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Maybe crumbs are enough: A Sermon for Proper 18B, 2024

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Proper 18B

September 8, 2024

Are you puzzled by today’s gospel reading? Are you struggling to make sense of what’s going on? Are you offended by the exchange between Jesus and the woman who approaches him, begging him to help her daughter who’s possessed by a demon? Do Jesus’ actions and words seem out of line with your image of a loving and compassionate Jesus? If you answered any of those questions with a “yes,” you’re not alone. This gospel text has challenged preachers, scholars, and faithful Christians for centuries, and perhaps most of all in recent decades as we have sought to be more welcoming and inclusive and appealed to Jesus, whom we say “welcomed all to his table.”

Well, not in this case. The dogs, whoever they may be, remained under the table, fighting for the scraps that have fallen to the ground.

Before digging into the text, let me throw out a few interpretations that have gained sway over the years. One theory is that Jesus isn’t using “dog” as a derogatory term but an affectionate one: puppies, let’s say. Another is that this encounter constitutes something of a transformative moment—that Jesus has seen his mission so far as being exclusively for the Jewish community, but that this woman causes him to think more broadly, to include the Gentiles in his mission. There are those who see in the woman a proto-feminist, standing up to Jesus on behalf of her daughter. Whatever.

We might ask another question. Why does Mark tell the story in this way? What is he trying to get across? Remember, the Gospel of Mark is not a biography of Jesus—it’s the good news. He’s writing to share something crucial about his understanding of Jesus—that he is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that Jesus is ushering a new age: the reign of God. And he’s telling this story in this way because he thinks it says important about the coming reign of God.

The first thing I want to point out is the importance of geography. To this point, Jesus has largely been active in his home territory, Galilee, Capernaum seems to have served as something of a base. Now he has traveled outside of traditionally Jewish territory to the seacoast to Tyre. 

There’s a spatial element to this as well. In Mark, Jesus seems to move back and forth between public areas—synagogues, places where crowds might gather, and intimate areas, private homes. In this case he is in a private home and he has gone there seeking rest and solitude. We don’t even know if the disciples are with him.

A third thing that should help us make sense of these two stories is that there is a striking parallel a couple of chapters earlier. Earlier this summer we heard the story of Jesus healing the woman with an issue of blood and Jairus’ daughter. One important element in those two earlier stories is Jesus’ response to the woman and to Jairus: each time he mentions faith, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.” Mark uses the technique of the doubled story to emphasize something new and different. 

One important difference between the characters in the two sets of stories is that in the first, we can assume they are both Jewish. In the case of the synagogue ruler, we know that for sure. He is the consummate insider. In the case of the woman with the issue of blood, we can assume she’s Jewish because of the location and the way the story is told. In the stories we have before us, we know the woman is not Jewish, she’s “Syro-Phoenician.” While his ethnic and religious identity is not mentioned, we can presume that the deaf-mute man is Gentile as well, because of where the story takes place. 

Faith is not mentioned in our two healing stories. In the first, Jesus tells the woman her daughter has been healed because of what she said—her argument, or logic was responsible for the healing. If there is faith involved, it’s implicit in that the woman returns home with faith that her daughter has been restored to health and wholeness. In the other healing, there’s no mention of why he was healed, neither the faith of the man nor that of those who brought him to Jesus is mentioned.

But as I’ve reflected on these stories over the years, my focus has shifted. The questions of how the Jesus depicted in this story may challenge our assumptions about him are important to think about but they may not be the most important. Often we bring our agendas to the texts, like a desire to be inclusive and welcoming, and those agendas may distort or narrow our reading of the stories, leading us to overlook other important themes.

I’m not saying that inclusion isn’t important  But what strikes me is that when the woman accepts Jesus’ categorization of her, she is doing something else. She is admitting her unworthiness to receive his help, and that, I think deserves our closer attention. 

I wonder whether any of you have felt that you don’t deserve God’s grace and mercy. I wonder how many of you have struggled to receive Jesus’ promise to love and forgive you. We are taught in our professional and personal lives to stand up for ourselves, to demand our rights, our fair share, our due. But that face or persona we present to the world can often feel fake or unreal. We may feel like a fraud. That may also be true in our spiritual journeys—our doubts, uncertainties, our sins and shortcomings may make us feel unworthy of God’s grace and mercy.

In our Rite I Eucharist, there’s a prayer called the Prayer of Humble Access, we say it together just before we receive communion: In it are the following words:

We are not worthy so much as to gather
up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord
whose property is always to have mercy. 

Sometimes, we need to admit who we are, in all of our doubts, uncertainties, brokenness and sin, for when we do, we open ourselves to the wonderful expanse of God’s mercy, which is more than we deserve, more than we can imagine. Sometimes, crumbs are more than enough. They can fill our hearts and heal us, body and soul.

Where do you come from? A Sermon for Proper 14B, 2024

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Where do you come from? It’s a question one hears from time to time, often especially when you’re new in a place, or just getting to know someone. If you hear someone with a strange accent, you may want to ask them that question—and if you’re just a bit brash or rude—you will go ahead and blurt it out. It happened to me from time to time when I lived in the south—and it still happens occasionally to Corrie in Madison. The question may be well-meaning, but it can also be off-putting. It can underscore difference, it can remind the recipient that they are outsiders in a place or a community, reinforce their otherness. 

Coincidentally, I was asked this very question after our early service today. We were chatting in Vilas Hall and someone dropped by to say hello and chat. She and I started talking about a venerable New England institution, and as we were talking she asked, “Where are you from?”–thinking I must have been a native of New England. I told her to hang around for our 10:00 service when I would answer that question.

We see all this playing out on the national and international stage. Questions of identity—whether that has to do with issues of gender, nationality, or ethnicity are hot topics right now. And so often it is the group with power and privilege seeking to categorize, marginalize, define others to exclude them from the larger community, to render them powerless and speechless and irrelevant.

I know exactly where I come from. A small town in northwestern Ohio, where Griesers have lived since the 1830s. My first ancestor who came to that area operated a mill in Montbeliard, Alsace before immigrating to the US. On the other side of the family, my roots go back to Lancaster County PA in the 18th century. There’s no mystery on either side of the family, no reason to take one of those DNA tests that have become so popular. When I used to return to my hometown regularly, I would often identify myself by my dad’s name, so people could place me comfortably in that community.  

In today’s gospel reading, as we continued the discussion of the meaning of the feeding of the five thousand, and now, the meaning of Jesus’ statement that we heard last week, “I am the bread of life” we are introduced to questions of identity and origin. 

It all begins with a significant shift in today’s reading. To this point, Jesus has been in conversation with “the crowd.” They had followed him across the Sea of Galilee, to listen to his teaching, and for healing. He had fed them miraculously, and they had wanted to proclaim him king. 

They had followed him again, across the sea to Capernaum, where they addressed him as “Rabbi”—“teacher”. But suddenly the term shifts and the crowd becomes “the Jews.” It’s another opportunity for us to remind ourselves of the Gospel of John’s anti-judaism and its attendant legacy in the antisemitism in Christianity and in larger Western culture. That being said, we should also note that the word translated as “Jew” here would be literally translated as “Judaean” in other words, residents of the Roman province of Judea, not necessarily a reference to the religion. Further, remember that when the Gospel of John distinguishes between Jesus and “the Jews” it is overlooking the reality that Jesus, and all of his disciples, were themselves Jews.

Still, in the literary context before us, “Jews” is an important marker of identity. Earlier the crowd had responded to Jesus “our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness.” They are asserting their identity and their privilege. And now, they are questioning Jesus’ identity and authority. Who does this guy think he is? We know him; we know his parents. What gives him the right to say that he has come down from heaven?

There’s the question of authority and there’s the question of identity. Another way John is drawing on the traditions of the book of Exodus is in Jesus’ self-identification. Here, he says, “I am the bread of life.” It’s the first of his “I am” sayings in the gospel. He also says, “I am the good shepherd”; I am the vine, you are the branches, as well as others. 

 “I am”—it’s the response God gives Moses at the burning bush when he asks God, “Who shall I say sent me?” God answers: “I am who I am” or “I will be who I will be.” Throughout the Hebrew Bible, God will be identified as I am—usually with a description of what God has done for God’s people—“I am the God who brought you out of the land of Egypt.”

Here, however, there’s a different dynamic. The I am sayings are symbolic—I am the bread of life, I am the Good Shepherd, I am the vine… They use ordinary imagery to say something about Christ’s nature but also about the kind of relationship that is being offered. Jesus is not distant, speaking far off from a mountain, but near at hand, and emphasizing the life-giving relationship that is being offered to those who follow him.

That offer is an opportunity to adopt and live into a new identity as a follower of Jesus Christ, welcomed into a community where status and background don’t determine your place, where your previous life and choices don’t limit the possibilities of new life and new experience.

We see something of that vision in the reading from the letter to the Ephesians. The author urges their readers to give up every manner of sin, anger, evil talk, wrangling and slander—all powerful reminders in these days of the vitriolic discourse on social media and the demonization of one’s opponents. More importantly, though, is this “Live in love as Christ loved us”—it’s another version of one of my favorite offertory sentences: “Walk in love as Christ loved us, and gave himself for us, an offering and sacrifice to God.”

To bring it back to the gospel. The bread of life that Christ offers us, or as he says at the end of our passage: “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” That bread is offered to us; that flesh is offered to us, and as we participate in eating the bread, we are entering into the life of Christ, the body of Christ. And we ourselves, being bonded to Christ, enfleshed to Christ, become the means by which others enter into that same relationship with Christ. In becoming Christ’s body, we become the bread by which others are nourished. When we walk in Christ’s love, when we receive Christ’s love, we become the means by which others receive that love as well.

The Bread of Angels (Panis Angelicus): A Sermon for Proper 13B

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April 4, 2024

One of the lovely things about growing older is the way in which ordinary things can evoke memories. It might be a smell that can inspire a mental image of a memorable meal. It might be a popular song from decades ago that reminds us of our high school or college days. For me, that’s true of hymns or scripture verses. There are hymns that I associate with my dad or the church I grew up in. And there are scripture verses.

One of those verses is in today’s Psalm portion: 78:25 “So mortals ate the bread of angels; *he provided for them food enough.” Whenever I read that verse, during Morning Prayer or on Sundays, an image of Larry Proli comes to mind.

Corrie and I came into the Episcopal Church back in 1992, at St. Paul’s Newburyport, Mass. Among the unique characters in that parish—every parish has a few, was Larry Proli. Retired, in his 70s probably, Larry was a quintessential New Jersy Italian-American. Straight out of central casting. He could have been an extra in a Scorsese movie. He had the accent, the gestures and mannerisms, the personality of an Italian-American grandfather. There was just one thing that didn’t fit. He was an ordained pastor in the Dutch Reformed (Christian Reformed) Church. As a child, growing up poor in a New Jersey city, somehow, he had begun attending Sunday school in a Christian Reformed Church and went on to get ordained. 

He and his wife Jan—who by the way was straight out of central casting for a Dutch woman in her 70s organized the parish’s monthly meal for single moms and their kids. They helped out in lots of other ways, small and large. Larry, though it was against the canons, distributed communion alongside the Rector, and that’s where my memory of him is fixed.

It was Easter Day and we came up to the altar rail. As he gave me the host, Larry said “Panis angelicus, the bread of angels.” It broke me. We left that parish in 1994 and have never been back; I never saw Larry again, I’ve never seen anyone from that congregation in the decades since. But every time I read that psalm in Morning Prayer or on Sunday, I think of Larry, of the bread of angels, and of the banquet where he and Jan are now feasting with all of the angels and saints.

The bread of angels.

Funny thing, that, because the hosts we use in our Eucharist bear little resemblance to real bread, let alone to whatever the bread of angels might look like.

Bread. Think about all the different types of bread there are—the mundane, for example, the ironically-named “wonder bread.” Or what passes for bread in our celebrations of the eucharist—little discs of hard, tasteless, baked wheat. Think of the best bread you’ve ever had—home-baked right out of the oven, or crusty French baguette, eaten with olive oil and a glass of wine. Bread comes in many shapes and sizes, made with thousands of different ingredients, deriving from vastly different cultures and culinary traditions. Life without bread is unimaginable, even for those who are gluten-intolerant, or have celiac disease. There are breads made for them as well. Like wonder bread or the hosts we use in the Eucharist, bread can be industrialized and standardized. But at its best bread reflects the baker, the ingredients, the oven, and the community in which it is baked and which, when it’s broken, it creates.

In the first lesson, the reading from Exodus, we encounter a very strange kind of bread. The Israelites have fled from Egypt, crossed the Red Sea, and now they are camped at the foot of Mt. Sinai (called Horeb) in this text, where they will receive the 10 commandments and other laws. But they aren’t happy campers. Things are rough, and some of them are looking back with nostalgia on the life they left behind in Egypt. Yes, they may have been slaves, but at least they had food, drink and shelter. Never mind that the God who called them out of Egypt had unleashed a series of deadly plagues, fought on their behalf at the Red Sea drowning the Egyptian army. The present was difficult, the future uncertain, and the people were hungry, thirsty, and tired. No doubt if you’ve ever been camping with your family, you know this dynamic.

In response, God provides them with their daily bread and with quails for sustenance. The bread is called manna, which is derived from the Hebrew words for “What is it?”—the question they asked when they saw it for the first time in the morning. The manna appeared six days a week, with enough on the sixth day to provide food for the Sabbath as well. When the Hebrews experimented by gathering more than they needed for one day, they discovered that it spoiled overnight. Thus, the theme in John 6 about the bread that perishes and the bread that lives forever.

In the ancient world, where what we call food insecurity was the reality, not for 20 or 30% of the population, but probably for 90%, the notion of having enough food to eat, eating and being filled, was a powerful image indeed. The petition in the Lord’s Prayer, “Give us today our daily bread” was not pious platitude; it was necessary. In John 6, the crowd had good reason to follow after Jesus—it wasn’t just their desire to see another miracle, or get a free meal, it was the prospect of once again, eating until they were full—perhaps something they had never experienced before, and might never experience again.

Bread and Circus. In ancient Rome it was said, if emperors provided bread and circus, food and entertainment, the mob wouldn’t revolt. So it’s hardly a surprise that as we read in last week’s gospel, their stomachs filled by the loaves and fish, the crowd wanted to proclaim Jesus king, he gave them bread and entertainment. Food, by feeding them, and entertainment, by the miraculous feeding as well as the many healings he performed. So often we’re like that too. We want the miracle, the spectacle. We want to be awed. We want the earth to move.

Today marks the 15th anniversary of the beginning of our ministry together in this place. Over the years, we’ve been through a great deal: renovations, pandemic, the passing on to the larger life of so many of our friends and loved ones. We’re going through a great deal right now, enough perhaps to shake our faith. And we gather to listen to God’s word, to be nourished by the body and blood of Christ, to taste and see Christ’s presence among us. Over the years, I’ve presided at more than 2000 Eucharists—some of them have been spectacular with a full church, choir musical instruments. More than a few have been tiny, intimate, sometimes with no more than one person besides me. Sometimes, I go through the motions, barely noticing. Sometimes, I am moved to tears.

And sometimes it’s just not enough. The meager host, the sip of wine seem little more than a trace of the sustenance we need, the presence we crave. Our disappointment lingers, we yearn for more. And yet it may be that the stranger next to us, unbeknownst to us is receiving what she desires: a taste of heaven, the bread of angels.

Among the mysteries of our faith is that Christ can come to us in many ways, in the spectacular, the miraculous, and in the mundane, the every day. For us to be open to Christ’s presence can mean being open to the grace of the ordinary. It can also mean feeding on the bread of angels. May our hearts be open to that presence, may our eyes see that presence, may our mouths taste that presence, in bread and wine, in the conviviality of a meal or the gathering of God’s people. May we be nourished by the bread of angels, panis angelicus.  

Come away to a deserted place and rest awhile: A Sermon for Proper 11B

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Proper 11B

July 21, 2024

Two images in today’s readings jump out at me. The first is from the gospel reading. Jesus bids his disciples, “Come away to a deserted place and rest awhile.” The second is from the epistle reading. Referring to Jesus, the text reads, “For he is our peace… he came to preach peace to those who were far off and those who were near.”

Words of comfort and consolation, comfortable words to use the traditional language of our liturgy. Words that we need to hear, and to embrace, and to share.

First, from the epistle, the letter to the Ephesians. Here, the author—it may or may not be St. Paul, scholars debate these sorts of things, is talking about one of the central problems of the nascent Christian community: the relationship between Jews and Gentiles, and the role of the Mosaic law in constructing and maintaining that community. In fact, one of the reasons Paul’s authorship of Ephesians is questioned is because of what is said here about the law—that Christ abolished the law. It’s a contradiction of Jesus’ own words from the Sermon on the Mount: “I have not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it.” It’s also a direct contradiction of what Paul says elsewhere, especially in the letter to the Romans, where he goes on at great length, somewhat confusingly, about the continued validity of the Mosaic law for the Jewish community.

Be that as it may, the language here of Christ being our peace, of Christ proclaiming peace to those who are near and those who are far off, resonates as deeply in the twenty-first century as it did in the first. We are accustomed, in our current environment, to Christianity being used by some of its most strident and vocal adherents as a weapon that divides families, communities, and nations. But Christ is our peace, breaking down the walls that divide us.

Christ is our peace. In another sense, on a personal individual level, Christ is our peace, a well of tranquility and comfort in turbulent times, and in turbulent lives. To open ourselves to that peace, to wait in silence, to pray, to feel Christ’s presence in our lives, our hearts, our world, is something we should cultivate and welcome.

To touch the divine, to experience Christ, is one reason we come to worship. Many of us also come because we seek spiritual sustenance and refreshment. In today’s Gospel, the twelve have returned from their missionary journey. Not surprisingly, they are exhausted from their travels and from their work. Jesus gathers them together and offers them an invitation, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest awhile.”

We know the feeling. Although it’s summer and life is supposed to be somewhat less hectic, more relaxing, many of us struggle with the stress of work or family issues. Some of us have been spending a lot of time, on other activities related to the church. Our lives are busy, even in the summer when things are supposed to slow down. We need a rest. Even now, some of us may be distracted by all of the things we have to do, the many tasks that make up our lives, the problems that we’ll have to deal with at work tomorrow. Jesus’ offer, “Come away and rest awhile” appeals to us. We might love to get away from it all, if only for a few days.

But even as Jesus invited the twelve to go away to a deserted place and rest awhile, the burdens of the world came with them. When they arrived at their destination, they discovered that the needy, desperate crowd had preceded them and were waiting for them. Can you imagine how the disciples might have felt right then? Exhausted themselves, physically and emotionally drained, they were looking forward to that escape from it all, and instead, they were confronted by the world’s misery in all of its magnitude.

Whatever the disciples might have thought when they saw the crowds, we know what Jesus thought. He had compassion on them—it’s an earthy word, suggesting he felt it in his guts. But when he saw them, it wasn’t their physical needs he noticed, it was their spiritual needs. They were like sheep without a shepherd, lacking protection, guidance, purpose. They came to Jesus, looking for all of that, and more, in search of healing and hope. Jesus and his disciples, having sought respite, were back in the middle of it. 

Where do you see yourself in this story? Are you among the disciples and Jesus, exhausted by it all, hoping to come away and rest awhile? Or are you among the crowds, coming to Jesus to hear his words of life, to receive his healing touch? Or perhaps, is it a little bit of both?

We carry all of our worries and needs with us to this place each Sunday. We come with hopes and concerns. Sometimes what we need is at the forefront of our minds; quite concrete—like an illness, or conflict in our family or at our place of work. Sometimes, we can’t even express what it is we need, there’s a gaping hole in our hearts or in our lives that we can’t name.

But even then, we come, and we might encounter the world’s needs in all of their magnitude, in the suffering of a friend, or of a homeless person on the street who asks us for help. We come in search of something, or someone, and when we arrive in this place, we meet people who are seeking as well. Sometimes, they come in search of us.

On Wednesdays at noon, a small group of us gather for worship. There’s a core of three or four who come almost every week, and several others who join us from time to time. Over the years, I’ve become aware of all of the others who come here at the same time, the people who are waiting for the food pantry to open and the folks who gather at noon every weekday for AA. There’s the Off the Square Club, with its ministry to unhoused people with mental illness. 12 noon on Wednesday is a snapshot of our church, of people gathering for worship, people coming in search of food, companionship, and support for their recovery. And while we are praying and celebrating the Eucharist being nourished by the body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, across the courtyard, volunteers are preparing for the pantry shift, getting ready to provide nourishment for the guests who come to the pantry for food.

There are many needs in the world, many needs in our community. Grace Church, our facilities and congregation offer compassion and help to those in need. We do it in many ways. At the core of it all is our faith in God and our worship. In the midst of the noise, in the midst of all that is happening in the world and in our lives, let us not lose sight of the God who has called us to this place, of the Jesus whom we follow. Just as we are refreshed and renewed by word and sacrament, just as we are refreshed and renewed by our encounter and experience of Jesus’ compassionate mercy, may we also always share that compassionate mercy with those we encounter, here and in our daily lives.

Reaching for the hem of his garment: A Sermon for Proper 8B, 2024

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I wonder how many of us feel desperate this morning, weighed down by the challenges we face, the world’s problem, an election season that promises to be full of anger, hatred, and fear. We see a world falling into chaos, with so many millions suffering the violence of war and political division, hunger, and homelessness. Our political system criminalizes homelessness, forces women to give birth at the risk of their own lives and that of their babies. And the only solutions that seem to be offered are bibles or displays of the Ten Commandments in every school classroom.

We are full of fear, despairing, dreading tomorrow or the next day, or the next four years. And we wonder as the voices of White Supremacy and Christian Nationalism grow louder and ever more shrill, whether the Jesus Christ whom we follow and in whom we put our faith … can speak to us and to the world, whether his death and resurrection can continue to give us hope, and strength, and courage.

Whatever those larger problems and challenges, on the national or global stage, there are also challenges that we face as individuals. Most, if not all of us, could tell some story about the horrors of our health care system. Maybe it’s the runaround we’re given when we try to get an appointment or a second opinion. Or it could be  the exorbitant costs of treatment which is the leading cause of bankruptcies in America. Or it could be the frustration that comes from a chronic problem that remains uncured after years or decades. It’s a broken system and the only people who seem to benefit from it are the corporations that increasingly seem to be running things. Even medical professionals, doctors and nurses, are overworked, underpaid, and frustrated.

So there’s a real sense of empathy when we come to today’s gospel story and hear these two stories of healing from Mark’s gospel.

In today’s reading, Jesus and his disciples come back home to Galilee after their foray into Gentile territory. Jesus gathers a crowd by the sea, a great crowd gathers, and presumably, Jesus is about to begin teaching. But he’s interrupted by Jairus, the leader of the synagogue, who asks him to come heal his daughter. So Jesus goes with him. But as he goes, he’s interrupted again. This is a favorite technique of Mark’s, to tell a story within a story. In doing so, he presents us with two very different sets of characters, two very different healings, and in those contrasts, hopes we will learn something new about Jesus.

Jesus and his disciples are walking along. They have returned from their visit to the other side of the lake, a journey we saw them on last week. As they go, they encounter Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue, who implores Jesus to come and heal his sick 12-year old daughter. And so they go.

But before they can get very far, Jesus has another encounter. He hardly notices it, only because he senses power going out from him does he realize that someone has come to him. It’s a woman. She’s been suffering from hemorrhages of blood for twelve years. That makes her ritually impure, and contagious to those she encounters. And she’s tried everything, doctors, quack cures. This is her last, desperate, grasping at straws, attempt to be healed. So she sneaks in through the crowd, touches Jesus’ cloak, and is healed. 

When Jesus asks, “who touched me” his disciples respond with ridicule. There’s a crowd pressing around, how can we know, why are you worried about having been touched in the jostling? But Jesus persists, and the woman, in fear and trembling, comes clean. The contrast between the boldness of her actions in seeking healing and her response when challenged by Jesus is striking. In fear and trembling, she falls down at his feet, and “told him the whole truth.” Jesus comforts her: “Daughter, your faith has made you well, go in peace.”

As soon as the woman leaves, messengers from Jairus arrive to tell Jesus that there’s no point in continuing on to Jairus’ home. The girl has died. But Jesus persists, telling him, “Do not fear, only believe.” When they arrive, they are greeted by another crowd. This time, instead of jostling for position, the crowd is weeping and wailing, mourning the girl’s death. Jesus takes his closest disciples with him, Jairus’ family, too, and enters the sickroom. This time, instead of being touched by the one who would be healed, Jesus reaches out his hand to touch her. He tells her, get up. She does, restored to life and to her family. 

As I said, this story is an example of one of Mark’s signature techniques, often called the “sandwich” story, in which he interrupts his narrative with another story that often duplicates some of the same details and themes. So in this case, we have two healings, but two very different people: a ruler of the synagogue and a woman.

Think of the contrast between them: a man, a woman. A ruler of the synagogue, pillar of the community, a man of prestige, honor, probably wealth. The woman; she’s probably not been inside a synagogue in twelve years. She certainly hasn’t entered the temple in all that time to perform the required sacrifices. Her malady makes her ritually impure. She’s destitute, we’re told.

Think about how they approach Jesus: The ruler can expect Jesus to pay attention. He could approach as an equal but he doesn’t. Instead, he bows at Jesus’ feet, begging him to help. The woman, on the other hand, sneaks up to Jesus. She doesn’t dare confront him. Instead, it’s enough to touch his garment. But when Jesus notices her, like Jairus, she bows in deference, fear and trembling.

But there are also interesting comparisons between the woman and the synagogue ruler’s daughter. The girl, who is twelve, is born the year the woman’s illness began. They are healed on the same day. Just as the woman’s ailment makes her ritually impure, the girl’s body is ritually impure and makes all those who touch it impure. By restoring her to life, and by restoring the woman to health Jesus does more than heal them, he restores them to their community. And the woman is restored to community just as the girl is. When he heals her, Jesus calls her “Daughter”—creating relationship where there had been none, giving her status and identity.

So these are healings, not just physical, though they are that. They are also healings of community, of relationships, restoring to wholeness things that were broken. We might think about all the ways in which illness and infirmity estrange us from one another—we might be hesitant to share our struggles with others in our community or congregation. We might be forced to remain distant from community, forced by frail bodies to remain in our homes, unable to go to church or other gathering places. We might ponder how illness or physical struggle can estrange us from God. Jesus’ healings are about much more than fixing a physical ailment. They are signs of the coming of God’s reign.

And yet. We feel the despair of the woman who approaches Jesus with no hope. We look for signs of God’s coming reign and see only brokenness, death, destruction, evil. I was watching the livestream of General Convention, Friday, thinking about this sermon, seeing the pundits’ reaction to Thursday’s debate, the avalanche of Supreme Court opinions wreaking havoc to our nation and to our globe, with others looming tomorrow. All the while, the deputies were debating the meaning of “memorialization” an obscure issue related to the role of the Book of Common Prayer in the life of our Church. I immediately thought of Nero fiddling while Rome burned, but in this instance, the fires of institutional collapse were licking at the deputies’ feet.

But then came the vote on the reunification of the dioceses of Wisconsin. Our own John Johnson stood to testify and spoke eloquently about our state’s culture and history, the hard work that was done, the relationships that were built. And after the vote, in her remarks, my friend Jana Troutman-Miller bore witness to the important role of the Oneida in the history of the Episcopal Church in Wisconsin. And our new Presiding Bishop, Sean Rowe, of NW Pennsylvania and Western New York, has witnessed first hand the hollowing out of industry in the towns and cities of W. Pa, and has thought deeply about how to bring about change in the midst of decline and crisis.

Our challenges may persist more than twelve years. We may be at our wit’s end, full of fear and dread, but Jesus walks before us preaching the good news, healing the sick, bringing hope to the broken-hearted. Let us grasp the hem of his robe in fear and trembling, and may the healing power of his love and grace fill our hearts and bodies, and the whole world.

Bunnies, Mustard Seeds, and the Coming of God’s Reign: A sermon for Proper 7B

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I didn’t post this earlier.

Proper 6B

June 16, 2024

I’m going to tell you a story. It may not be a parable but it may get at something central about parables. On Wednesday morning, as I was coming into the courtyard here at church, I encountered a woman who was walking around and enjoying its beauty. But it seemed like she was looking for something. So I asked her, “May I be of help?” 

She said that she was looking for the baby bunny she had seen the day before. She had a lanyard around her neck, so she was here for a conference and had seen the rabbits the day before while walking back to her hotel. She was disappointed that the baby bunnies were nowhere to be found, although there was an adult sitting in the grass a few feet from us as we chatted. 

Our conversation was ironic, though she didn’t know it. Just before I got on my bike to come to church, my wife had come in from the garden complaining. She had put out new plants the day before, and that morning found one of them had been eaten by the rabbits. I guess the coyote I had seen strolling through the yard a month or two ago hadn’t been back recently.

To the stranger passing by, the bunnies in our courtyard were cute, enjoyable to watch. To gardeners, they are pests. To my cats, who watch them from our screened-in porch, they’re potential playmates or prey, though they remain tantalizingly out of reach. 

What might bunnies have to do with the Reign of God? What do mustard seeds and rabbits have in common?

Jesus taught in parables. That is something on which the synoptic gospels agree (it’s less obvious in the Gospel of John where Jesus uses other methods of teaching). But just what a parable is might not be clear. They are stories, or observations, taken from daily life that Jesus uses to describe the Kingdom, or reign, of God. We have two examples in today’s gospel:

The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.

With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade. 

         The reign of God is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds, but when it grows up becomes the largest of the shrubs. That’s right, the reign of God is like a bush. Now, I’m sure if you’ve ever heard a sermon on this parable, you’ve heard some sort of comparison made between the mustard seed and faith; if you only have a little faith, it can grow and mature into something great.

But here Jesus does not compare mustard seed to faith. He compares mustard seed to the reign of God. Indeed, we need to keep one central thing in mind when we read the parables. They are intended to disorient us, to challenge our ordinary perception, to make us think and see the world in a new way. That’s often quite hard to do because of their familiarity. We’ve heard them so often we think we know what they mean, we think they can only mean one thing. And often, the gospels themselves insert an interpretation that forces a meaning upon us. 

Let’s listen to this parable again, in all of its brevity. The reign of God is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds. But when it grows up, it becomes the biggest of the shrubs, and puts forth large branches, and birds make their nests in its shade.

Now, just a couple of things before we go on. First, mustard. It’s not something that people would ordinarily have planted in the ancient world. Sure they used it as a spice and as a medicinal, but mustard was then, as it is now, something of a weed. It’s rarely planted because when it is, it can take over a garden or a field in a relatively short time. It’s what we would call an invasive species, and what gardener would plant it, knowing that in a few years she would be fighting it.

The second observation I have is that it doesn’t become a big tree. It grows into a shrub, really, literally, a large plant. So, it’s not giant by any means. It’s not stately or beautiful. It’s a shrub.

So I ask again, how is the reign of God like a mustard seed? To provide another perspective from which to interpret the parable, let’s think about what ancient people might have imagined the relationship between a seed and the plant that developed from it might be. Clearly they knew that seeds produced plants and trees. They require water, soil, and nutrients to thrive. But they didn’t understand or even know the science of botany. To give just one example of ancient reflection, many people imagined that somehow the seed contained within it somehow, the full-grown plant. We needn’t concern ourselves with the details, suffice it to say that for some ancients, looked at one way, the seed was the seed, another way, it was the full-grown plant.

So the reign of God is like this mustard seed. It’s really somewhat dangerous. Yes, it’s small and it grows into a bush and provides shelter to birds. But it might get out of control, take over a field or a garden and suddenly, whatever its beneficial properties, you’re fighting it.

This for us may be the crux of it. Jesus said many things about the reign of God, but above all, he taught in parables. The reign of God is like a mustard seed, or a widow who has lost a coin, or a man who discovered a treasure in a field. He also said things like, the reign of God is near, it is even within you. But most importantly, the reign of God is just a little bit dangerous. It comes to turn our world upside-down. It comes to upend and overturn our expectations and to challenge the kingdoms of this world.

Jesus came preaching the reign of God, not a place, a kingdom, or even something like heaven. The reign of God is a new reality perceived in the midst of the old. It is a new way of being, ushered in by Jesus’ proclamation, expressed in his actions. As he taught, he also healed the sick, restored sinners to God, and brought together groups who had been alienated from one another. He ate with tax collectors and sinners and in his table fellowship offered a vision of a new community in which all might come together.

None of that is particularly obvious. He might have been a miracle worker. Others might have seen him as a fraud. He might have been a rabble-rouser. You probably didn’t want to invite him to dinner; who knows what random guests he might have brought along. But each of those things, his actions as well as his words, pointed to the new reality of God’s reign.

We don’t need to look far to see the reality that we face as a world. I hardly need to recite the litany of troubles facing us locally and globally. Perhaps at the heart of it, however, is this. We know we are beset by many problems, economic, environmental, social. But it seems that as a culture we are unable to come together to address them. Our bitter divisions have only deepened over the last years, and the solutions that have been offered seem only to widen the gaps that exist in our society and world.

Into this world, Jesus comes preaching the good news of the reign of God. And what is the good news? Perhaps only this. To have hope that in spite of the reality we see, that in the midst of it God is working a new thing. The reality is obvious; we are bombarded with it daily. But at the same time, there are signs of God’s inbreaking into that reality, to make it new.

Our mission as the people of God, is not only to proclaim the good news, but to see the good news in the world around us. Where do we see signs of God’s inbreaking into this world? Where do we see signs of God’s reign? We might see it in the work of our food pantry; the guests who visit Off the Square Club or Julia Weaver’s Uptown Sanctuary. It might be something as overlooked as our courtyard garden, where a passerby can pause to enjoy the beauty and shade on a summer’s day, and enjoy the site of baby bunnies. All of this we might take for granted. We might see them as our duty, or as perfectly ordinary. But to those who experience them from the other side, they are rays of hope and joy.

The reign of God is like a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds that becomes a bush where the birds find homes. Where are the mustard seeds in our world, and in our daily lives, where God’s reign shows signs of breaking in?

Sabbath’s Blessed Rest: A sermon for Proper 4B, June 2, 2024

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`It may not be officially summer by the calendar but it sure feels that way—Memorial Day was last Monday. School will be out this week. Many of us are looking forward to the slower pace of summer with vacations, weekends away, time to relax with friends and family. In the liturgical calendar, we have also opened a new season. Officially the Episcopal Church calls this the Season after Pentecost. The liturgical color changes to green, and from now through the end of November, our gospel readings will focus on Jesus’ ministry and teachings as we read through the gospel of Mark, with another detour into the Gospel of John in August.

Somewhat deceptively, in the Roman Catholic calendar, this season is called “Ordinary Time”—which does not mean “ordinary” in our usual understanding, but refers to the ordinal numbers by the Sundays are named. We call them “propers”—from a Latin word; each Sunday has a set of readings that are specified for the day. But in another sense, ordinary time is an appropriate name for this season because it takes on a different vibe from the great seasons of Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent and Easter, which focus on the birth, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ. Our attention in this season after Pentecost is drawn to our response to those mighty acts of salvation, to our growth in faith and discipleship as followers of Jesus.

These comments about the liturgical calendar and seasons offer an interesting backdrop to today’s gospel reading and the lesson from Deuteronomy with which it’s paired. This year, we’ll be reading from Track 2 of the lectionary, which provides readings from the Hebrew Bible that relate in some way to the day’s gospel reading. Track 1, which we followed the last time we were in this year B of the cycle, offers a semi-continuous reading of the Hebrew Bible, in year B, the focus is on the rise of the monarchy.

We are presented with two gospel stories, coupled together that focus on Sabbath observance. And in the Deuteronomy reading, we have a version of the commandment to keep the sabbath day holy.

As Americans, we have been acculturated to value individualism, and personal freedom above almost everything else, so the idea that we might not be able to do whatever we want, whether it be a load of laundry or going grocery shopping, on a particular day of the week, elicits visceral, negative responses. Although the weekend still has meaning for us as two days when most of us are off of work, the reality is that there are many—in the service industry for example, or those who work two jobs to make ends meet—who do not have the luxury of 2 days off in a row or a Sunday for relaxation, and perhaps, going to church.

And with the ubiquity of devices in our lives, most of us have to be very proactive not to be reading or responding to emails from the office, or texts from bosses or coworkers about projects or tasks that need to be completed.

Thus, when we hear the Pharisees complain about Jesus’ disciples picking and eating grain on the Sabbath, or their criticism of Jesus’ for healing a man with a withered hand, our reactions are in part shaped by all of those deeply ingrained cultural attitudes, as well as by two millennia of Christian anti-Judaism which contrasts pharisaic morality and legalism with the freedom offered by Jesus. 

What we see here is not a conflict between rival religions but a conflict within Judaism; even a conflict within a particular movement in Judaism. Jesus and the Pharisees are not disagreeing about the Torah, they are disagreeing about its interpretation. Both would acknowledge the importance of the commandment “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.” The question they are debating is what does it mean to keep the Sabbath day holy. Jesus says, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath.” It’s quite similar to statements from rabbinic literature a century later (perhaps preserving earlier traditions): “The Sabbath is handed over to you, not you to it” and “Profane one Sabbath for a person’s sake, so that he may keep many Sabbaths.”

While the Sabbath is a day of rest in Judaism, it is also much more than that. As the great 20th century Jewish theologian Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in his little book The Sabbath:

On the Sabbath it is given us to share in the holiness that is in the heart of time. Even when the soul is seared, even when no prayer can come out of our tightened throats, the clean, silent rest of the Sabbath leads us to a realm of endless peace, or to the beginning of an awareness of what eternity means. … Eternity utters a day.

But what did Jesus mean when he said, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath?” We might be inclined to think that the Sabbath then is dependent on human interpretation, or human desire for keeping it, but it’s likely Jesus meant something rather different.

To get at this question, it’s worth going back to the commandment. There are two versions of it in Hebrew scripture, and we heard the less familiar one, from the book of Deuteronomy, not from Exodus 20:8-11 where the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy and to rest on that day is connected with God’s actions in creation—creating the universe and humankind on the first six days and on the seventh day creating the sabbath: creating, resting, blessing the seventh day and hallowing it.

It’s not only that God created, blessed, and sanctified the Sabbath; God also blessed and sanctified rest itself. Indeed, we can see that in addition to being a God who creates, God is also a God who rests and in so doing, offers us the gift of blessed and sanctified rest.

 Imagine that. 

In our frantic world, when we have made ourselves slaves to our devices, to our email and texts, when so many of us are never disconnected from our jobs, God offers us the gift of blessed and sanctified rest. We can disconnect, slow down, and stop—and, most importantly, we don’t need to feel guilty about it, because God has given us the opportunity, the gift, of sanctified and blessed rest.

The reason for keeping the Sabbath day holy and for resting is rather different in our text: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.”

To put it bluntly, here observance of the Sabbath is also connected with God’s nature and God’s actions. But in this case what is emphasized is God’s act of liberation of God’s people—the deliverance of the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt. So Sabbath is partially an act of remembrance of what God has done, and who God’s people are, but it is also liberation or freedom, in the sense that on this day, God’s people do not have labor and toil as they did while they were slaves in Egypt; or to use a contemporary metaphor, slaves to the almighty dollar. 

But Sabbath is not a day of rest, remembrance, and liberation for myself alone; it is also a day of rest for everyone—male and female, slave and free, and even one’s animals. The day of rest extends to all of creation! In that sense, the commandment to rest on the Sabbath connects up with the commandment to love one’s neighbors. It is an act of love of others to allow them to rest, as well. 

In his wonderful little book, Sabbath as Resistance, Hebrew Bible scholar Walter Brueggeman takes it a step further. Noting that we are caught up in a consuming and commodity culture, where our value is based on what we have and buy and where we are bombarded by advertising, made anxious when we don’t accumulate enough stuff, or enough for retirement, Sabbath is also an act of resistance against that anxious and acquisitive culture. He writes: 

I have come to think that the fourth commandment on Sabbath is the most difficult and most urgent of the commandments in our society, because it summons us to intent and conduct that defies the most elemental requirements of a commodity-propelled society that specializes in control and entertainment, bread and circuses … along with anxiety and violence 

I encourage all of you to look for ways of bringing Sabbath into your lives and the life of your families, whether it be for a day, a half-day, or even an hour; to enjoy the blessed and sanctified rest of a restful God, and to experience the freedom in a God who liberates us. 

Structure and Spirit: A Sermon for Easter 7B, 2024

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May 12, 2024

We’ve been talking a lot over the last few weeks about things that are taking place across the Episcopal Church. There was the special convention last weekend where clergy and lay delegates from all three Episcopal Dioceses in Wisconsin voted to move forward with reunification. That decision will have to be ratified at the General Convention of the Episcopal Church that is taking place the last week of June in Louisville KY. There will be a lot more on the agenda of General Convention—including the election of a presiding bishop to replace Bishop Michael Curry, whose term ends this year. No doubt there will be talk of prayer book revision, or liturgical revision, always a hot-button issue in the Episcopal Church.

As I said in my sermon two weeks ago, most of us don’t pay close attention to the structures and governance of the church. We’re content to come to church from time to time, or quite regularly, and volunteer in some way to support our ministry and mission, whether that is through participating in worship or in one of our committees or groups, or at the food pantry or the Beacon. Most of us don’t like to think about the nuts and bolts of structure and governance and even if we are cajoled into serving on vestry, our church council, we serve our three-year term and never look back. For some, a term on vestry or as warden is enough to turn us off church forever.

Still, like any human institution, the church needs structure. And often we look back to scripture to help us shape our structures. And where better to start than with the passage from Acts we just heard? 

We’ve been jumping around in Acts during Eastertide and now we’re back in the first chapter. In Luke’s telling of the story, this takes place right after the ascension, which he relates both at the end of the gospel of Luke and here in the beginning of Acts. Typically, the lectionary omits the juiciest parts, in this case Luke’s version of Judas’ death; but it is Judas’ betrayal and death that accounts for what comes next and what we do hear, the choice of Matthias as an apostle to replace the betrayer.

It’s quite interesting that the lectionary editors chose to include this little episode in our reading from Acts this year, and that they placed it here, after we’ve heard the wonderful stories of the spirit’s movement—the Ethiopian Eunuch, and the story of Cornelius the Centurion, and before Pentecost, when again we hear a story of the movement of the Spirit.

But in today’s reading while we hear of the movement of the Spirit, it is to do something quite different, namely to provide for order, succession, and structure. It’s interesting to see that even at this early point, the disciples, Jesus’ closest companions, even as they waited for whatever might happen next, were making plans, preparing, setting some guidelines for how they would move forward. It would happen again, throughout Acts as new situations developed—when the community needed more people to help with all the tasks at hand, a group of deacons were commissioned to help distribute food and money to the needy among them. And later, when conflict arose over the relationship among Jews and Gentiles, a council of the leadership was called. Meeting in Jerusalem, they made decisions how to move forward in this new situation.

In addition to omitting the description of Judas’ death; the lectionary editors made one more significant omission. Had they included v. 14, the verse immediately preceding the specified reading, we would have learned that it was not just the eleven who were gathered in this upper room, there were about 120 people—women as well as men, and specifically including Jesus’ mother Mary. One of the themes of Acts, though perhaps one that has been often overlooked, is the important role played by women in the early decades of the Jesus movement, and we see that here as well. It’s the same group that is gathered when the Holy Spirit comes down like flames upon their heads, men and women together receiving that gift and power. 

The gospel reading offers another perspective on this dynamic. Here, we are meant to imagine the same room, probably many of the same people, but chronologically we are taken back before Christ’s crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, to the Last Supper.

In John’s gospel, Jesus speaks extensively to his disciples about his departure, preparing them for what is to come. In chapter 17, at the end of that lengthy discourse, Jesus offers what is often called the High Priestly Prayer, a conversation, not with his disciples but with God the Father. It’s fascinating what the disciples might have thought of this as they overheard this intimate conversation.

There are a number of themes that emerge from this prayer that Jesus offers to God on behalf of his disciples. The first is the inherent unity of Jesus and the Father, and because of the relationship between Jesus and the disciples, the unity of them with God. Jesus asks the Father to protect them “so that they may be one as we are one.”

Another theme of note is the world—the cosmos. It’s important to recognize all the different ways the cosmos is conceived in John’s gospel. Here we see a fundamental contrast between God and the world; the world is depicted as evil, a threat to the disciples. But even as we hear these words, we must remember other ways in which the cosmos is described: “For God so loved the world…” God loves the world, even in all of its brokenness.

There is one underlying motif that needs mention. We often think of our relationship with Jesus or with God, as a wholly vertical one—it’s about me and God, and my relationships with others might get in the way of that. But here the stress is on community—community of Christ with God, and community of the disciples with God through Christ. There is a horizonality to this relationship with God. Relationship with God is only fully realized if it is expressed in the context of relationship with others. 

And that may be where we return to our starting point. Community can’t exist without structure. Nations, states, cities, have laws that govern our relationships with others. The church too requires structure and governance to survive. Those structures may seem unwieldy at times; they may seem to stand in the way of the movement of the spirit and we may become so frustrated by the details of life in community that we abandon it for the chimera of experiencing God on our own, in the silence and quiet of our minds.

But especially now, as we see the lingering effects of the breakdown of community in our world, with egotism and self-interest running riot, the excesses of neoliberalism and unbridled capitalism; the tendency to erect barriers between groups and to vilify those who hold different beliefs or have different sexualities, or national or ethnic origins, the need to build community, to strengthen community is greater than ever.

To imagine, and make visible a community of Christian love, uniting disparate individuals together, and uniting them with Christ and with God can be a witness to a world in which community is shattering and shattered, where individuals seek meaning and connection that can only be fully realized in relationship with Christ and with others. May we make that community a reality, here in Madison and in the world.

Resurrection Scars: A sermon for 3 Easter B

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Resurrection Scars

3 Easter

Scars. We all have them. Some of them are visible to us and to others; some of them mark our souls and psyches. I’ve got a lot of them. There’s the one on my stomach that I got climbing out of an apple tree; there’s the one on my knuckle that I got playing with my dad’s woodworking tools. I’ve got an appendectomy scar—that’s pretty recent.

But my oldest scar is related to my earliest memory, when I was three years old. I was chasing my sister down the hall; she turned the corner and I didn’t, hitting my forehead right on the corner of the plastered wall. Although it’s barely visible now, it has shaped my life. For it was that event that led to the discovery of my poor eyesight, two childhood surgeries followed, dozens of trips to the eye doctor, and glasses, of course. When I started thinking about scars this week, I was surprised at how faded it is. As large as it looms in my memory, it’s barely noticeable now.

I’m sure you all have similar stories—some of you probably have scars, visible or invisible of wounds or pain that you would rather not remember, mementos of suffering that you’d rather not revisit, of trauma that continues to burden you. 

You may be wondering why I’ve started my sermon talking about scars and pain. It’s Easter season, a beautiful spring day, and who wants to think about suffering and pain now? We’ve had enough of that in recent years, enough of that in Lent and Holy Week. Well, as we turn to today’s gospel reading, I think it’s informative to keep the image of scars in our mind as we think about the Risen Christ.

I love the gospel stories of the appearance of the risen Christ to the disciples. They’re full of drama and fascinating detail and they deserve close attention and reflection. There are some very familiar stories, like the story of Thomas, which was read last week. In fact, if you remember that story, you might have been struck by the similarities between these two stories. 

Both take place on the day of resurrection, both take place with a group of disciples, both take place in the upper room. Both also emphasize the fear of the disciples when the risen Christ appears to them. Both stories deny that Jesus is a ghost. Both stories also involve touching. In John, Thomas demands, though never follows through, to place his hands in Jesus’ wounds. In Luke, Jesus invites the disciples to touch him. In both, Jesus mentions forgiveness of sins. There are differences as well: Thomas isn’t mentioned in the Luke story; and there’s no mention of Jesus eating fish in the John story.

 Among all the details in all of the stories of the appearance of the Risen Christ to the disciples, there’s one that stands out, one detail that’s common to all of them—that the disciples didn’t recognize him. That’s true of Mary Magdalene in the garden; it’s true of these stories, and of the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Famously, and as the collect for the day reminds us, the disciples who met Jesus on the road to Emmaus knew Jesus in the breaking of the bread.

This time, however, it wasn’t in the breaking of the bread, or Jesus naming the disciple, as happened with Mary Magdalene. Rather, it was when he showed them the marks of the nails in his hands and feet, when he showed them his scars, that they recognized him as their risen Lord.

There’s a deep theological truth in that fact. The idea of resurrection is hard to understand, hard to get our heads around. We often assume it’s like resuscitation and we’ve got enough models of that in popular culture to shape our thinking—zombies, for example. When we think of our own resurrections, and not that of Christ, our thinking may be even more muddled. 

We may imagine that eternal life has nothing to do with our bodies, that it has to do only with our disembodied souls. But the scriptural tradition, and early Christian theology is quite clear on this point, and it’s worth noting that it’s shared in the Jewish tradition of the day (though not so much in contemporary Judaism)—that the resurrection was about the body as well as the soul—that it affected the whole person, of which our bodies are an integral part.

I point this out because I think it’s important that the body of the Risen Christ bore the marks of his crucifixion, his scars. What I think that means is that in those scars, Jesus bore the marks of his suffering, now transformed by the healing power of God and of resurrection. His suffering wasn’t erased or forgotten but brought along into this new existence.

So too with us. We often think our pain is punishment, our wounds are the just rewards for our misdeeds, even if they were caused by something, or someone, outside of ourselves. And we may think that in a perfect world, in the resurrection, all of that would be done away with. But to what extent are our scars, our wounds part of who we are? Our identity? That’s certainly the case with the scar on my forehead—it reminds me of everything I went through as a child, all of my struggles. It helped make me who I am.

My old friend, Augustine of Hippo, said something quite similar. In the marvelous 22nd book of the City of God, he offered his thoughts on the resurrection, and on resurrection bodies. It wasn’t that in the resurrection we would have no bodies, or that our bodies would be perfect—there were apparently some who speculated that we would all be raised to be 33 years old, in the prime of life. For Augustine, Jesus’ scars suggested that we would bring with us all of those marks and imperfections with us in the resurrection; but that they would be transformed in some way, so that everything that made us who we are as individuals would be preserved and glorified.

There’s another way to think about this. It’s important to remember that God is present with us now, in our suffering and pain, and that even if we are not healed in this lifetime, in the life to come we will be. That may make the suffering no easier to deal with in the present, but trusting in God’s healing presence in the midst of that suffering is transformative.

That’s true not only of our own individual wounds. It’s also true of the systemic violence and trauma that we experience and inflict. There’s a tendency these days to want to overlook such violence and trauma—whether it’s the history of slavery and racism in our nation or the suffering and violence inflicted on Native Americans. We want to shove it under the rug or ignore it. But there’s no way around it. Being honest about that suffering, being honest about the wounds and scars carried on the bodies of marginalized peoples is the only means of becoming a healed society.

The risen Christ bears marks of all that suffering on his body, his own and ours, and in his glorified scars, we see our healing transformed by the power of God’s grace and love, as we and the whole world are made new through the cross and resurrection. Thanks be to God.

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!