[ii]  As Christians, we certainly understand the green sprig from the stump of Jesse to be Jesus Christ.  He is the only one who can redeem and bring new life.  He is the one who brings us hope.   In a few weeks, we will not just be celebrating the birth of a cute baby.  We will be celebrating the shoot from the stump of Jesse – a branch that will bring new life out of destruction, pain, and suffering.  In our world of destruction, pain, and suffering, I cannot imagine a better message of hope.

Once I understood the significance of Advent in the greater faith narrative, my years-long loathing of Episcopal Advent began to fade.  The more reserved songs of Advent slowly began to feel less like dirges and more like raw, vulnerable songs of hope.  Suddenly the soprano voices singing the high notes of “Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree,” the phrase, “Most highly favored lady,” and the comforting alleluias of “Let all Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” became welcome, comforting friends, and not the nemeses I once imagined.  Finally, after years of dread, instead, I found Advent in the Episcopal Church to be a gift – a time set apart to gather around with family and tell the old stories – our story, and prepare our hearts for the new shoot from the root of Jesse.

The telling of our story is not just important for understanding who the Christ Child is.  The telling of our story is also important for understanding who we are in relation to the Christ Child and the world.  When we understand ourselves to be redeemed by the shoot of the stump of Jesse, the way we operate in the world changes.  We look at a world of destruction, pain, and suffering through the lens of hope.  And when we look through the lens of hope, we are not a defeated people, but a people who see promise, even when others cannot see that same promise.  We know what the shoot from the stump of Jesse has done, is doing, and will do.  And that means our whole way of being changes.  Our story changes.  Our song changes.  And we change too.  Thanks be to God!

[i] Bruce C. Birch, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 27.

[ii] Stacey Simpson Duke, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 28.

Sermon – Habakkuk 1.1-4; 2.1-4, P26, YC, October 30, 2016

Tags

anger, argue, bold, celebration, cry, dreams, God, Habakkuk, joy, lament, listen, plain, pledge, Sermon, stewardship, vigil, vision, watch, write

I don’t know about you, but there are times when I have to tune out from the world.  I binge watch HGTV or find a mindless comedy and I just zone out.  In part, I do this because my psyche, my spirit, my soul feels overwhelmed.  I cannot listen to one more story of natural disaster – of floods, of famine, of destruction.  I cannot learn of one more part of the world where humanity seems lost – of genocide, of systemic violence against women, of the taking of land from its rightful owners.  And lately, I cannot absorb one more barb by a political campaign – of slander, of innuendo, of plain meanness.  And if I am not trying to hide from the world around us, sometimes I find I need to hide from the world right in front of us – from awful diagnoses, to life lost, to relationships broken.

While one common response is to relieve tension through mindless activity, the other alternative is to do what Habakkuk does today:  cry out to God.  “How long, O LORD, must I call for help, but you do not listen?”  The reading from Habakkuk today starts with what is called a lament – something commonly seen in the psalms,[i] but known by us all because at some point in our lives, we have all cried out a lament to God.  In this particular lament, Habakkuk is angry with God because the world is crumbling around him.  Violence is on every side and those supposed to enforce justice are perverting justice.  You can hear the sense of betrayal in Habakkuk’s voice – as if God has abandoned him and the rest of God’s people.  And so, Habakkuk does what God’s people have done from the days of Abraham – he argues with God.[ii]  He demands a response.  He calls God to task – demanding that God not let this ungodly world continue on its ungodly path.

If you are ever in a crisis, one of the things you will learn about me is what I love about our God:  God can take our anger, our righteous indignation, our arguments.  Our people have been engaging this way with God from the beginning – not victim to an all-powerful God who demands our obedience, but in relationship with a God who can handle all of our “stuff.”  Lord knows God has gotten an earful from me over the years – every time a child is lost, fellow citizens die from senseless violence, or life just seemed too much to bear – God has heard from me.  Sometimes I cry out in a lament, sometimes I cannot even find the words I am so angry.  I learned a long time ago that the good news is God can take it.

After his lament, Habakkuk does something that is quite familiar to me as a parent of young children.  Habakkuk stomps his feet, crosses his arms, and stares in silent indignation, daring God to respond.  Of course, one could certainly label this as the conclusion of Habakkuk’s temper tantrum.  But an alternative may be to see something else in what Habakkuk is doing.  In the face of great sorrow, anger, and despair, Habakkuk does not flee.  Though he feels abandoned, he does not abandon God.  Instead, he demands God’s presence and will not be satisfied until he hears a word from God.  And so he waits.  He waits, and watches.  He keeps vigil, listening for God to speak.

Several years ago, Hickory Neck was thriving and heading toward what looked like a tremendous time of growth and change.  The community rallied around creating this new worship space to house the community that was bursting at the seams.  We even have plans for how to expand this building into phases two and three when we expected we would be bursting at the seams again.  But a few years ago, we hit a bit of snag.  Our pastor became ill and eventually took a new call.  Though we had an interim priest, we had interims without the interim.  I would not say that things ever got so rough that we called out in lament to God like Habakkuk.  But we did take a play out of Habakkuk’s book:  we stood in wait, keeping vigil, listening for God to speak a new word to us.

And slowly, God did just that.  God began to speak.  God began to whisper new dreams, new visions.  We began to dream about mission trips, increased local outreach, repurposing building or building new spaces to house ministries for the growing population of both retirees and young families in our area, and meaningful worship and growth.  God began to open our hearts to what new clergy might join us, and what new visions we might build together.  We began to do what God tells Habakkuk to do today.  When God finally speaks to Habakkuk, God says, “Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it.”  Now there is a little scholarly debate[iii] about what the vision is God is communicating – one of promise or one of condemnation – one to be rejoiced or one to be feared[iv] – but the clarity is what strikes me.  Write the vision; make it plain.

A little under a year ago, your Vestry engaged in just that kind of work.  They looked at the state of Hickory Neck, they talked about their dreams for Hickory Neck, they looked at the finances, and then the wrote a vision.  They knew what everyone here knows:  that Hickory Neck is a special place that has been challenged to grow in new and exciting ways.  We have all experienced the power of worship in this place, the transformative nature of formation and prayer in this place, the radical commitment to hospitality in this place, and the passion for Christ’s call to love our neighbors in this place.  And so, the Vestry did what may feel a little like that line from a Field of Dreams, declaring “If we build it, they will come.”  But the Vestry did not just wait for “them” to come.  They soberly looked at finances and decided they would not only fund a rector, but also a curate.  They named their vision to make our buildings not just useful to us, but useful to our communities:  through Winter Shelter and outside guests, but maybe eventually to a preschool or day center for seniors.  The Vestry committed to not just waiting for “them” to come, but employing tools to invite, welcome, and connect seekers into our community.  They wrote the vision and they made it plain.

When I first came on board with Hickory Neck in April, the Vestry began to ask me under what vision we were going to operate.  What I told them is what I will tell you:  we are already operating under a vision.  Now, there are certainly dreams I have for where we will be 5 to 10 to 15 years from now, but for today, for next year, we already have a vision.  Now, being pragmatists, the Vestry wanted me to make it plainer.  And so, we worked in reverse.  We sat down and we mapped out the entire calendar from August to August.  We wrote down everything we normally do and everything we hope to do.  And then we stepped back and said, “Is this us?  Does our calendar reflect who we are and our vision for this place?”  You see, our calendar was just a tool to mark our values and vision.

We have been engaging in that same conversation in our homes, in small groups, and as a community these last four weeks.  As we laid out a vision of being a community that lives generously, we took stock not of our calendars, but of our checkbooks.  We sat down and looked at where our money was going and whether that cash flow reflected our values and vision.  For the Vestry, our budget involves some commitments that are hefty, but reflect a vision of who we want to be.  Each Vestry member went home and engaged in a similar exercise at home, looking to see if their budgets reflected a vision of who they want to be as individuals.

The Vestry and Stewardship Committee have written a vision and made it plain.  Instead of scaling back and being tentative, we have committed to being a parish who boldly is ready to seek and serve Christ in all persons and to share the Good News of God in Christ.  As the Prayer Book says in the Catechism, our vision is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ, as we pray and worship, proclaim the Gospel, and promote justice, peace, and love.[v]  Those are bold promises that will require all of us to succeed.  Today, we are talking about how our treasure is needed to bring that vision to fruition; in January, we will also talk about how our time and talent will bring that vision to fruition.  But because our vision is living generously, this is not a call to sacrifice and struggle.  No, this vision is an occasion for celebration and joy.  I look forward to marking that celebration and joy with you today as we bless our commitments to live generously, eagerly helping Hickory Neck to shine its light on the hill for all to see.  Amen.

[i] Bryan Spinks, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 242, 244.

[ii] Theodore Hiebert, “Habakkuk,” Neil M. Alexander, ed., The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 7 (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1996), 632.

[iii] Karl Jacobson, “Commentary on Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4,” November 3, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1875 on October 26, 2016.

[iv] Corrine L. Carvalho, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 247.

[v] BCP, 855.

Sermon – Luke 17.11-19, P23, YC, October 9, 2016

Tags

church, compliment, duty, generously, giving, grateful, gratitude, guilt, Jesus, joy, leper, living, obligation, pledge, practice, praise, Sermon, stewardship, Thanksgiving, transformation, turning

I once knew a man who was impossible to compliment.  Whether you wanted to compliment a job well done or good deed, his response was always the same, “It’s not me.  All the glory goes to God.”  His response always left me feeling like I just offered a present that was rejected.  Of course, I totally agreed with what he was saying – none of us is able to do good without the God who empowers us to do so.  And truly, Jesus was not that great at accepting compliments either, especially if you recall all the times he asked people to keep a healing secret or to just go back to work.  But upon receiving a compliment, a simple, “Thank you,” would not have hurt this man.  After a while, I just stopped trying to praise his work or good deeds.

I think that is why I relate to the nine lepers who do not return to Jesus to give him thanks and praise.  There were ten lepers originally – nine who were Jewish and one who was a Samaritan.  We are not sure why the ten are together – the Jews and the Samaritans were enemies and rarely spent time together.[i]  We are told at the beginning of the text that Jesus was passing through a borderland between Samaria and Galilee, so there is a possibility that then ten men banded together through their disease instead of culture.  You see, both Samaritans and those of Galilee would have been seen as impure due to their leprosy.  Being exiled to the borders of their land, they may have found more in common than divided them.  And so, as a group, they shout out to Jesus for healing – careful not to approach him, of course, which would have been improper in their condition.  Respecting their distance, Jesus does not insist they come forward, but instead tells them to go to the priest to show themselves to be healed.  Along the way, they are healed, but they still would have needed to show a priest in order to be restored to their families and friends.[ii]

The Samaritan among them returns and gives praise to God, but the others do not.  We do not know how their journey unfolds.  Presumably they are faithfully doing what Jesus told them to do – going to the priest for restoration.  Perhaps they give praise to God once the priest restores them.  Perhaps they give praise when they are reunited with their families.  Maybe they even show their praise through helping lepers later.  But that is all supposition.  All we get today is Jesus’ criticism of the nine because they neglect to turn and give God praise and thanksgiving.

I have been reflecting on Jesus’ words this week, and what rubs me the wrong way may be the same thing that rubbed me the wrong way when that man I knew always refused praise.  In both cases, whether Jesus, or the man I knew, there is both implicit and explicit criticism of my own practice of gratitude and thanksgiving.  What irritated me about the man’s responses to me was that they made me feel guilty – that perhaps I was not grateful enough to God for the goodness in my life.  The same thing irritates me about Jesus this week – his judgment of the nine makes me feel guilty about the ways I have walked away healed and not given praise to God.

This week we are kicking off our stewardship season in a campaign called, “Living Generously.”  After the service, you will be receiving a packet of information about how you can support the ministry of Hickory Neck, and a pledge card that we will collect in a celebratory ingathering in just four weeks.  Most preachers would have read the text today and thought, “Yes!  The perfect Stewardship text!”  But the more I sat with Jesus’ words, the more I realized that his words actually bring up feelings of dread rather than joy.  Most people associate stewardship with the same sense of guilt that this reading brings up.  We feel guilted into showing gratitude, and so we guiltily look at our budgets and see if we can increase our pledge this year.

The first time I experienced the concept of pledging was when I started regularly attending an Episcopal Church.  In the churches where I grew up, you never had to tell anyone what you were going to give.  The preacher might have talked about a tithe – ten percent of your income.  But the preacher never wanted you to say exactly what you were going to give.  So when the warden of this church started explaining how he wanted us to pledge, I was aghast.  I remember thinking, “That’s private!  I don’t have to tell you how much I am going to give!”  Now, I knew we would probably tithe that year, but the idea of telling someone else about my giving seemed to go against every cultural norm I knew.  Fortunately, I stayed to hear the rest of the warden’s talk.  He explained that the way the church formed the church’s budget was through the knowledge of what income they could expect.  The Vestry would adjust expenses accordingly and try to get the budget balanced.  My outrage faded as I realized how responsible that model seemed.  Thus began my adult journey into pledging.

But that journey into pledging experienced a transformation about eight years later.  We were at a new church, and the priest asked to hold our pledge cards until a particular Sunday.  We did and the funniest thing happened.  In the middle of the service, a banner appeared.  The banner was processed down the aisle, joyful music started playing, and people started following the banner forward.  We placed our pledge in a basket, and I felt something stirring in me.  The priest blessed the pile of pledge cards, and something about stewardship turned in my heart – the pledging, the monthly giving was no longer an obligation or burden – something to be guilted into.  My pledge was a joyful sign of gratitude – a sign blessed by God and affirmed by the community.  And I have to say – it felt good!

In the gospel lesson today, the text says that the Samaritan turns back to Jesus.  That word for turns back is more than just a physical description – the action of turning back is a sign of deep transformation – a reorienting of the Samaritan’s life from duty to gratitude.[iii]  I do not think Jesus was looking for a guilty admission of thanks from the other nine lepers.  What Jesus is looking for is a transformation of the heart – a turning of one’s life away from obligation and duty to joyful gratitude and thanksgiving.

I was reading this week about a woman with an interesting habit.  Whenever someone asked her how she is – that basic question we always ask and anticipate the answer being, “Fine,” – instead she would say, “I’m grateful.”  No matter what is on her plate – stress at work or school, an illness that kept plaguing her, strife at home – her response is always the same, “I’m grateful.”[iv]  As I thought about her response this week, I realized that her response is probably one that took willful practice.  I am sure there were weeks when she really felt grateful.  But there were also probably weeks when she had to say she felt grateful even if she was not sure what there was to be grateful about.  But slowly, slowly, I imagine the practice cultivated a spirit of gratitude.  A practice like that can do exactly what Jesus wants for us all – a turning of the heart to praise and thanksgiving.  I know I will never be able to shift toward the kind of response that the man I knew always gave, rejecting praise altogether.  But learning to say, “I’m grateful,” might be a way for me to get a little closer to the same sentiment.

What that woman is doing, what Jesus is encouraging, and even what our Stewardship campaign is inviting is not a sense of guilt or burden, but a genuine invitation into a life that turns our heart to gratitude and transforms the way we see the world.  Now that does not mean that every time you write the check to fulfill your pledge you will part from that treasure with a joyful heart.  But that practice is a small invitation, every time, for us to turn our hearts and to see not only the God from whom all blessings flow, but to even see the blessings in the first place.  Jesus is not mad at those lepers because they are ungrateful – he is sad for them because they have denied themselves the gift of transformation.  That is the gift that he and the Church offer us every week – the gift of a transformed heart that can change everything.  For that, I’m grateful.  Amen.

[i] Audrey West, “Commentary on Luke 17.11-19,” October 9, 2016, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3029 on October 5, 2016.

[ii] Oliver Larry Yarbrough, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 169.

[iii] Margit Ernst-Habib, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 166.

[iv] David Lose, “Pentecost 21C:  Gratitude and Grace,” October 3, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/10/pentecost-21-c-gratitude-and-grace/ on October 5, 2016.

Sermon – Luke 15.1-10, Jeremiah 4.11-12, 22-28, P19, YC, September 11, 2016

Tags

breath, celebrate, chaos, church, create, destroy, destruction, formless void, found, God, hope, Jesus, joy, lost, order, parable, September 11th, Sermon

I remember that day like it was months ago, not years ago.  I was driving into work, and caught the story right as I was about to exit the car.  A plane had crashed into one of the twin towers.  I rushed inside to find a radio, and my boss and I spent the day listening to the story unfold.  That night, I got the first glimpse of the destruction on television, and the visual was worse than listening to radio updates.  When the first tower fell, and then the second, the wind rushed out of me as I watched the wind rush out of those buildings.  Life lost inside, life being forced away from the wreckage, chaos and rubble left in the wake.  An eerie silence fell upon us as we watched in horror.

In Genesis 1, the narrator tells us that God forms the earth out of the formless void – tohu wa-vohu, in the Hebrew.  Out of nothingness and chaos, God forms order – separating the watery chaos from the earth, dividing the day from the night, bringing vegetation, beasts, and humans to life.  God takes chaos and creates order.  But on that day fifteen years ago, many of us felt like the opposite happened.  All of our order, routine, and compartmentalizing exploded into havoc.  Two-hundred and twenty stories of order were thrown into disorder – which does not even take into account the madness of destroyed winding hallways in the Pentagon and the decision of victims to crash into their own deaths rather than allow terrorists to use their plane for more destruction.  That day, we felt thrown back into a formless void, unsure of what end was up, and what had happened to our world.

I would like to say all is back to normal now – that after fifteen years, we or God managed to bring order back to the earth.  But all one has to do is look at the news and the state of our planet and governments around the world and feel like we are still in the formless void of post-9-11.  That is what makes the reading from Jeremiah so unsettling today.  As a foil to Genesis 1, Jeremiah 4 describes the earth as waste and void – the same word tohu wa-vohu found in Genesis.[i]  Jeremiah says that a hot, destructive wind[ii] blows and the earth becomes a mess – there is no light, the mountains quake, the people and birds of the air are gone, the fruitful land becomes a desert, and cities’ lay in ruin.  Jeremiah goes on to say something even more jarring – that the people are foolish and stupid.

Now, I imagine you may be sitting here today thinking, “This is supposed to be a celebratory day, and I managed to invite a friend to church.  Can you find us some joy, preacher?!?”  Don’t worry – we will get there.  I am happy to name where hope is today, but before we get to hope we have to go with Jeremiah into that desolate place.  You see, for those of us who know hope and joy, we know we do not arrive there on a straight path.  With the exception perhaps of children who have not begun to sense the depth of our depravity, most of us have been through the barren land Jeremiah sees coming.  Perhaps we only saw that formless void in the midst of a national tragedy, but perhaps we found that nothingness in the face of death, divorce, or debt.  Perhaps the destructive wind blew through our lives when violence, illness, or loneliness overwhelmed us.  We do not need to live in this world too long before we know exactly what that barren land looks and feels like.  There is probably even a scar left behind, or a metaphorical box we keep so that the watery chaos does not drown us.

But here is the weird part.  Only when we claim those times in our lives of tohu wa-vohu, those moments when the world is a formless void, can we experience the fullest heights of hope and joy.  Jeremiah calls the people nasty names today not because they are bad people or because they are not smart.  He calls them those nasty names because they have failed to remember gratefully and loyally who created them.  They have begun to live as if there is no hope, no grace.[iii]  And that is why we come to church.  To not let the formless voids of life overcome us, but to surround ourselves with a group of people who will remind us that there is still reason and room for hope.  We eagerly gather in church because we want to be reminded that our God graciously, lovingly, and mercifully blows a creative air into our nothingness and creates again and again.

That is why we celebrate on this day that could otherwise be a day of overwhelming sadness.  We celebrate today because Jesus tells us two parables that remind us why we are a people of hope.  These parables of being lost are why we gather with laughter and smiles today.  These parables are why we host a party later this afternoon – because we want to mirror the joy that God has over lost coins and sheep.

So how do we turn ourselves from the depths of sadness to the rejoicing of a heavenly party?  We need to do some work first.  Because the parable of the Prodigal Son follows these two short parables in Luke, we sometimes jump ahead and want to conclude, “All we need to do is repent, and the Lord will be happy.”[iv]  But today we only get these two short parables, and for that we are quite lucky.  Here’s the thing:  sheep and coins cannot repent.  They do not have the capacity to understand their own sinfulness.  They do not even have the capacity to act.  The funny thing about sheep who are lost is that they do not go around bleating for help.  They know that such noise might attract a predator.   Instead, they crouch behind a bush or other cover, and try to become invisible – paralyzed by the fear of being consumed in addition to being lost.[v]  Likewise, coins have no agency.  They cannot shout from under the couch cushion, “Over here by the crumbs!!”  Those being found cannot cause God to find them.  Nothing we do can earn us being found by God.  Being found, as always, is a gift from our loving God – who is the kind of God who will always seek us, ever search for us, even when searching for us may seem like a lost cause.  And on top of that, when those who are lost are found, the party that ensues is lavish, extravagant, and a taste of the heavenly banquet, as the heavens rejoice with God.

When I was growing up, money was often tight.  Though my parents rarely talked about our finances, I could tell the financial strain made them anxious.  As an adult, my father finally explained how they got by in scarce times.  A box of produce would show up on our doorstep on a day my dad was wondering what we eat that night.  A large bill would be sitting on the table and in our mailbox he would fine an envelope of cash – sometimes with a note that said, “thinking of you,” but sometimes without even a name.  Now, I am not saying that our family’s experience was the best financial planning model, but what our experience taught us is that sometimes you have no control over the good that happens in your life.  Sometimes you do not even have a person to thank.  Regardless, whatever blessing, whatever good comes our way, what Jesus invites us to do today is to be people who celebrate the God who, sometimes completely illogically, searches us out and finds us – and then throws a party when we are found.

When I realized we would be kicking off our program year on the same day as the fifteenth anniversary of September 11^th, I was overcome with dread, wondering if maybe I could just ignore the anniversary and turn our hearts toward celebration.  But our scripture today made me realize that celebration – true, deep, heart-rending celebration – can only happen when we understand the depths of our indebtedness toward our gracious God.  Once we understand that debt, then we can celebrate with grateful hearts.  I am thrilled to be embarking on a new program year with Hickory Neck and look forward to all that this year brings.  But that sense of excitement is especially deep because I know the depths of the formless void – the chaos from which we were created and back into which we sometimes slide.  Having seen the barren land that we sometimes create, I can only be even more filled with gratitude that our God is a God who scours every corner to find the coin She has lost.  Today is a day for sobriety – but that sobriety also leads us to a celebration of the heart:  a lavish party with the heavenly host.  I am grateful to be a part of a faith community that invites me to be a person of abiding hope.  Amen.

[i] Anathea Portier-Young, “Commentary on Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28,” September 11, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2973 on September 7, 2016.

[ii] George W. Ramsey, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 51.

[iii] Dwight M. Lundgren, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 53.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “Lost and Found,” September 4, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post= 4708 on September 7, 2017.

[v] Helen Montgomery DeBevoise, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 70.

Making it Work…

Tags

blessing, challenge, choose, commitment, God, grace, hard, humility, joy, marriage, strength, widsom, work

Photo credit:  marriage.about.com/od/proposingbeingengaged/

This month, my husband and I celebrated fifteen years of marriage.  Now I know fifteen may not seem like a big deal to some – it is certainly not 25, 50, or even the 64 years that one of the couples at church is celebrating this month.  But having worked with couples in premarital counseling for several years now, having worked with couples who were struggling with the strains marriage can bring, and having talked with couples who have had failed marriages, I know that marriage is not simply a gift.  Marriage is not just something that happens.  Marriage is something you work at, that you choose everyday (even on the days you would rather not), that is constantly tested, and that needs tending and loving care.  While wedding days are lovely, they are only the first day of many days that you will have to return to the commitment you made to make it work.

That being said, marriage is also a tremendous blessing.  It can be the place where you learn about the depths of love; your capacity for forgiveness (in part, because you are forgiven so often); where you can find the most honest, if not brutal, truth; where you can laugh more deeply than you ever have because that person knows what really produces a belly laugh; where you experience affirming, life-giving sexual pleasure; and where you find abiding companionship.  When we got married fifteen years ago, I was not entirely sure how things would go.  My own parents had gotten divorced just three years before our marriage began, and part of me wondered whether marriage could be done successfully.  I am so glad I made the leap anyway because marriage has brought joys (and challenges) that I never could have imagined.

I do not often talk about marriage because I work with a variety of people in all walks of life:  people who want to be married but have not found a partner, people who have lost their spouse to death, people who are divorced or who feel like the marriage is on the brink of failure, people who had abusive spouses, and people, who until very recently, were not allowed to be legally married.  At times, I have considered having a Valentine’s Day reaffirmation of vows celebration, as I have seen in other parishes, but shied away because I did not want anyone to think I was being insensitive to those for whom marriage is difficult.

All of that being said, my hope today is not to highlight how blissfully easy and wonderful marriage is.  Simply put, my hope is to honor how each day of marriage can be both a blessing and a challenge – and to thank God for the strength, wisdom, humility, and grace my husband and I have been given to get this far.  I pray for continued strength, wisdom, humility, and grace, as I pray for each of you on your various journeys in partnered, single, and dating life.  In the marriage liturgy of the Episcopal Church, we offer this petition at weddings.  Today, I leave it for my husband and I and all of you doing the work of marriage:  Grant that all married persons who have witnessed these vows may find their lives strengthened and their loyalties confirmed. Amen.  (BCP, 430)

 

 

So Let Your Light Shine…

Tags

Christ, church, glory, God, inspire, joy, light, passion, shine, transformation

Photo credit:  embracingbeauty.com/2013/04/20/letting-our-light-shine-by-donating-w-champions-for-kids-mobilizingmillions-cbias/

These last few weeks, I have been visiting outreach ministries that our parish supports.  The ministries have varied widely – from a free health clinic, to a ministry aimed at keeping seniors independent as long as possible, to a multi-service agency that works in a particularly impoverished area of our community.  Visiting the agencies has given me a great deal of perspective on the larger Williamsburg community – the various ways that poverty can impact the lives of our neighbors.  Whether the challenge is housing, health care, food, clothing, transportation, or education, the needs vary wide.  Luckily, there are people who are passionate about each need, and are working hard to make life a little better for our neighbors.

Equally helpful to learning the statistics and needs of each agency has been watching the passion of our parishioners who are involved in the ministries.  At each agency, a parishioner has shared with me why they volunteer, what inspires them, and how important the ministry is to our community.  With each parishioner, I see a certain tenderness toward the clients and a passion about the issue.   The parishioner’s entire demeanor changes when they talk about the ministry – making the case even more compelling than the executive director of the agency can make it.

As I have watched the physical transformation of our parishioners as they tell me about their passion for outreach ministries, I realized that is the same transformation I hope to see when they tell their friends about Hickory Neck.  You see, just like outreach ministries give us a sense of purpose outside of ourselves, church should similarly give us a sense of purpose outside of ourselves.  At church, we find ourselves inspired by worshiping our God.  At church, we find ourselves renewed as we learn and grow in our faith journey.  At church, we find ourselves made whole as we laugh and rejoice together.  At church, we are changed, we change others, and we change our community beyond the church walls.

I saw that same transformation as I interviewed with the Search Committee and Vestry over six months ago.  I saw that transformation in our parishioners this summer when I asked each of you what brings you joy about Hickory Neck.  And today, I imagine each of you might feel that inner transformation, that deep sense of joy, if you were to think about why you love Hickory Neck.  My invitation for all of us in the coming weeks is to take ourselves to that deep, inner sense of meaning, purpose, and joy, and to start inviting your friends and neighbors into that same experience.  If you speak from the heart, letting your light and passion shine through you, I promise you will inspire others more than you know.  Just like I saw the bodily transformation when you talked about your passions for outreach, your neighbors will be equally drawn in by your passion for church.  As we look to kick off the program year, I look forward to hearing how our newcomers were inspired by the Christ light shining in you, and wanted to find out how to capture that same light.

Sermon – Luke 10.1-11, 16-20, 2 Kings 5.1-14, P9, YC, July 3, 2016

Tags

collaboratively, commission, detail, gospel, help, humility, insider, Jesus, joy, mission, Naaman, outsider, power, Sermon, seventy, side effects, story, terrifying, transformation, vulnerable, witness

I remember when I was on maternity leave I ended up watching a fair amount of daytime television – mostly because that was the extent of intellectual stimulation that my sleep-deprived brain could handle.  Not being someone who watches a lot of television, I was fascinated by one phenomenon in general:  pharmaceutical commercials.  There are tons of them and they are all filled with very convincing actors and stories.  The story is always the same:  the patient was sad, scared, or in pain, struggling with no cure; they or their doctor find a little-known drug; and, bam, they are returned to health and wholeness.  Sometimes the actor or narrator will mention a few possible side effects.  But in tiny print below the glowingly happy patient is a longer list of side effects that, quite frankly, sound terrifying – maybe even more terrifying than the disease or symptom they are trying to heal.  If you are not careful, you can miss the messy stuff altogether because everyone looks so happy:  from hair loss, to abdominal pain, partial paralysis, or in rare cases, even death.

That same sort of list of side effects is what our gospel lesson today glosses over too.  The severity of the situation is clearly grim when Jesus commissions the seventy to go ahead of him, proclaiming the kingdom and healing people.  Jesus is unambiguous.  He tells the seventy that they will be like sheep among wolves.  He takes away any forms of security:  no purse, no bag, no sandals.  He warns them that some people will not receive them well, and they will have to dust off their bruised egos and keep going.  He advises them to be gracious guests, eating whatever is put before them (even if it is Brussel sprouts).  Truly, this has to be the worst ad for a mission ever.

But here is the funny part.  The text jumps over the mission of the seventy and simply says, “The seventy returned with joy.”  We do not get details of all the side effects they experience.  We do not get to hear how hard eating what is put before them is.  We do not get to hear how scary traveling with no money or shoes is.  We do not even get to hear how many times they have to dust of their feet in protest from ill treatment.  No, the commercial just glosses straight to the end, “The seventy returned with joy.”  The reading today feels like all the bad stuff is just shoved into fine print so that we do not get a sense of what going out into the mission field really feels like – because, based on what Jesus says, the mission field sounds terrifying.

Feeling frustrated by the lack of detail this week, I found myself wondering how we might get a glimpse into the real experience of following Jesus and sharing the good news.  Then I stumbled back into the Naaman story and realized perhaps he is the key.  Naaman seems like an unlikely candidate at first blush.  He is a foreign national in the time of Elisha.  Jesus does not come onto the scene until hundreds of years later.  But Naaman has much more in common with the followers of Jesus – in fact, more in common with us – than we might imagine.

You see, Naaman is a mighty army commander.  Because of the Lord’s favor, Naaman has led the king’s troops to victory.  Naaman is not one of the Israelites, but he is someone with great power – a prowess we are familiar with as modern Americans.  In that way, he, us, and the seventy commissioned by Jesus are similar – we are insiders with power.  But despite his power, Naaman suffers from leprosy.  He has longed for healing and would use his power, influence, and money if he could.  But so far that has not led to success.  Instead, Naaman has to go another way.  As it turns out, Naaman has to go on a journey that is very similar in conditions to what the seventy must do.

In order to find healing and wholeness, Naaman must give up his power, sense of control, and must rely on others – especially those most marginalized in society.[i]  Basically, like the seventy, Naaman must give up his purse, his bag, his sandals, and must rely on the hospitality of others.  His story starts with a tip from a slave girl from Israel.  She learns of the commander’s leprosy and suggests he seek out the Israeli prophet, Elisha for healing.  So, Naaman gets a blessing from his king and heads off to the king of Israel.  Only, the king of Israel misunderstands Naaman and thinks he is being setup for failure.  Elisha, who is clearly not in the king’s court, saves the day, and sends word that he will help.  So, Naaman takes his bountiful gifts to this non-ranking prophet seeking help again.  But instead of greeting Naaman, Elisha sends out one of his messengers to Naaman with instructions for healing.  Instead of dusting his feet off at the apparent insult, Naaman gets angry.  But some of Naaman’s unnamed servants gently appeal to him to try the remedy anyway.  Naaman eats humble pie again, and is healed.

Naaman gives us a glimpse into the fine print of Jesus’ commissioning of the seventy.  Going without a purse, sandals, and relying on the hospitality of others takes a lot of humility.  Facing rejection, which Jesus guarantees will come, will take a lot of anger management.  Going in Christ’s name will mean accepting help from anyone and everyone – not the easiest of tasks for us, who as Americans prefer to be self-sufficient, independent, strong survivors.  We prefer to be people who help instead of people who need help.

I have been on a variety of mission trips over the years:  medical missions, missions building homes, missions building schools or community centers, and missions meant to build relationships.  On almost every mission trip I have joined, the team members came back feeling like they gained more than they gave.  This conclusion invariably leads to a discussion about whether money is best spent in direct aid than expensive overseas trips that seem to benefit us more than the people we serve.  While that conversation always needs to happen, what that argument fails to see is the power of Christian witness – that even if we do not turn communities around socio-economically, part of what we leave behind is the love and fellowship of Christ – the message that you are not alone in your suffering.  In part, being able to host us and show us hospitality gives those we serve more of a sense of worth and honor than being recipients of aid.

But in order for any of that to happen, we have to make ourselves vulnerable.[ii]  We have to put ourselves in the position of Naaman to receive aid and healing from the least likely persons.  True mission is not about the powerful and wealthy bringing their resources to the poor and downtrodden.  True mission is about the powerful and wealthy realizing their own spiritual poverty and creating an environment where rich and poor, healthy and sick can share healing, wholeness, and health in a way that recognizes we all have needs before God – and that God uses us all of us when we work collaboratively for healing and building up the kingdom of God.[iii]

Jesus was right to warn us with the possible side effects of sharing the good news:  vulnerability, insecurity, bodily danger, hurt egos, and long days.  Though the seventy do not show us what that looks like, Naaman certainly does.  He reminds us of the fine print:  that the side effects may lead to anger, feelings of abandonment, a loss of self-worth and importance.  But the benefits are still the same:  healing and wholeness for the whole community, redefining who is in and who is out of the community, and new purpose in the larger world.  The good news is that part of our prescription involves partners for the journey:  Jesus sends the seventy out two-by-two.[iv]  Even Naaman does not go alone, but takes others with him – others who keep him in check and support him in his sense of loss.  And the result is the same:  healing, transformation, and joy.  Those kind of results make the side effects worth it!  Amen.

 

[i] Stephen Reid, “Commentary on 2 Kings 5:1-14,” July 3, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2904 on June 29, 2016.

[ii] David J. Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 219.

[iii] Adriene Thorne, “Moral Leprocy,” July 3, 2016, as found at http://www.onscripture.com/moral-leprosy on June 29, 2016.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “The Security of Seventy,” June 26, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4683 on June 29, 2016.

In it Together…

Tags

alcoholism, both-and, church, compassion, either-or, Eucharist, gratitude, grief, honor, joy, mother, Mother's Day, pain

Photo credit:  indianapublicmedia.org/harmonia/offering-hand/

This week I attended our Spring Clergy Day.  Our presenters for the day talked to us about addictions and their impact on families and communities.  As part of our work, we eventually began to talk about how we honor those in our midst who are struggling with the disease of addiction while staying true to ourselves.  One specific issue at hand was how to make room for alcoholics in a Church that serves wine as the blood of Christ.  Although our Bishop was pretty clear that he did not want us to step outside of the rubrics (i.e. using grape juice instead of wine/non-alcoholic wine), several clergy members shared practices they had adopted to make parishioners struggling with alcoholism feel incorporated into the community.  Ultimately, what we decided was that each parish was different, and the important point was that we talked about the issue, especially soliciting the opinions of those who suffer from the disease.

Meanwhile, this Sunday is Mother’s Day.  I have come to dread Mother’s Day because of the many pastoral implications (see my posts here and here).  However, I am in a new parish that longs to honor those mothers and mothering-types who have made a healthy impact in their lives.  I realized the dilemma of trying to honor mothers while honoring those for whom Mother’s Day is a hard day is not unlike the dilemma of trying to honor years of tradition in the Anglican Church and the pastoral sensitivities needed of a modern priest.

In both of these instances, I find myself mostly concerned about making room for both joy and compassion.  How do we honor the struggle of the alcoholic while also honoring the power the taste and tradition of wine has on our spirituality?  How do we honor the amazing mother we have in our lives while also honoring the fact that not everyone is so lucky?  How do we celebrate the pregnancy or birth of a child in our parish while also honoring how difficult hearing about pregnancy is for someone struggling with infertility?

I am hopeful that we can do both.  This Sunday, my parish is going to try to do just that.  We had several parishioners who really wanted to honor the mothers in our midst.  Holding on to that inner tension, we agreed that every female would be offered a flower and a poem that named the inherent challenge of honoring the amazing mothers in our lives and the ways that this day is hard for many of us.  Our hope is that by doing both, we have the opportunity to give thanks and rejoice while also leaving room for grief and intercession.  We know there is no perfect way to do both – but we also know that in doing nothing, we sever any opportunity for joy by simply attending to grief.  Instead, we are electing to go with the both-and instead of the either-or.  Prayers for all of you as you navigate the both-and of this world!

Homily – John 11.21-27, Cemetery Memorial Service, March 19, 2016

Tags

cemetery, darkness, death, Easter, eternal life, grief, homily, if only, Jesus, joy, Lazarus, light, Martha, memorial, resurrection, spring

“Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  These are the words Martha says to Jesus in our gospel lesson today.  The weight of that phrase, “if only,” is heavy.  We all know that weight.  If only he hadn’t caught pneumonia.  If only she hadn’t taken the car out that day. If only we had known about the cancer earlier.  If only they were here now.  We know the sickening power of “if onlys.”

One of my favorite movies is a movie called Sliding Doors.  The movie follows a woman who is fired from her job.  As she makes her way home she has seconds to catch a train.  The movie divides into two at that point.  In one storyline she catches the train home only to find her boyfriend cheating on her at home.  In the other storyline she misses the train and is none the wiser about her boyfriend’s affair.  The two stories unfold in parallel, letting her life unfold from that one moment of a missed or caught train.  Her story is the ultimate “if only” story.

Martha knows the feeling of “if only.”  She knows that if only Jesus had been there, he would have healed Lazarus.  She also knows that if only Jesus had not taken so long, he probably could have made the trip in time.  That phrase, “if only,” hangs in the air for Martha.  But Jesus does not let Martha linger in the past, dreaming about what might have been.  Instead, he points Martha to the future – reminding her that her brother will rise again.  Martha already knows this.  Resurrection life was standard Jewish teaching in their day.  By Martha’s quick response to Jesus, we know that his reminding her about the future of resurrection doesn’t offer Martha much comfort.  But then Jesus does a funny thing.  He twists time all around, telling Martha that “the future is suddenly brought forwards into the present.”[i]

When Jesus says to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life,” he is not just talking about a doctrine.  He is not just talking about a future fact.  The resurrection is a person, standing here and now in front of Martha.  Jesus invites Martha to exchange her “if only,” for an “if Jesus…”  As one scholar explains, the “if” changes:  “If Jesus is who she is coming to believe he is…If Jesus is the Messiah, the one who was promised by the prophets, the one who was to come into the world…If [Jesus] is God’s own son, the one in whom the living God is strangely and newly present…if [Jesus] is resurrection-in-person, life-come-to-life…”[ii]  You see, when Jesus changes Martha’s mourning to a pondering about what resurrection means, Jesus pulls her out of the past, with an eye on the future, that bursts into the now.

The last time we gathered, we did so in the darkening days of winter.  We watched Christmas approach, and the grief of “if only,” was heavy upon us.  But today, out tone shifts.  Spring is trying to emerge, the days are gifting us with more light, and Easter is approaching.  We have journeyed through a season of darkness.  The Church now invites us to journey toward the light.  The way that we make that transition is not by mourning the “if onlys,” but cultivating the joy of the possibility of “if Jesus.”

Isn’t that how we ever truly face death, though?  That is the eternal gift of our faith in Jesus Christ.  We are promised eternal life through the Savior who came among us, who taught us, loved us, died for us, and rose again.  And through his existence, resurrection is no longer a future longing, but a promise for the here and now.  Our loved ones are celebrating in the resurrection life, because as Jesus says, everyone who believes in Jesus Christ, even though they die, will live and everyone who lives and believes in him will never die.[iii]

As we approach Holy Week and Easter next weekend, I invite you to journey with Christ through the last bits of darkness, holding fast to the promise of the light of Easter – when we shout our joy to the world for the Savior who makes resurrection life possible in the here and now.  The church will journey with us as we loosen our grips on the “if onlys” of life and we attempt to embrace the “if Jesus” ponderings of life.  Today we recognize the ways that the “if onlys” try to haunt us.  But today we also lean on the church for support to hold fast to the “if Jesus” part of our loved ones’ stories.  When we hold on to the power of the future made present, we are able to rejoice this Easter with fullness and joy.  Amen.

[i] N.T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 6.

[ii] Wright, 7.

[iii] John 11.25-26