Sacred Soil

1 Kings 17:17–24
Psalm 30
Galatians 1:11–24
Luke 7:11–17

This widow, the widow of Nain, was stuck in an impossible place as she watched her only son carried out on a bier that day. A bier is much like a stretcher, an open span of canvas wrapped around poles. Her son’s body would have been wrapped in cloth, his form exposed in this funeral procession. This woman, this widow, watched her child, her livelihood, carried bodily out of her life. Through the gates of the town. Her grief must have consumed her, knowing that her son’s life was cut short, and knowing that it meant the same fate for her. In the ancient world a woman with no son and no husband had to rely on charity to get by—and much like today charity was no way to thrive. At that gate, her former life was gone, all she could see going forward was death.

And so often we find ourselves at a similar gate. Now the stakes may not be so clear for us. We may not be able to point at the stretcher and say, this is my child whom I raised. Though, some of us could. Our passage at this gate may not put us at risk for losing our very livelihood—though it might. For some it’s just a medical bill, or foreclosure notice away. But, most of us do know what it is like to see our lives changing, our dreams dying—never to be the same again—and wanting to hold on to familiarity, to the real joy of that former life, to grab onto the bier and say: No. You do not get to take it all away.

And sometimes, we grab onto that bier without even knowing we’ve done it. Death is insidious and sneaks in, setting up camp. Like the creeping business of our daily survival: we get so consumed with meetings, commuting, getting our kids to school, the incidentals of life. The job we wanted doesn’t come through, the surgery didn’t go as planned. And then there is the challenge of money. The bills, the mortgage, the credit cards, fines, fees, all contend with our need just to make ends meet. The cycle is endless, the pace is impossible. And before we know it, we are at the gate of the town watching the life we hoped for, where everything is whole, being carried out on bier—its form exposed. Lifeless. And our response is to grab on tightly, hold on for dear life—but it’s already gone.

It is precisely at this moment that Jesus sees the widow. And Jesus has a special way of seeing. Somehow he is able to know that this woman is mother, this woman is widow, this woman has lost everything. As this bier is carried out of the town, she has been declared by society to be nothing. But, he sees the whole of her. Knows she is something, and he is moved. Moved to compassion. There is no test of faith here, no argument about merit or just desserts. Jesus sees her in the midst of swarming crowds and says to her: Do not weep.

Jesus sees us too. He sees us mother, father, brother, sister, man, woman, child. Beloved child. He sees each of us in our entirety too—with the same compassion. With clear vision, Jesus looks through all the crowding around us and sees us whole. For who we really are. The good, the bad.

It is this Jesus who reaches out to touch that bier, that death. Stunning everyone. Freezing the entire scene. He grabs on, taking the rotting corpse of this Widow’s life into his hand. And his grip, unlike ours, transforms death. He says to the young man: Rise. And he does. He sits up in that stretcher and begins to speak. And Jesus gives him back to his mother.

Now this is not merely return as if the procession suddenly dropped everything and reversed back into the town. This woman, her son and the crowds cannot simply turn around and re-enter the gate of the city and resume as if nothing had changed. And neither can we. In our baptism, each of us has also been touched by Jesus and commanded to rise. In those waters, we are at once the widow and the dead man, so burdened by the brokenness of this world that it is as if we are dead. But then, through the power of God’s overwhelming love, we rise from those waters raised to new life. New life. Not the old one. New.

But what does this new life look like? It’s a personal question—a question we answer with our own lives. For our widow, and the crowds, well they respond with what the text calls fear. But Biblical fear is a bit of a different thing– certainly it evokes a sense of terror in the face of something so much more powerful than us. But it also takes on qualities of awe and amazement: reverence caught them all. For the second time in our text, the whole scene stops, everyone completely stunned. First when Jesus touches death, and then when life is returned to the widow. Of course they’re afraid—but their response is to worship God. And this is not unusual in the Bible, particularly in Luke. In those moments of profound awe, the response is to glorify God.

We know this fear—Jesus’ touch doesn’t make sense. It breaks every rule that the power death declares. As we know it, death is final. That’s it. Both physical and metaphorical. The body is done. Nothing will save it. And, when death is found in the functionality of our daily survival, and we are caught short, giving into busyness, having no way to make ends meet. Death tells us that there is nothing that can save us. We are doomed to failure, and we are defined by it. Death would say to us, you are your failure. But Jesus comes, touches our death and claims us alive and whole, a child of God. We have a new identity—it is death transformed into life. We are right to be afraid when God can come so near to us, see us so clearly. We are right to fear the God who touches death, even dies, turning death itself into life. Life abundant. We are right to be caught in reverence, and awe.

But fear and awe do not simply return us through the gates giddy with the prospect that all our losses have been restored. It’s not that easy. The loss is still very real. And to deny our losses would be foolish. There are widows among us, there are parents who have lost their children, there are people who have lost their livelihood and who know a world that cannot see them in the midst of their pain. Nothing will ever be the same. But we know, we have this promise which is most certainly true, the finality of death was swallowed up by Jesus’ touch; the funeral procession stopped. Death no longer has the final say.

And so it is for us. As we cling to that which kills us—as we watch our lives being carried out on a bier—God comes to us, sees us, grabs hold of us and says again: rise. Be lifted up—know the reality of death and know that God is more powerful. Know that life will never be the same.

And from this touch, this moment of life, we are filled with awe, and are compelled to praise God. Indeed, to live our lives as praise to God.

Amen.

Pentecost 2c

1 Kings 8:22–23, 41–43
Psalm 96:1–9
Galatians 1:1–12
Luke 7:1–10

When I was in college I went with a group friends to a “Hunger Awareness Meal” up in Seattle. Perhaps you’ve been to such a meal—they’ve been a thing for a while. It’s a way to experience the impact of global food insecurity and inequality, with the hope that such an experience will inspire action.

When we entered the banquet hall we were each handed a green ticket, the color of which indicated the sort of meal we were to receive. And so, dutifully, we wandered around till we found the green table with our food for the evening.

First, we passed by a stunning buffet, roped off in the corner. The table was filled with shrimp and cheese, sparkling wine, adorned with exquisite candles. Just a few people lingered around the table, looking oddly and awkwardly at the display. No one seemed to be eating. But the tablecloth was blue, so we moved on.

Next we came to a table filled with McDonald’s hamburgers… there were more people here, though they too awkwardly looked at their food, not eating. Here, we were grateful to walked on as we noticed the yellow tablecloth. (We, being college students from Evergreen, weren’t not so fond of the McDonald’s).

Finally, we came to the green table. It was the smallest table, adorned with an enormous bowl of rice. Really, it was the largest bowl of rice I’d ever seen. Next too it stood a tower of paper plates. No utensils. There, a woman stood behind the table and politely deposited a scoop of rice on a plate. We took our little plates, and went to sit with a larger crowd of people. We all looked curiously at our forlorn little lumps of rice.

Later we learned that of the 300 people there that night, 45 had received the blue tickets, the invitation to the fabulous feast. 75 dined on the hamburgers, and the rest, 180 of us, received the scoop of rice.

Turns out this is a reasonably accurate representation of what happens throughout the world. Some of you know this personally. I remember the days in my childhood, when we depended on food donations from the church. It’s not a foreign concept. It’s not out there, not some one else. But it is amazing seeing this played out in a single room. In a room where we could not ignore each other—where the hunger of the other became personal.

And so it was interesting to us that there were several folks who had received blue and yellow tickets, who clearly felt guilty. Ashamed. Unworthy. And so they found these lovely and sneaky ways to deposit left-over food in the green area, offering it up to those who had not gotten much of a meal.

But no one took the leftovers. I heard one woman beg, “please take this, I do not need it,” her face sick with guilt. But, the other woman replied, “Oh, no thank you. I’ll be fine.” Each felt unworthy to take what had been offered…

And from our calculations, it seemed nearly every plate offered in donation sat as people awkwardly walked by, determined not to even see the offerings. Determined not to take and eat. Everyone felt unworthy to eat the really good food, no matter their ticket.

Later, over a nice meal at the local brew pub, (we were college students after all), my friends and I wondered over this odd dynamic. We wondered, why did the folks with blue and yellow tickets feel so unworthy? Why wouldn’t the folks with green tickets (including us), eat this food? And we wondered, what would it have taken for everyone to have had a good meal?

Then Kate said, “We should have removed the ropes and rearranged the tables.”

We replied curiously and indignant, “what?!” And she repeated, “Take away the ropes, rearrange the tables. Move all the food around. Make it equal. There was surely enough food there for all of us to have a lovely meal. All we needed to do was rearrange the tables.”

We laughed nervously, knowing she was right, but also wondering at the huge chaos this would have caused. What would people have thought? Would they try to stop us? Would they have kicked us out?

I sorta wish Kate had spoken up earlier. It would have been interesting to find out.

This story came to mind as I read our gospel lesson today. In this story we’ve got a very rich Centurion. He’s got slaves, and soldiers who report to him. He was born with a blue ticket. He always gets what he wants, and he knows it. He is perhaps even used to it. (It’s also important to know that as a loyalist to Rome, merely uttering his title would have tightened the shoulders of the first hearers of this Word.) He’s a representative of the occupying force the oppressor. The foreigner. The outsider.

But he is also one who loves the Jewish people. One who cares deeply, even though a foreigner, even though part of that 15% with the blue tickets, he is known for sending his gifts, his food to the Jewish folks, even building a synagogue. Despite all the stereotypes, he is a good guy. And in particular, he loves this slave. This one who is so desperately ill.

And so he asks. He asks for healing for this one. This one who would have merely eaten rice, this one who is counted amongst the lowliest. The centurion asks that the very son of God come to this one, and heal him. Recognizing his power, recognizing his love, he asks. And then most beautifully, withdraws his request that Jesus come, recognizing that his power should win him no special privilege. He realizes that his power does not make him worthy.

But you and I both know he’s right—that nothing will ever make him worthy, or make us worthy. Nothing. None of us worthy for the blue, the yellow, or the green tickets. Nothing.

And Jesus, being Jesus, responds with love and in awe. Indeed, he takes a cue from Kate and he rearranges the tables. He goes and removes the ropes that have kept folks from seeing the faith of the centurion. He goes and removes the ropes that declare the slave beyond love. He goes and he removes the illness, that made this man an outcast. And in so doing Jesus completely rearranged the furniture. Rearranged the spread before them.

Even though it ends up getting him into a lot of trouble, this is just what our God does. Over and over again. Our God is always rearranging the tables. Removing the ropes that divide us, inviting us all to eat. Inviting us all to the love of God. Centurion, slave, Roman, Judean, blue ticket, yellow, green. All of us. And it’s not because we deserve it. None of us, no matter how much power we have, none of us will ever earn that love. We cannot be worthy enough.

It’s amazing. Humbling. And, I believe it is an invitation—indeed a calling. A calling to go out into the world, beyond these walls and ask, where are the ropes dividing us? How can I rearrange the tables so that all may be welcome? How may I welcome the foreigner who has come longing to hear of God’s love?

But first, we must practice. First we share a meal that really is for all. A meal where no one is roped off into a separate section, where no one is better than another. A meal where none are worthy, yet all are welcome. This meal, at this table, at Christ’s table. Indeed the table stands out in the middle so that we may all come near. Each one of us loved. Each one of us holy. With a little bread, and a little wine, at this meal all who are hungry are fed. Filled to overflowing with the love of God.

Fed. Transformed. Sent to go and rearrange the furniture.

Amen.

Sermon for Holy Trinity Sunday

Proverbs 8:1–4, 22–31
Psalm 8
Romans 5:1–5
John 16:12–15

There are so many things in this world that I just don’t understand. Though, with a four-year-old in the house, “why” is a common refrain, lilting through our daily conversations. And I, being the person I am, try diligently to explain. What is dirt made of? Where does rain come from? Why does a caterpillar change to a butterfly? Where did our flamingos go?

And I am a curious person, I delight in these questions. I delight in helping her figure out the answers on her own. The joy of discovering compost, the butterfly room at the nature museum, visiting the flamingos at their new home…

But, I surely hope that she doesn’t ask me to explain the trinity anytime soon.

I’d try. I’d do my best. But, wow. This is a complicated teaching of the church, a complicated bit of dogma. (By the way, I find it somewhat delightful and odd that this is the only holiday of the church year where we celebrate a dogma.) But, you see the thing with the Trinity is that any simplistic definition is immediately rendered heresy. Wrong. False. And depending on the crowd you’re with, that can get pretty dicey.

Indeed… how many of you remember the Athanasian Creed? Hopefully you read it at confirmation? Perhaps at another time? We don’t tend to read it in church these days, because it is very long. And tremendously confusing. Here’s a little taste:

We worship one God in trinity
     and the Trinity in unity,
     neither confusing the persons
     nor dividing the divine being.
For the Father is one person,
     the Son is another,
     and the Spirit is still another.
But the deity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
     is one, equal in glory,
     coeternal in majesty.
What the Father is,
     the Son is,
     and so is the Holy Spirit.

This is one of our historical creeds, one of the documents we affirm in this church. It came into use in the 6^th century, and is a reflection of our beliefs about the trinity. It is a document that seeks precision, exploring how we understand God with great faithfulness and care. But, nonetheless, I believe it is safe to say that most of us don’t really understand it. What does it mean to be “coeternal in majesty” or to “confuse the person” or “divide the divine being?”

I do actually admire those who have taken the effort to dig into this creed, and to do their best to fully understand it, to honor this faithful work, to seek the wisdom within, and to share it with us. As indeed, this, and all our creeds, are one of the ways we get to be in conversation with our ancestors. And that’s cool on it’s own. Sorta makes me want to say, “yeah for dogma!”

But, the thing is, our ancestors couldn’t capture all of God in these words. Even as we explore God as trinity—as we search for language that’ll capture what we hope to mean… we will always find that this language eludes us. That our words for God are always inadequate. Always just beyond our reach. Because, this is the very nature of our God—always larger than our imagination. Always, just beyond.

It’s humbling and beautiful. That for all our yearning to understand, all our whys, all our declarations of discovery, that God is always beyond, urging us to explore even further. Urging us to discover anew, again.

But, we often forget this—moving either into the arrogance of presuming we actually do know, and understand, or into the apathy, that blandly declares, “why does it matter?”

The church has been plagued by both. For centuries, church institutions have counted themselves as the arbiters of truth, the place to come to “get it right.” Judging disdainfully those who might stray from the doctrine; in centuries past, we would have excommunicated someone. Placed them in exile for a failure to believe correctly.

And today, noting our hypocrisy. Noting that we don’t get it, and never really did get it (despite our declarations to the contrary)… well today, we are so tempted to throw up our hands and say, “why bother?, why play with these unpleasant people?”

In our passage from John, we are reminded that there is a third way. Between the margins of arrogance and apathy, there is an invitation to dance. Between the borders of self-righteousness and giving up, God has entered in with the Spirit of truth, of divine truth. It is a truth older than time. It is a truth that is the very wisdom of God.

But, rather than something to be pinned down, (as if words might contain God’s truth), this truth is a dance partner, extending her hand, inviting you to join in the dance. To join in the discovery. To live this question, bumping between knowing and unknowing, allowing ourselves to be clumsy, and explore this God who will always be beyond our comprehending. Beyond our capacity to know and understand.

There is this lovely thing about truth. The truth is personal. What I know to be true is an intimate thing, bound up in the stories of my own life, my own experience, my own reality. I know that one and one = two, because of my experiences counting my fingers as a child. I know the truth of honor and duty, because of my grandfather who served in WWII. I know the truth of good food, because my mother cooked everything from scratch. And I know the truth of love in those moments when Jeanie, our daughter, and I embrace in what we call a Maddie sandwich.

I think that for most of us, what is true is a reflection of our hearts, and not a reflection of dogma. We don’t believe because someone told us to. The search for what is true and declarations about the truth are claims on our inmost being. On what makes us human.

But, the beauty of this is that our God, this utterly confusing and confounding Trinity, came into our lives not to tell us to believe something. Not to make a bunch of rules about our lives. But, to transform our hearts. To enter into relationship with us. To join us in this human life. To enter into our own reality—our own truth. To dance with us, and pull us beyond what we thought was possible.

And I believe that it is in this dance that God becomes true, that the trinity becomes true. It is not because I’ve laid out all the math, all the precise proofs and equations, but because this God has entered into our most personal life. Poured into our very hearts. Extended a hand as a dancing partner.

So, it is on this day, that we celebrate a dogma. Not because we understand, and not because we have to. We do this, as a celebration of our God who enters into our reality, into our truth, and invites us to dance between the margins of knowing and unknowing. Invites us to discover God at work, far beyond our expectations.

So let us dance. Amen.

Easter 2

Acts 5:27–32
Psalm 118:14–29
Revelation 1:4–8
John 20:19–31

I’d like to begin with one of my favorite pieces by Rilke

…I would like to beg you dear [one], as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

It’s these words that convict me that Thomas gets a bad rap. “Doubting Thomas”, as we know him. The one who has the misfortune of missing Jesus’ first appearance to the disciples—and yet he desperately longs to see that this one is real. He longs to touch his savior. And for this, we single him out, labeling him a doubter. And we never really say that nicely.

But I propose to you, that Thomas was, rather, asking a question. He was wrestling with the stories presented to him, and he didn’t understand. He had watched Jesus die. And so, it does not seem wrong to me that he should then also want to see this man alive, breathing, to see the wounds. To touch them. He was asking the question: is this real? How can this be?

And the question gets him in trouble.

I’m not so sure that he gets in trouble with Jesus. The thing about the Greek text, is that it doesn’t have punctuation. All the question marks, periods, exclamation marks, all these are inferred through the text. And the thing is, you can translate Jesus’ question, just as well, into a statement. The text may just as well say,
Have you believed because you have seen me? Or
You have believed, because you have seen me.

From the rest of the context– I don’t get the sense that Jesus, the one who seeks Thomas out, who welcomes the touch, I don’t get the sense that he is too worried about this one who questions. He knows that touching is important—and that we’ll not always be able to do so.

But, for centuries after, Thomas’ question gets him in trouble. His desire to see, to touch, speaks dangerously of doubt. And for those who benefit from the current state of affairs, those who have the authority to say what is and what is not, well, this is nervous making. We shall not encourage folks to question the status quo, the givens of the faith. Questions only lead to trouble. Do not worry yourselves about seeing, only believe.

I know that for some of you, this is personal. It’s happened to a lot of you in this room. The story goes something like this: My Sunday School teacher always told me I asked too many questions. I got in trouble, and sent into the hall. Or, we just knew we weren’t supposed to ask questions, we were just to take it all in and absorb what we were told.

I like to imagine those hallways, full of kids who dared to ask too many questions.
Oh the trouble they made…

The thing is this “Doubting Thomas” story can be dangerous for us, privileging silence.
Is it truly more honorable, more faithful, to just suck it up and pretend we all get it?

Because I think the truth is, we’ve got lots of questions. This story of the risen Christ, it’s odd. It is unbelievable. It is the kind of thing that, perhaps, seeing makes more believable. Maybe not. But this story of resurrection and new life, asks more questions than it answers. What was the tomb like? What did the disciples talk about in those early days? How is it that they were not also killed? How does a man enter a locked room?

You likely have more. I hope you do. Because, I am convicted, that rather than leading us away from faith, these questions actually have the power and the capacity to increase our faith, to make us yet more faithful.

Because it is in questions that we discover our world. It is in questions that we discover God at work in surprising ways. It is in questions that we re-examine the narratives we’ve been handed, and seek out a more honest truth.

This past Friday night, we welcomed 14 guests into our building, offering a safe place to sleep, and a few good meals. We offered this, because someone dared to ask, why do the homeless have no place to rest their heads?

We send missionaries around the world, so that we might learn from emerging Christian communities how the Spirit is alive throughout the world—all because someone dared to ask, how might we accompany others as they seek to live faithfully?

We are a Reconciling in Christ congregation, boldly declaring that everyone is welcome here, be they gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender—all because someone dared to ask, How can we share God’s love with those whom the church has historically excluded?

These questions and more have fueled our faith. They have brought us into closer community with those nearby, and with those far away. These questions have upset the status quo—they upset the standard narrative.

Far from being a dangerous puncture wound, allowing faith to limply deflate. These questions allow us to discover God at work amongst us now. They allow us to seek justice, to seek the true authority about forgiveness and newness of life.

And yet, fearful authority seeks to narrow the possibility by narrowing the questions. Fearful authority, knows that questions have this way of breaking the bonds of expectations, and leading us into new places.

But this is precisely what our God is always doing. Breaking into new places, showing up behind locked doors, inviting us to touch the wounds, to answer the questions with our hands. Inviting us to ask them again and again.

And I wonder, as we live these questions, perhaps we may just discover that we have seen, that we have seen this resurrected Christ, here in our midst. We who know that death is not the worst that can happen to us. We who know the joy as:

Christ appeared Friday night, as the doors opened to our guests.
Christ appeared as the children gathered at Children’s time.
Christ appeared at the British home, as folks prayed together
Christ appeared yesterday evening, as Jeanie was, at long last, ordained as a pastor.

We are blessed, because we have been living these questions. When we asked, Christ, where are you? Are you real?, the response was given, through the people around us. And our eyes have been opened, our fingers have touched the wounds.

And so Christ appears to us again, here, in the bread and the wine we will take at this very table. Christ appears to us, wounded, and yet whole.

And we cannot help but respond, My Lord, and my God. As we continue, living into God’s answers.

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13—53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 10:16–25
John 18:1—19:42

I want to propose to you that this day is a day far more about awe than judgment.

Awe.

Not the cute kind of awe that we save for sentimental moments, but the heart wrenching, gut clenching awe of mystery and honor.

I propose this, because I believe it is difficult to bear this story, to really hear this story, without a profound sense of awe. That the one who is God, became so fully and utterly human. That on this day, the one who is God, was so profoundly wounded, wounded to the point of death—

I propose that this is a day of awe because of the stories of men like Jose. Jose is a former gang member. It’s a story told by Father Greg Boyle, who runs Homeboy Industries in Los Angeles. Jose is a part of their substance abuse team. A man in recovery. He’s been a heroine addict, a gang member, and is heavily tattooed. But in his work now, he regularly finds himself standing in front of a room of 600 social workers and…

On one occasion, he says very offhandedly: “You know, I guess you could say that my mom and me, we didn’t get along so good. I guess I was six when she looked at me and she said, ‘Why don’t you just kill yourself? You’re such a burden to me.'” Well, the whole audience gasped, and then he said, “It sounds way worser in Spanish.”

Then he tells the audience “My mom beat me every single day. In fact, I had to wear three T-shirts to school every day.” And then he kind of loses the battle with his own tears a little bit and he says: “I wore three T-shirts well into my adult years, because I was ashamed of my wounds. I didn’t want anybody to see them. But now my wounds are my friends. I welcome my wounds. I run my fingers over my wounds.”

Then he looks at this crowd and he says, “How can I help the wounded if I don’t welcome my own wounds?” And awe came upon everyone because we’re so inclined to kind of judge this kid who, you know, went to prison, is tattooed and is a gang member and homeless and heroine addict and the list goes on.

But in its telling, Jose’s story becomes intimate. In a sense, it become our own, as our own woundedness joins his, and we sit in awe of all that this young man has born. Wondering, how we could possibly do the same? Most of us would likely say, we could not bear it. And so we sit in awe.

Often we think of this day, Good Friday, as a day of judgment. A day of judgment on ourselves and others, as we sit in the stew of our sinfulness and the pain we cause ourselves and others. And perhaps there is a moment for this. Indeed, I think there probably is. There are those moments that we must get angry, that we must name what is wrong, what is hurtful, what is painful, and destructive. Those moments where we must attempt to name what is right—so that good news may be heard, that a different way may be made known.

But first, first, I think we must sit in awe. In awe of the wounds we bear. In awe of the wounds others bear. In awe of the wounds our very human Christ bore. To touch them, to know them, to make friends with them. To run our fingers over these wounds.

This is not so that we can feel guilty. Not so that we feel the stifling weight of shame. But so that, perhaps we might be see the fullness and humanity of the wounded. Of ourselves. So that we might see the fullness and humanity this Christ, this Christ who bore our wounds, bore the wound of Jose, the wounds of all those we might judge.

In this moment, on this Good Friday, we are invited to stand in awe of burdens we have all carried, rather than to judge how they have been carried. Because this, this is precisely, what our own God did.

We begin in awe, because in so doing we join in the mystery. The honor. And perhaps the healing. In awe we do not set ourselves apart, dividing the good from the bad. In awe, we behold the enormity of the mutual burden we bear, beholding our own wounds, as we embrace the wounds of the other. The woundedness of our very own God.

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1–4,11–14
Psalm 116:1–2, 12–19
1 Corinthians 11:23–26
John 13:1–17, 31b–35

I imagine that it was a cool evening, the spring air settling down around them. They’ve gathered for the Passover meal, which is, as it has always been, a pretty big deal for the Jewish folks–this tradition handed on from the time of Moses. This is the night that they remember the night they escaped tyranny and slavery. The night they remembered how grandmother made the lamb, how father would tell the story, how the rituals of the night were etched into their being.

And now these, who have been following Jesus, find themselves in Jerusalem, eating this ancient meal. Far from family, these disciples, must have been overwhelmed by all that was happening. The great crowds following them, the celebration as they entered the city. Things were getting strange—nothing was as they expected. Anxiety floated high in the air. They simply do not know what to expect, as sacred expectations met growing anxiety.

Actually, Jesus does know what to expect. At least, as gospel writer of John tells the story. He knows that the soldiers are gathering, even as they sit at this table. He knows that Judas is prepared to hand him over. He knows that Peter will deny him. He knows that soon he will die.

Now, you or I, knowing these things, well, it seems to me that this might heighten the anxiety. That our brains would be loud with the sound of fear. That the questions and worry might pour over us such that we’d not even be able to eat. We’d not be able to sit, or even to listen.

But Jesus, knowing that this meal will be his last, wraps a towel around his waist, and sits down on the floor, gently and tenderly washing their weary and dirty feet.

It’s a jarring moment. This is not the Jesus the crowds were celebrating, not the king they imagined. All glory is washed away, as the dirt of their feet becomes mud on his hands.

And this is stunning to me. That our God would sit at our feet, our calloused and smelly feet, and pour warm water on them, wrapping them in a towel to dry.

But even more stunning, more surprising to me, is that he washes Judas’ feet. The man who betrays him. And he knows this—he knows that Judas will betray him. And he does it anyway.

I wonder what that was like—holding Judas’ feet in his hands? I wonder how it felt to wash away the grime of Jerusalem’s streets from his feet? This moment of tenderness stuns me—as Jesus loves this one who cannot love him back.

I think I can safely say that for us, for we in the room, we are far more like the disciples when we encounter such moments. We are far more likely to respond with anxiety. With fear. On those days when dread lingers at every corner– we do not tend to respond with a towel and warm water.

Indeed, when confronted with anxiety, our choices are limited. We know how to fight, how to flee, or how to freeze. Our reptilian brains take over, plotting the best course to safety and security, narrowing our vision to filter out everything that might get in the way of our most important need: survival.

It becomes all about me. Everything is filtered through he need for survival, individual survival. Personal protection. We are unable to see anyone else.

And this might be fine and expected if this were a rare occurrence. For most of us, the days are few when soldiers are gathering to bring us to trial. But, this anxiety is not unusual. It is not rare. Indeed, it is as if our society breeds on this anxiety—merely turning on the news, makes our hearts race. As debt loads rise, as health care gets more costly, the weather get too warm, too cold. Indeed I do not need to give you this list, you have one of your own I am sure. These are the things that keep us up at night, the things that linger in our thoughts, impossible to remove.

In the wake of this anxiety, we become more and more narrowed in on ourselves. Fearing one another, wondering who will be Judas? And so we protect and hide ourselves—keeping our feet, our worn out, dirty feet, safely in our shoes, for fear that someone may see our weakness.

But that night, Jesus got down on his knees, and knelt at those dirty, aching feet. Feet worn down with the weight of fear and anxiety. And he washed them, pouring precious water over each foot—your feet, my feet, Peter’s feet, and Judas’ feet.

In preparation for the night to come, as the solders gather, as Judas plots, Jesus does not withdraw, he does not up draw arms, he does not stay still. Rather, he loves. He loves even the one who cannot love him back. He loves, because this is our God. Our God is the one that responds to all of our fear and anxiety, all of our narrowness and greed, by loving us. Loving us with a love greater than our capacity to understand, greater than our capacity to return in kind.

But then he gives us this command: go and do the same.

Because there are days of anxiety. Days when the world seems to revolve around our fears and our judgments. Days when we cannot get beyond ourselves—days when it seems the armies are gathering for us.

And it is in precisely this moment that Jesus shows us that the best thing we can do is to get down on our knees, wrap a towel around our waists, and love one another. Regardless of their capacity to love us back.

Because that’s the kind of God we’ve got.

Sermon, March 3, 2013
Lent 3c

Isaiah 55:1–9
Psalm 63:1–8
1 Corinthians 10:1–13
Luke 13:1–9

I love a good game of Scrabble… so long as I am winning. As long as my score is sufficiently high, my goal is build a beautiful board with strange and elegant words. If I think I’m winning, I’ll whisper good places to play, and offer higher scoring words. (If you put the j on that triple word score, you’ll get more points). I like to think I’m being altruistic.

But the truth is the score matters. And at the mere whiff of losing my lead, I become much less helpful. There’s a part of me that feels that since I’ve memorized the two letter word list, I deserve to win.

I don’t think I am alone. We are a score keeping people. We like to measure up all the risk in our lives and find a way to avoid it—for fear that too many negative points will result in horrible things. Like losing. Nope, it’s much preferable to win.

And this is no game. It’s serious business. We are compelled, often, too often, to ask, “God, what did I do to deserve this?” I thought my score was pretty high… I thought I had some room…

This is the question that folks bring to Jesus in our text today—what did these Galileans do to deserve such a terrible death at Pilate’s hands?

Indeed—we’d like to know this answer, wouldn’t we? What did this other person do to meet such a terrible fate? We want to know all the details, so that we can also avoid this. So we can understand it. So we can blame, pointing the finger away from ourselves.

Perhaps they’d been mean? Ungrateful? Perhaps they had failed to pay their taxes? Not loved God enough? Or the right way…

These questions are intoxicating. The explorations for how we might blame another for their own misfortune, eager to find some measure by which they deserved it… If only they’d eaten better, kept a cleaner house, went to a better school, chose a better spouse, had memorized the two letter word list… then, then they’d get a better score. Then they’d have gotten better—gotten what they deserved.

Thing is: our God doesn’t keep score. Despite all our desires to the contrary, our God doesn’t sit and tally all our good choices and our bad choices, handing us a report card at the end. That’s what grace is about. And I’m grateful—for I’m pretty sure I’d lose. And we already established—I don’t like to lose.

And while this makes me feel a lot better—loads better—it turns out, while Jesus is clear that God’s not keeping score, it’s also true that God doesn’t want us to get too comfortable.

After considering this story—this question about whether the folks killed by Pilate’s hand had deserved such a fate—Jesus turns to them and says: unless you change your heart, you will also be ruined.

Change your heart.

This is what is meant by the word repent. Change your heart and turn toward God.

Now, I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that keeping a careful accounting of my good choices and my bad choices will never actually lead to a change of heart. No matter how many Scrabble games I win, or lose, my heart will not be changed. No matter how good or bad my luck is. There no list of good deeds or accomplishments, no amount of careful planning, can, on its own, lead to a change of heart.

That’s just not how the human heart works.

In our text today, Jesus tells a simple story about a fig tree—the landowner, seeing this barren tree, plans to chop it down. It has failed to bear fruit in three years. In the world of keeping score—it’s got a big old goose egg on its side. Zero. Nothing. And so it must pay the consequences.

But the Gardener begs, instead, that he might aerate the soil, that he might lay down manure. That he might nurture growth, that he might fertilize and foster new life.

I think this gardener points to Jesus—the one who desires for us fruit and life. The one that begs us to repent, to turn our hearts toward God. The one that knows, chopping down the tree will not cause it to bear fruit. The one who is willing to whisper over the really good word—so that we too might win.

Perhaps Jesus is the one that begs for another year, that the roots may flourish, that the fertilizer may have time. That the tree may turn it’s heart toward good fruit, not as a desire to win prized figs, but as a response to the love and nurturing of the gardener.

And the thing is, bearing fruit matters. There isn’t any escaping this as we look at this text. The question is how it matters. I don’t think God is the foreboding landowner, keeping tally as one would in bingo, making a blot for every deed we do right, for every fig we bear. No, rather, I think God is heart broken, longing for us to bear good fruit so that we might turn toward God and change our hearts. And we are broken too—we who refuse to bear fruit become brittle with stubbornness, shriveled by our cold hearts.

But what’s fascinating, and lovely to me, is that God doesn’t urge this by chopping us down. God does this by tilling the soil, and spreading the manure. God does this by loving us. Loving us into wholeness. And this is good news indeed—because no one wins at playing games with God.

It seems to me also, that this becomes an invitation for us. An invitation to stop keeping score ourselves. To end the tally of good and bad that we make for others. To end the list of wrongs and rights, and instead seek to spread some manure. To till the soil of our relationships, to nurture each other, as the gardener did. For it seems to me, that we could use a little nurturing. A little encouragement, so that together we might bear fruit worthy of our God. So that together, we might turn our whole hearts toward God, bearing good fruit together.

Amen.

Deuteronomy 26:1–11
Psalm 91:1–2, 9–16
Romans 10:8b–13
Luke 4:1–13

I believe I have two categories of wilderness in my mind. The first being the images that come to mind if you ask me about wilderness in church. This wilderness is always arid. Dry. Really, about as alive as the moon, or some hostile planet on Star Trek. There’s always a strange beast over the ridge in this wilderness. Typically, it’s the country I imagine Jesus wandering, as the devil pokes and tricks him in these 40 days from our text for today.

But, if you ask me about wilderness when I’m outside these walls, when I’m eating dinner or playing with my daughter—well, wilderness is the mountains of Washington state, thick with evergreens and cold mountain streams. It is a place far from any human convenience, far from safety, this is sure, but still a place of calm. A place where I am centered and at peace. A place where, at least for me, even the sight of a bear on the horizon, brings no real sense of threat, because I know how to be, how to rest into the beauty. (Now, a cougar, well, that’s a different story.)

I’m actually not sure what kind of wilderness this was for Jesus. Perhaps being the son of God wins you a few perks in the wilderness department…

But I think for many of us when we encounter the wilderness of our lives, we are too often thrust into the hostile environment of a foreign planet, galaxies away from our comfort and our center. This was certainly true of the Israelites, as they wandered their own wilderness for 40 years. They longed for nourishment, for the sense that God was with them, to know God’s desire for them—and their ache for this knowledge brought them to a place that was arid and desolate. A dry weary land without water.

It has been suggested to me that when we see wilderness in the Bible, we might do well to think of this space, this time, as a school, as an instructional period. A place where God teaches, hoping that the people will learn. The Israelites were in school for 40 years, Jesus was an advanced student, and took just 40 days…

That’s why we have this text from Deuteronomy today, this text that implores us, “Remember: a wandering Aramean was my ancestor…” and the saving grace of God is recounted, the lessons learned from that wilderness time.

This is a text to be recited often. To be remembered, not just as a good story, but as part of the very fiber of our being. For lest we forget, and lose our patience with others who also wander in the wilderness. For lest we forget, what our God so earnestly tried to teach us in that wilderness time.

And I think that it’s true that Jesus and the Israelites both learned similar things in their wilderness time…
hoarding manna breads worms, and it does no good to turn stone to bread. Because our God provides.
Worshiping idols is a bad idea, golden calf, or the devil. Both are temptations place our own fear and death at the center of our lives.
And finally, God does not need our tests. Don’t go counting on angels to catch you, or whine for meat when you have manna. God is revealed in God’s own way, and our little tests just aren’t helpful.

I know many of you have experienced real times of wilderness in your own life. Some of you live there now. These are real times when God seems removed and cold. Real times when the learning is difficult, and the lesson unclear. Some days the wilderness is lush and green, though civilization is a ways off. Some days this wilderness is a place of centering, getting priorities straight. Yet, other days, too many other days, this wilderness a place so unknown and frightening, it seems there are cougar on every ridge.

But there’s another thing about wilderness. I think it’s actually the thing that makes “wilderness school” possible. The most important lesson of wilderness school. And it’s a promise. It is the promise that the Holy Spirit is there with us. Always. Even when we are numb to its presence. The Holy Spirit enters into those days and years in the desert, walking along side us. This is a sure promise, the promise that our God will not forsake us.

This is why, I love the tradition of remembering—this ancient tradition of reciting the wilderness stories. We do this every year at the beginning of Lent. We do this because it is tempting, so tempting, to forget that promise. To only remember the devil tempting us with food we cannot eat, with power that is not ours to have, with the desire to prove god exists… though such proof would never really satisfy. It is tempting to remember these stories, and our own stories, in terms of the annoyance and anger, in terms of the frustration and fear. In terms of hurt and sadness. To remember them as if we experience them alone.

But, to remember it this way, to hold the wilderness in this way is to forget, to forget the Spirit that accompanies us in our journey, whether we are aware or not.

When I was a kid I would talk to God as I walked home. For a while I got into these things I called “iffers.” In a sense, these walks were wilderness for me, and I longed to have some real sense that God walked with me. So, I would ask God to prove it. I’d say things like, “If there’s a ripe blackberry on this bush, then I know there will be chocolate chip cookies at home.” They were always benign, but always testing, putting God up for something. Sometimes they came true, though usually only when I’d given God an easy test, like “if the sun is out, then my brother will be playing in the yard.” But even then, such iffers never really increased my faith in God. They were just a game I played, trying to poke.

I couldn’t really appreciate how present God was then—my conversation partner. The one who made the blackberries ripen, who brought the warm sun, the one who brought the occasional friend to walk along side. The one who made cookies delightful.

But now, as I remember that wilderness school, I am reminded that the Spirit walked with me in that time to reveal God’s presence in the midst of wilderness. That for all my fear, I was never alone. Never.

And I think this is what we have in our texts today, the remembrance that a wandering Aramean was our ancestor, and that the Lord heard our voice and our affliction, and brought us out of Egypt with a might arm. We remember that our God took on flesh and stood up to the same demons that tempt to drag us down daily. We have the remembrance, the teaching, that our God will never forsake us.

So it is my prayer, that you, in whatever wilderness you may find yourself—a wilderness that is lush with the green of life and hope, or the wilderness that scarcely supports life—it is my prayer that as you travel this wilderness that you may know God guiding your feet as you move through. That you may know God in the midst of your prayers and your wandering. And that at some point, when the time comes to remember this wilderness, that it will become clear how God was with you all the way. Never forsaking you. Never.

Amen.

Joel 2:1–2, 12–17
Psalm 51:1–17
2 Corinthians 5:20b—6:10
Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21

This night we begin a strange season of the church year. We move from the exulted light of Epiphany, a season where we celebrate that overpowering awe of our God revealed even in the smallest moments. This after we have celebrated this Christ, the human one, coming to us as a child at Christmas.

This night we move from the Light, to dirt. To simple and ordinary and ubiquitous dirt. Ash really. Dry dirt, dirt without nutrients. Dust, fragile to the whims of wind, by its very nature, dirty. Unclean. We move this night from celebrating the light of the world revealed in our midst, to recognizing that we are all dust. Fragile and unclean. All mortal, and subject to the powers of destruction.

It is a strange season. Strange that we choose it. Strange that we gather this night and willingly bring ourselves forward to be reminded that we are human. That we are dust, and to dust we shall return.

Yet I believe there is some brilliance in our strangeness. Christ did not come and declare: I came so that you might be normal, and blend in. No, rather he came that we might have life, and have it abundantly. But the thing about life, the thing about abundance, is that it is not always simple, it is not always easy.

Life, in its fullness by definition means the fullness of human experience. The fullness of hope, and the fullness of devastation. The fullness of light, and the depth of disappointment and frustration and pain.

Now to be sure, God does not will us to experience pain. I believe our God wills and desires life. But the reality is that pain exists and pain happens in the midst of our seeking life. The path to fullness of life always includes the cross.

Nelson Mandela desired life for the people of South Africa, so he endured 27 years of prison, the pain of isolation, so that he might speak truth to the powers of destruction. Snatched up by the police as he participated in a protest, Mandela knew that the apartheid government had the power, and even the will to take his life. Darkness surrounded him. Yet he knew that this was the same darkness that surrounded his people. They were all fragile, fragile as dust, which the government wished to blow away.

Desmond Tutu writes that while in prison, Mandela allowed the suffering to ennoble him, and found himself “able to be gentle and compassionate towards others.” This was a gift of his faith. A gift of the scriptures he had memorized the hymns that had burrowed into his heart. The gift that allowed him the capacity to experience the abundance of human depravity and yet walk out of that prison, convinced that God desires life. That hope will yet be born. That the ashes of our existence yet hold fertile ground.

He walked out of that prison and led his people toward Easter. Toward possibility. Even knowing the full truth of our human frailty.

Now lest you begin to say to yourself, well, this is all well and good, but I am no Nelson Mandela, may I ask, who are you to suggest that you are not? Who are you to say that God cannot work through you, through your own dust and dirt? Who are you to say that you are powerless to the ways of death and destruction?

The same God that lives in Nelson Mandela dwells in you. And while that may seem far fetching, let me assure you, I have seen this.

I have seen this God alive in you, rising up from the ashes of disappointment, of frustration, of anger, and despair. I have heard you declare: these people need safe shelter. These children need a good education. These home bound deserve to know they are loved. I have heard you declare that no one should go hungry. No one should fear the night. No one should fear for their lives at the hands of another. But not only have I heard you say these things, but I have seen you take action to move toward life. Life for yourself and others. Witnessing fully to the dirt and ash of our existence, you have claimed your faith, and believed that life might still blossom here.

In 1980 we lived 150 miles away from Mount Saint Helens. One morning in May, my mother woke up with a start at the sound of a loud explosion. She rushed to the living room, afraid to see the havoc my brother and I were creating. We blissfully looked up at her, the sweet young kids that we were…

Little did she, or any of us know, that the mountain had exploded. That the entire north face of that perfect little peak was now rocketed into the sky, raining down ash for miles and miles.

The devastation was immense. The land which was once thick with trees and vegetation, animals and rivers, was now barren. Stripped of all life. Interestingly, the forest department set aside most of this area as a preserve. They did nothing in this area, but let nature take its course. No replanting, no effort to rebuild. They just left it alone and watched.

This pile of ash sat for a long time. Nothing much grows in ash. But soon came the dandelions, and other things we might imagine as weeds. They’re known as nitrogen fixers, their presence adds nutrients to the soil. Soon other weeds blew in or were carried by birds, and the ground began to heal. Lakes and rivers began to reform. Trees took root. It is a stunning geography, once merely ash, now host to new life. And apparently some of the healthiest frog populations on the planet.

It is apparent to me, that no amount of ash is too great for our God. No depth of human brokenness too much for hope and healing. No place that can bear to stand apart from the courage to stand on our faith and feel the presence of God yearning for life.

And so this is why we do this strange thing tonight. This is why we mark ourselves with ash and oil. Why we enter into this season where we get intimate with our dusty selves. Because we know that we are but dust. The dust that holds the seeds of new life. The hope of the very world.

Amen.