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Christmas Rubble: A Sermon for Christmas Eve, 2023

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December 24, 2023

At first glance, at first reflection, all seems as it should be. There’s something so seductive, so reassuring about entering a beautiful space like Grace Church, decorated as it is every year at Christmas time. There’s the garland, the wreaths, the beloved creche in front of the altar with the exquisitely carved magi and entourage in the back of the nave as they’ve begun their journey to Bethlehem. 

It all sounds the same, too, with familiar carols and our lovely choir and musicians. Where have you come from this evening? From holiday tables at restaurants, or festive gatherings with friends and family? Some of us may even be planning on going to other gatherings; others of us will make our ways  home at the end of a long, and exhausting Sunday. 

It’s so similar to so many other Christmases, my fifteenth here at Grace. Some of you have been coming much longer than that and are settling into the beauty and familiarity of rituals and memories that may go back decades. But those memories are also tinged with sadness as we remember those who aren’t here any longer.

But beneath that familiarity and beauty, tucked away in our memories, or perhaps shoved out of our immediate attention by that beauty, are other memories, other images—of those Christmases in 2020 and 2021 when there were no services here because of the pandemic. We’re reminded that the pandemic has not left us, that our return to normalcy takes place while many continue to contract the illness or suffer the effects of long covid.

There may be other images, other emotions that are hard to repress right now. One image that haunts me is a photo shared by the pastor of the Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, Palestine. The Churches in Jerusalem and the West Bank announced recently that there would be no public celebrations, no public displays during Christmas, so this pastor, instead of erecting the usual creche like ours, did something else in his church. He brought in a pile of rubble, and in the middle of it lies the Christ child, wrapped in a keffiyeh, the symbol of Palestinian peoplehood. It speaks directly and eloquently to the humanitarian crisis that we’ve watched over the last nearly two months, an indiscriminate and horrific destruction of a people who have been driven from their homes, oppressed and practically held captive for the last nearly 75 years.

The plight of Christians, and Muslims, in the West Bank receives less attention than that of Gaza, but their lives are also under attack on a daily basis, their existence and presence in their homeland more precarious than ever. In Gaza, our Christian siblings are being killed, their ancient churches bombed to rubble. Of course, it’s not just Christians who are suffering there. The bombs don’t distinguish on the basis of religious commitment. On top of the thousands dead and homeless, now we’re hearing of starvation as aid continues to be blocked. The world watches; our own government is complicit in the atrocities. War continues in Ukraine as well, and even where there is no war, there is famine, hunger, and homelessness, poverty and disease. 

As we celebrate Christmas with carols, happy gatherings, and parties, we know that across the globe, people are suffering. We have learned hard lessons over the last few years. We have learned and re-learned about the fragility of life—how easily and quickly loved ones may be snatched from us by disease. We have learned about the fragility of our political institutions, our national life. We see daily evidence of the fragility of the human global community, and we are growing more aware, even as many deny it, of the fragility of life on this planet. 

So too, do we know the fragility of our faith. It is easy to grow disheartened, for our doubts to spiral into despair. In the presence of all the world’s ills, to lose hope seems not only natural but obvious. We reel from broken relationships, from trauma that continues to haunt us. It may very well be that it took all the courage we have left in us to venture out this evening to this place, in a desperate, unspoken plea for God to speak to us, to heal us and the world.

But the disconnect between our lives and our world and that of first-century Palestine may seem greater than ever. What can an ancient faith, a familiar story say to us in the face of millions suffering and global climate catastrophe? Can the story of Christ’s birth still speak to us? Can the carols we sing, the familiar decorations, the season’s joys, fill our hearts?

 The story Luke tells is not only about the birth of Jesus Christ. He interweaves that story with the story, and the reality of the Roman Empire. And it’s not because Luke was one of those 21st century bros who thinks about the Roman Empire every day, as the recent internet meme would have it. He did think about it every day because it was an all-encompassing, totalizing reality. It insinuated itself into the lives of everyone from the British Isles to the Indian subcontinent—and even beyond as its cultural influence extended almost everywhere.

Luke is writing within the Roman Empire, to citizens and inhabitants of the Roman Empire. The subjects of his story belonged to a people who were prone to rebellion, repeated small ones, but larger ones, like the Jewish Revolt of the late 60s ce, which would have been fresh in Luke’s memory, or the one a generation later in the 130s, after which Rome razed Jerusalem, and forbid Jews to live there. 

By placing his story in the context of the Roman Empire, Luke is highlighting the contrast between that reality, and the reality of God’s reign, coming in a very different way, in poverty, humility, and weakness. Not the power of Roman legions, or tanks or military force, but the power of vulnerable and fragile, a baby, swathed in love, bringing love, inviting us to love.

We desperately want certainty, unmistakable signs of God’s power and might, fixing us, fixing the world. Instead, we get this: a baby born in a dusty town in a far-off place and a far-off time. We get stories of angels, shepherds, and magi. We want God to solve our problems, fix our world, to show Godself to us with power and majesty. Instead, we get this: a tiny new life, utterly vulnerable, utterly dependent, the fragility and weakness of an infant. And this, we believe, is God.

This is God: this tiny, utterly dependent and vulnerable baby is God come into the world. This first time, Christ did not come in power and great majesty, but quietly, almost unnoticed, in a remote corner of the Roman Empire, to a young woman who seemed wholly ordinary and unremarkable.

This is God, in Christ, coming to us, in all our fragility, vulnerability, and suffering, coming into our broken lives and broken world. A baby, coming into the rubble of our lives, the rubble of our world, filling it, and us, with grace and hope and love. Thanks be to God. 

The Reign of Christ: A sermon for the last Sunday after Pentecost, 2023

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Christ separating the sheep from the goats, San Apollinaire Nuevo, Ravenna, 6th century

Reign of Christ

November 26, 2023

It’s been nearly forty years since I’ve visited Ravenna, Italy but its churches and their mosaics are still alive in my memory. So too is the awe and wonder that they evoked in me then. In the sixth century ce, Ravenna was the western capital of the Byzantine Empire, and the emperors and their families undertook a vast building project to express their power and faith. The mosaics conflate and combine imperial and religious imagery and while their meaning and significance are much debated among art historians and historians of late antiquity, their power, in the sixth century and today, are not.

You can see that imagery on full display on the the cover illustration of today’s service bulletin. What you cannot see is that in addition to looking like a ruler sitting on a throne, Christ in this mosaic is clad in imperial purple, wearing all the trappings and symbolism of a Roman emperor. 

I chose that image because today is the observance of Christ the King, or the Reign of Christ in contemporary parlance, is a 20th century innovation, this mosaic seems to capture perfectly the lectionary choice of Matthew 25:34-46. Christ, reigning in majesty, separating the sheep from the goats. 

Thinking about this image in the context of the parable may help us to encounter the story with new eyes, for it has become something of a favorite for many of us, a way of thinking about our responsibilities as followers of Jesus and to distinguish our sort of Christianity from that of many others—a focus on doing good rather than believing correctly. That interpretation is both comforting and self-gratulatory, and as always with the parables, I want us to experience its strangeness.

One way to do that is to note its context and the parables that precede it. Over the last few weeks, we’ve heard the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids, the talents, the wedding banquet. The parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids concludes with the foolish ones locked out of the banquet hall. The parables of the wedding banquet and the talents end with someone cast into outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. This one ends similarly with the goats banished to eternal punishment.

After the last two Sunday gospel readings, two parables of judgment and warning about the return of Christ, two parables that make us uncomfortable both in their urgency and in the message of judgment they proclaim, the judgment in this parable seems to support all of our prejudices and values.

In today’s reading, we are inclined, thanks to two thousand years of Christian reflection on this story, to see the separation of sheep and goats into good and evil as obvious, a given. Well, not so fast. In the ancient near east, goats were a prized animal. Their milk and meat were staples. They were not seen as evil—a goat was an acceptable sacrifice in Israelite religion. 

Perhaps more interesting is the fact that it was a common practice to keep goats and sheep together in a single flock. The only time the two animals were separated by the shepherd was on cold nights, when goats needed more protection. In short, in this reading as in the two preceding parables, the separation of sheep and goats into good and evil, is rather arbitrary. 

In fact, that’s something of a theme in Matthew’s gospel, that one can’t distinguish good from evil until the time of judgment—remember the parable of the wheat and the weeds, when “the devil” sowed weeds in a field and the farmer said that at the time of harvest, the wheat and the weeds would be separated and the weeds burned. So there’s something typically Matthean about this whole passage, something that Matthew as a gospel writer is especially interested in. It’s probably a result of something I mentioned a couple of Sundays ago, that a central concern for early Christians that Jesus had not yet returned.

I would like to draw your attention to something else in the text. Jesus is describing what the coming of the Son of Man will be like. First, he uses royal imagery. He will come in glory and sit on his heavenly throne. But immediately, that imagery is combined with another image, that of the shepherd. He will separate the people like a shepherd separates his flocks, the sheep from the goats. 

This image may draw us back to the reading from Ezekiel, where another visionary sees God coming like a shepherd, judging between the fat sheep and the lean sheep, rescuing them from wherever they have been scattered, feeding them, binding up the injured. We might find it odd that these two images—the shepherd and the king—are linked together in the biblical tradition. As the reading from Ezekiel makes clear, one reason for that linkage is the tradition that the founder of the Davidic monarchy—King David, was a shepherd. But for Christians, when shepherd imagery is used of Jesus, it is almost always used to emphasize Jesus’ care for us and his intimate love for us. 

Yet here in Ezekiel, the shepherd is a judge who culls his flocks, separating the fat from the lean sheep. So too in the gospel, the Shepherd King is a Judge who divides the sheep from the goats. In the Ezekiel passage the contrast between the care and tender concern the shepherd shows for the lean sheep and the harsh words with which he judges the fat.

The same is true in the gospel. The king judges harshly, unequivocally between the sheep and the goats. Christ appears to us here as a shepherd-king, but there are two other important images of Christ in the gospel. One is the obvious one. When the king says, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it to me, identifies the presence of Christ in the naked, the prisoner, the hungry, the sick. The third image is less obvious. The text begins with a reference to the Son of Man. In Matthew, when Jesus uses that title of himself, it almost always is in reference to his crucifixion. Christ the King is also the Crucified One and the least of these.

We are called to hold these three images together, we might think of them as three facets of a prism that together refract the light. If we ignore one of them, the other two become less brilliant. Emphasizing one over the other is a common temptation for Christians, but the gospel itself warns against it. We might prefer one image over the other. Some might want to encounter Christ only in the face of the poor and hungry; others only in an image of the Crucifixion. There are even those who can conceive of Christ only as the judge who comes on a cloud of thunder and reigns in majesty. 

Each image taken by itself will lead to a distortion of our faith. Those who focus only on the crucifixion will see Jesus only as the one who offers forgiveness for our sins. Those who focus on Christ in Majesty will think only about the second coming and making sure that they are on his right side. Those who focus only on outreach to others turn the Christian message into a social service agency. 

The judge separates sheep from goats, those who reached out to the needy and those who didn’t. The surprising thing here is that all are surprised. Neither group knew that Christ was present in the naked, the stranger or the prisoner. So for those whom the King welcomed into the kingdom, their actions in reaching out to the needy were not a conscious response to Jesus’ teachings or the result of acting out of duty or in order to gain their salvation. Their actions were an unconscious, unknowing part of who they were as Jesus’ disciples.

The same Christ who will come in Majesty to judge the living and the dead; the same Christ who was crucified for our sins; the Christ in whom we proclaim our faith when we recite the creed, that very Christ is present in all of those people—in the prisoner, the naked, the hungry, the stranger, and the sick. To hold these different images together, to confess Christ crucified, risen, reigning in majesty along with recognizing Christ’s presence in the sick, the imprisoned, the hungry and naked is our task as Christians seeking to follow him.

Happy Saints: A Sermon for All Saints’ Sunday, 2023

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Today is All Saints’ Sunday. I love it because of its wide range of meanings and observances. Today, we remember the faithful departed, a commemoration that is connected with November 2, traditionally All Souls’ Day. We also remember all of the saints. The observance of All Saints’ goes back to the early Middle Ages and arose as an occasion on which to recognize all of the saints, mostly martyrs, mostly nameless, who did not have a day reserved for their memory. For us, it’s also an opportunity to think of those anonymous saints, the people in our lives and community that have helped to shape us as followers of Jesus and served as models of faith.

All Saints’ is also one of those days set aside in the liturgical calendar that is especially appropriate for baptism. So, in addition to remembering those who have passed, and acknowledging the pillars of faith that uphold our community now, we are bringing into the body of Christ new members. It’s a visible, and powerful symbol of body of Christ that includes those who have gone before us, and those who will come after us.

But what sort of community is this one to which belong and into which we are bringing Evie? It is a question that we must ask ourselves as we seek to be faithful disciples of Jesus Christ. It is a question we must ask as we explore God’s call to us in this place, in this moment. And there is perhaps no better place to begin exploring that question than in the words of Jesus we hear in the gospel this morning—the Beatitudes.

Today’s gospel helps us to make sense of the roles others play in our lives, and also about the roles we may play in the lives of others. It takes us back to the very beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in the Gospel of Matthew. For Matthew, these are the first words that Jesus says publicly. It’s the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, and we commonly call these first verses the beatitudes—the blessings. Blessing or blessed is one of those words we don’t use in regular conversation anymore, except when someone sneezes, or in certain phrases, like the southern “Well, bless your heart!” and even then we use the word without thinking about it much.

The word that’s translated as “blessed” could also be translated “happy” and that translation may help us get at all this means. “Happy are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Get it now?

I didn’t think so. That makes no sense, but that may be what Jesus means by all this. Happy are the poor in spirit; happy are the meek, happy are the merciful, happy are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, happy are the peace makers, happy are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake. We don’t associate any of those things with happiness. For us, happiness is associated with a very different range of ideas, emotions, and states of being. We can’t fathom how the poor in spirit might be happy.

 So we try to do something else with these sayings. We try to make them goals for ourselves—if we become poor in spirit, we will attain the kingdom of heaven, if we become merciful, we will receive mercy. But that’s not what Jesus is saying, either. Rather, those who are already poor in spirit are blessed, those who are merciful are blessed. Jesus is describing people who are already doing or being the things for which they are blessed.

We know the world we live in isn’t like the world that Jesus describes. We know that the meek, the pure in heart, peacemakers, the poor in spirit are not praised or rewarded in our culture. What Jesus is describing is an alternate reality with different values. Jesus is proclaiming, as he does throughout the gospel of Matthew, the reign of God. It’s a world turned upside-down, where the last are first and the first are last, where the meek, not the powerful inherit; where the merciful receive mercy.

There may be no more urgent message in our time than this—that God is not on the side of the powerful, the prideful, the wealthy but rather, on the side of the weak, the humble, the poor. In a time when military force is being used against captive populations; when nations seek to extend their influence by force of might, when those who are victims of state violence and climate change seek better lives in other places and are repelled at borders and treated inhumanely, to express the values of the beatitudes is revolutionary indeed.

And that is what we are called to be and to do as followers of Jesus. That is what we commit to in our baptismal covenant. When I baptize Evie later, I will ask all of you: 

CelebrantWill you proclaim by word and example the Good
News of God in Christ?
PeopleI will, with God’s help.
 
CelebrantWill you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving
your neighbor as yourself?
PeopleI will, with God’s help.
 
CelebrantWill you strive for justice and peace among all
people, and respect the dignity of every human
being?
PeopleI will, with God’s help.

The commitments we make and remake today are signposts on the way to the world Jesus is calling into existence in his teaching and ministry. Our response to his teachings help to bring that world into being, even as all around us the forces of evil, death, and destruction fight mightily against it. That evil may seem more powerful than the words and vision of Jesus. Nevertheless, in the midst of that evil, we, and all the saints bear witness to the greater power of Jesus’ love. May his love and grace give us the strength to embody that love in all that we do.

Buried in Love: A Sermon for Proper 25A, 2023

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October 29, 2023

This has been a year of funerals at Grace. By my count, including those of members both here and offsite, we’ve had twelve, including the one coming up on. That many funerals takes a toll, on volunteers and staff, on the life of the congregation, on our emotional and spiritual well-being. The number of those who have passed, their absence from our pews and from the life of our congregation is a burden we will carry with us. For me and for many of you, it’s not just those we’ve lost this year; it’s all the others who have entered the larger life; people who gave so much of their time, energy, skills, and expertise to Grace; people who meant so much to us.

This past Tuesday, I performed another ritual as part of our love and care for our deceased loved ones. I took a spade, and in the courtyard garden, dug a hole in which we would later inter the ashes of one of our faithfully departed members. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” I would say those familiar words a few minutes later, but as I dug, a few steps away, volunteers were welcoming guests to the food pantry, and a few steps further away, people were walking by on the sidewalk, oblivious to what I was doing.

In today’s reading from Deuteronomy, we come to the final scene of Moses’ life. We have heard over the last months, the story of the God’s promise to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that God would make of them a mighty nation, and that God would give them the land of Canaan as their possession. But those promises have not been realized. Now, at the end of Deuteronomy, the Israelites have still not entered the Promised Land, and their leader, Moses, who had brought them out of bondage in Egypt, would die, like his ancestors, with that dream and promise unfulfilled. 

But in the last scene of his life, God showed him all of that land. It’s particularly poignant to hear that story, and that promise now, in these weeks, as war rages in that very land, some three thousand years later. The effects of that promise endure, weaponized by hatred and the thirst for revenge, countless lives have been lost over the centuries and today.

But there’s the promise and God showing Moses all of that land, and then Moses dies. I would like to draw your attention to another theme in the story and that is the relationship between Moses and God. Here, we are told that God knew Moses face to face. We have seen details of the intimate relationship the two shared. We have seen Moses appeal to God on behalf of the Israelites, we have seen him ask to see God’s glory, and instead to be seen God’s backside from the cleft of a rock, while his face was shielded by God’s hand. We have seen his face transformed by his encounter with God, shining.

Now we see something else, although it is obscured by the translation we use. In the report of Moses’ death, our text reads, “He was buried in a valley in the Land of Moab…” The Hebrew actually reads, “he buried him” that is, God buried him. That tender, intimate act, the image of God taking up a shovel and burying God’s beloved and devoted servant is evidence of the intimacy the two shared. It points to God’s care and concern for God’s people.

It also calls to mind other stories. At the very beginning of the Pentateuch, in Genesis, we are shown God’s tender actions in creating human beings, the man out of the dust of the earth, and the woman from the man’s rib. We also see God’s tenderness, care, and protection of the first humans, when after they sinned, God made clothes for them out of animal skins.

We might be turned off by the intimacy and earthiness of this imagery, of the notion that God might create out of the dust of the earth, that God might take up needle and thread, or that God might bury Moses. Such language might seem overly mythological or anthropomorphic, a far cry from the God of the philosophers or of contemporary theology. 

But such language can offer us comfort and strengthen our faith. To imagine a God so intimately involved in the lives of those God loves, a God whose concern and care extends to the clothes on our back or the disposition of our final remains, a God who knows us face to face, can be a source of strength when we struggle or stumble.

And it also, I think, helps us reflect in a new way on the story from the gospel, in which a lawyer asks Jesus to prioritize the commandments. Jesus’ response is hardly revolutionary.  His words are quotations from Deuteronomy and Leviticus, straight out of Moses’ law. 

It’s worth stressing that Jesus is saying nothing outside of the Jewish tradition. It’s not just only that this understanding of the centrality of love of God and neighbor in the Mosaic law is enshrined in scripture. In Jesus’ own day, it was an idea that was widely shared. A contemporary of his, Rabbi Hillel, is remembered to have said in response to a similar question, “What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor; that is the whole Torah, the rest is commentary; go and learn it.”—A reminder, much needed in these days of rampant Anti-Semitism, that Jesus’ teachings were well within the larger framework of 1st century Judaism.

Be that as it may, these words of Jesus continue to challenge us profoundly. We have compartmentalized so much of ourselves, so much of our lives. We place our faith in God in one small sphere of our lives, for Sunday mornings, for example, or for those quiet moments of prayer and meditation. We think of love as an emotion, we talk of falling in or out of love, or we say, we love this or that food, or activity. We are commanded, in Deuteronomy, here in Jesus’ words, to love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul, and mind—we might say “with all of our selves, with our whole being.” I’m not sure I can even fathom what that might look like for me, what that would be like to love God with all of myself. And then, on top of that, we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourself. Is that even possible?

Here’s where I think the earthy, intimate image of God burying Moses might be of help. For in that very human, incredibly intimate action—I bet most of us are turned off by it, by the idea of the transcendent, immortal, invisible, omniscient, omnipotent, being though of performing that very intimate even offensive act, who of us could imagine, in this day and age, actually burying a loved one with our own hands—in that incredibly intimate action, we see a parable of God’s love for us. Imagine God lowering Godself to care for us so intimately. Imagine that love. If God can love us so powerfully and intimately, how can we not love God with the same intensity, with our whole selves, hearts, minds, and souls?

 And if God can love us, how can we not love our selves? That element of this statement is often ignored. We might think that to love ourselves is somehow sinful, inappropriate; yet if you think about it, love of neighbor is predicated on love of self; love of neighbor requires love of self. And when so many people have internalized self-hatred, to open out the possibility that we, too, are worthy of love, well; that’s a gift worth receiving.

And finally, if we love God, and love ourselves as God loves us, how can we not also love our neighbor, who like us, is loved by God? How we live out and incarnate love may take different forms. It may be in the way we at Grace care for members of our community and their loved ones when they pass. It may be through the work of our food pantry and its many volunteers who offer food to those who are food insecure. It may take many other forms as well, by welcoming the stranger; opening our doors for programs like Uptown Sanctuary or Off the Square Club. There may also be new opportunities that we haven’t yet discerned; ways the Holy Spirit may be moving among us to share God’s love, to be God’s love.

Have patience! I’ll pay everything: A Sermon for Proper 19A, 2023

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Some of Jesus’ parables are enigmatic, puzzling. They seem to defy interpretation, like the parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, that we will hear next Sunday. Some are familiar, so familiar that their interpretations seem fixed for all time. Some seem to be obvious, stories with a single point that gets hammered home. Then there are parables like the one we heard this morning, a story that we can all connect with but that has some twists and turns that may make us uncomfortable.

On the surface we get it. Though it’s set in an ancient context, in slavery, with a lord or master who demands accounting from his slaves, debt is something we all know about. We’ve heard about the effects of crushing medical debt, incurred through no fault of one’s own, the product of illness, or injury, the random attack of cancer, but caused above all by a medical system that seems designed to draw profits from people at their most vulnerable and weakest. We know about student loan debt, again incurred in the effort to improve one’s lot in life, but thanks to federal policy, and a higher education system more interested in profits than learning, it can become crushing and impossible to pay off, with interest often far exceeding the original amount of the loans. 

So when we encounter a story about debt, and the forgiveness of debt, we think we’re in territory we know. But wait a sec. Let’s consider the numbers. What is a talent (and no, it’s not a God-given ability; in fact, our word talent derives from the Greek word that’s used here). A talent was a unit of measure, of weight. It was about 130 lbs, and in monetary terms, used of silver, and was roughly equal to 15 yrs of an ordinary worker’s wages. So 10,000 talents would be worth 150,000 yrs of work. To put it another way, about equal to 3000 lifetimes. An astronomical sum, isn’t it?

And so the questions start popping up. How could a slave incur so much debt? Well, say for a moment it’s hyperbole. The point is that it is an amount that could never be repaid in one’s lifetime—there, that brings it back down to earth, and to a place we’re familiar with. We have all heard the stories of people saddled with hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical debt; and the only way out from under that debt is to declare bankruptcy.

We get all that. We can even imagine pleading with a debt collecting agency for mercy. We can see our selves down on our knees, begging to be given relief from that staggering debt. And we can imagine also the joy when we hear the response: “Your debt is forgiven.”

But then comes the twist. Having received mercy, his enormous debt forgiven, the slave goes out and encounters another slave who owes him a debt. It’s not as big a debt as the first; only 100 denarii—a denarius being roughly a day’s wages for a laborer. We hear the very same words from the second slave, “Have patience with me and I will pay you everything.” 

But the first slave reacts differently than his master did. Instead of offering mercy, he has the second slave imprisoned. But he gets his comeuppance. The other slaves, having seen all this, probably having heard about what their master had done for him, his sudden good fortune, his freedom from debt; having heard all this, they go back to the master and tell him what happened. He ends up in the same place where he had sent the second slave, in prison being tortured for his lack of mercy. 

One of the challenges of this parable is that it is so easy to allegorize it—to equate the master, the lord with God. But if we do that, we’re left in a very uncomfortable place at the end of the story—with a master, a God, who retracts his mercy, punishes the slave for his actions and his debts. What was it Jesus said in the intro to the parable? To forgive as many as seventy seven times—hardly what the master did, is it?

I think there’s something else going on here. In the Roman empire as in our own day, debt was ubiquitous. It was hard to imagine a world without debt, an economy that didn’t rely on debt. In the end, neither the master, nor the slave could break free of those assumptions, that worldview that saw debt as essential, as all-pervasive.

But in the Jewish tradition, in the Biblical tradition there was an alternative. The Torah imagines a debt-free society; a day of rest when one has no work obligations; a sabbatical year when the land lies fallow; and the year of Jubilee, the 50th year, when all debts are erased, slaves freed, land that was sold returned to its original owner. 

You may be thinking of the Lord’s Prayer—In Matthew, the text reads, “Forgive us our debts as we also have forgiven our debtors.” To be free of debt; to live in a society that is debt-free, what would that even look like?

I was fascinated and saddened this summer as I watched the debate over student loan forgiveness unfold. Countless people spoke of their experiences, attending college without accumulating any debt; or working hard for years to pay it off as they criticized the president’s plan to forgive student loans. It wasn’t fair, they said. They rarely pointed out that when they were in school, the price of tuition was much lower, interest rates on student loans were much lower. They didn’t point out that all of those billions of dollars of payroll protection loans made during COVID were forgiven. Like the first slave, we may rejoice if our debts are forgiven, and we may be reluctant to forgive the debts of others.

The parable leaves us with questions, even though its meaning is quite clear. We should forgive those who owe us, just as God forgives us. But the questions—why does the king not forgive the slave a second time? After all, Jesus has told Peter to forgive not seven but seventy seven times. The parable invites us to think of forgiveness as a calculus—there exists, somewhere a finite number of times, beyond which it is not necessary to forgive. But that’s precisely the wrong way of thinking about things.

To think about forgiveness as a debt suggests that we understand it in terms we comprehend—mathematics or economics, and given all the talk of debt in our culture, we are sorely tempted to go down that route. That’s overlooking something that is crucial in understanding Peter’s question: “How often should I forgive my brother? For that question implies there is relationship between the one forgiving and the one owed. Including that in the equation changes everything. 

We ask God to forgive us and we experience God’s forgiveness, rich, unbounded, unmerited. It is that relationship and that experience that should shape our own forgiveness. That is the point both of Jesus’ answer to Peter and the parable itself.

I have lived long enough and served as a pastor long enough to know that pain and anger from hurt can last a very long time. We process things quite differently; in different ways and at different speeds. Even the same hurt inflicted on two different people can linger in very different ways in those who have been affected. That’s true not only in our personal lives, but also when we think about events like those we commemorate today. Forgiving others may be difficult, even, at times, impossible. Yet our God, who has forgiven us so deeply and so completely, invites us, not only to be forgiven, but to forgive in the same way, richly, unboundedly, and totally. Thanks be to God!

Hiroshima and Transfiguration.: A sermon for the Feast of the Transfiguration, 2023

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Feast of the Transfiguration

August 6, 2023

Today is The Feast of the Transfiguration, when the church commemorates the mysterious, ethereal appearance of Elijah and Moses with Jesus. Jesus’ appearance was transformed—hence, transfigured—and appeared “dazzling white” as our gospel reading relates. This is actually the second time this year that we have heard about the Transfiguration. It is also always the gospel reading on the last Sunday before Lent. Today, August 6 is its feast day, and the Book of Common Prayer stipulates that when the 6th falls on a Sunday, it supersedes the customary lectionary readings.

Today is also the 78th anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. That’s an event that has returned to our cultural consciousness with the recent release of Christopher Nolan’s bio-pic Oppenheimer about the leader of the Manhattan Project, the effort to harness the power of the atom for military use. I’ve not seen the movie yet, although I have read a great deal about it. In case you were wondering, I’ve not seen Barbie, either—In fact, I’ve not stepped inside a movie theatre since the pandemic.

Among the many things written about Oppenheimer, one commonly noted observation is that the film does not go into any detail about the horror unleashed by the bomb, the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people, the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Also left untold is the impact on the local community of the creation of the facilities at Los Alamos—the dispossession of native and Hispanic residents; their employment at the site, and the effects of the radiation on those workers and the local population as a whole; a danger from they which were not given protection, unlike the white scientists and employees.

For people of my age or older, the image of mushroom clouds, the description of the flash of light of detonation, are firmly fixed in our memories. We remember air-raid shelters, the threat of nuclear war, of mutually assured destruction. The awesome, horrible power of an atomic bomb was never far from our thoughts or fears until the gradual thaw of relations between east and west and the end of the Soviet Union, fears that began to rekindle with the invasion of Ukraine last year.

The mushroom cloud, the blinding light of explosion, the invisible radiation that continued to devastate the bodies of survivors for the rest of their lives, seem to confirm the famous quote from the Bhagavad Ghita that Oppenheimer used to make sense of the bomb and his role in it: “Now, we are become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

The horrific, literally blinding, brilliance of an atomic bomb explosion offers a dramatic contrast to the brilliance described in today’s gospel reading. If we were able to make a film of the scene, we might be inclined to make use of the special effects and CGI now common in Hollywood, and exploited by Director Christopher Nolan in showing the explosion of the first atomic bomb. And it might lead us to conclude that Peter’s response to this experience, “to make booths or dwellings” for the three heavenly beings, is completely inappropriate and misguided

But in fact, there’s more to it than that. Our reading from Exodus points us to the larger biblical and Jewish context for the Transfiguration. The lectionary is probably intended to have us look for parallels between the Transfiguration of Christ and the changed visage of Moses after his encounters with God on Mt. Sinai. Our translation is strange enough, with the mention of the veil that Moses wore over his face when speaking with the people. In the traditional Vulgate, the dominant Latin translation used throughout the Middle Ages, it reads that Moses’ face was horned; which explains why in so many works of art, most notably Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses, he is depicted with horns.

But there’s another, equally significant connection between the story of the Transfiguration and Moses on Mt. Sinai. When Peter says, “Let us make booths, or dwellings…” –the word Peter uses here can also be translated as “Tabernacle” which was the symbol of God’s presence among the Israelites during their time in the wilderness, including Sinai. Tabernacle, booth, dwelling, is also an allusion to the Jewish Festival of Sukkoth, or Tabernacles, which commemorates the Israelites time in the wilderness.

So, rather than not getting the point, as is usually assumed with regard to Peter in this story, and elsewhere in the gospel, it may be that Peter is trying to make sense of this event, and to interpret it in light of his own experience and categories of understanding. A good Jew, encountering Christ’s transfiguration, and encounter with Moses and Elijah on top of a mountain, might readily assume that this was somehow connected with God’s appearance to Moses on Sinai and the traditional ways the Jewish community observed that event.

As we have been reminded so often in recent years, cataclysmic, unexpected, unthinkable events can change everything—Whether it’s the pandemic, insurrection, the reality of global warning that has been predicted and denied for so many years and now confronts us headon. But often those cataclysmic events, even when greeted with the response that “nothing will be the same after this” can lead to denial or escapism. We want things to return to the way they were, we want to pick up our lives right where they were left in abeyance. We want to reinterpret those events, downplay them. We want, like the Israelites responding to Moses’ shining face, to hide it behind a veil, to find ways to ignore or forget it. We want not to be reminded of the horrors, the awesome power, the way such an event changes us and everything around us.

That may be why the disciples told no one anything about what they had seen. They couldn’t understand it, they couldn’t find words to describe it, or their response to it. But they remembered.

Luke’s version of this story offers an additional insight into its meaning for the gospel as a whole and for us. Luke is the only one of the gospels to mention what Jesus, Moses, and Elijah talked about while they were together. We’re told: “they were speaking of his departure”—the word used here for departure is Exodus. It’s another allusion back to Hebrew Scripture but it also points to the deeper theme of Exodus—liberation. 

When they come down from the mountain, Jesus and his disciples will make their way to Jerusalem, to the cross and resurrection. It is a journey, an exodus, of liberation. It is a journey he invites us to join him as his followers and disciples. It is a journey into an uncertain future and into a challenging world. The disciples who experienced Jesus’ transfiguration had that experience to strengthen them, to give them courage and hope along the way. But the other disciples, the ones who didn’t go up the mountain with Jesus, had no such certainty. They accompanied Jesus nonetheless.

 Some of us may, like Peter, James, and John, have had spectacular experiences of spiritual enlightenment or clarity. We may have seen Jesus. But many of the rest of us may never had such high moments. We have no memories of such certainty to fall back on; and some of us, who have had such experiences, may no longer feel their power.

 Even so, Jesus calls us to walk with him on this journey of liberation, this exodus from the world we have inhabited, a world dominated by violence and evil, symbolized by the horror of the atomic bomb;  to a new world, the world of God’s reign, where God’s beauty and glory are made manifest in events like the Transfiguration; a world in which justice, peace, and love prevail. May our journeys liberate us from the bondage of the past, and free us to be the people God calls us to be.

The Parable of the Crazy Sower: A sermon for Proper 10A

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I never knew my grandfather, my dad’s father. He died around a decade before I was born. But growing up I heard lots of stories about him, and my dad and his siblings had the wisdom and foresight in the 1990s to write down their memories of growing up in the twenties and thirties, so my picture of my grandfather was filled out with more detail. 

He was a dairy farmer. He was an experimenter and innovator on the farm, trying new crops, like peanuts one year. One of the stories I heard repeatedly was how he would sort through the corn after the harvest, picking out the best ears and setting them aside as seed for the next year. Then he would take.a few kernels from each of the selected ears, keeping track of which ear they had come from, and try to get them to germinate in the house. If kernels didn’t germinate, he would not use the other kernels from those ears for seed corn. This was long before the widespread availability of hybrid seeds, of course.

In setting aside some of that year’s crop for the next year, he was doing what humans have been doing for thousands of years, since the beginning of agriculture. For most of human existence, preserving seed has been a difficult choice between having enough food to eat until the next harvest, and having enough seed to plant for the next year’s crop. 

Gardeners often do something similar; saving seeds from a favorite variety from one year to the next. It’s why we have heirloom tomatoes after all, varieties that were preserved by gardeners for generations while hybrids took over the marketplace. Those old varieties often have much better flavor or are much better suited for particular cliates.

This may be a useful context for us as we contemplate today’s gospel reading, the familiar Parable of the Sower. I have to confess something to you before I go any further. I did something that I almost never do. I altered today’s gospel reading. Well, I didn’t so much alter it, as shorten it. In the lectionary, the reading includes not only the verses read this morning but also vss. 18-23, which provide an interpretation of the story we heard. I left those verses out because I think they change the way we might hear the story. I’m not saying that interpretation is wrong, just that, as in the case of most stories, there is more than one possible interpretation.

Jesus taught using parables, stories that involved settings and characters often very familiar to his listeners. He used these stories to instruct his listeners about God and especially about the reign or kingdom of God. Often, these stories are so familiar to us that we don’t see how radical and strange they are. In many cases, we fit them into pre-existing categories, or we allegorize them. In this case, as in the interpretation I didn’t include, the sower is God, the seed is God’s word, etc., etc., etc.

But let’s try again. Listen, a sower went out to sow his seed. Some fell on the path, some fell on rocky soil, some fell among thorns. We may not think anything of that—we may have seen yards that have just been seeded where there is grass seed in the street or on the sidewalks. We may have seen farmers who inadvertently corn or soybean seed in a ditch or on a road while planting.

But remember, we’re not talking about industrial agriculture here. We’re talking about subsistence farming, where the seed is precious and may have been preserved while the family went hungry. And what self-respecting gardener would waste their seed or their time by throwing it haphazardly out in the garden?

In other words, the sower doesn’t seem to be behaving as a farmer ought to behave. Think about where he got the seed. Well, it came from the previous year’s crop and it was likely the case that at some point, he had to make a decision between feeding his family with the grain or save it to plant the next year. Given the value of the seeds, he would not be so careless as to allow seed to go to waste by flinging it on rocks, or on a compacted path, or among weeds. 

The sheer profligacy of the sower’s actions only become clear when we interpret it against this backdrop of subsistence farming and the annual reality that there might not be enough grain to feed one’s family or to sow the next year’s crop. Seen this way, the sower’s actions are so out of character, so unpredictable and unnatural that we can begin to tease out the parable’s meaning from those very actions.

 The sower’s behavior is one thing. There’s another odd detail in the story we often overlook—the seed that fell on the good soil produced widely differing results: 100 fold, 60 fold, 3 fold. That sn’t be. Think about Wisconsin cornfields. What should they look like? Absolutely uniform in height. It’s only if the field has drainage problems that we expect variable amounts of grain.

Seen in this light, there is often, perhaps almost always, unexpected and unpredicted details in the parables. Yet, this reality may not bring us any closer to their meaning. Jesus often introduces his parables by saying, “the kingdom of God is like…” So how is the kingdom of God like a sower who acts irrationally and unexpectedly, with such extravagance and profligacy? How is the reign of God like a field that produces widely variable amounts of grain? Or, to put it another way, what does this parable tell us about God, God’s vision for the world and for human community?

Asked in this way, the parable invites us to imagine, to believe in a God who acts in ways completely counter to our values and expectations. We live in a world in which religion, especially Christianity, seems to be imagine a God who reflects our values and expectations. It’s not that God rewards the good and punishes the evil; it’s that God rewards us and those like us and punishes those we unlike us or those we don’t like. But the God of the parables, the God of Jesus Christ, may not behave at all in ways that conform to our expectations and values.

There’s another thing. We expect that our efforts will be rewarded and our evil deeds go punished. Sometimes that means we can be rather smug and presumptive about how God sees us, and that we judge others according to our standards of behavior. 

One of the things about gardening and farming is that it can be humbling. In spite of all of your best efforts, it can all come to naught. We all know this lesson, relearned this summer as we’ve suffered through a drought. As I was riding out the Badger State trail yesterday, I noticed corn fields, right next to each other. In some the corn stood tall and was tasseling; in others, the stalks had barely reached knee-high. 

Just as we want hard work to pay off in our daily life, we want God’s economy of salvation to be fair and to play by the rules, our rules. But the parable of the sower teaches us that the reign of God does not operate by our rules or conform to our expectations.

As hard as that is for us to conceive as we look out at an unjust and suffering world, it is often even more difficult to imagine when we look inside ourselves. We are often apt to hear words of judgment on our selves, our actions, know our own broken and hurting selves, and assume that God rejects us. But that’s not the case either. Whatever we have done in the past, all of the hurt and brokenness we have caused, indeed all of the hurt and brokenness that we experience in our own lives, all of that we can bring to God, and find love and acceptance.

To experience that love is what God’s reign is all about; to know, and love a God whose love towards us is as profligate and expansive as the seed thrown by the sower on good and bad soil, to love that God is what our faith proclaims. That message, God’s expansive love and accepting love, is also our duty to proclaim and share in this broken and hurting world.

Trinitarian Love: A Sermon for Trinity Sunday, 2023

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Today is Trinity Sunday, the one Sunday in the liturgical year when our focus is not on some event in Christ’s life or ministry but on a doctrine of the faith. The doctrine of the Trinity is both central to the Christian faith, and some of such great complexity and mystery that it has confounded and puzzled Christians since the beginning of our faith. Trinity Sunday also brings to a close the long period of the liturgical year that begin last December with the First Sunday of Advent. We have been commemorating the life of Christ—his birth and baptism and then his crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension. Now in the coming months we will focus on his ministry, especially his teaching and healings. 

But alongside the rhythms of the liturgical year, there are other rhythms and sometimes, the life of a congregation takes on its own rhythms and focus. We lost one long-time member earlier this week, and yesterday, we learned of the death of another, beloved member. Many of us have heavy hearts today. Those of us who have been members for some time, will naturally think of all of the others who have gone before; those whose favorite pews are empty, or occupied by newcomers who we have come to know and love. We have said our farewells to so many in these last years; but we have also welcomed many others.

That’s the life cycle of a congregation, the cycle of human life that is lived in community. There are comings and goings; arrivals and departures. Some of those departures are painful, as in the case of deaths; but other departures are painful as well, when someone comes to be alienated, or suffers hurt, or departs because of conflict. 

You may be wondering what any of this has to do with the Doctrine of the Trinity, which seems rather disconnected from anything to do with the life of a congregation, with life in community. In fact, the Trinity is all about relationship. Reflecting on it makes clear, or should that at the heart of God, is relationship—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Our lessons point to that mystery in God’s nature; that God reaches out from Godself toward others, toward the world.

That’s precisely what Paul is referring to in the brief passage from his Second Letter to the Corinthians. In 2 Corinthians 13, today’s epistle reading, St. Paul offers us a framework within which to understand our God. I doubt he was doing it self-consciously. It’s a benediction, a blessing, and it comes at the end of a letter in which Paul has bared his soul. He had founded this congregation a few years earlier and had written a letter (I Corinthians) in which he had dealt with a number of issues that divided the community. A few more years passed, and by now, the divisions had deepened. More problematically, a deep rift had emerged between Paul and the Corinthians. Apparently they had called his ministry and his apostolic authority into question. 

Now, in very emotional language, Paul has defended himself and challenged his opponents. Finally, at the end of the letter, he appeals to them to mend the rift: “Agree with one another, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you.” And he concludes, in words that are familiar from our liturgy, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.” In other words, in the heat of conflict, when the divisions between Paul and this church that he had founded are at the breaking point, the apostle appeals once again to some central values: the love and peace of God, and the fellowship, communion of the Holy Spirit.

The doctrine of the Trinity does not just mean that we encounter God in three ways, in three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, though we do. It does not just tell us how God acts, it also tells us who God is. In this three-ness, in fact, what makes this three-ness so hard for us to understand, is that these three are also one. To put it another way, in the relationship among Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, is also something fundamental about our faith, that in God, there is fellowship. Quite simply, God is love. And that love expresses itself in the Trinity.

In fact, the great theologian Augustine of Hippo, who wrote a treatise on the Trinity, used love as one of his first analogies as he sought to understand the Trinity. He posed the question, might we understand the Trinity by means of lover, beloved, and the love that binds the two together—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit? Ultimately, he would reject that image as inadequate to explain the Trinity’s complexity, but it’s a worthwhile starting point.

If we’re struggling to understand the doctrine of the Trinity, or for that matter, any of the doctrines of our faith, it’s worth remembering that to struggle, to question, to doubt, is not a sin but it is inherent in our faith and in our human nature. In the gospel reading, we have Matthew’s version of Jesus’ ascension into heaven. Two weeks ago, we heard Luke’s version of that same event, and it’s worth noting Matthew’s unique emphasis. The thing that jumps out at me is Matthew’s description of the disciples: “When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.” Even now, after all that has happened, after all they had experienced, some doubted. But consider this: In spite of their doubt, Jesus gave all of them the same commandment: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.” And he concluded with a word of promise and comfort, “And lo, I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.” Some disciples may have doubted, but they were still called to share the good news, and given the promise that Jesus would be with them always.

With us, but also apart from us. The doctrine of the Trinity challenges us because on the one hand, we experience God in Christ as a human being, flesh and blood, one of us. We hear that promise of his ongoing presence with us, near us, a source of comfort and strength in difficult times. But at the same time, the Trinity affirms that God is utterly beyond us—something affirmed in the reading from Genesis, which describes God’s creation of the world, speaking it into existence. God’s majestic power and transcendence expressed through the words of an ancient poet and theologian. 

But even here, there is a deep connection and relationship between God and humans: “Let us make human beings in our own image. There is much to explore here, not to least to ponder, as St. Augustine did in the treatise I mentioned earlier, whether we might find in ourselves, in our mind and soul, an image of the Trinity that helps us to understand the trinitarian nature of God. But what I think matters most here, is to understand that because at the very core of God’s nature is relationship—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, God’s nature also moves out from God’s self into the world, first creating the world, but then also creating us, to be in relationship with other humans and with God.

In this time when so many in our culture are calling into question the dignity and worth of other human beings—whether because of their race, or gender, or LGBTQ+, or political perspective, it’s crucial that we remember that we are all created in God’s image, that we all have inherently the dignity and worth as beloved creations of God, and that we are called, created to be in relationship, not just with people whose political perspectives we share, or whose race or ethnicity, or gender, or nationality, we are called and created to be in relationship with other humans, just as God created us to be in relationship with God.

Were not our hearts burning? A Sermon for Easter 3A, 2023

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I’ve always been grateful that I’ve worked in occupations that didn’t require a lot of travel. While I enjoy seeing new places and revisiting places I’ve been or lived before, getting there, especially if it requires a plane ride, can be challenging. It’s not just the hassle; it’s being put in close proximity to strangers, who might want to engage me in conversation.

Why? Because inevitably, the question is posed: “What do you do?” Back when I was a college professor, I learned early on never to say “Religion Professor.” It only took one or two awkward conversations, usually in which my conversation partner expounded on some book they were reading, or wanting to debate the existence of God or talk about the spiritual quest they had been pursuing for the last thirty years, to make me answer “European history” in an attempt to quiet them.

It hasn’t gotten any easier since I’ve become a priest. It’s one of the reasons I don’t even carry books—it’s much harder for onlookers to detect what I’m reading when I’m using a kindle.

I’m sure many of you have had similar experiences. You’re traveling, all you want is to be left alone with your thoughts or your reading, and your seatmate wants to engage tell you everything about themselves, or learn everything about you.

I’ll never forget the uber driver who was so intent on sharing his knowledge of Gnosticism with me that he got lost taking me to my destination in Cambridge Mass, and I had to give him instructions, even though it had been more than 25 years since I’d driven in the city.

One of the things I love about the gospel stories of the appearances of the Risen Christ is how they bring together moments of utter transcendence and awe with daily life and the mundane. In the story of Thomas which was read last week, we heard about the disciples gathered together, the appearance of Christ, and the disbelief of Thomas. We also heard his great confession: “My Lord and my God!” In another story from the gospel of John, the disciples encounter the risen Christ making breakfast for them after they’ve spent the night fishing on the Sea of Galilee.

In today’s reading from the Gospel of Luke, we have these two disciples walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus, and encountering a stranger as they go. A perfectly ordinary story with an extraordinary conclusion. A perfectly ordinary story, on the one hand, yet on the other, full of mystery and raising many questions.

Two disciples on the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus. That’s the first mystery: Why and Where? There’s a great deal of uncertainty about the location of Emmaus. There’s no clear village or town in the vicinity of Jerusalem that had that name in the first century—oh, if you visit the Holy Land now, they can show you where tradition says Emmaus was, the house where Cleopas lived, the church built on the site. But all of that comes much later. It’s almost as if these two disciples, one of them unnamed and unknown, the other Cleopas, only mentioned here, were on a journey to nowhere. 

And why were they traveling? Was Emmaus their home? Were they trying to escape Jerusalem? Are they fleeing the city? That’s perhaps a better guess. Although Luke isn’t quite so hard on the disciples as the gospels of Matthew and Mark, the disciples had every reason to be fearful—their leader had been arrested and executed by the Roman authorities. Their movement was in a shambles and they had every right to suspect that the Romans would be coming after them, too. So they may have been trying to get away from Jerusalem and return to obscurity. They may have been fleeing for their lives.

While we can only hypothesize about their fear and assume they were grieving as well, the text does tell us that they were in despair. They tell their unkown companion, “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” After telling their story and expressing their dashed hopes, they listen as Jesus explains to them again how everything that happened conforms to Hebrew scripture. They are so taken with him that they urge him to join them for dinner. And it’s at dinner that their eyes are opened.

The gospel reads, “When he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” It’s a description that echoes Jesus’ actions at the Last Supper, and earlier, in the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand. At that moment, their eyes were opened, they recognized their Lord and Savior, and he vanished from their sight. Now everything made sense to them. The explanation of scripture Jesus had given them helped them make the connection—their encounter with the Risen Christ changed their fear into joy and their despair into happiness. Now they remembered, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

Whatever plans they had made earlier, whatever reasons they had for leaving Jerusalem to go to Emmaus, didn’t matter any more. They immediately raced back to Jerusalem to see the other disciples and tell them what happened, that Jesus had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

What’s so wonderful about this story is its relationship to our lives as Christians. Like those two disciples, we all have histories, backgrounds with Jesus. Some of us have grown up in the church, heard bible stories since we were children, have never not been connected to the faith. Others of us have had different journeys, have little or no background in the church, have found ourselves drawn to Jesus, drawn to God. Still others have had a little of both, wandering in and out over the years, active in the church, then for whatever reason feeling profoundly alienated from it, or only disinterested. We read, discuss, explore on our own.

But too often, most of the time, it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. Even for many of us who are committed members of Grace, too often it seems like we’re just going through the motions, coming to church because that’s what we do, are active volunteers because, well, somebody has asked us, and we just can’t say no, or say it often enough. But our involvement doesn’t touch us at our deepest selves. Sometimes, all the things that are going on in the rest of our lives, struggles at work or in our closest relationships, worries about health or financial security, bog us down, dash our hopes, blind us to the presence of Christ, and our spiritual lives, our lives of faith, seem to be like discarded trash on the side of the road, as we wander.

But then something happens. A chance encounter, a gracious word, a meaningful conversation, a sacred meal. Suddenly our eyes are opened, our hearts burn within us, and Jesus Christ is made known to us in the breaking of the bread. We are transformed, and we rush to tell others.

This is a very rich, thought-provoking story. It operates on many levels, inviting us to reflect on our own experience as people of faith, and people seeking faith. It invites us to think about our Eucharistic feast as an encounter with the Risen Christ, and our worship with the liturgy of the word and table, as a self-contained, embodied experience of resurrection. It invites us to imagine our worship and our lives as transformational experiences.

But there’s more. What would have happened if those two disciples had not urged Jesus to stay with them? What would have happened if they had not invited him to dinner? Yes, it was a simple gesture of hospitality, an act of kindness. But it opened their eyes. It changed their lives.

Our worship, our common life, our own individual spiritual journeys are all opportunities to encounter Jesus Christ. But they are opportunities not for us alone. When we invite others to join us, when we invite others into our lives, our stories, and into our worship, we invite them to encounter Jesus Christ. We are inviting them to experience resurrection. We are practicing resurrection. May all of our hearts burn within us, may we know Jesus Christ in the breaking of the bread, and in the fellowship of the table. Amen.

Empty Tomb and Resurrection: A sermon for Easter, 2023

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Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb.”

During the lockdown, I began walking with some regularity in Forest Hills Cemetery. It’s not far from our home and in those months when we were especially concerned about social distancing, I joked that most people I encountered there would remain more than six feet away, safely buried underground. Over the years, I’ve watched as people spent time at the graves of their loved ones, grieving, or tending the plantings. I’ve noticed graves that were unattended, the dead who lay beneath them long forgotten. There are graves with many ritual objects on and around them. 

The reality is that for most twenty-first century Americans, whose lives may not be tied to particular places, cemeteries have lost the kind of meanings and associations they held in the past. 

We’ve lost most of the rituals and duties surrounding the deaths of loved ones. Few of us have touched the body of loved one, fewer still prepared a body for burial which was, up until a century and a half ago, something taken for granted, a crucial part of what it meant to care for a family member or loved one. 

We see that concern expressed, the roles played out in the gospel accounts of the resurrection. While it’s often assumed that such tasks were the responsibility of women, in the Gospel of John, it is two men who prepare Jesus’ body for burial. Joseph of Arimathea asked for Jesus’ body, Nicodemus brought 100 pounds of myrrh and aloes, and together they buried Jesus in Joseph’s tomb.

So why did Mary Magdalene come to the tomb that morning? Knowing the other gospel accounts, we might not even think that was a question, for in all of them, we’re told the women brought spices to anoint Jesus’ body for burial. 

Consider it. Mary has come with Jesus to Jerusalem. We don’t know how long she had been following him, whether she had come with him from Galilee or met him along the way. She had heard him teach, amazing the crowds, filling her and the other disciples with hope. She had seen him heal the sick, give sight to the blind, even raise the dead. She had been part of that strange demonstration, waving palms and shouting “Hosanna!” as he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, a procession full of royal symbolism.

And then, she had seen it all come crashing down. The betrayal by one their own, the arrest, and finally, the crucifixion. Everything she had hoped for, everything she had believed, crumbled to ashes and dust, her heart empty, overwhelmed by grief and despair.

I wonder whether she came by herself early that morning because she wanted to mourn in the silence and the dark. I wonder whether the feelings that overwhelmed her compelled her to seek solitude, time to be alone with her thoughts, to try to pick up the pieces of her life and figure out what she might do next. She had abandoned her own life, whatever it was, abandoned her family and friends, to follow Jesus, and now, here she was. Alone, with her dashed hopes, her shattered faith, and a meaningless future.

These are feelings we all know well. We have all been on a walk like Mary was that morning two millennia ago. Whether because of a broken relationship, the death of a loved one, a lost job or career, or simply the heavy weight of the world’s violence and suffering, we’ve all been at that spot, a dead-end, where we can’t go back, and where there seems to be no way forward, a spot very much like a tomb or a cemetery.

But the tomb was empty, and in her confusion and worry, she ran to tell the others. Peter, and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, race to see for themselves, they look in, enter, and their curiosity fulfilled, go back home. But Mary stays behind. Instead of reassuring her, allaying her fears, answering her questions, the empty tomb only added to them, raised more questions. 

And then, in an instant, all those questions were answered. In an instant, Mary’s life changed; the world changed. The tomb was not the end of the story; her hopes were not dashed; her faith was not in vain. When Jesus called her by name, she knew her Lord.
         For us though, it may not be so simple. In the last two thousand years, in spite of Christians claiming through all the centuries that Christ has been raised from the dead, that he has conquered evil and the grave, things look very much the same. There is still hatred, and violence, and suffering. We still have doubts and uncertainty. We still mourn the loss of loved ones. We still know the anguish of the painful chasm between the way things are and the way things ought to be. 

But in the midst of our tears and grief, as we cast our eyes on the tomb, Jesus calls us, and if we turn to him, everything changes: sadness into joy, despair into hope, doubt into faith. The tomb is there, but it is empty. Christ is alive! There is no reason to linger there, for he is risen and goes before us.

We come to this place today, carrying the weight of the world and our lives. There are the private disappointments, doubt, despair, the pain inflicted on us by a cruel word; fears for family, for the future. There is all that is going on in the world, war, injustice, a broken political system. There is, yes, pandemic, with a continuing toll both in lives lost and lives changed. But in the midst of that whirlwind of evil and suffering, in the still, center point, there is Christ, calling to us, calling us by name.

Easter changes everything and nothing. Tomorrow will come and with it, all of the problems that were here yesterday and the day before and last week. The scent of the lilies will dissipate; the memories of a full church and with choir and hymns and brass will slowly fade. Life will go on.

But Jesus calls us by our name and he goes out before us, beckoning us to follow him into the future, away from the empty tomb. He calls us into relationship with him. He calls us into new life and into hope. With Mary, may we turn away from the empty tomb and toward the one who calls us by name, who wipes away our tears and embraces us with his love.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!