Monthly Archives: March 2024

A long, lonely walk to resurrection: A Sermon for Easter, 2024

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Easter

March 31, 2024

Over the years, I’ve developed a cherished Sunday routine. I try to leave the house around 6 am. If it’s Summer, and the weather is nice, I’ll ride my bike on the southwest commuter path. Other times of the year, I drive of course, but if the sun is rising, or risen, I’ll cut down Vilas Avenue so I can catch sight of Lake Wingra and then Brittingham Bay. When I get to church, I’ll take some time to say Morning Prayer, to put finishing touches on my sermon, and then in the quiet and stillness of the nave, I’ll prepare for the early service—put out the items for the Eucharist, unlock the doors, if there’s time, just sit in the holy quiet of the morning. On days like today, there’s also the added pleasure of the lingering aroma of the incense we used last night—although I could do without the scent of lilies, even on Easter. It’s funny, really, because truth be told, I never sleep well on Saturday nights; there’s always too much to fret and worry over, but when I get here, in the holy silence of this place, my soul becomes quiet in the presence of God.

I’m sure many of you have similar routines that mark your days and your lives, and for many of you, those routines, in some way or fashion, also help to bring you into touch with the divine, whether you mean them to or not. 

On those Sunday morning drives, in the dark, or growing light of sunrise, I often think of Mary Magdalene, coming to the tomb, early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark. 

It’s a familiar story, so like all familiar stories, we think we know its details. And too often, we fill out one version of the story with details gleaned from others. That’s particularly true when it comes to scripture. So, I wonder, have any of you ever asked why Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb in John’s gospel?

No, the bit about bringing spices and ointments to anoint his body, that comes from the other gospels. In John, all that’s been done already—Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea had prepared Jesus’ body for burial. Nicodemus, we were told a few verses earlier had brought 100 pounds of spices—a wildly extravagant and superfluous amount. So Mary had not come to anoint Jesus’ body. 

She came for another reason, to mourn her beloved teacher and friend, to grieve her dashed hopes, to sit at the tomb for a while to collect her thoughts and to figure out what she was going to do next, to pick up the pieces of her life.

Imagine, if you can, Mary, on that walk from wherever she had been staying to this place, to this garden tomb. Her world had been shattered, her life upended, again. We don’t know how, or when, or where she encountered Christ for the first time. We don’t know how long she had been following him. The gospels are silent on all that, though the Christian tradition and popular culture have filled out her story with all sorts of fantasy.

What we do know, or can assume, is that her life had been changed by her encounter with Christ—the abundant life of which he spoke had been hers, or within her grasp. She had heard him speak, watched him heal and perform other signs, and only a few nights earlier, had her feet washed by him in a sign and symbol of love and service. And she had hoped—for the restoration of Israel? The defeat of Rome? A changed world? The kingdom of God on earth? What she hoped for, we cannot know. But what we do know is that all of those hopes had come to nought.

Still, early that morning on the first day of the week, she came here, alone, in the darkness, to be close to the one she had thought was her savior, the savior of the world. She may have wanted to be alone, close to her beloved teacher, to remember, to grieve, and probably to begin to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

But instead of a silent tomb, she discovers something that adds insult to injury, that makes everything seem so much worse. The indignity, the inhumanity, the disrespect. The tomb is empty and there’s only one conclusion to draw, that someone, the Romans? The Jewish authorities? Vandals—had desecrated the tomb and stolen Jesus’ body.

This then, at last is more than she can handle by herself. So she runs back to tell the other disciples, and Peter, and the Beloved Disciple, run back with her to check out her story. And this is where the story gets interesting. 

A couple of things happen. First, the two disciples enter the tomb and see the grave clothes. And they go home. Are they so flummoxed by this turn of events that they don’t know what to do? Are they so bewildered by all that has happened that they just want to go back to bed and pretend none of it has happened? Whatever the case, they leave the scene. This is not their story, it’s Mary’s.

And only now, alone again, does she do as they had done and look inside the tomb. And only now, finally, she receives the news that Jesus has risen. And only now, finally she encounters the Risen Christ. In the ashes of her hopes, in the shattered dreams of her life, the Risen Christ comes to her, names her, and makes all things new. 

Many of us, most of us, perhaps all of us, have been on long, lonely walks in the darkness like Mary on that long-ago morning. We have wandered through wildernesses, through dark nights of the soul, grieving lost loved ones, dashed hopes, bad decisions. We have wondered what next, how we can even go on, why take the next step? We have been alone, friendless, hopeless, in despair, our lives in shambles. No doubt, some of us feel that way today.

Mary was like us. We are Mary. She came to the tomb. She encountered a gardener. When Jesus called her by name, she replied, “Teacher.” But Jesus was much more than a teacher, and in the brief exchange that follows, Mary comes to realize what it all means, what everything means. She comes to know and believe what Jesus has been telling her, his other disciples, and us, throughout the gospel. She comes to know and understand who he is, what the crucifixion and this experience, resurrection mean. When she returns to the other disciples to tell them what happened, she makes it all clear, “I have seen the Lord.”

Here we are, all of us. We have come with our hopes and desires, with our cynicism and doubts, with our faith and with our uncertainty. We have come to this place to hear again the good news of Jesus Christ’s resurrection. We have come to experience the joy of that good news. We want it tied up in a neat package, like a rolled up ball of linen. We want it on our terms, in our categories, we want it to fill our needs.

But Jesus Christ comes to us in unexpected ways. Jesus Christ comes to us in ways we can’t imagine, in encounters we can’t control. The risen Christ comes to us in bread and wine, in the community of the faithful, and in ways we can’t express. The risen Christ comes to us, to shatter our expectations, break down the barriers that prevent us from seeing and experiencing him. The risen Christ comes to us, to remake us, to fashion us in his image and likeness. The risen Christ comes to us. Dare we say, with Mary, “We have seen the Lord?”

Thanks be to God.

Alleluia. Christ is Risen!

Do We See Jesus: A Sermon for Lent 5B, 2024

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March 17, 2024

Among the many things that continue to fascinate and inspire me about our tradition, our worship, and our liturgical calendar, are the ways that themes reverberate and ring changes across the liturgical seasons and years. I’ve been thinking a lot these past few weeks about how my experience and practice during Lent have changed over the years. In fact, I remarked to some clergy colleagues that I just don’t seem to have the energy and desire to engage in the sorts of spiritual disciplines and activities that used to be a central part of Lent for me. I think a bit of that can be attributed to the way in which Lent has been shaped for me by the experience of the pandemic—the shutdown, the isolation, the widespread suffering and panic. 

Still, the themes of Lent have their way of working on me, sometimes quite subtly. It can be a hymn, or in today’s worship, Psalm 51. As we were reciting and chanting the verses from Psalm 51 this morning, I was reminded that we had said this same psalm on Ash Wednesday, after the imposition of the ashes. Then, I and you were hoping for a Holy Lent, a time when we might deepen our relationship with God in Christ, experience repentance and forgiveness of our sins and grow spiritually. Now, as Lent draws to a close, those verses remind me of all the ways my actions and discipline in Lent have fallen short of what I had hoped for, another missed opportunity. I am grateful again, and continuously, for God’s mercy and grace.

I doubt few of us are sad that Lent is drawing to a close. There’s Easter to look forward to and the excitement and new life that arrives with Spring. Today is the 5th Sunday in Lent. It was traditionally known as Passion Sunday,–and its focus shifts from themes of spiritual discipline and penitence, toward an emphasis on the cross and Christ’s passion. 

We are also at a turning point in John’s gospel. The Sunday lectionary doesn’t provide us with a lot of help in understanding the overall structure of John’s gospel, but our reading today brings to an end the first half of the gospel. In the first twelve chapters we are introduced to Jesus’ public ministry. We see him engaging with the Jewish authorities, with the crowds in Jerusalem and elsewhere. Today, we encounter Greeks. From this point on, however, Jesus will focus on teaching his disciples. In John’s gospel, the Last Supper extends for four chapters—from 13-17, with a lengthy Farewell discourse in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure from them. His only interactions with people other than disciples comes during his arrest and trial.

Even as this passage marks a transition in John’s gospel, it also returns us to the very first chapter; to the powerful and symbolic scene of the Jesus calling his first disciples. For Philip and Andrew appeared there as well, as the first two disciples mentioned by name. Now, Greeks come to them imploring them, “Sir, we would like to see Jesus.” Back in chapter 1, when Jesus discovered Andrew and another disciple following him, he turned and asked them, “What are you looking for?” They replied, “Where are you staying?” To which Jesus replied, “Come and see.” There’s something else fascinating about all this. Philip and Andrew—those two names are derived from Greek, not Hebrew or Aramaic, so are we meant to imagine that it wasn’t an accident that of all the disciples, the Greeks came to those two?

Now it is other seekers who come looking for Jesus, wanting to see him—Greeks, John tells us. It’s likely that either one of two possibilities are intended. Perhaps these Greeks were Greek-speaking Jews, having come from another part of the Roman empire to observe the Passover in Jerusalem. 

It’s also possible that they were proselytes—among those non-Jews who were attracted to the high ethical standards of Judaism, and while they hadn’t undergone full conversion, they observed some of Jewish law and worshipped in synagogues. Either is possible, and either makes John’s larger point, that this is the moment that Jesus’ ministry and message is expanding beyond the Jewish community, to the whole world.

What’s curious in this episode is that it’s not clear whether the Greeks are present throughout the scene. They are never mentioned again. We don’t know if they saw Jesus.

But that’s not really the point. It’s another, a final opportunity for the gospel writer, and Jesus, to reiterate central themes of the gospel. 

There is a great deal more I could say about these few verses, but I want to focus on Jesus’ final statement. The passage concludes with Jesus’ statement, “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” This is the heart of John’s gospel, the heart of Jesus’ ministry and person. In the cross, we see Jesus, in the cross, on the cross, Jesus draws us and the whole world to himself. In the cross, on the cross, we see God’s love for us.

Ponder that statement a moment, “And I, when I am lifted up, will draw all people to myself.” Do you get the significance of it? We’re inclined to think salvation is something we need to do, to get right, to believe the right thing. We are inclined to wonder whether we are saved or not, or if we certain we’re saved, whether those people over there are or should be. Jesus, the cross, are often divisive rather than uniting but here Jesus says two things of significance: first, that it’s for everyone, and second, that he is doing the work, he is drawing all of us to him, to the cross.

These are words of great comfort, of reassurance. They remind us that the cross is about love, God’s love for us, Christ’s love for us and for the world, and that the power of that love is drawing us, all of us, the whole world to the cross, to Jesus, to God. That is the God, the Christ we see on the cross.

Did the Greeks see Jesus? In the gospel of John, “seeing” is a prelude to faith, at most, it is an inadequate, partial faith. It is a first step, an entrance and first exposure to the abundant life that is offered through relationship with and in Jesus Christ.

Do we see Jesus? Do we see Jesus in our shared life and worship as the body of Christ, do we see Jesus in the bread and wine of the Eucharist, in the proclamation of the Word of God. Do we see Jesus in our outreach in the community? Do we see Jesus?

What do others see when they come to us? Do they see, in the quality of our relationships, in the way we support and help each other, in our interactions with each other and with our neighbors, do they see Jesus? 

People come to us asking, sometimes overtly and openly, but more often quietly, leaving the question unspoken; they ask “We wish to see Jesus.” Do we even hear them? And if they are persistent, if they have the courage to ask the question out loud, what is our response? Embarrassed silence? 

As we continue to explore our mission and ministry in this neighborhood and city, as we seek to reach out to our neighbors, I would hope that these questions are at the heart of our work and our reflection. To those who come seeking Jesus, wishing to see Jesus, I hope that we can show them in our common life and in our work, that Jesus is present among us fills us with life and love, and that through us, they may not only see Jesus but enter into the abundant life that comes through relationship with him.

And for those who do not come in search of Jesus, who are blinded or scarred, uninterested or opposed, are we able to show them that their assumptions are wrong, that among us, in us, through us, Jesus offers new life and hope.

Can we see, know, and share, that when Jesus is lifted up from the earth, his love draws all people to himself? 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin? A Sermon for Lent 3B, 2024

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We just sang one of my favorite Lenten hymns: “Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun”—the text is by the seventeenth century poet, and dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, John Donne. Donne is not an easy poet to understand, his images are complex, often confusing, and he often uses words that were already archaic in his day, and incomprehensible. He also often invented words. 

Donne was from a Roman Catholic family—his brother died in prison, after having been apprehended for harboring a Jesuit priest. Donne himself converted to the Church of England, probably in part to secure his career. And his call to holy orders came only when other, more lucrative career opportunities were closed off to him. He eventually became the Dean of St. Paul’s and became one of the most famous preachers of his day, a status that is largely inexplicable to contemporary readers of his sermons.

He wrote a great deal of poetry, though little of it was published in his lifetime, and his secular, love poetry is as highly prized as is his religious works like the words we just sang. His most famous poem is probably “Death be not proud” but he is probably even more famous for the words he wrote as he lay in a sickbed and heard the funeral bell tolling: “No man is an island, entire of itself …” A recent biography, Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne by Katherine Rundell is a beautiful and insightful introduction to his life and work.

In the hymn we just sang, Donne is exploring the various types of sins he has committed, and asking God whether God’s forgiveness extends to those and to him. He begins with original sin, “that sin where I begun;” then mentions his habitual sins, those he commits, though he knows he should not. He asks about the sins he led others into, and sins he was able to abstain from for a year or two, though he relapsed. And finally, he asks about the sin of fear, or despair, that when he dies, his sins will not be forgiven; but then he asks that God swears by Godself, that Christ will be there, shining, as Christ’s presence shines now, and forgives him. 

It’s a probing self-examination that may make us feel a bit uncomfortable, even in this penitential season of Lent. Though he speaks to our own experiences, we moderns tend not to want to examine ourselves too closely. We are quick to condemn the sins of others, to decry the systemic sins that surround us and in which we are enmeshed, but when we come to our own sins and shortcomings, we may feel a bit uncomfortable being too honest with ourselves or with others.

Perhaps my explication of the text unsettled you in some way. I know that we often don’t pay close attention to the words of the hymns we sing, we may catch a phrase or an idea, but often the words seem less important than the music as a whole, which can move us and bring us into communion with each other and with God.

There was a time, probably before I was ordained, that I often turned to Donne in Lent. He’s one of those authors who speaks to the human condition, our brokenness and sin, but also, as in this hymn, beautifully expresses the power and extent of God’s mercy and grace. When we are turned off by language of sin and repentance, we may forget that such language opens us to the riches of God’s grace and the ways that, through grace, and our repentance, God is working to remake us in God’s image.

Donne is one of those authors I often return to during Lent. There was a time, back before I was ordained, I think, when I spent considerable time with his poetry and other writings during this season. The beauty and power of his language, the clear-eyed way in which he examines himself, encouraged me to deepen my relationship with God, to lay bare my soul before God, and open myself, more widely and deeply to God’s loving grace.

There are other images and texts to which I turn in this season, and one of the most powerful is today’s reading from I Corinthians. My history with this text goes back much further than my relationship with Donne, back to my undergraduate years and the first course I took on Paul. 

Like Donne’s seventeenth-century English and his focus on sin, Paul can be off-putting to twenty-first century sensibilities. His letters bear witness to his difficult personality and the many conflicts in which he was embroiled. Many decry him for his lack of interest in Jesus’ teachings—which are what attract many twenty-first century people. He’s often difficult to read, opaque in his argumentation, and at his worst, or at the worst of his editors and transcribers, a virulent misogynist.

All that aside, Paul offers a compelling vision of God in Christ, and it is here, in these verses, that we see that vision at its clearest and most compelling. He is writing in defense of his ministry and preaching, and he appeals to the cross as testimony and proof of the truth of his teaching:

 For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

Paul here is alluding to a central paradox of the Christian faith, the paradox of the cross. In this horrific death by torture, a vivid demonstration of Roman power and ruthlessness, we see Jesus crushed and killed. There could be no starker display of his human weakness. Yet for Paul, on the cross we see the power and wisdom of God. 

Elsewhere, in II Corinthians when Paul is talking about his own personal physical weakness and infirmity, he says that in response to his prayer, Christ said to him, “power is made perfect in weakness.” In other words, the cross is a demonstration of Christ’s power, of God’s power. Yet, that power, an allusion to the vindication of Christ through the resurrection, that power never erases the fact of the cross. The cross still stands, Jesus’ suffering remains. 

It’s a message that’s often overlooked and ignored by Christian triumphalism. We internalize and spiritualize the cross to rid it of its revolutionary message. We ignore the pain and suffering of the cross to focus on the joy of resurrection. When Christianity becomes enmeshed in power politics, in empire, nationalism, and white supremacy, the symbol of the cross often becomes a weapon wielded against the weak, the stranger and the alien, unbelievers, adherents of other religions.

One of our great challenges as Christians in this historical moment is to proclaim Christ crucified, folly and stumbling block, or literally, scandal. Our challenge is to see and to proclaim the cross as power made perfect in weakness, not to wield it as a weapon against others. In this day, when much of Christianity seems to have become another means by which people assert their own individual rights in a zero-sum game that results in the infringement of the rights of others, preaching Christ crucified, taking up our crosses, is a truly revolutionary message and way of being in the world.

On the cross, we see God’s weakness and God’s power. On the cross we see God’s love, incarnate, and suffering. On the cross, we see Christ giving himself for us and for the world, forgiving our sins and the sins of the world. On the cross, we see Christ, showing us a new way of being in the world, forgiven, and forgiving, sharing God’s love, bring hope to the hopeless, offering love to a world filled with anger and hate. As we walk the way of the cross this Lent and into Holy Week, may we enter into the love that Christ shares, on the cross and in our hearts, may we experience the forgiveness of our sins, and share God’s forgiving mercy and grace with the world.