Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YB, April 1, 2018

Tags

affirmation, called, church, Easter, encouragement, gift, joy, known, Mary Magdalene, name, reason, Sermon, share

Last weekend, before Holy Week started, our family celebrated my youngest’s fourth birthday.  A dear friend was there and asked me how I was doing, knowing full well that Holy Week and Easter were coming.  I launched into a diatribe about all the things I was juggling – birthday party, work commitments, packing for Spring Break, and the pressures of writing an Easter sermon.  The last complaint caught her attention.  “You’re worried about an Easter sermon?” she asked.  “Oh, yes!” I explained.  “It’s a big day.  The sermon needs to be good!”  She looked at me, dumbfounded, and said to me, in a way that only a best friend can, “You know nobody comes to church on Easter because of the sermon.”

Now as a preacher, you can imagine my ego was a little bruised.  But the more I thought about her observation, the more I realized she was right.  We come to church on Easter for a whole host of reasons.  We come to church on Easter because that is what our family has always done, and the continued observation of Easter somehow connects us to the past, present, and future, creating a sense of belonging and identity.  We come to church on Easter, because we long for a good word – a reminder that even in a tumultuous world, there is the promise of resurrection life, joy, and hope.  We come to church on Easter because we love the music, the flowers, the crowded seats, the Easter attire, and the experience of being a part of community.  And some of us are not sure why we come to church on Easter, but we suspect, or at least hope, we will find something that can revive our weary souls.

I suspect what most of us are hoping for today is an experience like Mary Magdalene’s.  I am not sure Mary knew why she went to the tomb that fateful day.  In John’s gospel, Mary is not there with spices to anoint Jesus’ body.  She does not bring flowers or some memento to leave at the tomb.  In fact, she comes to the tomb in darkness, before the morning light has arisen, perhaps in a fog of knowing she needs something but not sure what that something might be.  And then, not unlike the chaos that may have been your morning to get here on time and half-way presentable, Mary’s life gets thrown into chaos.  An empty tomb means she and the disciples run around like chickens with their heads cut off.  Later, Mary finds herself bemoaning to angels and a stranger alike that she just wants Jesus’ body – a physical reminder of all the horror and love and pain that has happened.  And in the midst of this chaos, a simple, profound thing happens.  Mary is called by her name.[i]  And her world gets turned on its head.

There is something very powerful about being called by your name.  We will frequent restaurants or coffee shops because we love being recognized by name by our favorite barista or shop owner.  If you have ever received a blessing or healing prayer by a person who knew your name, you know the intimacy that is created between the two of you, and the power of hearing your name lifted up to God.  We even try to use nametags here at Hickory Neck because we know how wonderful being known by name feels.  Being known by name creates a feeling of acceptance, affirmation, affection, and acknowledgement.[ii]  I can only imagine the rush of emotions when Jesus calls Mary by name today – not just the recognition of who Jesus is, but the reminder of how much he has loved her.

I suspect we should add that to the list of reasons why we come to church on Easter Sunday.  We want to be known too.  Perhaps we want to literally be called by name.  But perhaps we know just being here creates the same sense of belonging that being known by name creates.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we are sitting next to someone who is longing for belonging today too – who also rallied to get to church on time – maybe with kids in cute dresses, or maybe just pulling their aching bodies to church.  When we sit in the seats today, we know that we are surrounded by a group of people who also love having their senses overwhelmed – from the smell of fragrant lilies, to the joyous sound of song [brass], to the taste of communion bread and wine, to the sight of fanfare and smiles, to the feel of another hand at the peace.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we will be offered a word of joy, light, love, hope – and we want our lives to be marked by that same sense of promise.

Now you may feel tempted today to take all that affirmation, encouragement, and joy, and go about the next days on your own personal high – as though the gifts you receive today are solely for you.  But what all this fanfare, acknowledgment, and hope are meant to do is to propel you out into the world.  When Mary is called by name, receiving the blessing of recognition and encouragement, she does not stay at the feet of the resurrected Jesus.  She becomes John’s gospel’s first preacher.  “I have seen the Lord,” Mary says to the disciples.  Now I know some of you will go out from this place today and do just that – you will put on your Facebook page, “Alleluia, Christ is Risen!” or you will hug your neighbor and tell them what a joyous day you just had at church.  But for others of you, sharing today’s joy may take you a little more time, or may look a bit different than proclaiming, “I have seen the Lord,” to your favorite barista.  But what Mary invites us to do today is find our own way of sharing the beautiful gift we receive today – to give someone else the gift of joy and hope, to quietly tell a friend what a cool experience this day was, or to simply call someone else by name – sharing that same sense of belonging and affirmation you receive today.   You came to church this Easter Sunday for something.  Mary invites you to give that something to someone else.  Amen.  Alleluia!

[i] Serene Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 378.

[ii] D. Cameron Murchison, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 380.

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, March 27, 2016

Tags

church, disciples, Easter, Episcopal, imperfect, Jesus, Joanna, journey, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Peter, saved, Sermon, share, story, testimony

Where I grew up, the practice of sharing a “testimony” was commonplace.  In fact, many of my friends had no problem asking what my testimony was.  Usually what someone meant when they asked, “What’s your testimony?” was they wanted to know the story of when you were “saved.”  Now, just because I grew up in the culture did not mean that I felt comfortable with that question.  In fact, I can tell you that the question usually led me to lots of stammers and fidgeting.  Once I actually asked, “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘saved’?”  But the answer made me even more uncomfortable.  The basic assumption seemed to be that being “saved” was like having an epiphany moment – a moment of clarity when you heard the voice of God, and you made an active decision to accept Jesus as your “personal Lord and Savior.”

So you can imagine how profoundly grateful I was to stumble into the Episcopal Church as an adult and find that no one ever asked me about my testimony or being saved.  In fact, I am not even sure most Episcopalians have that kind of language around their faith.  If you asked an Episcopalian when they were saved, they might tell you about a near miss with a car or a time when doctors had to administer CPR.  Once I realized most Episcopalians were not going to demand to hear my testimony of how I came to accept Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior, I realized I might have actually found my people.

Of course, I am not sure either tradition really has it right.  In fact, I think the two cultures represent two extremes – the culture I grew up in believed being saved and being able to retell the story was crucial to membership; and the culture I chose to stay in believed that asking anyone about their faith life was way too personal of a conversation that should be avoided at all costs – we are just glad you are here.  Of course, I lean toward the Episcopal extreme, but I do see some of the dangers of our extreme.  You see, in our efforts to be polite and unobtrusive, we forget something very important about testimonies:  testimonies help us grow together.

Perhaps I should back up and talk about what testimonies are.[i]  Now, my childhood friends would define a testimony as the story of how you were saved.  I would actually describe a testimony as the story of how you came to know Jesus – whether you came to know Jesus through all the Sunday School stories you learned, whether you found the church as an adult and slowly felt yourself more and more drawn in by the story of Jesus, or whether you are still figuring out your journey and you are not really sure what you are doing but you know you want to be here.  The cool thing about a testimony is that there is no right or wrong testimony.  Your testimony is unique to you, and your testimony is not only good, but is compelling.

That is what I love about our gospel lesson today.  Today’s story sets the stage for a lot of testimonies.  On this day three women go to the tomb to tend to Jesus’ body and instead have an incredible experience.  On this day the disciples listen to some crazy story by the women of their group – believing that clearly the women are either seeing things, are suffering from sleep-deprivation, or are just out of their minds with grief.  On this day, Peter cannot resist the temptation to check out the scene in the tomb himself – and he is rewarded by being amazed at what he sees.

But those are just the facts of the story as we read them.  Those details are not their testimonies.  No, I imagine the testimonies are quite different.  I imagine Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James’ testimony would go something like this, “You are right.  Sometimes people will think you are crazy when you tell your story.  I remember back when Jesus first died, we had this amazing encounter at his tomb.  We were overwhelmed and overjoyed, but do you think the men would believe us?  They eventually came around, but those first few weeks were hard.”

I imagine the disciples’ testimony came from a different angle.  Their testimony might have gone something like this, “I totally get what you mean.  The story really is crazy.  Even I, one of his closest disciples, did not believe the story when Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me.  In fact, I wondered if their grief had not left them mentally unstable.  But slowly my heart warmed.”

And I imagine Peter’s testimony was even more different.  “Trust me,” he might have said.  “I totally understand what you mean about not feeling worthy.  I felt like I behaved even worse that Judas.  I did not betray Jesus for money, but I did deny him three times in public.  When that cock crowed, my heart shattered.  I never thought God would forgive me.  But when I stood in that empty tomb, and remembered what Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me, a spark of hope lit in my heart.  Suddenly I understood that Jesus could redeem me – even me – the worst friend and disciple you could be.”

Testimonies are not stories about how pious we are.  Testimonies do not fit into a formula or even make us look particularly good.  Testimonies are stories – our stories – of how we have encountered God.  They are not meant to be perfect stories.  In fact, the more imperfect the story, the better, because testimonies are meant to be shared.  I do not know about you, but I find imperfect stories much more compelling than perfect ones.  When Mary Magdalene tells me people thought her story was crazy, I feel like I can be more honest about my own story – no matter how crazy my story may sound.  When Peter tells me about how unfaithful he was, I feel like I can be more honest about my own unfaithfulness.  When the disciples tell me how dismissive they were, I can be more honest about how I am not always a good listener for God.

On this Easter Sunday, the Church shares her testimony.   We wake up this morning as if from a bad dream.  Lingering in our subconscious are stories of betrayal, unfaithfulness, brutality, and death.  The sting of grief and the sobriety created from deep failure still tingles.  But on this day, something utterly unexpected, confusing, and amazing happens.   Jesus warned us this would happen, but we did not really understand him at the time.  But in the empty tomb hope bursts forward.  Our hearts are filled with joy at the possibility that Jesus’ death changes things.  In the coming weeks, we will hear the rest of the Church’s testimony about how, in fact, Jesus resurrection does change things – stories of eternal life, of the kingdom made present, of sins washed away, of forgiveness and a New Covenant.  The story is admittedly a bit crazy.  But the story, the Church’s testimony, is full of hope, love, and grace.

St. Margaret’s has its own unique testimony.  The St. Margaret’s testimony begins with the stale stench of cigarettes in the Plainview American Legion Hall and journeys through baptisms in a church that was still under construction.  The testimony is full of bowling leagues, choirs, progressive dinners, and youth groups.  The testimony is full of leaders – both lay and ordained – who shaped the different eras of our life together.  No single part of our story is perfect, and no single part of our story is without redemption.  And our testimony is still unfolding, year after year, even when some questioned whether we could keep going.

Our individual testimonies are the same.  Some of them are circuitous, as we took a winding path to get to know our Lord.  Some of them are strange, involving odd encounters and sacred moments.  Some of them have yet to be articulated or understood.  Whatever our testimony may be, our testimonies are not meant to be kept to ourselves.  They are meant to be shared.  Just like the Church models for us today as we shout our long awaited alleluias, we too are meant to share our imperfect, strange, quirky testimonies.  We share them with one another and out in the world because our stories have had a tremendous impact on our lives.  Those stories, in all their glorious imperfection, are also the stories that help us connect with others, to share the Good News, and to grow the body of faith.[ii]  My testimony will now include the stories of my time here at St. Margaret’s, as your testimony and the testimony of St. Margaret’s will also include parts of these last four-plus years.  The joy of this day, the comfort of the Church’s story, and the satisfaction of the Holy Meal are all meant to empower us to go out in the world and share our imperfect, beautiful testimonies.  The world is waiting – and Jesus goes with us.  A

[i] Martin E. Marty, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 350.

[ii] Marty, 350.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YB, April 5, 2015

Tags

community, Easter, Episcopal, intellect, Jesus, John, Mary Magdalene, mystery, personal, questions, realness, Sermon, theological, visceral

Growing up in the church, I always had a lot of questions.  There were a lot of things in the Bible that I found confusing, and downright contradictory, and I wanted someone to explain them.  Often the answers were unsatisfactory, and I struggled to understand why the adults in my church did not just have clear answers.  So imagine my delight in adulthood when I discovered the Episcopal Church and the way that the Church seemed to embrace questions.  Of course, the answers were still not always clear, and priests used words like “mystery” and “I don’t know.”  But at least I was in a place that welcomed the questions, and that fact gave me hope that one day, I might actually figure out all this “God stuff.”  And of course, going to seminary was a dream – I could actually spend 24-7 steeped in my questions, in textbooks, and in my favorite spot, the Library.  And though I discovered that there is rarely one answer to a question, the fact that there were myriad answers that one must hold in tension was just fine.  I was just happy to have developed some of the language and ideas around those big questions.

So imagine how proud I was when my first child finally started asking questions about Jesus.  I was going to be the parent who did not have to use words like “mystery” and “I don’t know.”  I did know, and with her first question, I launched into an explanation of epic proportions.  It was not until I looked in the rearview mirror of the car and saw her eyes glazed over and her attention fading that I realized I had lost her.  Somehow my accumulated knowledge and reference to the debates of scholars was of no help with a three-year old.

What I probably should have done was taken a cue from John’s gospel that we hear today.  The funny thing is that John’s gospel is usually pretty heady – his sentences are often convoluted and complicated.  And to be honest, sometimes my eyes glaze over and my attention fades when I read John’s gospel.  But today’s lesson is a little different.  Today, as we hear about the most significant fact of the Christian faith – Jesus’ resurrection – John is not abstract or intellectual at all.  Quite the opposite, the encounter between the risen Lord and Mary Magdalene is visceral, emotional, and deeply, deeply personal.[i]

This kind of revelation about God is not what we expect from John’s gospel.  This is the same gospel that begins, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the beginning with God.  All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”  No mangers, angels, or kings.  John is all about theologically explaining Jesus.  So why then does John give us a story about Mary, Peter, and the beloved disciple running around like crazy people?  Why does John have Mary repeatedly not being able to see past her grief to realize that not only is she speaking to angels who are trying to give her good news, she is also talking to the very man whom she is grieving?  John beautifully transitions today from being a writer who consistently presents Jesus in heady, intellectual ways, to being a writer who also shows us that Jesus is most known in the tangible, realness of life.  In the story, Mary is desperate to see her Lord’s body – what she imagines is the last tangible piece of him left.  She is so distraught that she cannot even see clearly when he is looking at her straight in the eye.  Only when she has turned away in despair, is she able to find Jesus.  Jesus says, “’Mary,’ and the sound of his voice saying her names helps her to see him.  He does not offer a general address; no, he uses a word that applies to her and her alone, a word that captures the utter particularity of her individual life – her name.”[ii]

We do not get a distant, transcendent Jesus in John.  We do not get some flowery, academic description of a concept of Jesus.  We get a real man, addressing a real woman, using the sound of his raspy voice, calling a woman by her very own name.  The gospel does not get much more real and tangible than that.  John’s gospel is such a relief to us today because who among us cannot relate to the busyness of this text?  Before we get to the part of Jesus saying Mary’s name we have Mary and disciples running back and forth, people walking past one another without a word, Mary misinterpreting things because she is so singularly focused on what she thinks should be happening.  Of course she could not see Jesus.  Neither can we.  We are running from work to home to meetings to practices to church.  We are answering emails, hearing headlines on the news, and eating dinner.  We are on the phone, driving the car, and scarfing down lunch.  How can we connect to Jesus in the chaos of our lives?

We can certainly try to connect to Jesus through the study of academic readings and theological debates.  We can try to mentally work our way toward Jesus.  But more often, Jesus is revealed to us instead through embodied, physical ways.  As one scholar explains, “As he did with Mary, Jesus comes to us not as a general idea or an imagined ghostly figure, but as a presence that reaches beyond our mind’s overt powers of knowing and touches our lives in ways that we cannot see.  They are felt – tasted, touched, smelled, heard, seen in image, and as such, often as unconscious as they are visceral.”[iii]  Sometimes we will experience God through study and the use of our minds.  But sometimes, we will come to know God through the emotional and personal – like being called by name.

Once we are willing to accept that there are some things that are beyond our knowing, we can perhaps lessen our grip on our Episcopal embrace of the intellect, and realize that some things of God have to be experienced.  In order to do that, we are going to need some help.  We are going to need to “go to church and be in a space where we physically, emotionally, communally, experience Jesus in our midst.”[iv]  Whether in the taste of the communion wine, the smell of the Easter flowers, the sound a favorite old hymn, or the feel of hard wooden pew, church is one of those places in which the familiar tastes, smells, sounds, touches, and sights stirs up something deep inside of us.  Though church can certainly feed our minds, we can feed our minds anywhere.  But our bodies need to be fed too.  And sometimes the only way to feed our body is through our physical, visceral experiences that can only be had in church – so that our bodies might be reminded of Christ too.

Of course, that means we are going to have to give up some things.  We are going to have to give up on the notion that our brains will be able to answer all our questions.  We are going to have to give up some time on Sundays so that we can place ourselves in the position to taste, touch, feel, see, and hear Jesus.  And we might even have to be willing to say the occasional, “I don’t know,” when our children ask us really hard questions.  But my guess is that children, and even adults, when they are willing to admit it, might be relieved to hear us say, “I don’t know.  But sometimes in my gut, I can feel Jesus with me.  And every once in a while, though the thought may be really strange, I really can hear Jesus calling my name.”  My guess is that the ambiguity, the visceral, tangible concept of Christ, and the sense of wonder and mystery you share might make for a more engaging answer anyway.  Amen.

[i] Serene Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 376.

[ii] Jones, 378.

[iii] Jones, 378.

[iv] Jones, 380.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YC, March 31, 2013

Tags

darkness, Easter, expectation, expecting, God, Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Sermon

On that dark, damp, dreary morning, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb expecting something.  Darkness clings to her like a cloak.  She was there at the foot of the cross two days ago.  She waited, hoping against hope that God would be victorious and Jesus would be miraculously saved.  And then she prayed that God would take Jesus faster, because despair was setting in and his suffering was overwhelming to witness.[i]  She cried so much that night, that her eyes ran dry.  After 48 hours of dazed despair, she drags her lifeless body through the darkness to tend to her beloved Jesus’ body.  Seeing his body one more time will only confirm her grief, but at least she has somewhere to go to mourn; at least his cold body will confirm his death, and begin a journey toward closure.  Mary Magdalene comes to that tomb in darkness expecting something.

We too come to church today expecting something.  Maybe we are expecting a word of joy, the release of the alleluias we have been holding in for weeks.  If we attended the myriad Holy Week services this week, maybe we are expecting a relief from all the darkness of the liturgies during these last holy days.  If we have not been to church in a long time, maybe we are uncertain as to what to expect.  We came here seeking something – some sort of connection, a sense of familiarity, or maybe a place that will accept us as we are, letting us take things as slowly as we need.  Or perhaps you were dragged to church today by a family member, and the most you are expecting is an hour of your time taken away – and that certainly feels like a period of darkness for you too.

If Mary came expecting one thing, what she gets is altogether different.  The absence of Jesus body puts her over the edge.  The first thing she does is run to get the disciples.  But even they only confirm the awful truth that keeps compounding.  Humiliating him, torturing him, and crucifying him were not enough.  Now they have taken his body too?  Having the disciples leave Mary Magdalene alone again starts the downward spiral that seems endless.  This is why she cannot see the angels in their glory – she only mutters a response to them and turns away from the tomb, her vision blurred by her tears again.  This is also why, when a man appears, she desperately begs the man to tell her where he has taken the body.  And then the unexpected happens – or at least perhaps what she had hoped might happen, but would never let herself say aloud.  Rabbouni!  Her teacher is back!

But Jesus only partially fills her expectations.  “Do not hold on to me,” Jesus says.  His words must have felt like a slap to Mary’s fragile self.  In the instant that she recognizes Jesus, a whole new set of expectations arrive.  Surely, they can flee to Galilee again and keep Jesus safe.  But Jesus changes things yet again; Mary Magdalene’s expectations cannot be fulfilled.  Things cannot return to normal.  What Jesus invites is not a return to the way things were, but to a way that is even better than the way things were; a way in which she can develop new expectations for her life in Christ.

When I graduated from college and relocated to Delaware, I was looking for a United Methodist church.  I had experienced a particular style of worship in my hometown, and was looking to replicate that experience.  After six months of frustrated looking, I stumbled into the Episcopal Cathedral.  Parts of my expectations were met – the Cathedral had one of the most diverse populations I had ever seen – racially, socioeconomically, ethnically, by household definitions, and by sexual orientation.  They were doing some incredible urban ministry, and seemed to have an inspiring commitment to the poor.  But the worship killed me.  It was so formal and the music was so uptight, that I wondered how such a progressive church could be so rigid.  I remember hearing an offertory anthem one Sunday that was so good that I said a very loud, “Amen!” at the end.  I realized right away that that was not what was expected of me.  Ultimately, after several Sundays, I decided that I would stay, but only temporarily.  When we moved again, I would just look for another United Methodist church.  But God had other expectations for my life.

That is the funny thing about expectations.  Both the realistic expectations Mary Magdalene has – the expectation to remain in bitter darkness – and the hopeful expectation Mary has – that everything could go back to normal – are not met.  But that does not mean that Jesus does not make a way out of the darkness.  We have heard from the very beginning of John’s gospel about Jesus and the light.  “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it,” says John’s gospel[ii]  The later, John says, “Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’”[iii]  Jesus, then, this light of the world, cannot meet the expectations of Mary; because Mary’s expectations are smaller than God’s.  Mary cannot go back to the way things were.  But the way things are going to be is infinitely better.  “God gives a new kind of life, a life that is still worth living, a new kind of aliveness toward God and the world…”[iv]

Mary’s interaction with Jesus invites us to consider our own expectations of this day.  If we came here today, only seeking joy without transformation, then our expectations might go unmet today.  If we came here expecting to rub out all the darkness of these last days, then our expectations will only be partially met today because we cannot celebrate the resurrection, without the cross ever with us.  If we came here as seekers, expecting to just sit in the pew and then go back to our lives, then our expectations might not be met either.  Once we learn that this room is full of seekers just like us, who want us to enrich their journey, this place cannot be seen in the same way.  Even for those of you who just hoped to survive this hour of forced worship will not have your expectations met.  Because even if you are not touched today by Christ’s light, those who brought you here are being touched by the light; your relationship with them will be changed because they are being changed.

So the polite Southerner in me wants to say, “I am so sorry we did not meet your expectations today.”  But at the end of the day, I am glad that our expectations are not met today.  God is doing bigger and better things than we can imagine.  Our job is to trust that the light of the world will lead the way into the new resurrection journey that awaits us.  Amen.

---

[i] Joan Gray, “Beyond Rescue,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 22, no. 3, Easter 1999, 51.

[ii] John 1.5

[iii] John 8.12

[iv] Gray, 52.