The Lesson of the Cross

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 10, 2020

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22:11

Hebrews 10:1-25

John 19:1-42

The Lesson of the Cross

            For a very long time Christians learned exactly the wrong lesson from Good Friday, took away exactly the wrong lesson from the Cross.

            For a very long time, Christians forgot – or chose to forget – that Jesus was a victim of the Roman authorities who ruled the land of Israel and of the Jewish authorities who did their best to limit any sign of rebellion, all in an attempt to keep the peace and to maintain their own power.

            For a very long time, Christians heard the sad story that I just read and they heard a story of Jews against Jesus, forgetting that just about everyone in this story was Jewish, very much including Jesus of Nazareth, who lived and died a faithful Jew.

            And because for so long Christians heard this story as a story of Jews against Jesus they also heard it as a story of Jews against Christians, forgetting that there were no Christians yet when Jesus died in agony on the cross.

            And since for so long Christians heard this story as a story of Jews against Christians, Good Friday has been very bad news for our Jewish brothers and sisters, right up to the present day.

            I always begin my Good Friday homily by talking about this ugly history, but it’s especially important for us to face this legacy these days when anti-Semitism is on the rise once again, with predictably horrific results, including right here in Jersey City, just a few months ago.

            The lesson of the cross is not that Jews killed Jesus and it’s certainly not that Jews today are somehow responsible for what happened two thousand years ago.

            No, the cross has nothing to do blaming anyone, past or present.

            Instead of blame, the cross offers us Jesus’ greatest and clearest lesson of love.

            This year we have been forced to sacrifice a whole lot but one of the things I am missing most is our Good Friday Stations of the Cross Procession.

            As many of you know, for the past six years on Good Friday morning we have gathered with our bishop and fellow parishioners and Christians of all stripes, from Pentecostals to Catholics, and we have walked the Way of the Cross through the broken and glass-strewn sidewalks of Jersey City, remembering the suffering endured by Jesus, stopping and praying at places of violence in our own time, sprinkling Holy Water on these stained places, reminding us that no matter how hard we try to profane it and call it bad, this is all God’s land and it is all good.

            For me and I think a lot of us, the Stations of the Cross procession is our most meaningful service of the year, somehow stripping away all of the religious niceties and pieties that have accumulated on to Good Friday, reminding us that at its heart this is the story of one man brutalized by violence - in this case, state-sanctioned violence.

            By connecting the violence on the streets of Jersey City today to the violence endured by Jesus two thousand years ago, we’re reminded that we’re talking about the real suffering of a man who preached nothing but peace, a real man who was abandoned by nearly everybody, even, it seemed for a time, abandoned by his God.

            But, in our blood-soaked world, this particular suffering and death would hardly be worth remembering or mentioning – just another sad story in a world filled with them.

            This story would hardly be worth talking about, except that the victim is the Son of God.

            And so on the hard wood of the Cross, Jesus teaches us his final, his most shocking, and his most important lesson of love, stretching out his arms to reveal the wideness of God’s love for us all – love wide enough to embrace the worst suffering, even the loss of economic security, even senseless and terrifying violence on the streets of Jersey City, even last breaths in the Intensive Care Unit.

On the Cross, Jesus offers love strong enough to endure death itself.

There is still one more lesson of love yet to be taught and for us to learn, but that will have to wait until Sunday morning.

For now, we sit at the foot of the Cross.

And tomorrow morning we’ll sit outside the sealed tomb.

But through it all, during these holiest days, let’s learn – let’s remember - let’s marvel at - just how much we are loved.

           

Lessons of Love

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 9, 2020

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Lessons of Love

            Over the past few Sundays as Sue and I have gathered here for worship, just the two of us, I’ve been reminded of when I was just starting out in the church. Back then, I used to practice my sermons on a congregation of one – the same person who is our lone congregant today.

            She’s a good sport.

            Anyway, back then I’d give my sermon in our living room and she would sit and listen, attentively and politely, sometimes laughing or nodding at the appropriate points, sometimes not, and then after I was done I would look to her for feedback.

 We quickly discovered that the best way for her to help me was for her to tell me what she thought my sermon was about – what she remembered and what seemed to be most important.

            Sometimes in those early months – though I’m sure it happens nowadays, too – whatever I was trying to say would get lost in my many words, my habit of giving too much information, my tendency to forget that I was teaching.

            In fact, back during those days Sue gave me my single best piece of preaching advice: she told me to use repetition – to repeat whatever point I was trying to make, to repeat it even if I thought I sounded like a broken record, because, for the lesson to sink in and really take hold, people listening needed to hear it over and over.

            It’s good advice.

            And, in fact, I’m sure that’s exactly how Jesus taught.

            Throughout his ministry, as he traveled from place to place, Jesus must have repeated many of the same stories, retaught many of the same lessons.

            After all, in each new place there were people who had never heard them before.

            And also, we know that Jesus’ disciples were, let’s say, a little dense - and obviously needed to hear these stories, to learn these lessons of love, over and over again.

            Unfortunately, Jesus didn’t have all the time in the world.

            And, when he and his disciples arrived in Jerusalem for that final Passover, Jesus knew that time was running out.

            And, even the disciples - despite their usual cluelessness, despite all the excitement of being in Jerusalem for Passover – even the disciples were beginning to understand that time was growing short.

            And so, with no time to waste, without the luxury of repetition, Jesus does some of his very best teaching.

Jesus uses only a few words, shocking everyone, especially Peter, by getting on his knees and doing the servant’s work of washing feet – offering an unforgettable lesson on how we are to love one another.

            With no time to waste, Jesus takes the bread and the wine, and teaches that this is who he is, broken and poured out for us – and Jesus promises to be with us each time we gather around the table, each time we remember him.

            Lessons of love.

            Jesus taught so well.

Although we have never forgotten these lessons, we have repeated these lessons over and over in countless places and ways, for two thousand years – washing feet, sharing bread and wine.

But I wonder if we’re learning these lessons of love in an even deeper way during this time of trouble.

            Normally at this service we follow Jesus’ example by doing a ritual foot-washing. Sue and I will do just that in a few minutes and you are invited to wash each other’s feet – or, if you’re alone, you can wash your hands using the prayer on page 9 in the booklet.

            And, a little while after that, we’ll celebrate the Eucharist for one last time until Easter and then we will spend a few minutes praying with Jesus in the garden, and then we will leave him alone for a time.  

            But in these hard days time when most of us can’t touch one another, when we can’t taste the bread and the wine on our tongues, it’s good for us to remember that Jesus’ lessons are not really about feet and not even really about the bread and the wine.

            Lessons of love.

            This evening’s lessons are about God’s love that we see most clearly in Jesus – Jesus who served others and expects us to do the same – Jesus who promises to be with us each time we gather around the table, no matter what, even if it’s on Facebook.

            Usually at this service there are relatively few of us – Thursday evening at 7 doesn’t work for everybody – but I’m guessing there are a lot more of us tuning in this year.
            Partly that's convenience.

            But, we’re here because we’ve recently been reminded that we don’t have all the time in the world – and there are some lessons that we really need to learn – some lessons that we need to learn again.

            Lessons of love.

            Amen.

Crisis: A Time of Decision

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 5, 2020

Year A: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday

Matthew 21:1-11

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Psalm 31:9-16

Philippians 2:5-11

Matthew 27:11-54

Crisis: A Time of Decision

            In this time of crisis, there is so much that we miss.

            We miss our usual ways of doing things.

            We miss work and school.

            Maybe maybe most of all, we miss being with our people – we miss just being together with family and friends, neighbors and parishioners.

            Technology like what we’re using right now is great but it doesn’t quite cut it, right?

            Sue and I are doing our best, but this morning I’m missing our usual way of beginning this service.

            I’m missing our gathering in the garden, with some people lining up carefully along the walks and others roaming around aimlessly.

            I’m missing handing out the palms to all of you and I’m missing our ragtag little palm parade singing “Ride On, King Jesus” not quite in unison, slowly making our way into the church where we transition to “All Glory Laud and Honor” – with a little time in-between that’s usually a kind of mash-up of those two hymns.

            People who arrive late are often confused by what’s going on, wondering where they should stand or walk, looking around anxiously, trying to find their place in this once a year service, hoping that there are still some palms left for them, too.

            It’s generally a confusing start to the service.

            And, being a bit of a control freak, in my first couple of years here I tried to impose some more order on all of this but then I realized that it was hopeless – and, more important, I recognized that the confusion and disorientation are a big part of what this holy day is all about.

            The confusion is even in the name of this holy day: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday – a kind mash-up, just like our two opening hymns.

            We begin with a triumphant parade as this most unlikely King enters his capital city.

            The people shout for joy, eager to welcome Jesus of Nazareth, or maybe just swept up in the excitement of a parade.

But, the mood quickly changes as Jesus is arrested and soon enough the people shout again, not with joy this time, but out of anger and disappointment.

A journey that had begun with so much hope now seems to end in despair as Jesus dies alone, crying out, quoting Psalm 22, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?”

Yes, even in the best of times, this is a most confusing and disorienting day.

And, of course, we are not in the best of times.

But, maybe our own troubles, our own sense of disappointment, our own despair – our own time of crisis - can actually help us see more clearly the events of two thousand years ago – and what they mean for us today.

Jesus entered a city in crisis.

The city was under Roman occupation and governed by Jewish authorities trying their best to keep the peace no matter what, knowing that the Romans wouldn’t hesitate to brutally crush any sign of rebellion.

Jesus entered a city in crisis, a city on edge, a city filling up with people preparing for Passover, people remembering God’s long-ago acts of liberation and looking for God to unchain them once again.

Jesus had been teaching and healing for a few years, getting at least a few people to wonder if he might be the one who was to come and save his people.

But when he entered the city in crisis, when he rode the colt in the palm parade, he made his decision – whatever name we give to this disorienting day, it was and is a time of decision.

By entering the city in crisis, Jesus decided to see his mission through, all the way to the cross and beyond.

By riding in the parade, Jesus decided to humble himself, not using his divine power or authority, but instead submitting to the authorities of the world.

Jesus decided to humble himself – humbled himself so fully that he cried out in despair, for a time seemingly unable to feel the loving presence of his Father.

Jesus decided to humble himself, dying alone on the cross.

Crisis: a time of decision.

But, it wasn’t just a time of decision for Jesus.

No, everyone in this story had to decide, too.

The crowd gathered along the parade route welcoming Jesus and the crowd that rejected him.

The Roman and Jewish authorities that chose to destroy an innocent and holy life rather than risking their own power and security.

And, yes, it was a day of decision for Jesus’ disciples, too – the disciples who had been given front row seats for all the teachings and healings – sight for a blind man, the raising of a dead man – the disciples who had spent so many days with Jesus, coming to recognize that he was their friend, teacher and Lord, the One who had been so long awaited.

Yes, it was a time of decision for the disciples, too – and one decided to betray Jesus and another denied him three times and the rest decided to save their own skin by making themselves scarce.

All who remained were a few brave and heartbroken women, keeping their distance, looking at the cross where it must have seemed like hope itself had died.

Crisis: a time of decision.

And now here we are in our own time of crisis.

We miss so much – we miss each other – we miss our little chaotic palm parade – we miss hearing lots of different voices read the Passion – we miss a sense of security that is perhaps gone from our lives forever.

But maybe our time of crisis can help us see this confusing and disorienting day more clearly.

Because the truth is, this is a time of decision for us, too.

In our time of crisis we can be like the characters in Jerusalem that day long ago – paying for our security at the expense of others - welcoming Jesus when everybody else shows up for the parade but then turning on him at the first sign of trouble or when things don’t go the way we want or expect – abandoning Jesus when it looks like following him might cost us something.

Or…we can decide to follow Jesus’ lead and ride boldly into the future, knowing that it will often be hard and painful and we will sometimes feel very sad and alone, and yet trusting that God is at work in the midst of even the worst suffering, somehow turning even the deepest despair into the most unexpected hope.

If Gail were here right now, I’d ask to her to play a few notes of, “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.”

You’ll just have to sing or hum a little on your own, because…

            In this time of crisis, during these most difficult and yet holiest days, let’s decide to follow Jesus - follow Jesus all the way to the cross, follow Jesus all the way to the tomb, follow Jesus all the way to Easter.

            Amen.

Death Is Not the End

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

March 28, 2020

Year A: The Fourth Sunday in Lent

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm 130

Romans 8:6-11

John 11:1-45

Death Is Not the End

            Today’s collect, or opening prayer, speaks of “the swift and varied changes of the world.”

            And when I first read it, I thought, “well, that’s for sure.”

No matter how isolated we may be – no matter how isolated we may be trying to be – the coronavirus has managed to change all of our lives.

            We are afraid of getting sick, and that those we love might get sick.

            There are the economic shocks that many of us are already beginning to feel. Some of our parishioners have lost their jobs and undoubtedly more of us will be filing for unemployment in the days and weeks ahead.

            Even with a check on the way from the government, we wonder how we will pay our bills and keep enough food in the house.

How will we meet our responsibilities to those who are counting on us?

            We worry how our kids are handling this huge disruption, how they will learn without in-person school, how they will cope without being with friends, without much opportunity for play.

            This is also a time with so much disappointment.

            These disappointments may not be matters of life and death but they still hurt our hearts.

            I think especially of kids in high school and college, especially seniors, who were looking forward to all of the milestones of that special time – taking the lead in their schools, graduation and prom and commencement – and saying goodbye to their classmates, beginning the new chapter of adulthood.

            When the weather has allowed, I’ve still been taking my early morning walks in a nearly deserted Lincoln Park, where I have to say the birds seem to be enjoying our absence – one of the ball fields is almost completely occupied by dozens of robins, nature always quick to fill a vacuum.

            These days there are just a few of us making our way along the road and no sign of the high school and college track teams who would usually be out for their runs, whizzing past this slow-moving middle aged guy.

            So many activities and even whole seasons postponed and canceled.

            So much disappointment.

            And that’s true here at church, too.

            This is normally a busy and exciting season for us.

            And, I’m so sad that our youth and adult confirmation classes have been halted – that we won’t be able to take our Good Friday procession to places of violence – that we won’t get to baptize people at Easter.

            And, I’m disappointed that our Lenten book study is paused, too.

            As some of you know, I had chosen a book about the Apostles’ Creed, that ancient and basic statement of Christian faith.

            I chose to look at the Apostles’ Creed because if you go to church regularly you hear lots of words – the words of Scripture, the texts of our hymns and prayers, lots of talk from the clergy – so many words that sometimes we may lose sight of what’s most important – we might miss what is the heart of our faith.

            In a seminary class one time – I don’t remember the context – but the professor asked us to sum up the Christian faith in just one sentence.

            While most of us were just beginning to consider that, maybe trying to come up with something profound or clever, one of my classmates yelled out:

            “Death is not the end.”

            I’m not sure that’s the sentence I’d use but it’s a good one, especially in times like these.

            Death is not the end.

            And, that’s certainly the experience of the people of Israel.

            Over and over in the great sweep of their relationship with God, it seemed like they had reached the end – wandering in the wilderness hungry and thirsty – giving into the temptation of trusting other seemingly more powerful gods  - years of brutal occupation and heartbreaking exile.

            And, yet, over and over, no matter what, the story of God and Israel lives on.

            Death is not the end.

            In today’s first lesson, we heard the Prophet Ezekiel’s vivid and rattling vision of a valley of dry bones.

            Ezekiel’s vision comes from a time of exile, when many of the people of Israel were cut off from their homeland, isolated from their kin, and the years were dragging on and some were dying far from home.

Understandably, there was a loss of hope – there was despair that maybe the story of God and Israel was reaching its end.

            But, God is the God of life, not death, and, as Ezekiel saw, and as the people of Israel have seen time and time again, God is able to breathe new life into those dry bones, restoring what had seemed to be lost forever.

            Death is not the end.

            If you tuned in last week, you may remember that we heard the story of one of Jesus’ greatest signs: the gift of sight to the man born blind.

            That gift was a miracle for one man but it is a sign for the rest of us, a sign of what God offers all the time: the gift of sight.

            And now today we heard the story of Jesus’ greatest sign of all, raising his friend Lazarus from the dead.

            This story is found in yet another lengthy passage from the Gospel of John. And, as you could hear, there is a whole lot going on this story but today I’d just like to focus on a couple of key elements.

            First, John makes it clear to us that Lazarus is really dead. This isn’t a coma or some other kind of deep sleep. This is death with all of its indignities. Lazarus has been dead for four days and the stink of death is all too real.

            Second, Jesus is upset.

            It’s in this passage that we encounter that famous, shortest verse: “Jesus wept.”

            Since death is real, Jesus weeps for Lazarus and for his sisters, Mary and Martha.

            Jesus weeps for the grieving crowd, people stunned by the reality of their loss, desperately and even angrily looking for God in this moment of suffering.

            And, maybe Jesus weeps out of frustration with his followers who still – still, after everything – still don’t get it.

            And so, to the shock of everyone - Jesus raises his friend from the dead, signaling once and for all the glory of God working in and through him.

For Lazarus and his sisters and for all who loved him, this was an astoundingly amazing miracle.

But, for us, it’s a sign:

Death is not the end.

However, this gift of life was a threat to some in authority, convincing them that this worker of signs must be gotten rid of once and for all.

And so now we quicken the pace of the journey to Jerusalem, where Jesus the worker of signs will first be greeted with waving branches, welcomed as a king, but soon everything will seem to go terribly wrong and Jesus who gave sight and life will die on the cross.

But, you know, the only reason why still tell these Jesus stories is because of Easter morning.

God is the God of life, not death.

Death is not the end.

Like the people of Israel in exile and the people gathered around the tomb of Lazarus, we are in a time of fear, grief, and disappointment.

Even those of us relatively young and healthy are painfully aware that sickness and death are potentially lurking in every encounter, during each trip outside the house.

We are being forced to reflect on what’s most important – on who is most important.

And, right on schedule, today, “among the swift and varied changes of the world,” we are reminded of a basic truth at the heart of our faith:

God is the God of life, not death.

And, you know, this morning, thinking of those bones rattling back to life and imagining Lazarus unbound, and anticipating the empty tomb in the garden, I am so tempted to get ahead of myself and just say the “A word” already - but we’ll save that for two more weeks.

Death is not the end.

And that’s more than enough for now.