On Pandemics, Rollercoasters, and God…

Tags

compassion, coping, emotions, God, pandemic, presence, productive, rollercoaster, tender, thrive

Photo credit: https://theinconstantmuse.com/2016/07/27/rollercoaster-ride/

One of the habits this pandemic has cultivated is thriving in survivalist mode:  dealing with the thing in front of you, then moving to the next, until all the “things” are done.  This requires shelving one’s emotions for another time because they get in the way of what needs to be done.  This kind of operating can be intoxicating because there is a rush that comes from accomplishing things when times are hard – acknowledging that despite how hard things are, you are still being productive and useful.  It can be a useful skill, but a habit that cannot be sustained long-term.

Nowhere have I felt that reality more than in this last week.  In the course of one single week I conducted a funeral for a one-month old infant, I joyfully celebrated the baptism of two life-giving children (one infant and one preschooler), I received the shocking news that my beloved barre and yoga studio would be closing in 24 hours (a place that has been a source of joy, friendship, and health for five years), our family entered into quarantine as we finally succumbed to COVID (we’re all fully vaccinated and boosted), which involved postponing countless major and minor events at church, and finally, learned that a dear friend who is younger than we are was gravely ill from long COVID.  It was not until the end of the week, when COVID finally slowed me down that I realized what a rollercoaster of a week it had been emotionally.

Truth be told, the life of a pastor is regularly a rollercoaster like this.  I frequently have back-to-back meetings:  one for a couple preparing for marriage and one for someone facing divorce.  I can have back-to-back visits:  one for a family with a newborn and one for someone on Hospice.  Even Holy Week has Good Friday and Easter Sunday within days of each other.  Emotional whiplash is a regular occurrence in this field.  But in some ways, the disadvantage of this pandemic is that we all seem to be living in a constant emotional rollercoaster.  You may have read my litany of the last week and thought, “Seems like a typical week in COVID!” 

My prayer for all of us during this rollercoaster of a time is that we be tender with one another.  When we hear good or hard news, remember there are a lot of other things going on in the background – family who cannot be there, conflict among neighbors, or even happy news that seems inappropriately timed.  But especially remember to be tender with yourself.  If you need to congratulate yourself for just surviving and being productive, do it.  If you need to wallow or cry, do it.  And in case you cannot feel it or have lost touch with your relationship with God, remember God is with you in the midst of it all, being more tender with us than we could ever be to ourselves or others.  My prayer is that you feel God’s presence this week.

Sermon – Isaiah 43.1-7, Luke 3.15-17, 21-22, EP1, YC, January 16, 2022

Tags

baptism, belonging, blessing, children, communal, exile, God, hope, individual, Jesus, love, pandemic, redemption, Sermon, you

A couple of weeks ago, despite months of planning, I was not sure today would happen.  Of course, we would celebrate the feast of Jesus’ baptism regardless of whether we were gathered in person or online, but I really wanted all the things that come with an in-person baptism – babies crying the middle of sermons, moms and dads rhythmically bouncing their children to soothe them during the service, crayons scattered wherever children find themselves in the worship space.  But most of all, I love having the congregation’s children gather around the font, eyes fixed on the pouring of water, clutching onto the sacred items we have asked them to hold, nervously giggling as they wait for the big moment of their friends’ baptism.  Their energy is reflected by the adults in the space but seeing that energy up close is invigorating.

But then, we suspended physically gathered worship, and everything shifted.  We had choices in front of us, and after much prayer and discernment, the baptismal family decided to gather their small family without the enthusiasm of the whole congregation physically present.  Not until I read today’s Old Testament lesson did I appreciate the parallels in our collective journey to this day.  You see, Isaiah has been prophesying to a people in exile.  The sinful generations of Israel have led to their own demise, and they now sit in Babylon in despair, recognizing their failings, feeling isolated from everything familiar, wondering if they will ever find God’s favor again.  Though we have not been exiled from our land, this pandemic has created our own exile of sorts.  Our weary hearts long for good news.

Into these twin exiles in Babylon and in pandemic, God speaks words of redemption, belonging, and hope.  “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine,” God says.  “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned…For I am the Lord your God…you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”  These words from God are a balm to the people of God.  But each of those promises are not only for the nation of God.  Those “you”s are accompanied by the second-person-singular verb forms, as one scholar explains, “as if speaking to each member of the community.”[i]  I will be with you.  You are mine.  You are precious and honored.  I love you.

That is what we do in baptism.  Although baptism is a communal event – whether, like in Luke’s gospel, as Jesus stands in a line of people to be baptized along with them, or whether we gather in some hybrid form of in-person and online worship – even though baptism is necessarily communal, baptism is also about the promises to a unique child of God:  who belongs to God, with whom God is present, and who is loved.  We hear echoes of God’s blessing from Isaiah in Jesus’ baptism, when God says, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  The Church claims the same for Reed and Zenora today – “You are my child, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”[ii]  Although Reed is old enough to hear and understand this blessing, we as a community, with Zenora’s parents and godparents, promise today to keep reminding Zenora of her identity as a child of God, whom God protects, to whom she belongs, and who is deeply loved and honored.  In truth, we all need that reminder, especially during these dark times.  That is why we will all reaffirm our baptismal covenant in just a few moments – so that we might reclaim our baptismal identity and receive again the charge of our call. 

This service today is not just a day of blessing for Reed, Zenora, and all of us gathered in hybrid worship.  Today’s baptisms are also a commission.  As one pastor writes, “Luke uses very few words to share with us the baptism of our Lord.  But those few words lead us to very deep wellsprings of joy in the faithful ministry.  To identify with all people, to depend upon God in prayer for the strength to live and to love, and to hear the affirmation of your God as the source of your calling and purpose in life are the most enduring joys of life.  Theses are the blessing of our life together in Christ as the church.”[iii]  Our invitation today is to take this pivotal moment for Zenora and Reed, to receive the reminder of your own beloved status, and then to go back out into the world with a reenergized sense of purpose and renewal.  God says powerful words to us today.  I love you.  Our work this week is to say the same to a hurting world.  I love you.  Amen.

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[i] Kathleen M. O’Connor, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 219.

[ii] Robert M. Brearley, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 240.

[iii] Brearley, 240.

Sermon – Isaiah 60.1-6, Matthew 2.1-12, EP, YC, January 9, 2022

Tags

Coronavirus, darkness, epiphanies, Epiphany, exile, gifts, glory, God, Jesus, light, magi, pageant, pandemic, participate, radiant, Sermon, shine, shutdown

About a month ago, we were gathered for Youth Group, and the activity was assigning parts for the Epiphany pageant.  When we started, no one was particularly excited about the exercise, many committing to reading the parts for the night but not necessarily to performing the parts at church.  By the time we were done, youth were repeatedly asking when they should plan to be in church for the pageant, where they would get costumes, and when to schedule the dress rehearsal so they could coordinate the rehearsal with their other sports practices and commitments.  Their sparks of enthusiasm release a glint of hope in me:  maybe, after almost two years, with vaccinations for kids 5 and up, and with masking, maybe we would be able to finally have our beloved Epiphany Pageant.  And over the Christmas season, hope bloomed in my heart.

And then, five days ago, everything came apart at the seams.  We moved not along a spectrum of restrictive options, but completely shut down gathered worship altogether.  And although we have survived shutdowns before – even thrived in them – this one, on the Feast of Epiphany, is hard.  A day that is designated for the last of our Christmas celebrations instead feels like a day to recognize we are not yet done with this pandemic.  Instead of marveling at gifts and epiphanies, we feel like we are sitting in ashes.

I think that is why, even though we are celebrating the epiphany that occurs when the magi arrive in Matthew’s gospel, I am instead drawn to our lesson from Isaiah.  To understand why, we need to remember the context of this Isaiah lesson.  The lesson is a lesson proclaiming the favor of Jerusalem.  The lesson claims that although darkness covers the earth, nations shall come to Jerusalem, bearing gifts, and wealth, and abundance.  Maybe none of that sounds too remarkable – Jerusalem has always been the favored city of God.  But here’s what we might not realize about this passage of favor and blessing.  This passage is written to the exiles from Judah as they wait in Babylon.  As one scholar explains, “In the middle of the sixth century before Christ, things seem as dark as they have ever been, with little left to sustain the hopes of the Judeans.  They are exiled from their land; the temple has been destroyed; and the dynasty of David has come to disastrous end.” But, Isaiah says, “…the poverty and shame of exile will be overcome when all the wealth of the world pours into Zion and the city of exiles becomes a light to the nations.  Isaiah bids the people, ‘Arise, shine; for your light has come.’” [i]

We know all too well the darkness of exile.  If anything, this pandemic has been an exile of sorts – an exile from the physical plant of our church, an exile from family and friends, an exile from a way of life we probably never fully appreciated.  Into this darkness, Isaiah dares speak to the people a word of light:  not just the promise of the presence of light, but an instruction to be light.  “Arise, shine,” Isaiah says.  “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.  Lift up your eyes and look around; they all gather together, they come to you…you shall see and be radiant.”[ii] 

On this feast of the Epiphany, the first revelation of God to the Gentiles (the Gentiles being those magi that come from another land to see the Christ Child), we do not get to watch our children reenact the epiphanous moments of Christ’s birth narratives.  But maybe this year that is okay.  Because the story of the magi is not a story about sitting back and watching.  The story of the magi, as Isaiah reminds us, is not about observation but about participation.  This year, the question to us is not just how the magi or the exiles of Judah are epiphanies, but as Karoline Lewis asks, “how are we epiphanies of God’s glory?”[iii] 

When Isaiah says, “Arise, shine…be radiant,” our question and invitation is to consider how we can be radiant epiphanies of God’s glory in a time of darkness for our communities.  We mourn the lack of our youth and our children not being here to lead us in a pageant not because they are endearing, but because they model for us what embodying God’s light means.  The pageant is a physical reminder of the embodiment of faith we are invited into every day.  And without the pageant today, we lean into Isaiah who does not give us a free pass.  Even as we gather across the internet, we are invited to be light, to shine, to be radiant in the communities around us: to our families who maybe we’re a little tired of spending time with, to our neighbors who despite proximity may feel deeply alone, and to the weary world around us who needs Christ’s light more than ever.  And Isaiah reminds us we do not have to make light – the glory of the Lord has risen upon us already.  Our invitation is to not cover the light, but to let God’s light shine through us – to be radiant for others.  Maybe as nations come to our light, we might be able to lift up our eyes and look around and see the radiance they see in us.  Arise, my loves.  Shine.  For your light has come.  Amen.

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[i] Kendra G. Hotz, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 196.

[ii] Isaiah 60.1, 3-5.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Sermon Brainwave #822:  Epiphany of Our Lord – January 6, 2022,” January 3, 2022, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/822-day-of-epiphany-jan-6-2022 on January 8, 2022.

On Clearing the Way…

Tags

absence, clearing, desk, essential, God, luxury, necessity, organization, pandemic, purging, putting off, relationship, sacred, stacks

Photo credit: https://stock.adobe.com/search?k=stack%20of%20paper%20on%20desk

Last week, I finally took on the task of clearing my desk.  In general, I am a “stacks” kind of person when it comes to organization.  I stack papers on my desk when I am done with them.  The stacks can get quite large, but I also know enough about the stacks that I can find papers if I need them.  Eventually, when the stacks get a little too big, I take a day and go through the whole assortment of stacks, tossing things or filing them when necessary.  But even though I love the satisfaction of the clean desk, the stack method is never really eliminated.

My periodic purging of the stacks normally works fine.  But when you’ve been through eighteen months of a pandemic and were super busy before the pandemic hit, let’s just say my stacks had gotten taller than my head when I was seated at my desk.  Because I had precious little time in the office in the last eighteen months, giving up a whole day or at least half a day purging seemed like a luxury I could not afford.  And so, week after week, I would promise myself, “Maybe next week…”

Sometimes, I think our relationship with God is a lot like that – especially during this pandemic.  Maybe we have prayer books we like, devotionals on our nightstand, or even a little prayer station at home with items like prayer beads or inspirational photos or trinkets.  But the survival patterns we have developed during this pandemic have meant the normal things that helped us feel close to God – the physical things or even the people from church we have not seen in eighteen months – have been absent for too long.  Maybe we have even made those same promises to ourselves, “Maybe next week…”

I wonder what that “thing” is for you:  What have you been putting off during this pandemic because you could not let it be a priority like it once was?  Maybe it has been taking care of yourself physically or emotionally, maybe it has been caring for others in ways that bring you joy, or maybe it has been connecting to a church community.  Whatever the “thing” is for you, maybe this week is the week when you take a deep breath, drop the things that have seemed essential until now, and give yourself a moment to take care of yourself – in ways that maybe seem luxurious, but in the end, might just be sacred necessities.

On Crises, Crucibles, and Communities…

Tags

baptism, care, community, crucible, elders, exhausted, God, love, pandemic, parents, retirees

Photo credit: Deposit Photos (used with permission)

The parish I serve is situated in a crossroads.  In our community are two very different populations:  one is retirees who have fallen in love with the greater Williamsburg area and have settled here to enjoy their retirement; the other is families with young children, who have found a relatively affordable place where they are excited to raise their children.  In both of those populations, the moves to our area often mean people are leaving behind familial systems of support.  In that crucible of our community, Hickory Neck has worked to ensure that our faith community is a community for both populations:  that doesn’t try to just serve each unique group but tries to bring them together so that they can care for each other – surrogate grandparents for young children, and surrogate children and grandchildren the elders can love.  It has been a joy to watch our community embrace our context and thrive.

Then, 18 months ago, our world imploded.  Throughout that time, our parish has tried to be attentive.  Our younger families offered to pick up groceries for our elder members to keep them safe.  Our elders send cards to families encouraging them during these difficult times.  We all figured out new technologies together and laughed along the way.  And when there were times that we could gather, there was joy and hesitation among both populations.  Many of the elders needed to be careful about their health, even if vaccinated.  Many of the young parents were happily vaccinated but then have been forced to wait for vaccines for their children.  In so many ways, it has been the best of times and the worst of times.

Eighteen months later I find a community of parishioners who are just exhausted.  Parents have been pushed to the point of breakage at times.  I cannot tell you the number of times this article came across my desk when talking about the impact of this pandemic of families with school-aged children.  And our elders are breaking too.  Many of them have been pushed into lonely isolation, maybe having figured out technological ways to connect but missing human contact horribly.  Having ridden the rollercoaster of being rushed to be vaccinated, being told they are now safe, many of our elders now are being asked to mask and distance again, and they are terrified of the isolation they thought they had defeated.  All of us are carrying a heavy burden but in very different ways.

Having watched our faith community love and care for each other for so long, I sense now that we are at a new crossroads – one in which our love and care for one another is being tested.  When a crisis comes, adrenaline kicks in, and we move mountains to care for the “other.”  But when a new wave of crisis hits in the form of the Delta variant, our now wearied minds, bodies, and spirits are being pushed once again.  This is the moment when our community will shine.  This is the moment when superficial questions like “how are you?” are being transformed to, “No, really.  How are you?”  This is the moment when emails, texts, calls, and cards that simply say, “I see you,” mean so much – to both generations.  This is the moment when the light of our love is not done out of instinct but out of a deeply rooted baptismal identity that says, with God’s help, I will respect the dignity of every human being.  I am so grateful to be a part of our faith community now – not in the first days, weeks, and months of a pandemic, but in the heart of a long crisis whose crucible will reveal something more beautiful than I ever imagined.

On Baptisms, Babies, and Blessings…

Tags

absence, babies, baby, baptism, blessing, creation, family, God, loud, messy, mystery, pandemic, sacred, touch, vulnerability, wonder

Photo credit: Kim Edwards; reuse with permission only

I was never really a baby person:  I did not do much babysitting as an adolescent; except for my little brother, there were not a lot of babies around me growing up; and I was just never all that jazzed about babies.  They seemed delicate, loud, messy, and mysterious.  I never had maternal urges in early adulthood, and my friends found constant amusement in any scenario where the question arose about who should take care of a baby in a pinch – obviously, the baby should not come my way.  But the time my husband and I were engaged, we were not even sure we wanted to have children.

Then in my early thirties, a switch flipped and I realized, in fact, I did want children.  I still was not sure about other babies, but I was excited about my own.  But then a funny thing happened.  I was ordained a deacon when I was about seven months pregnant.  What I did not realize was once you are ordained, you handle babies a lot – in baptisms, in walking moms through pregnancies and births, and even in the receiving line at church.  Once I went through babyhood with my own daughter, and she was no longer at that lovely, innocent stage, I realized my vocation included mothering a lot of other babies.  It has become one of my favorite parts of ministry because it is a glimpse into the wonder and mystery of creation and the grandeur of our God.

So, you can imagine, when this pandemic hit, among the myriad reasons my heart hurt was not being able to interact with babies.  Our church had babies born during the pandemic and it killed me to not be able to welcome the baby at the hospital and give the baby and family their first blessing.  My heart ached to see baby photos on social media and know the babies were growing up without the church surrounding them in love.  But mostly, my arms palpably felt the absence of holding babies, swaying to keep them calm, and smelling their unique baby scent.

As we slowly come out of this pandemic, I am keenly aware of the privilege of holding babies again.  At a recent wedding I tentatively asked a guest, who I did not know, if they would like me to hold their baby to give them a break.  When they quickly passed me the baby, my face lit up.  Last Sunday, when I finally got to hold the baby we had prayed for all during her time in the womb, I was elated.   And as we approach two more baptisms this weekend, I could not be more excited to make those special connections – even though they are not really babies anymore!  One of the blessings of the rise in vaccinations is enjoying the sacred honor of touch, of experiencing vulnerability and innocence, and of redefining the boundaries of family.  This week I give thanks for the abundance of love and joy.  May you all find your own encounters with the holy this week!

On Being Normal and Other Longings…

Tags

church, community, connection, core, discipleship, God, goodness, happy, normal, pandemic, restrictions

Photo credit: https://avalonassnmgmt.com/2020/11/23/normal-is-overrated-for-now/

This Sunday, our parish is introducing two in-person worship services for the first time in fifteen months.  There is a lot about which to be excited!  We will be able to worship in our beloved Historic Chapel, which was not able to be used during most of the pandemic due to structural restrictions.  We will be able to sing congregationally, even if we have to keep our masks on for a little while longer.  We will be able to skip registration and check-in, we can sit wherever we want (you have no idea how hard such a simple thing has been for some of our parishioners!), and we can receive communion sitting right next to other people – some people we have loved and missed for a long time and some people who are completely new to us!  There are a few restrictions remaining, like masking, avoiding touch, and not being able to share a common cup, but we are okay with incremental change and so very happy for what we will get to experience this Sunday.

All that being said, you may have noticed I am being very careful to not say we are “going back to normal.”  Partially that is because we are not yet fully engaging in church as we once were.  And in some ways, there are permanent additions, such as livestreaming, that we never experienced pre-pandemic, that will be mainstays for us now. 

But the real reason I have avoided using the term “normal,” is because I don’t want us to go back to normal.  “Normal” in March 2020 meant a country deeply divided politically; neglecting, or downright oppressing, immigrants, the impoverished, women, and the LGBTQ community; and a deep unwillingness to talk about systemic racism.  Even our church was unwilling to fully embrace digital discipleship and evangelism.  I am not interested in returning to that kind of “normal.”

And so, although it may seem like semantics, we are introducing worship in a new way.  We are modeling all the goodness of things we once knew, and hopefully letting go of some of the things that needed to be let go.  We are holding fast to the things we loved during this pandemic – connecting to people who are far away, helping the less mobile feel a part of the community, and encouraging connection, even when the service times do not match your schedule.  And we are coming out on the other end as something different – with the same core values and passions – but expressed in a different way.  And for now, that, as God said in creation, is very good!

On Tiny Perfect Things…

Tags

blessing, Christ, God, grace, moment, pandemic, perfect, small, tiny

Photo credit: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/269441990176015475/

I just finished up a movie called The Map of Tiny Perfect Things.  The premise is much like Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again.  But in this film, the two protagonists use their day of repetition to find tiny perfect things – an eagle grabbing a fish out of a lake, an elderly woman dancing about a game victory, a perfectly timed funny moment, a custodian sneaking on a piano, demonstrating his incredible hidden talent. 

These last weeks, I have been noticing a lot of tiny perfect things as we slowly make our way out of this pandemic:  a hug between vaccinated friends who haven’t seen, let alone touched, each other in over a year; watching kids play with bubbles, mastering not just blowing them, but popping them too; an outdoor wedding after a year of wondering if it would be possible with a long pandemic and the threat of unpredictable weather; being able to hold and bounce a baby after over a year of isolating newborns from all of us. 

We are approaching some of those tiny perfect things at our church as well.  Because we are loosening restrictions incrementally, we are not getting some magical “perfect” experience where everything “goes back to normal.”  But we are approaching a time where we can sit in pews that were off limits, where we can sing those songs and texts that have been spoken or been instrumental, where we can sit beside a friend whose physical presence we have missed, where we can receive the body and blood of Christ.  We still have to mask, and communion is being served in sealed plastic chalices – but there are tiny perfect things nonetheless. 

This week, I invite you to find your own tiny perfect things – tiny moments of grace.  Take a moment to watch children play in your neighborhood, see what wonders nature is up to, enjoy a bit of hearty laughter, or observe the way an older couple holds hands after what must be decades of marriage.  There is a lot of work to be done as Christ commissions us to go out in the world.  But what will sustain us in that work are the tiny perfect things that remind us of God’s blessing and grace that are there for us every day.  I cannot wait to hear what you find!

On Hugs and New Realities…

Tags

anxious, comfort, COVID, disciples, Eastertide, hugging, Jesus, Messiah, pandemic, party, relieved, slow, solidarity, tense, tentative, touch, trauma, vaccines

Photo credit: https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/hugging-for-20-seconds-a-day-may-reduce-your-stress-2zck2d7h6

A few weeks ago, we met friends for an outdoor playdate with our kids and each other.  We had not seen them in a long time, and all of us had received one or both of our COVID shots.  Excited to see each other, there were lots of squeals and warm words of greeting.  Then my friend did something that shocked my system.  She came in close and said quietly, “I’m going to hug to you now.”  We were both masked and I have always been a “hug person.”  But when she pulled me in for a hug, I realized I have not hugged anyone outside of my immediate family for thirteen months.  I felt simultaneously anxious and comforted, tense and overwhelmingly relieved.  Feeling the conflicted reactions flooded me with a sadness for all that has been lost in this last year and a hopefulness for what is to come.

A year ago, I remember thinking that as soon as this pandemic were over, we were going to have a huge party at church.  As I think back to that sentiment now, I see how naïve it was.  I had no idea how long this would take.  I had no idea we would need vaccines, and when they finally became available, some people would refuse to take them.  I had no idea that even with adults fully eligible, children would not immediately be eligible for vaccinations.  I had no idea there would be no neat and tidy “end” to this pandemic.

And so, instead of a huge party, we are making tentative, slow steps toward a semblance of normalcy:  gathering for Eucharist, but socially distanced, masked and with only about 50 people; outdoor funerals with similar restrictions; thinking through modified baptisms and weddings that will not be the same, but at least can happen; carefully considering how we might sing together, following exceedingly stringent guidelines and regulations; and seeing faces we have missed all year, even if we cannot embrace. 

Watching all of this unfold in Eastertide somehow seems so appropriate.  We often think of Eastertide as the time we joyfully celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, a seven-weeklong party of sorts.  But that was not anything like what Eastertide was for the disciples.  There was fear, disbelief, confusion, denial, and hesitancy.  Even as Jesus offers his body as a proof text, the disciples are more often cowering in upper rooms than throwing parties in the streets.  Coming out of trauma – either of the death of your Messiah or out of a worldwide pandemic – is not instantaneous, straightforward, or clear.  This Eastertide, I have been especially grateful to journey through Eastertide with the disciples.  Somehow, their muddled, messy behavior has been a comfort and sign of solidarity during these strange times.  I hope you are finding similar companionship this Eastertide.  And if you want some modern disciples to walk with you, you are always welcome at Hickory Neck!

Sermon – Mark 16.1-8, ED, YB, April 4, 2021

Tags

alleluia, brief, Easter, God, Good News, Jesus, journey, Mark, pandemic, promise, resurrection, Sermon, spectacular, story, tension

You know how when a group of friends go out for an adventure, and when they come back and try to share the story with you, but you can never quite get “THE story”?  Someone will remember the night happening one way, someone else will add another detail, another person will contradict or question that detail or embellish the story.  You get the gist of what happened, but the exact details may be a bit fuzzy.  

 On Easter Sunday, that is kind of what happens to us.  Each Gospeller – Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John – tells “THE Easter story” a little differently – different characters doing different things.  We know the basics:  the tomb is empty and Jesus is risen from the dead.  But the details make the story different and fresh every year. 

This year, we get Mark’s version.  In that group of friends trying to tell the same story, Mark would be the one known for brevity.  His version would be something like this, “The women went to anoint Jesus in the tomb, like we always do with the dead.  But when they got there, the big rock was already moved, and Jesus was gone.  Some guy was there and said Jesus has been raised.  It was terrifying.”  There are no embellishments to the story – no running around, no pronouncements of the Good News, no disciples doubting women, no victorious preaching.  Just a stunning revelation and news so shocking it leaves people afraid. 

This may not be “THE Easter Story,” as you remember.  But Mark’s version of the Easter story may be exactly the Easter story we need this year.  I do not know about you, but Easter is usually this spectacular day for me.  We journey through Lent, reflecting on our relationship with God.  We trudge through the drama and emotional labor of Holy Week.  Then, on Easter, the alleluias feel well deserved and the joy is hard to contain.  But this Easter, I am not totally there.  This pandemic is still hanging over our heads, our worship is wonderful but not all we know Easter worship to be, and our lives are still in a holding pattern as we work toward herd immunity and even hear talk of cases spiking.  I know this is a day for rejoicing, but there is still so much grief all around us, I am having a hard time fully embracing the alleluias this year.

That emotional tension is why I love Mark’s gospel this year.  The women at the tomb are coming out of a deep grief too.  The only reason they are at the tomb this morning is to do the work grieving people do – tend to the body, handle the practical details, do the things that begin the journey of healing.  So, although the news from the man in white is incredible, the news is unsettling, confusing, and a bit scary.  The women are going to need time to process this mind-blowingly good news before they can rejoice, before they give thanks to God, before they can muster up the nerve to say the good news aloud. 

What I hear in Mark’s gospel are two words of promise for us today.  First, no matter how we receive the Good News of Jesus Christ’s resurrection and triumph over death, the good news is there for us and for all anyway.  Our reaction to the news does not negate the goodness or the radical love and redemption of the resurrection.  Second, the man in white says something seemingly inconsequential that means the world.  He says, “…go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”  If you remember, Peter denied Christ when Christ needed him most.  But today, the resurrection promise is specific:  go tell his disciples AND PETER…and you will see him.”  No matter if we have been faithful, no matter if we have actively denied Jesus, no matter if we cannot muster a joyful response to the resurrection, we will see Jesus.  The Good News of Jesus is not just for the faithful – the good news of Jesus’ resurrection is for the broken, the sinful, the despondent, and the fearful alike.  And on a day when you may or may not be feeling our alleluias 100%, the Good News is God is with you anyway, loving you and promising to carry you until you are 100%.  Thanks be to God!  Alleluia.