Sermon – John 11.32-44, Isaiah 25.6-9, AS, YB, November 7, 2021

Tags

All Saints Sunday, All Souls Day, death, God, hope, humanity, Jesus, Lazarus, loss, necrology, new life, promise, saint, Sermon, soul, strength, tears, weep

Most Sundays we talk about Jesus’ life and witness and how we can emulate the Son of God.  Many years ago, there was even a campaign with the letters WWJD:  What Would Jesus Do.  But what we rarely talk about is how incredibly hard that ideal is – how hard as everyday humans emulating the Savior, who was both fully human and fully divine, really is.  So, in theory, a day like today should be a relief.  All Saints Sunday is a day we shift gears and talk about emulating people who were fully human.  Of course, that notion is tricky too.  By “saints” the church means those “persons of heroic sanctity, whose deeds were recalled with gratitude by

later generations.”[i]  These are people like St. Francis who shed his every earthly possession and obtained the stigmata, Mother Teresa who nursed this sickest of the sick and poorest of the poor, or even St. Margaret, who slayed her way out of a dragon after being tortured for her faith. 

I think that is why we often conflate All Saints and All Souls Day – the latter being a day when we remember all of those who have died in the hope of the resurrection.  These are the saints or souls who may not have been marked by heroic sanctity, but certainly had an impact on our lives.  These are the moms and dads, the spouses and friends, the children and lovers who may not have always been holy, but certainly taught us about the Christian faith and who we entrusted to the hope of the resurrection as we sat by their deathbeds or mourned their sudden deaths from afar.

We conflate the notion of All Souls Day into All Saints Day because there is something more human about All Souls Day – not only because we can relate to ordinary human life and death, but because the celebration today makes us feel like our humanity can be enough too.  That’s why I love the gospel lesson we get today.  In all the texts about Jesus’ healings, outwitting the challengers, and his ultimate sacrifice for us on the cross, today we get a text about Jesus being very human.  Before the amazing miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead, we are told, very simply, Jesus wept.  Caught up in the grief of his friends Martha and Mary and lost in his own overwhelming sense of loss, Jesus cries; not just a single, artistic tear, but a full-on bout of weeping.  In that solitary moment of grief, Jesus feels deeply, tangibly human.

I do not know about you, but that is what I need from Jesus today.  Later in our service we will list the names of the beautiful souls from Hickory Neck who died in the last year – those who made us laugh, sometimes made us angry, who put a smile on our face, and sometimes made us weep.  In the Prayers of the People, we will pray for the over 750,000 people who have died of COVID in the United States, mourning not just their loss, but the loss of our old “normal” and all that this pandemic has taken from us.  We mourn the ways in which many of the funerals we celebrated in the last year cheated us from each other’s presence – a reality that has still not be fully remedied.  In the midst of what has been a time of significant trauma, we need a Savior who weeps with us – and not just for the dear friend who has died, but also for the fact that his raising Lazarus will soon mean his own death.[ii]

That very gift of Jesus’ humanity today is what empowers us to boldly proclaim hope[iii] in the midst of sorrow, in the midst of trauma, in midst of this strange in-between time.  The words of Isaiah remind us of the promise, the promise that, “the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.  And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever.  Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken.  It will be said on that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.  This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”  On this All Saints Sunday, that is our hope for the week – the promise that the Lord God will wipe away tears – because God’s Son has known our tears – and that we will enjoy that rich feast with our loved ones again.  This in-between time is just that – a time in-between where the promise of new life is a rich promise indeed; one that gives us strength for the not-yet time.  Thanks be to God!

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[i] Holy Women, Holy Men:  Celebrating the Saints, (New York:  The Church Pension Fund, 2010),664.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “When Jesus Weeps,” October 28, 2018, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/1999-when-jesus-weeps on November 5, 2021.

[iii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Mourn Loss, Proclaim Faith,” November 1, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/mourn-loss-proclaim-faith on November 5, 2021.

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. 

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YA, April 12, 2020

Tags

alleluia, Coronavirus, death, disciples, dread, Easter, eternal life, hope, Jesus, promise, Sermon, worship

I have to confess to you, I have been dreading preaching this Easter.  My dread has not been because I do not think we need some joy.  Lord knows, we could use all the joy we can get!  But there is something that feels off or forced about saying, “The Lord is risen indeed!” or singing “The strife is oe’r” or even, “Jesus Christ is risen today!” because, well, the strife is not over.  Death rates are on the rise, cases of Coronavirus are expected to surge here soon, our overburdened medical professionals and essential works are already strained with anxiety, and we have at least two more months to go in our stay-at-home order in the Commonwealth.  This strife is far from over.

Knowing how hard this day would be, and longing to be authentic about where we are, I went back to where we always go – back to the text – back to Holy Scripture.  Songs and Prayer Book aside, John’s gospel has been especially comforting to me this year. The comfort from John has not been because John’s gospel demonstrates a people ready to celebrate today.  Quite the opposite, three of Jesus’ closest disciples – Mary Magdalene, Peter, and the beloved disciple – have encounters with the risen Lord that are almost comically human.  On the promise of good news, Peter and the beloved disciples race, one beating the other but not going fully in the empty tomb; the other going in but not saying anything; neither understanding what is going on; and both just leaving – just going home without a word to one another or to Mary Magdalene.   Then there is Mary Magdalene, who in shock, runs to the disciples; when left alone a second time, she weeps; angels try to comfort her; Jesus himself speaks to her and she does not immediately recognize him; when she does finally recognize her beloved teacher, she is not allowed to touch him; and finally, finally, she shares her testimony – not what it all means (because I am not sure she knows) – but what she saw.   Nowhere in John’s gospel does Jesus say, “The strife is over” or “Alleluia, the Lord is risen indeed!”  Instead, Jesus seems to be saying, “Hey…calm down…relax…I know you – you are mine.  This is a good thing.   I cannot comfort you in the way you want, because I am not done yet, and some even more amazing things are coming.”

Today’s message from Jesus is certainly good news – but mostly Jesus is promising good news still coming – the promise of eternal life once Christ ascends to the Father in fifty days from now.  Somehow, all of that “stuff” today in our gospel lesson has been oddly comforting.  Disciples running around, not understanding what is happening, going back home without a word, desperate attempts to control the situation, and soothing, knowing words from Jesus despite our lack of understanding has been supremely comforting to me today.  John’s gospel today is not a fait accompli.  John’s gospel is a promise:  a promise of hope that everything will be okay.  And like every promise in a crisis – whether a crisis of health or a crisis of faith – the promise is not the announcement of something being done or accomplished, but a gift of hope that goodness is coming.

And for me, that is what I need today.  Not a worship service that declaratively says, “The strife is oe’r,” but one that gently and comfortingly says, “The strife will be oe’r.”  Not a worship service that says, “The Lord is risen indeed,” but “The Lord’s rising today is a promise for you going forward.”  Our service today is not a service trying to force you to put on fancy clothes (because I imagine some of you are still in pajamas watching from home) or trying to force you into some false happiness.  Our service today is about hope, a quiet confidence, a gentle reminder as Christ calls you by name, that death does not have the final say; that Christ is walking with us through this pandemic, and will be with us to restore us when we emerge on the other end.  We do not know what that other end looks like; but we hear today that Jesus is with us in the midst of this, calling us by name, giving us hope for tomorrow.  The return of our alleluias today is not a naïve proclamation that everything will be okay.  The return of our alleluias today is an invitation to reclaim the hope that can only come from the risen Lord, that can sustain us in our grief, hold us in our confusion and doubt, and embolden us to honestly witness even in our uncertainty.  The church says with us or for us today, “The Lord is risen indeed,” until we can believe those words with conviction for ourselves.  Thanks be to God.

Sermon – Matthew 26.14- 27.66, PS, YA, April 5, 2020

Tags

afraid, angry, anxious, change, Coronavirus, disciples, God, grief, hope, Jesus, Lent, Lord, Palm Sunday, promise, rollercoaster, Sermon, turbulent, victory, walk

There is a meme that has been circulating that reads, “This Lent is the Lent-iest Lent I’ve ever Lented.”  Of course, the grammar is intentionally ridiculous, but the meme had the effect of making me want to laugh and cry all at the same time.  Lent is usually when we craft a time of sacrifice and abstinence – a time of purposeful withdrawal from comfort to help us ascetically come closer to God.  But this Lent, we have not needed to craft anything.  Comfort has been ripped away from us, our footing has been upended, and a sense of being bereft has swept over us as our governments have attempted to force us to respect the dignity of every human being through stay at home orders with punitive consequences.  In other words, that daily devotional I started reading in the first week of Lent is buried under a pile of crisis management paperwork.

Because this has been a “Lent-y” Lent, the emotional rollercoaster of Palm Sunday is much more relatable than in most years.  We started out our service singing loud hosanas, feeling the high of the promise of the arrival of a savior-king, and we end with a reading where disciples have deserted and betrayed, the faithful have condemned out of fear and resentment, the leadership have mocked and brutalized, the Chosen One of Israel lies dead in a tomb while the remaining faithful women linger at a distance, fearfully mourning Christ’s death.  In this “Lent-iest Lent we’ve ever Lented,” we are no stranger to the feeling of going from confident security and relative prosperity, to sober, fearful waiting and looking at the tomb that is sealed with finality.  As death and the threat of infection hang around us, we do not need to contrive a sense of deep mournfulness and communal culpability.  We do not need to imagine the feeling of Christ’s death.  From singing hosanas to shouting “Let him be crucified,” we are living the narrative of Palm Sunday today.

Though I would never wish our current reality on us, and though I wish we were having a more man-made experience of Lent, I must confess the confluence of this time with this virus feels appropriate.  We do not have to imagine the grief of sitting by the cross mourning the reality of death – we are already sitting by the cross mourning.  We do not have to imagine being forced from the crowd to take up a stranger’s cross in a violent, turbulent moment – we are already in a turbulent moment in the company of strangers.  We do not have to imagine what feels like the extinguishing of hope and victory – we are already in the midst of clouded hope and unseen victory.

I suppose that is where I find hope today.  We do not need to imagine today.  We are the disciples, afraid and unworthy.  We are the mourning women, anxious and bereft.  We are the religious leaders, angry and discouraged.  None of that may sound hopeful.  But I see hope all around.  I see hope in governor’s wives who can see and speak to truth, warning us and helping us see.  I see hope in disciples who can see their own unfaithfulness and mourn with honesty.  I see hope in Jews who risk reputation and sacrifice personal wealth to properly bury the Christ.  I see hope in a Messiah who wanted to escape certain and necessary death, but dies with dignity and faithfulness to save us.  Though today is a sober day, today is also a day of promise.  The hosannas we say are not in vain.  The songs we sing are not in vain.  The prayers we pray are not in vain.  I have hope that we will come through this unique Lent a changed people – a people more humble about our frailty, a people more sober about the importance of community, a people more astounded by the blessing of a savior.  Even in our physical separation, we walk this holiest of weeks together, we mourn and comfort together, and we hold out hope together.  Today, we walk in the light of the Lord.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 2.1-12, Isaiah 60.1-6, EP, YA, January 5, 2020

Tags

abundance, Bethlehem, Christ, control, Epiphany, God, grace, hide, ignore, incarnation, Jerusalem, light, love, magi, mystery, need, pageant, power, promise, Sermon

At our 9:00 am service today, we honor the feast of Epiphany with our annual Epiphany Pageant.  Every year I love watching the children and youth bring the Christmas story alive one more time.  Part of what makes the service special is hearing the story with fresh ears – not from a clergy person reading from the aisle like every other Sunday, but with a variety of voices narrating and enlivening the words, making the incarnation story more incarnate.  I love how the pageant keeps us in the Christmas moment one more week, and I love how the story brings all our Christmas characters under one roof, reminding us of the continual unfolding of the mystery of the incarnation.  Though there is something certainly endearing about the whole experience of a pageant, there is also something quite profound in a pageant too.

But what pageants can sometimes do is focus our attention so intently on the manger – on Jesus and his family – that we forget what happens outside the manger is just as important as what happens at the manger.  Even our beloved carol “We Three Kings,” draws us to the experience of the magi’s adoration in Bethlehem, without insight into what happens in Jerusalem.  This year, after hearing of registrations, of humble births, of angel choruses, of everyday shepherds spreading the Gospel, and of cosmic explanations of the incarnation, we turn our attention to Jerusalem.  Isaiah gives us some clue about where our attention is drawn.  “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you…Lift up your eyes and look around…”[i]  The instruction in Isaiah is not for Bethlehem, but the city of Jerusalem[ii] – the city where Jesus’ journey will end, the city for whom Jesus weeps, the city of eventual redemption and salvation.  There, Isaiah foretells of the incarnation, how the people of God are to reflect the light of Christ, and to pay attention to what is happening around them, to God incarnate.

Those words, “lift up your eyes and look around,” have been lingering with me this week.  Instead of looking deep into the scene at the manger or with the holy family, I am drawn by what is happening in Jerusalem.  Three things happen there.  One, we learn more about the magi.  The testimony of the magi is what most of us associate with Epiphany.  Foreigners set out on a quest, more attuned to the cosmic nature of the incarnation than the people of faith.  Their astrological findings do not simply fascinate them, but inspire action – a long, uncomfortable journey to see the incarnation for themselves.  As profound as their witness is, they are not able to complete the journey alone.  They stop in Jerusalem for guidance.  They know they are on the right path, they just cannot quite get to the proper place. And so, the magi stop and ask for help along the way.  They know something significant has happened, but they need guidance from people of faith to fully realize their journey.[iii]

The magi’s insightful question, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” is a question that brings in the second action.  The chief priests and scribes, the ultimate insiders of the faithful, those who hold the revelation of scripture and interpret scripture for the people of God, are given news that should be earth shattering.  When asked about the birth of the Messiah, the religious leaders recall what they know of the Messiah:  the Messiah is to be born of Bethlehem and is to shepherd and rule the people of God.  The religious leaders offer the key – the prophecy of scripture about the coming Messiah.  And yet, even though they have this scriptural foundation, they do not react to the news of the magi.  Even though these wise people profess this awaited Messiah has been born, the religious leaders do not drop everything.  They do not even ask to go with the Magi, just to check and see if this story might have something.  They may be versed in scripture, but their inaction shows that even insiders sometimes need outsiders to be faithful.[iv]

Finally, the third thing that happens are the actions of Herod.  Herod is probably the most fascinating to me.  He is wise too, even if he uses his wisdom for his own nefarious purposes.  Herod knows the announcement, even if from an outsider of a new king being born means his own kingship is threatened, and shows how fragile his rule is.[v]  But instead of acting impulsively, he manipulates those around him.  First, he calls in the religious leaders.  You see, Herod is not a Jew – in fact, he is a Roman, serving at the leisure of the kingdom.  But his subjects are Jewish, and so he is wise enough to seek their counsel on what a king, what a Messiah, might look like.  But instead of sending his religious leaders to check things out in Bethlehem, knowing they might discover a true king among them, he secretly sends the foreigners, hoping to manipulate them into doing the work of finding the king, knowing he will get news from them so he can kill this new king.  Herod is only worried about himself and his power, and he will do whatever is needed to maintain that power.

The foreign magi are so unfamiliar with the people of God, they do not initially understand the weight of their question about the new king.  The scribes and religious leaders are so buried in their scripture, and so keen to keep balance with secular power, they do not realize the messianic fulfillment right in front of them.  And Herod is so bent on keeping his power, he does not fully understand the power of God working all around him.  All three of these agents in our story need the words of Isaiah today – all three need to lift up their eyes and look around.

We are not unlike the characters in our story today.  How often are we so mired in our own power – as people of privilege and comfort, as Americans with power more globally, as members and advocates in this community – how often does a word about the movement of God, the promise of change, and the possibility of giving up some of our power to allow that fulfillment, make us just as nefarious as Herod – just as willing to manipulate the world around us?  Or how often have we steeped ourselves in scripture, scouring God’s Holy Word, longing for some sort of guidance or truth, not realizing truth is being spoken through another right to our faces?  Or how often have we been so intent on a mission, so focused on what we sense God calling us to do, we ignore the consequences of our actions, forget the power of our words?

Today’s scripture reading is certainly about the gift of the magi to us – the revelation of the incarnation, the insight of foreigners, and the abundance and homage the incarnation inspires.  But today’s scripture reading is also an invitation to consider our own response to that incarnation in the modern era, considering the ways in which we have not lifted our eyes and looked around.  Taking up Isaiah’s invitation to self-critique is important because there is also a promise in Isaiah.  You see, when we lift our eyes and look around, we acknowledge the narrowness in our lives, or we acknowledge the ways in which we are blind to our own power, or we discover the ways in which we even hide behind our faith, we are then able to see the promise in Isaiah.  Isaiah tells us to look around because glory of the LORD has risen upon us.  Isaiah says in verse five, “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”  When we talk about shining our light on this holy hill here at Hickory Neck, this is what we mean.  The gift of the magi to us is not news that is frightening.  When we are not hoarding power or hiding behind our intellect or comfort zones, the news of the magi is news for rejoicing.  And that rejoicing is light that draws nations, and kings, and neighbors, and strangers, and family members, and friends.  The gift of the magi is the invitation to let go of the things that feel under our control, and embrace the thing in no way we control, but in every way brings us grace, love, and abundance.  That is the kind of living that shines light from this hill and brings others to Christ’s light.  That is the light offered to us today in the magi.  That is the kind of good news worthy of pageants and proclamation today.  Amen.

[i] Isaiah 60.1, 4a

[ii] Rolf Jacobson, “Sermon Brainwave #701 – Day of Epiphany,” December 29, 2019, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1216 on January 3, 2019.

[iii] R. Alan Culpepper, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 217.

[iv] Culpepper, 217.

[v] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 38-39.

Sermon – Matthew 24.36-44, Isaiah 2.1-5, Psalm 122, Romans 13.11-14, A1, YA, December 1, 2019

Tags

Advent, attention, attuned, bury, cope, dramatic, Jesus, keep watch, light, ordinary, parenting, promise, scary, second coming, Sermon

One of the cooler things about my grandmother was a unique skill she had.  She could hold her fingers just so, making a perfect circle between her middle finger and thumb, place the circle in her mouth, and create a whistle so loud it could be heard across a large campus or a packed room, full of people.  The sound was as loud as any instrument you could produce, and the tone was so distinct, you knew right away my grandmother trying to get your attention.  I always thought the gift was super cool, longing to master the gift myself.  But my dad, on the other hand, hated that sound.  Having grown up with my grandmother, he associated the sound with being in trouble.  And he was not alone.  My grandmother’s whistle was so loud and so distinct, the entire neighborhood knew the sound – and also knew the Andrews kids must be in trouble.  Other kids would tell my dad, “You better hurry!”  My grandmother did not need to raise her voice, or call out for her children.  One loud whistle, and the kids knew the whistle meant drop everything you were doing and come immediately.

Today’s gospel lesson has the same kind of impact.  Matthew’s gospel talks of the second coming, a return so shocking people will be caught unawares, with neighbors, family, and friends suddenly disappearing, or swept away unexpectedly, like the people outside of Noah’s ark.  The images are so vivid and alarming, whole book and film series have been created depicting what this dramatic second coming will be like.  Countless street corner preachers have used these images to drive people to Jesus out of fear.  Unfortunately for Jesus, these preachers, books, and films have been so dramatically fantastical, that Jesus’ words have lost their sense of realism.  We hear these words now and either roll our eyes is disbelief, brush them off in discomfort, or walk away in disdain.

Now, I am not suggesting you start watching or reading the Left Behind series, and I acknowledge the two-thousand-year delay in this second coming can leave us a bit skeptical.  But I do think there is an invitation today to step into the parts of the images that are disorienting or even unsettling.  Most of the images Jesus uses today are of people doing their everyday activities:  eating, drinking, working in the fields, preparing daily meals.  These are the activities of life:  reading the paper, driving the kids to school or practice, studying for a test, tending our gardens, preparing dinner.  The space Jesus is talking about is the space in life that can become so routine we can almost do them without thinking.  In fact, sometimes, the routine is so powerful we become absorbed in the routine – not just out of habit, but also because of desire.  Burying our heads in the sand of the ordinary is one of the ways we cope with the world around us.  When the world seems overwhelming or hard, we bury ourselves in routine, leaving little space in our minds, hearts, and spirits for much else.

The problem with burying our heads in the ordinary is that we start missing things.  We pass by the children boarding a school bus from a local motel without thinking.  We ignore how much desolation, deception, and destruction is all around us by avoiding the news.  We stop noticing that elder in church whose health is starting to isolate them from the community.  And we have every reason to bury ourselves – the chaos and need in the world can be thoroughly overwhelming at times.  We all know there are much more unhealthy coping mechanisms, so burying our heads in the ordinary seems pretty tame in comparison.  My family will be the first to tell you that when mommy starts randomly deep cleaning a part of the house, something big has gone awry.

But here’s the thing:  Jesus is not telling us to avoid the ordinary.  Jesus knows as much as anyone we need food to eat – everyday.  What Jesus is asking us to do is keep a part of ourselves out of the ordinary.  Jesus wants our ears to be attuned for his distinctive whistle – the whistle that can grab our attention whether we are in the middle of a conversation, are knee deep in a project, or are binge-watching the latest Netflix release.  But the reasons Jesus wants us to have our ears attuned for his whistle may not be as nefarious as they seem.  In turning to our other three lessons today, we begin to see the light.  Isaiah tells in the days to come, the Lord will be doing some mighty things – beating swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning-hooks.  Nation will not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war any more.  Isaiah’s message of peace is a message of joy and action.  Isaiah whistles to us, “O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”[i]

The psalmist’s whistle is similar.  “Let us go to the house of the Lord,” she says.  Out of the ordinary, and into the house of God, we hear a new prayer for us.  “May they prosper who love you.  Peace be within your walls and quietness within your towers.  For my brethren and companions’ sake, I pray for your prosperity.  Because of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”[ii]  Can you imagine missing such a beautiful blessing because we were working through our shopping list during mass or afraid of what we would find in the Lord’s house?

Paul whistles to us too.  “Wake up,” Paul says in Romans.  “The night is far gone, the day is near.  Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us live honorably as in the day…”[iii] Paul’s call for attention is a call to goodness, an invitation into a community of light – in clothing ourselves with that light.

If Jesus’s images felt threatening or scary, enough to drive our heads into the ordinary, the rest of our lessons tell us why we should, in fact, pull our heads out, and keep watch this Advent.  When we do, we hear some stunningly wonderful news – news of peace and harmony, news of blessing and soothing, news of light in a world of darkness.  Perhaps Jesus’ whistle was a bit more like my grandmothers – the whistle that let you and everyone around know you were in trouble.  But the rest of the lectionary today tells us the whistle is a gift – an invitation to turn into the light.

One of the things I loved about WMBGkind, the kindness movement happening in our community, was that the movement opened a real window into the light.  After reading the Last Word in The Virginia Gazette for several years, I had begun to bury my own head – reading the whole paper and then stopping short on the last page so I did not have to read the vitriol in our community.  But once I started paying attention to acts of kindness in our community, my perspective shifted.  I skimmed the Last Word to find the thank you notes – the notes of thanks for big and tiny acts of kindness.  I started to notice photos of countless churches, organizations, and businesses giving back to the community.  I started noticing neighbors holding doors for one another, kids picking up litter, and strangers giving up their time to help someone else.

I have seen the same sense of light here at Hickory Neck too.  As we talked about shining our light this year during Stewardship season, I saw parishioners trying out new ministries.  I watched parishioners increase pledges and talk excitedly about what a difference we could make in our community.  I have watched as longtimers offer lovingkindness to newcomers, as newcomers give of their time to welcome others, and as parishioners and clergy share laughter, love, and levity.  When I listen to the whistle of scripture, I hear light, I hear promise, and I hear invitation.

As a mother of five children, I know we often teased my grandmother for her ominous whistle.  My guess is her whistle was a necessary tool in her parenting toolbelt.  But I found myself wondering this week what might have happened if she had used the same whistle to deliver other news:  hugs and words of affirmation; a quiet whisper in their ear saying, “I just wanted you to know that I love you.”  Instead of the whistle being an ominous sound, the whistle could have been a song of promise.  That’s what today’s lessons offer to us:  a song of promise.  Sure, they may be jarring to the ear at first.  But when we really listen, we hear their promise in the depths of our souls – in places we bury when we bury ourselves in the ordinary.  Our invitation this Advent is to pay attention.  Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.  Amen.

[i] Isaiah 2.5

[ii] Psalm 122.6-9

[iii] Romans 13.12-13a

Sermon – Psalm 23, E4, YB, April 22, 2018

Tags

action, church, dying, funeral, God, Good Shepherd, goodness, life, living, promise, pslam, pursue, Sermon, shadow

Many years ago, I was planning the funeral of a longtime, beloved church member.  We had visited on multiple occasions, and I knew all the stories about her children, including the son who was no longer going to church.  We talked about Jesus and her faith walk, and I always looked forward to sassy, witty, heartfelt stories.  When I sat down with her children to plan her funeral, I had an idea of what I could expect.  As we chose the lessons for the funeral, I shared with them that many people appreciate hearing the 23^rd Psalm.  “Oh, no, we can’t do the 23^rd Psalm,” the family protested.  A bit taken aback, since the parishioner I knew would have loved the psalm, they explained to me what had happened in her last days.  Her daughter had been comforting her one afternoon and decided to start reading scripture with her mom.  She started with the 23^rd Psalm, and the mother snapped at her, saying, “Don’t read that one!  I’m not dead yet!”

Every year, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, we hear the 23^rd Psalm.  Though many of us are more familiar with the King James Version, the words of Psalm 23 are words that are familiar even to those who do not attend church regularly.  Whether we have heard the psalm at a funeral, or read the psalm at someone’s deathbed, or seen the psalm on someone’s wall, the 23^rd Psalm is one of the most well-known psalms in our culture.  Even in surveys, when asked about their favorite piece of scripture in times of trouble, many respondents name Psalm 23.[i]

In some respect, this familiarity and preference is a blessing and something to be celebrated.  But in other ways, this familiarity can be a tremendous hindrance to hearing these sacred words with fresh ears.  For example, most of us hear the psalm’s words as words of comfort for the dying.  We hear the words, “the valley of the shadow of death,” and we assume the whole psalm is about death.  Lying down in green pastures, remaining by still waters, gathering at a table, and having goodness and mercy follow us all sound like end of life images.  We envision the peaceful, beautiful resting place, gathered around the heavenly banquet table, and we take home the promise that no matter what happens in life, at least the ending will be a place of respite and relief.  And in some ways, that is true.  But I am not sure that is what this psalm is ultimately about; this is a psalm not about death, but about life.

The 23^rd Psalm is a psalm on the move.[ii]  Throughout the psalm, we hear the activity of life.  Those green pastures we are going to lie down in are the places where we will find rest after a long day.  Those still waters are the sources of water we will need to drink in this earthly life.  Those righteous pathways we will be on are the paths of ethical living, those paths where we will seek and serve Christ, loving our neighbor as ourselves.  That rod and staff that will comfort us because those are God’s tools that will push and pull us toward our vocations and the purposes God gives us.  The dwelling we do in the house of the Lord is not the eternal dwelling place, but the earthly church where we find renewal for the journey.  That valley of the shadow of death is not the valley of death, but those shadowy places in our lives where we are reminded of the darkness of death:  times of illness, divorce, unemployment, loneliness.  The 23^rd Psalm is not ultimately about a promise in death, but about the promise we are given in life – the promise of refreshment, restoration, reinvigoration for the journey of life.

This winter Charlie and I attended a training on church development.  One of the first images from the presentation was that of a base camp on a mountain.  We talked about the purpose of a base camp – what people need from and do at a base camp.  Ideas included rest, refreshment, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  No one mentioned making a permanent home or using base camp as a place of escape.  Our instructor then asked us how a base camp is similar to Church.  We began to talk about how Church does the same thing – is a place of refreshment, rest, preparation, and stocking up for the journey.  Church is not a place to escape the real world or to hide away from hurt and pain.  Instead, Church is the place where we refill our tanks so that we can go out into the world – gathering the strength we need for the journey.  Church is not the house of the Lord where we will dwell forever.  In fact, that translation, “to dwell” is not helpful.  The word in Hebrew that is translated as “dwell” is better translated as “return.”[iii]  So instead of talking about a place where we will hide out from the world or imagining the heavenly kingdom where we will dwell, the psalmist is talking about the place we will keep returning – the base camp, the Church, where we will keep returning for strength so that we can get back into the world doing the activity of discipleship – the life where we will rest, drink, walk, be righteous, commune, and serve.[iv]

So just in case I have ruined Psalm 23 for you forever, making the psalm feel more like a psalm of work and labor as opposed to a psalm for rest and relief, have no fear.  There is one more line that similarly gets mistranslated which may open this text for you in another way.  In verse six, the psalmist says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”  Again, understanding the original Hebrew is helpful.  The word translated as “follow” is better translated as “pursue” or “chase down,”  Goodness and mercy shall chase me down all the days of my life.[v]  Shifting that word does a similar thing as the rest of the verbs in this text.  When goodness and mercy follow us, we often think of hindsight.  Bad things happen to us, but when we look back, we will see goodness and mercy came out of the bad things.  But the psalmist says something more powerful than that.  The psalmist says that goodness and mercy will pursue us – will hunt us down and knock us over with their power.  We will feel threatened by that valley of the shadow of death, or we will worry about places to lie or drink or walk.  But the psalmist tells us those worries are futile because even in the midst of those stresses, God’s goodness and mercy is constantly seeking to bowl us over.

Scholar Gary Simpson says this about God’s goodness, “The goodness of God is in every place before we ever arrive at any particular place.  The good things that happen to us along life’s journey do not happen because we have arrived.  God’s goodness has already been where we are planning to go.  The goodness of God is so present that every direction that we turn to look, wherever we are, we bump into goodness again.  It is perhaps egocentric and arrogant to think that goodness follows us.  The goodness of God goes ahead of us, clearing out new ground, pulling us to new terrain, lighting a pathway in the dark places of new possibility, opening doors that no one can shut.”[vi]

I think that parishioner resisted hearing the 23^rd Psalm in her last days of life because like many of us, she had trapped the psalm in the land of the dying.  But the 23^rd Psalm is a psalm for the land of the living – a psalm that commissions us to continue our work of discipleship, to move out into the world with the promise of the essentials we will need, to keep returning to God’s house for sustenance and refueling, and to remember that no matter what we face, God’s goodness is already there, chasing us down.  On this Good Shepherd Sunday, perhaps you were hoping to hear a few words of comfort, longing to dwell in this house for longer than an hour today.  But today, that Good Shepherd is prodding you with a staff, filling up your tank so that you can go out into the world, serving as God’s disciple in all the green pastures and right paths where God leads.  You can do your work because no matter how much those shadows linger, God’s goodness will chase you down – all the days of your life.  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” March 30, 2014, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2004 as found on April 19, 2018.

[ii] Joel LeMon, “Commentary on Psalm 23,” April 25, 2015, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3646 on April 19, 2018.

[iii] LeMon.

[iv] Cameron B.R. Howard, “#602 – Fourth Sunday of Easter,” April 14, 2018, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1008 on April 17, 2018.

[v] Gary V. Simpson “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 438.

[vi] Simpson, 440.

Sermon – Genesis 18.1-1, 21-1-7, P6, YA, June 18, 2017

Tags

Abraham, anger, conversation, doubt, dream, faith, frustration, God, honor, lack of faith, laugh, laughter, promise, Sarah, Sermon, share, transform

Today we get one of my favorite stories in scripture – Sarah’s laughter at God’s promise.  The story is perfectly crafted.  The story with a flurry of activity.  Abraham is sitting in his tent in the heat of the day when three guests suddenly appear.  As soon as Abraham sees them, he runs to greet them, begging them to stay.  Then Abraham sends the entire household into a tizzy.  He barks orders about baking cakes, grabs a calf and commands the calf be prepared for the guests.  He gets curds and milk and rushes to plate the feast for the guests.  We can almost imagine Abraham panting as he finally delivers the meals to the guests.

But then the story comes to a screeching halt, with a question that tells us what is really important.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?”  And slowly, the promise of a child to a barren, post-menopausal woman unfolds.  Abraham and Sarah were promised long ago to be the parents of a great nation.  But Sarah had given up on that dream.  She had already asked Abraham to go to her slave-girl and have a child with Hagar as a representative child for her.  Her action with Hagar had been a desperate move, but what else could she have done?  So when this guest, or God, as the text later tells us, says that Sarah will conceive herself, after years of longing, hoping, feeling devastated and powerless, Sarah does what we all might do.  She laughs.  She laughs at the prospect of pleasure in her marriage when she and Abraham are so advanced in age.  She laughs at the impossibility that their pleasure might lead to progeny.  She laughs at the promise because believing the promise would mean opening herself up to unfilled dreams yet again.

Sarah’s laughter has long been used as a criticism for a lack of faith in God.  When God asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” and when Sarah quickly denies her laughter, countless readers have wagged their fingers at Sarah as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith.”  And I can see how we get there.  The exchange between Sarah and God – the laughter that bubbles out from years of hurt and disappointment, the scolding by God, the attempt to lie to cover up embarrassment, and the scolding yet again when God calls Sarah on her dishonesty – is all too familiar to us.  What the accusation of lacking faith forgets is how terribly vulnerable and resigned Sarah is.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have counseled who at the end of second marriage have begun to doubt God’s presence.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have sat with after receiving a bad diagnosis for themselves or their loved one who has begun to whether God has abandoned them.  I cannot tell you the number of people have received yet another rejection letter who have begun to question God’s call on their life.  When Sarah laughs, I do not feel justification for judgment against her level of faith.  When Sarah laughs, I hear the ache of countless believers who know how ludicrous God’s promises can be.

What gets me about the judgment of Sarah is the short memory of scripture readers.  In the chapter before what we heard today, Abraham is given the same promise that Sarah hears – a child by Sarah.  And his reaction?  He does not simply laugh quietly to himself as Sarah does in that tent.  He falls on his face and laughs full-bodied at God.  The only difference in laughter between Abraham and Sarah is that Abraham laughs in front of God where Sarah tries to hide her laughter.  Both are an acknowledgement of doubt about what God can do.  Both take all their disappointment, pain, and hurt, and dissolve into laughter because, quite frankly, sometimes God is laughable.  Sometimes God makes no sense at all, and laughing is the only release and protection from more hurt.  Humans questioning God is a natural part of a genuine God-human conversation, a conventional motif we see throughout the Old Testament.[i]

This week, I stumbled on an Old Testament scholar, Kathryn Shifferdecker, who suggests that God may not be a God of judgment in this passage.  In fact, she sees God as fully understanding the comedy of the situation.  She sees a God with a sense of humor, who when God says, “Oh yes you did laugh,” says so with a twinkle in his eye.[ii]  The theory totally shifted the reading for me.  Suddenly the pieces all fit together.  Instead of an angry or disappointed God, who judges disbelief, our God is a God who understands that God’s promises are sometimes laughable – even if they are true.  Why else would God tell Abraham to name his son Isaac, which means, “he laughs,” in Hebrew?[iii]  As Schifferdecker explains, “Abraham falls on his face in a fit of laughter.  Sarah laughs behind the tent door.  And the LORD (I believe) laughs with them at the divine, wonderful absurdity of it all.  Given the humor of the scene under the oaks of Mamre, and the comedy of a God who acts in unexpected ways to fulfill God’s promises, it is entirely appropriate that the child of the promise should be named ‘Laughter.’”[iv]

The image of the three of them laughing – Sarah, Abraham, and God, makes a lot of sense once we hear the final words of Sarah.  In chapter 21, Sarah, perhaps initially embarrassed or doubtful of God, now says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.”  This story is not a story of shame for those of us who struggle with doubt, anger, or frustration with God.  This is not a story of an unfaithful follower of God.  This is a story about a woman and a man who look at the absurdity of God’s promise with the fullness of their humanity and laugh – hard, belly-shaking, on-the-floor laughter that only comes when the divine finally breaks through our disappointment, shame, and anger, and brings us to laughter.

I love this story even more as I think about the trinity of Abraham, Sarah, and God laughing.  Their laughter affirms our own incredulous walks with God.  Their laughter takes those moments when we no long trust God’s promises, and transforms them.  No longer do we need to hide away our deepest doubts, but instead we honor them.  We share them.  And we create communities of laughter with them.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, vol. I (Abingdon Press, 1994), 465.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7],” June 18, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3301 on June 14, 2017.

[iii] Tamara Cohn Eshkenazi, ed., The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary, (Women of Reform Judaism URJ Press, 2008), 97.

[iv] Schifferdecker.

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 – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 28, 2017

Tags

ambiguity, Ascension, church, community, disciples, discomfort, God, Jesus, Kingdom, liminal, Pentecost, pray, promise, Sermon, Spirit, together, wait, waiting

We do it all the time:  waiting.  Waiting is perhaps one of the cruelest experiences of life.  Waiting for the test results that will tell us whether or not we have cancer.  Waiting for a call back after interviewing for our dream job.  Waiting all summer long after graduating high school before we can start new life in college.  The trouble with waiting is that we can feel lost – we are between two realities – the one we know and the one that is to come.  In some ways, simply by finding out we need the test, by applying for the job, or by making the deposit at college, life can never be the same.  Something is changed in our lives by stepping into the unknown.  And yet, we do not have the answer, we have not started the job, and school has not begun.  We are not the new person we know we will be.  We are in-between, in limbo, in no-man’s land.

Scholars call this in-between time liminal time.[i]  Liminal time is the time in which we are in the middle of a transition.  Native cultures experienced liminal time most famously in the journey to adulthood.  When young men or young women reached a certain age and maturity, they were sent away from their families and out into the wilderness for a time.  When their time in the wilderness was done, they returned with full adult status, respect, and responsibility.  They leave a child and return a man or a woman.  Liminal time is that time in the wilderness – where they are no longer children, and not yet adults.  Their identity is in flux, their purpose is ambiguous, and their life is on pause.  Liminal time is a time fraught with anxiety, frustration, and confusion.  Liminal time is a time when things are happening to you, and you have no agency.  Moments of liminality are some of the hardest moments in life.  The comfort of what has been and promise of what is to come is rarely soothing.  All that is left is ambiguity.

That kind of transition is where we find our disciples today.  They have spent forty glorious days feeling the victory of Christ’s resurrection, being blessed with further teachings, and being comforted by Christ’s presence.  They are ready.  They confidently ask Jesus today, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”  This has to finally be the time!  Jesus’ answer is anything but satisfying.  Jesus makes a promise – that they will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon them, and they will be empowered to do their work of witnessing.  But for now, at this moment of climax, confidence, and courage, Jesus says, quite simply, “Wait.”

The trouble is that when the disciples ask that final question to Jesus, expecting to hear when Jesus will restore the kingdom of Israel, and effectively assume his place on the earthly throne, initiating the reign of the kingdom of God, the answer they get is a bit different.  As N.T. Wright explains, they are asking when “Israel will be exalted as the top nation, with the nations of the world being subject to God through his vindicated people.”  In one sense, that vindication already happened in the death and resurrection of Jesus.  In another sense, we are still waiting for the “time when the whole world is visibly and clearly living under God’s just and healing rule.”  Jesus is not a future king, but the one who has already been appointed and enthroned.  What the disciples are waiting for now is the empowering of the Spirit to go witness this reality.[ii]  The disciples find they are going to have to wait, but what they are waiting for has shifted dramatically.  Their waiting will be fraught with even more ambiguity than expected.

That’s the funny thing about waiting.  Not only do you find all the discomfort that comes from liminal time – the stripping of identity which leaves you naked for a time before you don your new armor.  But also, we all know that in waiting unexpected things happen.  Like the disciples who may have expected one thing to come at the end of their waiting, only to realize something quite different is coming, we too learn that reality shifts while waiting.  Things we thought would matter when we were done waiting stop mattering.  Truths we held to be unshakeable get shaken up while waiting.  Once unappreciated certainties and clarity become longed for realities when we wait.

So what are we to do?  What are we to do in our periods of waiting, in our liminal times?  Karl Barth called the waiting between the Ascension and Pentecost, the days we are experiencing now, the “significant pause…a pause in which the church’s task is to wait and pray.”[iii]  Now, I know what you are thinking.  That’s all you’ve got?  I should wait and pray?  Telling us to wait and pray seems like a classic platitude, what we say to someone who is hurting in ambiguity, and we have no real solace to offer.  Will Willimon explains, “Waiting, an onerous burden for us computerized and technically impatient moderns who live in an age of instant everything, is one of the tough tasks of the church.  Our waiting implies that the things which need doing in the world are beyond our ability to accomplish solely by our own effort, our programs and crusades.  Some other empowerment is needed, therefore the church waits and prays.”[iv]  For the disciples, their waiting is not empty-handed.  Though Jesus has left them, Jesus has left them to sit at the right hand of God.  There is confidence in that knowledge about Jesus.  And though they are facing the “significant pause,” the promise of the empowering Spirit is a promise of hope, empowerment, and companionship.  So their waiting and prayer is not for personal comfort during this time of ambiguity, but for empowerment to be obedient.  They are praying because they know that the coming work of witnessing will be hard work.  Instead of praying out of self-pity, they are praying out of determined expectation.

Perhaps that is why they stay together and pray.  By going to that upper room together, the disciples teach us that community is central to the life of the church and to the practice of prayer – is central to helping us get through those times of waiting.  Like the disciples, “we need each other’s witness and support, challenge and care, in order to live into the possibilities and expectations of God’s realm.”[v]  Now for those of you who have waited for the diagnosis, call back from the potential employer, or start date of college, you know that waiting and praying in community can be hard.  Answering for the fortieth time, “Any news yet?” can be as torturous as your own longing for answers or change.  Perhaps that is why some cultures spend their liminal time alone – so they can avoid all of that communal pressure.  But that is not what the disciples do.  They see this liminal time as a time for all of them – not even just the eleven left, but also the women and others gathered.  If they are going to have to face this significant pause, full of uncertainty and change, they will pray and wait together.

That is our invitation today too – to pray and wait together.  You may not be facing an obvious period of liminal time.  You may not even feel as though you are waiting for something.  But the reality is that we are all waiting.  As David Lose reminds us, “We have no idea of what the remainder of 2017 will bring, let alone 2018.  There will be accomplishments and setbacks, victories and defeats, joys and sorrows, triumphs and tragedies on a personal, communal, national, and global scale.  And in all these things, God will be with us, comforting, celebrating with, strengthening, and accompanying us in and amid whatever may come.  And God will also be preparing us, preparing us to be God’s emissaries of good news, preparing us to comfort others, preparing us to work for peace, preparing us to live with less fear and more generosity, preparing us to look out for the rights of others, preparing us to strive for a more just community and world.”[vi]  I do not know about you, but I would much rather face that ambiguity with a community who can remind me of God’s promise and helping me see the work of the Spirit.  That is what we do when we pray and wait together.  Our invitation is accept the gift of this community, and to wait and pray with together.

[i] Liminal time is a concept that has been developed by many scholars.  Arnold van Gennep, Victor W. Turner, and Gordon Lathrop all developed the idea of incorporating liminal time into liturgical practice.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Acts for Everyone, Part 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 9-10.

[iii] William H. Willimon, Acts, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta:  John Knox Press, 1988), 20.

[iv] Willimon, 21.

[v] Randle R. Mixon, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 524.

[vi] David Lose, “Easter 7A:  Important Interludes,” May 25, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/05/easter-7-a-important-interludes/ on May 26, 2017.