Grace Episcopal Church, Madison NJ
April 29, 2012
Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter
(Acts 4:5-12)
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
John 10:11-18
Invisible Crosiers
Last Sunday afternoon we had a pretty wonderful confirmation service at our cathedral in Newark. Aside from a weird technical difficulty with the bishop’s microphone, everything went more or less smoothly.
Since I was the MC for the service I sat up in the sanctuary. I was sorry not to sit with our confirmation class, but my spot gave me a great view of the service. It was moving to see people from Grace and other churches around the diocese come together for this special day, to celebrate as people knelt before the bishop and publicly confirmed that they are part of our Christian community.
Speaking of the bishop, my seat gave me a close-up view of him. He was wearing his colorful vestments, his mitre – the distinctive pointy hat worn by bishops – and he carried his crosier – his staff that symbolizes that he is the chief shepherd of our diocese.
Looking at his crosier I thought, what a heavy responsibility. It’s a heavy responsibility to look out for everyone in order to hold the community together. It’s a heavy responsibility to try to pull wanderers back into the community. It’s a heavy responsibility to occasionally have to poke those who have grown lazy or those who have tried to undermine the community.
But, the responsibility isn’t all on the bishop. He’s the chief shepherd of the community but he’s not the only shepherd.
We priests are called to be shepherds, too.
I remember one day early on in my time here, Lauren had a board meeting at General Seminary that required her to stay in New York overnight. Before she left she looked at me and said, “Take good care of the flock.”
Gulp. I remember being struck by that – and maybe for the first time really thinking about - and feeling - the heavy responsibility of shepherding this community.
But, it’s not just bishops and priests who are called to be shepherds of the community. You are, too.
As Christians, we’re all called to be shepherds. We’re all called to look out for one another. We’re all called to hold the community together. We’re all called to at least try to pull wanderers back into the community. And we’re all called to challenge those who have grown lazy and those who try to undermine the community.
It’s a big challenge because building a community and holding a community together is hard work. It was hard work for Jesus. It was hard work for the Christians who have gone before us. And it’s hard work for us today.
We hear some of that hard work from the past in today’s lessons from the Gospel of John and from the First Letter of John.
The Gospel of John was the last of the four gospels to be completed – probably right around the end of the First Century, several generations after the earthly lifetime of Jesus and his first followers.
The Gospel of John then is the product of divine inspiration working through decades of human reflection on Jesus – reflection on the meaning of his life, death and resurrection.
So, the Gospel of John tells us about Jesus - but it also offers a window into the life and troubles of a particular Christian community at the end of the First Century.
Today’s passage opens with Jesus saying, “I am the good shepherd.”
I’m guessing that after seeing countless artistic depictions of Jesus as the good shepherd and hearing many sermons on Jesus the good shepherd, the idea of Jesus as the good shepherd doesn’t get us too worked up.
But, in the late First Century it was a different story. The Hebrew Scriptures are full of sheep-shepherd imagery but it’s God who is the good shepherd. We hear that, of course, most famously in the 23rd Psalm.
On top of that, “I am the Good Shepherd” is one of the many “I am” statements made by Jesus in the Gospel of John. (“I am the bread of life.” “I am the way, the truth and the life,” and so on.)
Again, we probably don’t get too worked up about all of this, but in the late First Century it was a different story. The “I am” statements made by Jesus echo God’s name as revealed to Moses in Exodus. So, many people believe that the repetition of “I am” statements in the Gospel of John is really a way of saying Jesus is divine.
Now, this was a big development for strictly monotheistic Jews – and for many it was too big of a step, leading to a deepening split between the followers of Jesus and the Jews, and challenging the unity of the still-young Christian community.
We can hear some of that tension throughout the Gospel of John. One example is in today’s lesson when the evangelist quotes Jesus criticizing “the hired hand” who doesn’t care for the sheep, it’s probably meant as a swipe at the Jewish leaders of the time.
Anyway, in the Gospel of John we hear how hard it was to hold that Christian community together.
Then, in our epistle reading we heard a passage from the First Letter of John, written probably not too long after the gospel itself and offering another window into the life and troubles of this community.
This time it seems there has been a serious split within the Christian community itself with some people downplaying Jesus’ humanity and being more concerned with spiritual matters than serving the flesh and blood needs of the community.
So, the author of First John tries to hold the community together by recalling the loving sacrifice of Jesus the Good Shepherd, writing, “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us” and then he makes the immediate connection to life in the community, writing, “and we ought to lay down our lives for one another.”
And then, there’s the haunting question: “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?”
“Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”
In other words, we’re all called to be good shepherds.
We’re all called to be good shepherds who build and hold the community together through loving sacrifice.
We’re all carrying invisible crosiers.
Being a good shepherd, building and holding together a community is hard work and it requires loving sacrifice. But, it’s worth it.
It was worth it for Jesus.
It was worth it for John’s community at the end of the First Century.
And it’s worth it for us here at Grace Church.
Most of the time we use our invisible crosiers in quiet ways.
We use them when we reach out to a person we know who is sick or struggling. Or when we call up someone we haven’t seen in a while and say, hey, we miss you. Or when we let someone cry on our shoulder. Or when we work hard to make our services beautiful, or to take care of our buildings and grounds, or to sing to the best of our ability.
Sometimes, though, we use our invisible crosiers in more public ways.
It was amazing to be here a week ago during the “days of rummage.” So many people lovingly sacrificed in ways large and small. So much good was done. But, what sticks with me was the evening I walked into the kitchen and about 15 volunteers were packed around the counter enjoying what smelled and looked like a delicious meal, drinking a beverage of their choice and very obviously just enjoying one another’s company.
There were lots of good shepherds using their invisible crosiers at the rummage sale, building and strengthening the community.
Finally, back to last week’s confirmation service. Lauren and I presented 18 people to be confirmed and one person to be received into the Episcopal Church. Watching them one by one kneel before the bishop, I thought how fortunate, how blessed, I am – we are - to be part of this community.
So many of the youth confirmands have essentially grown up here at Grace.
By my count six of them were baptized – by Lauren - right over there at our font. Over the years these young people have been shaped in beautiful and profound ways by so many good shepherds right here at Grace.
Just think about how many invisible crosiers have been at work guiding and supporting these children and young people as they have matured in their faith.
Our cup runneth over, indeed!
So, today we’re presented with the familiar image of Jesus the Good Shepherd.
And now, you and I are also called to be good shepherds. With God’s help, we’re called to lay down our lives for each other, to offer loving sacrifice, and to use our invisible crosiers to build, protect and strengthen this community.
Amen.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
"The Kind of Certainty We Cannot Have"
Grace Episcopal Church, Madison NJ
April 15, 2012
Year B: The Second Sunday of Easter
(Acts 4: 32-35)
Psalm 133
1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19-31
“The Kind of Certainty We Cannot Have”
Maybe because I was away for a year, but Easter Day here at Grace Church felt even more powerful and more awesome than usual.
The church itself looked so spectacular – at least one longtime parishioner said she thought it had never looked more beautiful.
There were the usual crowds – parishioners we see pretty much every week, parishioners we see once in a while, people we see once or twice a year and people we’ve never seen before and may never see again. Yet, all were here because they – we - knew this was the place to be on Easter.
They – and we – know this is the place where we are sure to meet the Risen Christ through the words of Scripture. This is the place where we are sure to meet the Risen Christ through our gorgeous music. This is the place where we meet the Risen Christ through our warm welcome and fellowship. This is the place where we meet the Risen Christ in the breaking of the bread – when we take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
And this is the place where we can confidently proclaim:
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord has risen indeed! Alleluia!
So, I don’t know about you, but last week when I left here, although exhausted, I basically floated out of this place, still riding on a wave of alleluias.
And then it was back out in the world… where nothing much had changed.
I know some of you were on vacation, but over the course of the week wasn’t it pretty much back to normal? Romney and Obama were back at it. We turned our attention back to Sanford, Florida, and the tragic story of a neighborhood watch that ended in bloodshed and death, ambiguous economic statistics were released, and North Korea launched – very briefly - a rocket.
For better or worse, most of our lives returned to their normal rhythms.
Here in church we had wonderfully joyous Easter celebrations but out in the world everything seemed unchanged – about as joyful, or joyless, as ever.
For me, and maybe for you, it didn’t take long for that Easter confidence to fade back into doubt – doubt that what we had experienced in church was real, doubt that what we had celebrated in church makes any difference in the world.
The Church is well aware of this post-Easter slump and that’s one of the reasons that every year on the Sunday following Easter we hear the story of our old friend, the doubting Apostle Thomas.
In the Gospel of John we’re told that Thomas had missed the first appearance of the Risen Christ to his disciples.
We’re not told why he was absent and I always wonder about that. In my imagination I see Thomas out in the wilderness somewhere yelling up at the sky, angry at God for allowing Jesus to die so horribly, angry at Jesus for not saving himself, and angry – and ashamed - at himself for not staying with his Lord in his greatest moment of need.
Maybe he was angry at God, at Jesus, and at himself for having been fooled. Obviously, Jesus wasn’t who he thought he was, who he said he was. After all, what kind of messiah, what kind of Son of God dies a shameful death on the cross?
Maybe Thomas remembered bitterly the joyful entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, with the crowds singing hosanna to the king as he entered his capital city.
What difference had any of it made?
Well, of course Thomas earns his reputation as a doubter when the other disciples tell him the amazingly good news that Jesus is risen.
But, Thomas doesn’t buy it. He famously says, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
Obviously, Thomas is meant to be a stand-in for us who no longer see Jesus in the flesh, who often have a lot of doubts, who sometimes wonder if our faith is just a delusion, a dream, a made-up story, who question if what we experience here makes any difference out there in the world.
But, the most important point about the Thomas story is not that he doubts. That just puts him in the same boat with all of the rest of us.
The most important point about the Thomas story is that, despite his doubt, he persists. He is willing to go with the disciples, somehow holding on to the hope that they’re telling the truth, holding on the hope that he’ll meet the Risen Christ.
Despite his doubts, Thomas persists.
In a recent issue of The Christian Century magazine there’s an interview with Ruth Burrows, an English Carmelite nun and spiritual writer. What she said about faith and doubt really jumped out at me. Listen to this:
“Many people think they have no faith because they feel they haven’t. They do not realize that they must make a choice to believe, to take the risk of believing, of committing themselves and setting themselves to live out the commitment. Never mind that they continue to feel that they do not believe. Under cover of being ‘authentic’ we can spend our lives waiting for the kind of certainty we cannot have.”
Thomas didn’t have certainty. He was filled with doubts and yet he was willing to take the risk of going back with the disciples to the house.
And, there, Thomas recognizes the wounds of Jesus and meets the Risen Christ.
Faith is a gift from God, but we have to make a choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty that we’ll never have.
And we make that choice to believe each time we come here. Each time we bring a child to be baptized. Each time we stand and say the creed. Each time we stretch out our hands and take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
And we make a choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty we’ll never have, each time we go out into the world, striving to love our neighbors as ourselves, each time we strive for justice and peace, each time we strive to respect the dignity of every human being.
And, sure enough, when we make a choice to believe, not waiting for the certainty we’ll never have, like Thomas long ago we’re likely to recognize the wounds of Jesus and meet the Risen Christ.
A quick story: At our healing service on Wednesday we heard the wonderful story of the Risen Christ appearing to the disciples on the road to Emmaus.
In my homily I talked about how we meet the Risen Christ when we welcome the stranger.
I mentioned two poor people I had gotten to know during my year in Florida. One was a homeless man named Jesse who lived on a bench outside our chapel. He drank way too much and, frankly, when I first met him I had thought he’d be a nuisance. I was nervous when he started coming into the chapel, afraid that he might disrupt our services by saying or doing something inappropriate or just by smelling bad.
Instead, Jesse turned out to be the most beautiful and most profound pray-er I’ve ever met. He offered prayers unselfconsciously from the depths of his heart and the depths of his soul.
Getting to know him and having the chance to pray with him was one of the great gifts of my year in Florida.
In Jesse’s woundedness I met the Risen Christ.
Anyway, immediately after the service on Wednesday, I walked into the parish office and Kirk said there was a gentleman in the hallway who wanted to see me.
No, it wasn’t Jesse. It was another wounded man with a weather-beaten face. He told me his name was Ernesto. I had never met him, but Lauren tells me he’s been here before. We had a great conversation. He told me that he worked in a Butterball factory in Arkansas and over the past nine days he had hitchhiked here on his way to the immigration office in Newark. He told me he needed a little help so he could complete the last leg of his journey.
I wanted to laugh out loud at the timing. As one of my seminary professors liked to say, “That’s God for you!”
Like Thomas long ago, I was given the choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty I’ll never have.
And so, just for a moment, in the woundedness of exhausted but joyful Ernesto I recognized the wounds of Jesus and met the Risen Christ.
So, today it’s the Second Sunday of Easter, for better or worse, we’ve gotten pretty much back to normal, and the world is as joyful – or as joyless – as ever.
Like Thomas we have our doubts – and always will.
Like Thomas, despite our doubts, we’re here - we persist.
Like Thomas, we’re given the choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty we’ll never have.
And, like Thomas, we’re given the chance both here in church and out in the world to recognize the wounds of Jesus and to meet the Risen Christ.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Amen.
April 15, 2012
Year B: The Second Sunday of Easter
(Acts 4: 32-35)
Psalm 133
1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19-31
“The Kind of Certainty We Cannot Have”
Maybe because I was away for a year, but Easter Day here at Grace Church felt even more powerful and more awesome than usual.
The church itself looked so spectacular – at least one longtime parishioner said she thought it had never looked more beautiful.
There were the usual crowds – parishioners we see pretty much every week, parishioners we see once in a while, people we see once or twice a year and people we’ve never seen before and may never see again. Yet, all were here because they – we - knew this was the place to be on Easter.
They – and we – know this is the place where we are sure to meet the Risen Christ through the words of Scripture. This is the place where we are sure to meet the Risen Christ through our gorgeous music. This is the place where we meet the Risen Christ through our warm welcome and fellowship. This is the place where we meet the Risen Christ in the breaking of the bread – when we take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
And this is the place where we can confidently proclaim:
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord has risen indeed! Alleluia!
So, I don’t know about you, but last week when I left here, although exhausted, I basically floated out of this place, still riding on a wave of alleluias.
And then it was back out in the world… where nothing much had changed.
I know some of you were on vacation, but over the course of the week wasn’t it pretty much back to normal? Romney and Obama were back at it. We turned our attention back to Sanford, Florida, and the tragic story of a neighborhood watch that ended in bloodshed and death, ambiguous economic statistics were released, and North Korea launched – very briefly - a rocket.
For better or worse, most of our lives returned to their normal rhythms.
Here in church we had wonderfully joyous Easter celebrations but out in the world everything seemed unchanged – about as joyful, or joyless, as ever.
For me, and maybe for you, it didn’t take long for that Easter confidence to fade back into doubt – doubt that what we had experienced in church was real, doubt that what we had celebrated in church makes any difference in the world.
The Church is well aware of this post-Easter slump and that’s one of the reasons that every year on the Sunday following Easter we hear the story of our old friend, the doubting Apostle Thomas.
In the Gospel of John we’re told that Thomas had missed the first appearance of the Risen Christ to his disciples.
We’re not told why he was absent and I always wonder about that. In my imagination I see Thomas out in the wilderness somewhere yelling up at the sky, angry at God for allowing Jesus to die so horribly, angry at Jesus for not saving himself, and angry – and ashamed - at himself for not staying with his Lord in his greatest moment of need.
Maybe he was angry at God, at Jesus, and at himself for having been fooled. Obviously, Jesus wasn’t who he thought he was, who he said he was. After all, what kind of messiah, what kind of Son of God dies a shameful death on the cross?
Maybe Thomas remembered bitterly the joyful entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, with the crowds singing hosanna to the king as he entered his capital city.
What difference had any of it made?
Well, of course Thomas earns his reputation as a doubter when the other disciples tell him the amazingly good news that Jesus is risen.
But, Thomas doesn’t buy it. He famously says, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
Obviously, Thomas is meant to be a stand-in for us who no longer see Jesus in the flesh, who often have a lot of doubts, who sometimes wonder if our faith is just a delusion, a dream, a made-up story, who question if what we experience here makes any difference out there in the world.
But, the most important point about the Thomas story is not that he doubts. That just puts him in the same boat with all of the rest of us.
The most important point about the Thomas story is that, despite his doubt, he persists. He is willing to go with the disciples, somehow holding on to the hope that they’re telling the truth, holding on the hope that he’ll meet the Risen Christ.
Despite his doubts, Thomas persists.
In a recent issue of The Christian Century magazine there’s an interview with Ruth Burrows, an English Carmelite nun and spiritual writer. What she said about faith and doubt really jumped out at me. Listen to this:
“Many people think they have no faith because they feel they haven’t. They do not realize that they must make a choice to believe, to take the risk of believing, of committing themselves and setting themselves to live out the commitment. Never mind that they continue to feel that they do not believe. Under cover of being ‘authentic’ we can spend our lives waiting for the kind of certainty we cannot have.”
Thomas didn’t have certainty. He was filled with doubts and yet he was willing to take the risk of going back with the disciples to the house.
And, there, Thomas recognizes the wounds of Jesus and meets the Risen Christ.
Faith is a gift from God, but we have to make a choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty that we’ll never have.
And we make that choice to believe each time we come here. Each time we bring a child to be baptized. Each time we stand and say the creed. Each time we stretch out our hands and take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
And we make a choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty we’ll never have, each time we go out into the world, striving to love our neighbors as ourselves, each time we strive for justice and peace, each time we strive to respect the dignity of every human being.
And, sure enough, when we make a choice to believe, not waiting for the certainty we’ll never have, like Thomas long ago we’re likely to recognize the wounds of Jesus and meet the Risen Christ.
A quick story: At our healing service on Wednesday we heard the wonderful story of the Risen Christ appearing to the disciples on the road to Emmaus.
In my homily I talked about how we meet the Risen Christ when we welcome the stranger.
I mentioned two poor people I had gotten to know during my year in Florida. One was a homeless man named Jesse who lived on a bench outside our chapel. He drank way too much and, frankly, when I first met him I had thought he’d be a nuisance. I was nervous when he started coming into the chapel, afraid that he might disrupt our services by saying or doing something inappropriate or just by smelling bad.
Instead, Jesse turned out to be the most beautiful and most profound pray-er I’ve ever met. He offered prayers unselfconsciously from the depths of his heart and the depths of his soul.
Getting to know him and having the chance to pray with him was one of the great gifts of my year in Florida.
In Jesse’s woundedness I met the Risen Christ.
Anyway, immediately after the service on Wednesday, I walked into the parish office and Kirk said there was a gentleman in the hallway who wanted to see me.
No, it wasn’t Jesse. It was another wounded man with a weather-beaten face. He told me his name was Ernesto. I had never met him, but Lauren tells me he’s been here before. We had a great conversation. He told me that he worked in a Butterball factory in Arkansas and over the past nine days he had hitchhiked here on his way to the immigration office in Newark. He told me he needed a little help so he could complete the last leg of his journey.
I wanted to laugh out loud at the timing. As one of my seminary professors liked to say, “That’s God for you!”
Like Thomas long ago, I was given the choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty I’ll never have.
And so, just for a moment, in the woundedness of exhausted but joyful Ernesto I recognized the wounds of Jesus and met the Risen Christ.
So, today it’s the Second Sunday of Easter, for better or worse, we’ve gotten pretty much back to normal, and the world is as joyful – or as joyless – as ever.
Like Thomas we have our doubts – and always will.
Like Thomas, despite our doubts, we’re here - we persist.
Like Thomas, we’re given the choice to believe, not waiting for a certainty we’ll never have.
And, like Thomas, we’re given the chance both here in church and out in the world to recognize the wounds of Jesus and to meet the Risen Christ.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Amen.
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Back to Galilee
Grace Episcopal Church, Madison NJ
April 8, 2012
Year B: The Sunday of the Resurrection – Easter Day
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 118: 1-2, 14-24
Acts 10:34-43
Mark 16:1-8
Back to Galilee
It’s Easter! Today we celebrate the triumph of God’s love over death once and for all. Today we celebrate the resurrection of the one seen by the world as powerless but who on Easter reveals the power of God’s love.
Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Today is our greatest feast, yet at first today’s gospel lesson from Mark might seem to be not quite celebratory enough. At first it might be hard to find the “Alleluia” in Mark’s account of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Mark is the earliest of the four gospels to be written, probably around the year 70. Aside from being the earliest, it’s also the shortest gospel – proclaiming the Good News of Jesus Christ in a very economical manner.
We never use Mark’s gospel on Christmas because the evangelist was either unaware of or uninterested in the stories surrounding Jesus’ birth. He simply begins the gospel with John the Baptizer preaching repentance and forgiveness of sins and washing people in the River Jordan – where he meets and baptizes the adult Jesus.
Now, this morning, reading and listening to Mark’s account of the resurrection, we might think that maybe the Church should also pass on using Mark at Easter.
Most scholars agree that the passage I just read is the original conclusion of the Gospel of Mark. And, at first, it does seem like a little bit of a letdown.
After all, in Mark there’s no mention of the Risen Christ eating fish with his disciples. In Mark, there’s no mention of the Risen Christ meeting two disciples on the road to Emmaus and being known to them in the breaking of the bread. In Mark, there’s no mention of the Risen Christ appearing unexpectedly in the locked room, no mention of a doubtful Thomas, and no mention of breathing the Holy Spirit onto his disciples.
Apparently, some early Christians found Mark’s original ending unsatisfactory so they tacked on some appearances of the Risen Christ to his disciples.
But, originally Mark ends his account of the Good News of Jesus Christ with what we just heard: the women gathered at the shockingly empty tomb where they encounter a young man dressed in the white robe of a martyr, who tells them the amazing news that Jesus is risen and they are to go back to where Jesus’ ministry and mission all began - they are to go back to Galilee where they will meet the Risen Christ.
Then Mark concludes, “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”
This shouldn’t be a letdown, though.
Writing around 40 years later after the Resurrection, Mark doesn’t have to tell his first readers and hearers that these women and other disciples actually did go back to Galilee where they really met the Risen Christ. He doesn’t have to tell them – or us - because the gospel itself is a sign of that encounter with the Risen Christ.
The Christian community itself was – and is – a sign of that encounter with the Risen Christ.
Without that trip back to Galilee and without meeting the Risen Christ there would be no gospel and there would be no church.
Mark doesn’t give us stories of going back to Galilee and meeting the Risen Christ because we have our own stories to tell.
Fortunately, going back to Galilee doesn’t require a trip to the Holy Land.
Galilee is right here at Grace Church, right here in Morris County, right here in America and around the world.
We go back to Galilee and meet the Risen Christ each time we get up before the crack of dawn and come here to church. Each time we hear the Word of God. Each time we sing or just listen to our hymns. Each time we exchange the peace.
We go back to Galilee and meet the Risen Christ each time we stretch out our hands and take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
We go back to Galilee when we sacrifice time to make the church look so beautiful or to read the lessons and prayers or to serve coffee and cake.
We meet the Risen Christ when we pray for all of those who are suffering in mind, body and spirit – people who are very close to us and people we don’t even know.
We go back to Galilee each time we offer forgiveness to those who have hurt us, each time we admit our own faults and ask for forgiveness, and each time we repent and with God’s help try to change our ways.
We meet the Risen Christ each time we work at the soup kitchen or drop items into the Food for Friends barrel, providing a basic need that most of us have in great abundance to our poorest neighbors.
We go back to Galilee each time we reach out to someone we know is lonely or anxious, making time just to listen and to offer a shoulder to cry on.
We meet the Risen Christ spending a long Maundy Thursday night here in church with a group of teenagers and some faithful adults, keeping awake with Jesus, and succeeding where his first disciples failed.
We go back to Galilee each time we resist temptation, each time we hold back from sharing a juicy piece of gossip, each time we refuse to pass along a falsehood, each time we give people the benefit of the doubt, each time we judge not - lest we be judged.
We meet the Risen Christ each time we share our faith with someone else – maybe by talking about how faith has transformed our lives, maybe just by inviting people to church, to simply come and see for themselves.
We go back to Galilee each time we stand up for justice, each time we ask why there is so much poverty and violence and despair in our country and around the world, each time we question why so much wealth is in the hands of so few, each time we’re outraged that people are objectified and stripped of their dignity, each time we’re infuriated when a human being is treated like piece of fruit that’s thrown away when someone - or some company - is done with it.
And we meet the Risen Christ when we sit at the bedside of a dying friend, hold his hand, read prayers and some lines of poetry, and assure him of God’s love and of our love, and remind him - and maybe remind ourselves - that on Easter God’s love triumphs over death once and for all.
So, just like the community that first read and heard the Gospel of Mark, we have our own stories about going back to Galilee and meeting the Risen Christ. It’s because of these stories – it’s because of our own experiences - that the Gospel is still proclaimed and the Church still exists.
But, the world is still broken by sin and suffering. There are still lots of times in our lives when we’re like the women gathered at the empty tomb, seized by terror and amazement at the suffering in our own lives and the lives of those we love, afraid to say anything to anyone.
Like those women long ago, we need to leave the empty tomb behind because that’s not where we find Jesus.
Like those women long ago, we need to go back to Galilee, back to where we always meet the Risen Christ.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Amen.
April 8, 2012
Year B: The Sunday of the Resurrection – Easter Day
Isaiah 25:6-9
Psalm 118: 1-2, 14-24
Acts 10:34-43
Mark 16:1-8
Back to Galilee
It’s Easter! Today we celebrate the triumph of God’s love over death once and for all. Today we celebrate the resurrection of the one seen by the world as powerless but who on Easter reveals the power of God’s love.
Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!
Today is our greatest feast, yet at first today’s gospel lesson from Mark might seem to be not quite celebratory enough. At first it might be hard to find the “Alleluia” in Mark’s account of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Mark is the earliest of the four gospels to be written, probably around the year 70. Aside from being the earliest, it’s also the shortest gospel – proclaiming the Good News of Jesus Christ in a very economical manner.
We never use Mark’s gospel on Christmas because the evangelist was either unaware of or uninterested in the stories surrounding Jesus’ birth. He simply begins the gospel with John the Baptizer preaching repentance and forgiveness of sins and washing people in the River Jordan – where he meets and baptizes the adult Jesus.
Now, this morning, reading and listening to Mark’s account of the resurrection, we might think that maybe the Church should also pass on using Mark at Easter.
Most scholars agree that the passage I just read is the original conclusion of the Gospel of Mark. And, at first, it does seem like a little bit of a letdown.
After all, in Mark there’s no mention of the Risen Christ eating fish with his disciples. In Mark, there’s no mention of the Risen Christ meeting two disciples on the road to Emmaus and being known to them in the breaking of the bread. In Mark, there’s no mention of the Risen Christ appearing unexpectedly in the locked room, no mention of a doubtful Thomas, and no mention of breathing the Holy Spirit onto his disciples.
Apparently, some early Christians found Mark’s original ending unsatisfactory so they tacked on some appearances of the Risen Christ to his disciples.
But, originally Mark ends his account of the Good News of Jesus Christ with what we just heard: the women gathered at the shockingly empty tomb where they encounter a young man dressed in the white robe of a martyr, who tells them the amazing news that Jesus is risen and they are to go back to where Jesus’ ministry and mission all began - they are to go back to Galilee where they will meet the Risen Christ.
Then Mark concludes, “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”
This shouldn’t be a letdown, though.
Writing around 40 years later after the Resurrection, Mark doesn’t have to tell his first readers and hearers that these women and other disciples actually did go back to Galilee where they really met the Risen Christ. He doesn’t have to tell them – or us - because the gospel itself is a sign of that encounter with the Risen Christ.
The Christian community itself was – and is – a sign of that encounter with the Risen Christ.
Without that trip back to Galilee and without meeting the Risen Christ there would be no gospel and there would be no church.
Mark doesn’t give us stories of going back to Galilee and meeting the Risen Christ because we have our own stories to tell.
Fortunately, going back to Galilee doesn’t require a trip to the Holy Land.
Galilee is right here at Grace Church, right here in Morris County, right here in America and around the world.
We go back to Galilee and meet the Risen Christ each time we get up before the crack of dawn and come here to church. Each time we hear the Word of God. Each time we sing or just listen to our hymns. Each time we exchange the peace.
We go back to Galilee and meet the Risen Christ each time we stretch out our hands and take the Body and Blood of Christ into our bodies and into our hearts.
We go back to Galilee when we sacrifice time to make the church look so beautiful or to read the lessons and prayers or to serve coffee and cake.
We meet the Risen Christ when we pray for all of those who are suffering in mind, body and spirit – people who are very close to us and people we don’t even know.
We go back to Galilee each time we offer forgiveness to those who have hurt us, each time we admit our own faults and ask for forgiveness, and each time we repent and with God’s help try to change our ways.
We meet the Risen Christ each time we work at the soup kitchen or drop items into the Food for Friends barrel, providing a basic need that most of us have in great abundance to our poorest neighbors.
We go back to Galilee each time we reach out to someone we know is lonely or anxious, making time just to listen and to offer a shoulder to cry on.
We meet the Risen Christ spending a long Maundy Thursday night here in church with a group of teenagers and some faithful adults, keeping awake with Jesus, and succeeding where his first disciples failed.
We go back to Galilee each time we resist temptation, each time we hold back from sharing a juicy piece of gossip, each time we refuse to pass along a falsehood, each time we give people the benefit of the doubt, each time we judge not - lest we be judged.
We meet the Risen Christ each time we share our faith with someone else – maybe by talking about how faith has transformed our lives, maybe just by inviting people to church, to simply come and see for themselves.
We go back to Galilee each time we stand up for justice, each time we ask why there is so much poverty and violence and despair in our country and around the world, each time we question why so much wealth is in the hands of so few, each time we’re outraged that people are objectified and stripped of their dignity, each time we’re infuriated when a human being is treated like piece of fruit that’s thrown away when someone - or some company - is done with it.
And we meet the Risen Christ when we sit at the bedside of a dying friend, hold his hand, read prayers and some lines of poetry, and assure him of God’s love and of our love, and remind him - and maybe remind ourselves - that on Easter God’s love triumphs over death once and for all.
So, just like the community that first read and heard the Gospel of Mark, we have our own stories about going back to Galilee and meeting the Risen Christ. It’s because of these stories – it’s because of our own experiences - that the Gospel is still proclaimed and the Church still exists.
But, the world is still broken by sin and suffering. There are still lots of times in our lives when we’re like the women gathered at the empty tomb, seized by terror and amazement at the suffering in our own lives and the lives of those we love, afraid to say anything to anyone.
Like those women long ago, we need to leave the empty tomb behind because that’s not where we find Jesus.
Like those women long ago, we need to go back to Galilee, back to where we always meet the Risen Christ.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Amen.
Friday, April 06, 2012
The Power of Powerlessness
Grace Episcopal Church, Madison NJ
April 6, 2012
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22:1-21
Hebrews 10:1-25
Psalm 69:1-23
John 18:1-19:37
The Power of Powerlessness
On Good Friday it’s been the custom since very early in Christian history to read the Passion according the Gospel of John.
It’s a beautiful account, but one that needs to be put into some context. Listening to the story of betrayal and abandonment and calls for crucifixion, we need to remember that Jesus and all of his first followers were Jews. What we are hearing is a tragic conflict within Judaism and among Jews of the First Century. It’s a tragic conflict that has nothing to do with Jews of today or of any other time.
When we cry out “Crucify him!” we’re not standing in for Jewish people of two thousand years ago. No, we’re playing ourselves. We’re being reminded of the ways that we ourselves crucify Jesus when we turn away from his command to love God and to love one another.
Of the four gospels, it’s John who usually depicts Jesus as being most firmly in charge. Frankly, in the Gospel of John, Jesus is depicted as more divine than human. In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus never wavers, is never seriously tempted and has a tendency to deliver long, theologically sophisticated speeches to his disciples who struggle to make sense of what he was telling them.
So, in the Gospel of John there is no agony in the garden, there’s no mention of Jesus begging the Father to spare him the abuse and death that lay ahead.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus doesn’t cry out from the cross the heartbreaking opening line of Psalm 22, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
The Evangelist John is determined to make sure we understand that God was among us in Jesus of Nazareth – and that people, people just like us, rejected God and, for a time, it seems, in a sense even killed God.
The Evangelist John was writing near the end of the First Century, a very multicultural time – a time when there were lots of competing religions, each with their own gods. In the religious marketplace back then people could and did shop around for the most powerful god or gods – the gods who in return for sacrifice and loyalty it was believed, or hoped, would bring wealth, the gods who give security, the gods who would bring victory.
In some ways, over the past two thousand years things have changed -and in other ways not so much.
Two thousand years ago, most people would have had no trouble with the notion of someone being both human and divine – it happened often enough in ancient mythology.
Today in our modern, skeptical and, at least to some extent rational, world, the notion of someone being both human and divine is, perhaps, a harder sell.
But, we’re still on the lookout for the gods who will bring us wealth, the gods who will give us security, the gods who will bring us victory.
Today those gods may take the form of complicated financial products or sophisticated and lethal technology. Today those gods may take the form of overconfidence in our own abilities. Today those gods may be our own ruthlessness, our own willingness to see other people as merely things to be used for our own benefit.
In Death of a Salesman, when Willy Loman is losing his job, he says to his boss, “You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away – a man is not a piece of fruit.”
But, as Willy and so many others have learned, yes, in fact we can and do treat our fellow human beings as pieces of fruit who can be thrown away once we’re done with them.
Considering how human beings were back then and how we are today, it’s no surprise that the Evangelist John depicts the awesome power of God at work in and through Jesus – after all, he raised Lazarus from the dead! John depicts the awesome power of God at work in and through Jesus, so Jesus is firmly in charge, and is a font of profound theological language.
And, yet, the Evangelist John also understands and wants us to understand a great paradox - that the power of God is most clearly seen in the powerlessness of Jesus.
In a recent essay in Newsweek, Andrew Sullivan picks up on this essential truth about the power of Jesus’ powerlessness. Here’s what Sullivan writes about Jesus’ powerful powerlessness:
“Above all: give up power over others, because power, if it is to be effective, ultimately requires the threat of violence, and violence is incompatible with the total acceptance and love of all other human beings that is at the sacred heart of Jesus’ teaching.”
I think that’s exactly right.
The Evangelist John tells the story of the Last Supper in a way that gets across the power of Jesus’ powerlessness. In John’s account, Jesus got up from the table, took off his robe and tied a towel around himself. He poured water in a basin and washed the disciples’ feet and dried them with the towel.
Jesus’ lowly service is a profound expression of the power of powerlessness.
And two thousand years later, it’s an act that’s lost none of its power. Each year I’m always moved when at our Compline for Kids service parents and children wash each other’s feet. Each year I see tears in some parents’ eyes as a pretty much powerless child reveals the power of love and service.
But, let’s be honest, the power of powerlessness is not the way of the world. In the First and Twenty-First Centuries most people don’t really buy it or are totally confused when they encounter it.
So, Peter is befuddled by what this means and at first insists that there’s no way that the Lord is going to wash his feet. As usual, Jesus had to explain it to him.
In those last days of Jesus’ earthly lifetime, Peter wasn’t the only one who was befuddled by the power of powerlessness.
Pontius Pilate served as Roman governor of Judea for ten years, a relatively long time. His long tenure indicates that he understood and was very effective in the use of power to keep a troublesome people in line, to keep the higher ups in Rome happy, and to keep himself alive.
No surprise that by all accounts Pilate had a record of great brutality and ruthlessness. John doesn’t emphasize this in his account of Jesus’ passion, though. Instead, John focuses on Pilate’s befuddlement, which in this case seems perfectly plausible.
I mean, how ridiculous that the Jewish authorities brought this nobody from the sticks to him – this nobody who they said claims to be king! And then he even admits to being a king, but a king whose kingdom is not of this world!
We can hear Pilate’s befuddlement when he asks Jesus, “What is truth?”
And we catch the irony of the question because, of course, Truth is standing before him in all his powerless glory.
In the end, Pilate is unable to recognize the power of powerlessness in Christ the King, and, we’re told, washes his hands of the whole affair.
Finally, the greatest sign of the power of powerlessness is Jesus’ death on the cross. Crucifixion was a common and quite effective way to keep people in line. It was an agonizing, terrifying, and humiliating way to die. There were a lot of variations in crucifixion, including how long the crucified stayed alive on the cross. Sometimes they lasted many hours, or maybe even days, while others died relatively quickly.
Jesus seems to have been one of those who died quickly, maybe a sign that the Messiah, the Son of God, was physically weak, not strong enough to survive Roman brutality for very long.
And yet, the power of God is most clearly seen in the powerlessness of Jesus.
Now, that would be a preposterous claim for the Evangelist John or any of us to make without the Resurrection.
Without the Resurrection, the story of Jesus of Nazareth would be just another story of the worldly gods of violence scoring another victory against a man who preached peace and proclaimed forgiveness.
Without the Resurrection, the story of Jesus of Nazareth wouldn’t even be worth telling, really. It would be much more worthwhile to learn more about Pilate.
Yet, we’re here in this place today because for two thousand years people just like us have experienced the power of the Resurrected Christ – the power that transforms our lives, the power to build the kingdom of God right here and now.
The Evangelist John tells us that just before Jesus took his last breath on the cross, he said, “It is finished.”
Jesus has completed his mission of revealing to the world the power of God through powerlessness.
But, our mission continues. As the Body of Christ in the world, our mission is not yet finished.
We are called to build the kingdom of God here and now.
That kingdom won’t be built by worshiping the gods of the world – the gods who may bring security, wealth and victory.
The kingdom will be built by following and imitating the Powerless One, the One who shows us that true power is found in the powerlessness of loving service and sacrifice to God and to one another.
Today may we recognize the power of powerlessness in the crucified Jesus - and may others recognize the power of powerlessness in us.
Amen.
April 6, 2012
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22:1-21
Hebrews 10:1-25
Psalm 69:1-23
John 18:1-19:37
The Power of Powerlessness
On Good Friday it’s been the custom since very early in Christian history to read the Passion according the Gospel of John.
It’s a beautiful account, but one that needs to be put into some context. Listening to the story of betrayal and abandonment and calls for crucifixion, we need to remember that Jesus and all of his first followers were Jews. What we are hearing is a tragic conflict within Judaism and among Jews of the First Century. It’s a tragic conflict that has nothing to do with Jews of today or of any other time.
When we cry out “Crucify him!” we’re not standing in for Jewish people of two thousand years ago. No, we’re playing ourselves. We’re being reminded of the ways that we ourselves crucify Jesus when we turn away from his command to love God and to love one another.
Of the four gospels, it’s John who usually depicts Jesus as being most firmly in charge. Frankly, in the Gospel of John, Jesus is depicted as more divine than human. In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus never wavers, is never seriously tempted and has a tendency to deliver long, theologically sophisticated speeches to his disciples who struggle to make sense of what he was telling them.
So, in the Gospel of John there is no agony in the garden, there’s no mention of Jesus begging the Father to spare him the abuse and death that lay ahead.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus doesn’t cry out from the cross the heartbreaking opening line of Psalm 22, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
The Evangelist John is determined to make sure we understand that God was among us in Jesus of Nazareth – and that people, people just like us, rejected God and, for a time, it seems, in a sense even killed God.
The Evangelist John was writing near the end of the First Century, a very multicultural time – a time when there were lots of competing religions, each with their own gods. In the religious marketplace back then people could and did shop around for the most powerful god or gods – the gods who in return for sacrifice and loyalty it was believed, or hoped, would bring wealth, the gods who give security, the gods who would bring victory.
In some ways, over the past two thousand years things have changed -and in other ways not so much.
Two thousand years ago, most people would have had no trouble with the notion of someone being both human and divine – it happened often enough in ancient mythology.
Today in our modern, skeptical and, at least to some extent rational, world, the notion of someone being both human and divine is, perhaps, a harder sell.
But, we’re still on the lookout for the gods who will bring us wealth, the gods who will give us security, the gods who will bring us victory.
Today those gods may take the form of complicated financial products or sophisticated and lethal technology. Today those gods may take the form of overconfidence in our own abilities. Today those gods may be our own ruthlessness, our own willingness to see other people as merely things to be used for our own benefit.
In Death of a Salesman, when Willy Loman is losing his job, he says to his boss, “You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away – a man is not a piece of fruit.”
But, as Willy and so many others have learned, yes, in fact we can and do treat our fellow human beings as pieces of fruit who can be thrown away once we’re done with them.
Considering how human beings were back then and how we are today, it’s no surprise that the Evangelist John depicts the awesome power of God at work in and through Jesus – after all, he raised Lazarus from the dead! John depicts the awesome power of God at work in and through Jesus, so Jesus is firmly in charge, and is a font of profound theological language.
And, yet, the Evangelist John also understands and wants us to understand a great paradox - that the power of God is most clearly seen in the powerlessness of Jesus.
In a recent essay in Newsweek, Andrew Sullivan picks up on this essential truth about the power of Jesus’ powerlessness. Here’s what Sullivan writes about Jesus’ powerful powerlessness:
“Above all: give up power over others, because power, if it is to be effective, ultimately requires the threat of violence, and violence is incompatible with the total acceptance and love of all other human beings that is at the sacred heart of Jesus’ teaching.”
I think that’s exactly right.
The Evangelist John tells the story of the Last Supper in a way that gets across the power of Jesus’ powerlessness. In John’s account, Jesus got up from the table, took off his robe and tied a towel around himself. He poured water in a basin and washed the disciples’ feet and dried them with the towel.
Jesus’ lowly service is a profound expression of the power of powerlessness.
And two thousand years later, it’s an act that’s lost none of its power. Each year I’m always moved when at our Compline for Kids service parents and children wash each other’s feet. Each year I see tears in some parents’ eyes as a pretty much powerless child reveals the power of love and service.
But, let’s be honest, the power of powerlessness is not the way of the world. In the First and Twenty-First Centuries most people don’t really buy it or are totally confused when they encounter it.
So, Peter is befuddled by what this means and at first insists that there’s no way that the Lord is going to wash his feet. As usual, Jesus had to explain it to him.
In those last days of Jesus’ earthly lifetime, Peter wasn’t the only one who was befuddled by the power of powerlessness.
Pontius Pilate served as Roman governor of Judea for ten years, a relatively long time. His long tenure indicates that he understood and was very effective in the use of power to keep a troublesome people in line, to keep the higher ups in Rome happy, and to keep himself alive.
No surprise that by all accounts Pilate had a record of great brutality and ruthlessness. John doesn’t emphasize this in his account of Jesus’ passion, though. Instead, John focuses on Pilate’s befuddlement, which in this case seems perfectly plausible.
I mean, how ridiculous that the Jewish authorities brought this nobody from the sticks to him – this nobody who they said claims to be king! And then he even admits to being a king, but a king whose kingdom is not of this world!
We can hear Pilate’s befuddlement when he asks Jesus, “What is truth?”
And we catch the irony of the question because, of course, Truth is standing before him in all his powerless glory.
In the end, Pilate is unable to recognize the power of powerlessness in Christ the King, and, we’re told, washes his hands of the whole affair.
Finally, the greatest sign of the power of powerlessness is Jesus’ death on the cross. Crucifixion was a common and quite effective way to keep people in line. It was an agonizing, terrifying, and humiliating way to die. There were a lot of variations in crucifixion, including how long the crucified stayed alive on the cross. Sometimes they lasted many hours, or maybe even days, while others died relatively quickly.
Jesus seems to have been one of those who died quickly, maybe a sign that the Messiah, the Son of God, was physically weak, not strong enough to survive Roman brutality for very long.
And yet, the power of God is most clearly seen in the powerlessness of Jesus.
Now, that would be a preposterous claim for the Evangelist John or any of us to make without the Resurrection.
Without the Resurrection, the story of Jesus of Nazareth would be just another story of the worldly gods of violence scoring another victory against a man who preached peace and proclaimed forgiveness.
Without the Resurrection, the story of Jesus of Nazareth wouldn’t even be worth telling, really. It would be much more worthwhile to learn more about Pilate.
Yet, we’re here in this place today because for two thousand years people just like us have experienced the power of the Resurrected Christ – the power that transforms our lives, the power to build the kingdom of God right here and now.
The Evangelist John tells us that just before Jesus took his last breath on the cross, he said, “It is finished.”
Jesus has completed his mission of revealing to the world the power of God through powerlessness.
But, our mission continues. As the Body of Christ in the world, our mission is not yet finished.
We are called to build the kingdom of God here and now.
That kingdom won’t be built by worshiping the gods of the world – the gods who may bring security, wealth and victory.
The kingdom will be built by following and imitating the Powerless One, the One who shows us that true power is found in the powerlessness of loving service and sacrifice to God and to one another.
Today may we recognize the power of powerlessness in the crucified Jesus - and may others recognize the power of powerlessness in us.
Amen.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Self-Emptying Love
Grace Episcopal Church, Madison NJ
April 1, 2012
Year B: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday
Mark 11:1-11
Philippians 2:5-11
Psalm 31:9-16
Matthew 14:1-15:47
Self-Emptying Love
For those of us who go to church on most Sundays it’s easy for what we see, hear and say here week after week to become routine or even rote. It’s easy for us to no longer really hear the words. It’s easy to forget the great and amazing truths we celebrate every time we gather in this place.
So, on very special occasions, the church mixes things up in an effort to get us to really pay attention.
That’s what we’ve been up to during Lent when physical appearance of the church has been changed and the structure of our service has been rearranged, as well.
Each week we’ve begun with the confession and in Rite II services we’ve said the contemporary Lord’s Prayer. And we definitely haven’t said the “A” word!
But those changes are very small compared to the Holy Week services that begin today. These unique, once a year liturgies are designed to disorient us – or reorient us – they’re meant to really grab our attention.
And today is maybe the most disorienting and reorienting day of all. It’s a day that has two names: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday.
We began, obviously, with the palms. We began with what looks like the triumphant arrival of the Messiah into his capital city.
But, we already know that the triumph the people expected – the triumph of a worldly king who will restore Israel to greatness not known since the days of King David - is not the triumph that God had in mind for Jesus.
And, we already know that very shortly the mood will abruptly change as we move into the still-heartbreaking story of the betrayal, abandonment, suffering and death of Jesus of Nazareth.
And, we already know that we’ll play our own part in this drama, crying out with the crowds in Jerusalem two thousand years ago, “Crucify him!” just as we continue to crucify him each time we turn our backs on Christ’s command to love God and to love one another.
So, there are two powerful scenes in today’s liturgy – the first looks like triumph and the second looks like tragic defeat.
But, placed between these two powerful scenes – in just a moment, right after this sermon – is a short, seemingly not very dramatic reading from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians.
In his letter, Paul describes the “self-emptying” love of Christ Jesus – the self-emptying love that allowed Christ to live in our midst and the self-emptying love that he poured out in his death on the Cross.
The Greek term for that self-emptying is kenosis.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that God shares just by beginning and sustaining all of creation.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that we see most clearly in the life and death of Jesus of Nazareth.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that we’ll see most clearly on Easter Day when love defeats death once and for all.
And kenosis is the self-emptying love that Christ calls us to share with one another.
So, we begin Holy Week with this most disorienting and reorienting day – a day that begins with what looks like triumph and ends with what looks like tragic defeat.
Today we begin the week during which we see most profoundly the self-emptying love of God in Christ being poured out to save the whole world.
Amen.
April 1, 2012
Year B: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday
Mark 11:1-11
Philippians 2:5-11
Psalm 31:9-16
Matthew 14:1-15:47
Self-Emptying Love
For those of us who go to church on most Sundays it’s easy for what we see, hear and say here week after week to become routine or even rote. It’s easy for us to no longer really hear the words. It’s easy to forget the great and amazing truths we celebrate every time we gather in this place.
So, on very special occasions, the church mixes things up in an effort to get us to really pay attention.
That’s what we’ve been up to during Lent when physical appearance of the church has been changed and the structure of our service has been rearranged, as well.
Each week we’ve begun with the confession and in Rite II services we’ve said the contemporary Lord’s Prayer. And we definitely haven’t said the “A” word!
But those changes are very small compared to the Holy Week services that begin today. These unique, once a year liturgies are designed to disorient us – or reorient us – they’re meant to really grab our attention.
And today is maybe the most disorienting and reorienting day of all. It’s a day that has two names: The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday.
We began, obviously, with the palms. We began with what looks like the triumphant arrival of the Messiah into his capital city.
But, we already know that the triumph the people expected – the triumph of a worldly king who will restore Israel to greatness not known since the days of King David - is not the triumph that God had in mind for Jesus.
And, we already know that very shortly the mood will abruptly change as we move into the still-heartbreaking story of the betrayal, abandonment, suffering and death of Jesus of Nazareth.
And, we already know that we’ll play our own part in this drama, crying out with the crowds in Jerusalem two thousand years ago, “Crucify him!” just as we continue to crucify him each time we turn our backs on Christ’s command to love God and to love one another.
So, there are two powerful scenes in today’s liturgy – the first looks like triumph and the second looks like tragic defeat.
But, placed between these two powerful scenes – in just a moment, right after this sermon – is a short, seemingly not very dramatic reading from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians.
In his letter, Paul describes the “self-emptying” love of Christ Jesus – the self-emptying love that allowed Christ to live in our midst and the self-emptying love that he poured out in his death on the Cross.
The Greek term for that self-emptying is kenosis.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that God shares just by beginning and sustaining all of creation.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that we see most clearly in the life and death of Jesus of Nazareth.
Kenosis is the self-emptying love that we’ll see most clearly on Easter Day when love defeats death once and for all.
And kenosis is the self-emptying love that Christ calls us to share with one another.
So, we begin Holy Week with this most disorienting and reorienting day – a day that begins with what looks like triumph and ends with what looks like tragic defeat.
Today we begin the week during which we see most profoundly the self-emptying love of God in Christ being poured out to save the whole world.
Amen.
In the Midst of Death and Life
Grace Episcopal Church
Madison, NJ
The Messenger
Associate's Message
April 2012
In the Midst of Death and Life
The liturgies of Holy Week and Easter are rich and powerful, helping us through rituals, symbols and music to recall both the tragic last days of Jesus’ earthly life and the joyous surprise of Easter. Over the years I’ve heard parishioners share what they find most meaningful among the Holy Week services. Some love best the washing of the feet that we do at Compline for Kids on Wednesday evening, with parents and children imitating Jesus’ powerful act of servant leadership. Others are deeply moved by the almost unbearable sense of loss when we strip of the altar on Maundy Thursday. Many younger parishioners have wonderful memories of the lock-in when we have the privilege of keeping vigil at the altar of repose and of reading the Passion on Good Friday morning. Still others are fed best by the three-hour service on Good Friday, when we recall the final sacrifice of Jesus’ life and God’s bottomless love and forgiveness even in the face of our shocking cruelty and rejection.
My own favorite service during these holiest days is the unique service held on Holy Saturday morning. It’s very brief, and usually sparsely attended. I admit that part of what I like about this service is that I get to just sit in the pew and pray, rather than think about what I’m supposed to say or do next. But, it’s more than that. I love the simplicity of this service that consists of a collect, some Bible readings, the Lord’s Prayer and the anthem usually used at funerals that begins, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
But, mostly, I love the Holy Saturday service because it reflects the “in-betweeness” of our lives. During Holy Week we recall the tragic last days of Jesus’ earthly life, but all along we know how the story ends. We know that God glorified Jesus on Easter and continues to glorify him in the Church that is the Body of Christ in the world. We know that we live in the “post-resurrection” world. Yet, in the brokenness of our lives and the world, we also know that we’re not quite there yet. We know that God and humanity still have work to do to build the kingdom - the world transformed by love that God has always desired. We live in an in-between time, somewhere between the tragedy of Good Friday and the joy of Easter. Indeed, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
The brief and simple Holy Saturday liturgy reminds us of our lives in this often uncomfortable in-between time. Sometimes events in our lives can also remind us that we live in the midst of death and life. At the end of last month I had a couple of school-related experiences that, upon reflection, together feel like a kind of Holy Saturday.
Many of you have heard about (and some of you even participated in) the “Every 15 Minutes” program that was held over two days at Madison High School. The program takes its name from the horrifying statistic that, on average, every 15 minutes in the United States someone dies in an alcohol-related traffic accident. The program was remarkably complex and graphic, involving many people at the school along with police, firefighters, paramedics and others, including two members of the clergy, Msgr. George Hundt from St. Vincent’s and me.
In the morning we accompanied police officers and a man dressed as the Grim Reaper as one by one students were removed from their classes because they had been “killed” in drunk driving accidents. Our job was then to read aloud the obituaries of these students – that had been written by their own parents. It was a grim task and, although I knew we were acting, the reminder of senseless death and suffering in our broken world was all too real.
Then, at the end of the same week, I returned to St. Vincent Academy, a Roman Catholic all-girls high school in the Central ward of Newark where I taught in the 1990s. SVA is a remarkable school founded and still operated by the Sisters of Charity. When Newark nearly collapsed forty years ago, the sisters made a brave commitment to stay, educating young women for success measured by living lives of service.
One of the ways SVA accomplishes its mission is through “Students in Community,” a school-wide program that culminates in juniors and seniors spending the week and a half before Easter vacation offering service in schools, hospitals, day care centers and the like. I remember from my days teaching there just how powerful this time can be, both for the girls and for their teachers. It was a privilege to speak at their “Sending Forth” service. Standing before those beautiful students I was again reminded that we live in an in-between time, in a broken world. But, I was also reminded how God is at work through us, slowly but patiently building the kingdom right here and now.
I am grateful to be with all of you in this in-between time, somewhere between the tragedy of Good Friday and the joy of Easter, in the midst of death and life.
Madison, NJ
The Messenger
Associate's Message
April 2012
In the Midst of Death and Life
The liturgies of Holy Week and Easter are rich and powerful, helping us through rituals, symbols and music to recall both the tragic last days of Jesus’ earthly life and the joyous surprise of Easter. Over the years I’ve heard parishioners share what they find most meaningful among the Holy Week services. Some love best the washing of the feet that we do at Compline for Kids on Wednesday evening, with parents and children imitating Jesus’ powerful act of servant leadership. Others are deeply moved by the almost unbearable sense of loss when we strip of the altar on Maundy Thursday. Many younger parishioners have wonderful memories of the lock-in when we have the privilege of keeping vigil at the altar of repose and of reading the Passion on Good Friday morning. Still others are fed best by the three-hour service on Good Friday, when we recall the final sacrifice of Jesus’ life and God’s bottomless love and forgiveness even in the face of our shocking cruelty and rejection.
My own favorite service during these holiest days is the unique service held on Holy Saturday morning. It’s very brief, and usually sparsely attended. I admit that part of what I like about this service is that I get to just sit in the pew and pray, rather than think about what I’m supposed to say or do next. But, it’s more than that. I love the simplicity of this service that consists of a collect, some Bible readings, the Lord’s Prayer and the anthem usually used at funerals that begins, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
But, mostly, I love the Holy Saturday service because it reflects the “in-betweeness” of our lives. During Holy Week we recall the tragic last days of Jesus’ earthly life, but all along we know how the story ends. We know that God glorified Jesus on Easter and continues to glorify him in the Church that is the Body of Christ in the world. We know that we live in the “post-resurrection” world. Yet, in the brokenness of our lives and the world, we also know that we’re not quite there yet. We know that God and humanity still have work to do to build the kingdom - the world transformed by love that God has always desired. We live in an in-between time, somewhere between the tragedy of Good Friday and the joy of Easter. Indeed, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
The brief and simple Holy Saturday liturgy reminds us of our lives in this often uncomfortable in-between time. Sometimes events in our lives can also remind us that we live in the midst of death and life. At the end of last month I had a couple of school-related experiences that, upon reflection, together feel like a kind of Holy Saturday.
Many of you have heard about (and some of you even participated in) the “Every 15 Minutes” program that was held over two days at Madison High School. The program takes its name from the horrifying statistic that, on average, every 15 minutes in the United States someone dies in an alcohol-related traffic accident. The program was remarkably complex and graphic, involving many people at the school along with police, firefighters, paramedics and others, including two members of the clergy, Msgr. George Hundt from St. Vincent’s and me.
In the morning we accompanied police officers and a man dressed as the Grim Reaper as one by one students were removed from their classes because they had been “killed” in drunk driving accidents. Our job was then to read aloud the obituaries of these students – that had been written by their own parents. It was a grim task and, although I knew we were acting, the reminder of senseless death and suffering in our broken world was all too real.
Then, at the end of the same week, I returned to St. Vincent Academy, a Roman Catholic all-girls high school in the Central ward of Newark where I taught in the 1990s. SVA is a remarkable school founded and still operated by the Sisters of Charity. When Newark nearly collapsed forty years ago, the sisters made a brave commitment to stay, educating young women for success measured by living lives of service.
One of the ways SVA accomplishes its mission is through “Students in Community,” a school-wide program that culminates in juniors and seniors spending the week and a half before Easter vacation offering service in schools, hospitals, day care centers and the like. I remember from my days teaching there just how powerful this time can be, both for the girls and for their teachers. It was a privilege to speak at their “Sending Forth” service. Standing before those beautiful students I was again reminded that we live in an in-between time, in a broken world. But, I was also reminded how God is at work through us, slowly but patiently building the kingdom right here and now.
I am grateful to be with all of you in this in-between time, somewhere between the tragedy of Good Friday and the joy of Easter, in the midst of death and life.
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