Lectionary Poem: Wilderness Road

Lectionary Poem: Wilderness Road

Jerusalem to Gaza,

this was a wilderness road,

wild again.

On a wilderness road,

lurking danger plots and waits,

violent death.

On a wilderness road,

strangling vines grasp hungrily,

taking goodness.

On a wilderness road,

we might discover an outcast,

puzzling scripture.

On a wilderness road,

apostles suddenly appear,

holy water.

On a wilderness road,

The Loving Vine embraces,

branches abide.

This is what I wish.

Year B: The Fifth Sunday of Easter

April 22, 2024

Acts 8:26:40

John 15:1-8

A Sheepfold of Love and Mercy

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 21, 2024

Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:5-12

Psalm 23

1 John 3:16-24

John 10:11-18

A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Today is the Fourth Sunday of Easter – yes, it is still Easter!

And every year on this day we turn our attention to a particularly beautiful and powerful image of Jesus:

Jesus the Good Shepherd.

Both the Old and New Testaments are full of shepherd and sheep imagery. Which is no surprise since the Bible is the product of a time and place when and where sheepherding was common, an important part of the economy.

So, as we heard today in the familiar words of the 23rd Psalm, sometimes God is described as a shepherd, a loving and protective shepherd of God’s people.

And lots of biblical characters were shepherds, including Abraham, Jacob, Moses, and King David.

Jesus, who was steeped in the Jewish Scriptures, uses plenty of shepherd and sheep imagery, too.

There’s the Parable of the Lost Sheep and there’s also Jesus’ vision of the Last Day, when the sheep will be separated from the goats.

And, finally, as we heard in today’s lesson from the Gospel of John, Jesus describes himself as the Good Shepherd.

And we, his followers, are his sheep – we know his voice and we are protected by him, saved from the wolves who are always on the prowl.

And, not only that, but unlike most shepherds who are just in it for the paycheck, unlike any sensible shepherd, the Good Shepherd is willing to die for his sheep, willing to die for us.

Jesus the Good Shepherd.

At this week’s Wednesday Bible Study, I confessed that this shepherd/sheep imagery is not really my favorite.

Part of the problem is that, even after almost three years of living out here “in the country,” I’m still very much a city person – concrete and asphalt, pigeons  and squirrels - that’s my world. I just haven’t had much life experience with sheep or shepherds.

But it’s not the beautiful and comforting image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd that gives me trouble.

No, I resist the image of us – of me – as sheep.

After all, maybe unfairly, sheep are not usually ranked among the most intelligent or capable of animals – they appear totally dependent on their shepherd – they are the ultimate followers – easily corralled, easily misled by shepherds who are not so good.

And so, frankly, I don’t like to think of myself – I don’t like to think of us – that way.

But the hard truth is, all too often, we are like sheep, which can and does get us into big trouble.

And that’s why we need to listen for, and follow, the Good Shepherd.

And that’s why we need to be here, here in the Sheepfold of the Good Shepherd, here in the Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

Obviously, I’m no expert on sheepfolds, but my understanding is that the sheep don’t do very much. Mostly they just stand around and chew grass, waiting to be sheared, I guess.

But the Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy is quite different.

We don’t just stand around and wait.

No, following the voice of the Good Shepherd and trusting that he will guide us and protect us, we are called to offer goodness and mercy to those here with us in the sheepfold, and to those beyond our gates.

        The author of the First Letter of John writes, “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?”

        A very pointed question, right?

        And then he adds:

        “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”

        So, yes, our church is meant to be a sheepfold – a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

        And, at our best, with God’s help, that is exactly what we are.

Two examples:

 

        The other night, our Adult Confirmation and Refresher class had its last session.

        I think I can speak for everyone in the group and say that we were sorry to see our time together come to an end.

        The class was a wonderful mix of longtime, middle-time, and new parishioners, Zooming in every Tuesday evening to talk about faith and the church, learning from the book we read but really benefiting from sharing our experiences, our hopes, and our uncertainties.

         I was particularly moved to hear the newer parishioners in the group talk about the welcome they’ve received here, how everyone’s been so friendly.

In some cases, these sheep have spent a long time looking for this kind of sheepfold, and now they’ve finally found a holy place where, for a time, they can silence at least some distractions and worries, rest and pray, praise God, and serve our neighbors.

         A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

         Second example:

 

         You should know that a couple of our super-talented parishioners have been creating beautiful quilts that I bring to parishioners and others who are ill or shut in.

         So, in my office I have a little pile of beautiful and colorful quilts.

When you look at them and hold these amazing creations, you can see and feel the prayers and love woven into each stitch.

         Without exception, the recipients of the quilts have been delighted to receive them – but none more than the small group of people I visit at a nursing home, a little annex to our St. Thomas’ sheepfold.

This facility is most definitely not a place like Blakehurst or one of the other very nice retirement communities around here – no, at this place I’m sure the aides and the other workers do the best that they can but it’s rough – it’s a place for people who just can’t afford anything better, a place where joy is in short supply, and suffering and despair are all around.

         So, imagine presenting these beautiful quilts to people living – enduring - in a place like that.

         A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by to see one of the members of our little nursing home congregation – she’s a wonderfully talented artist, a kind and lovely soul, and someone totally aware of her surroundings – which, in this case, is a kind of curse.

         She wasn’t feeling well the day I stopped by. She was in bed, not really up for talking with me – but she was resting under the quilt that I had given her a few months before – the one that had little images crabs and other seashore symbols on it – reminders of her beloved home near the water – a memory of happier days.

The quilt is a testament of beauty and love – an unexpected gift that had delighted and comforted her.

         A Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy.

You don’t need me to tell you that our world is in sorry shape, scarred by unspeakable violence in Ukraine, the Middle East, and countless other places that don’t usually make the news.

You don’t need me to tell you that our country is bitterly divided. Or, perhaps, it’s just that there are some who seek to deepen our differences into divisions, those who benefit from tearing us apart.

You don’t need me to tell you that there are bad shepherds working to mislead us – that there are wolves on the prowl.

Given the sad state of our world and our land, it’s as essential as ever that we listen for the voice of Jesus the Good Shepherd, who calls us to love and generosity and unity.

Given the sad state of our world and our land, it’s as essential as ever that, with God’s help, we continue to build here a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy – a place where all kinds of sheep are welcomed – a place where we help our brothers and sisters in need – a place where we love in truth and in action.

And when we are truly a Sheepfold of Goodness and Mercy, people out there – even people in the most dismal of places – can join in our joyful shout:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

 

Lectionary Poem: The Power of Good

Lectionary Poem: The Power of Good

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Good now means

not too bad, so – so, just OK

you know.

Good seems no match for bad,

hate and deceit attract,

not good.

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Good is not even the right word for

The Shepherd, right?

A “good shepherd” is adequate,

fulfills the job description.

What to call The Shepherd who loves the sheep?

Who dies for the sheep?

Mad, Holy, come to mind.

Good, it seems, has lost its power.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Of course good keeps its power!

It’s just, maybe, usually, always, I’d rather decline the power

to love dumb and ordinary

to appreciate even pungency and bleating

to trust sacrifice means something

eternal.

Help me hear the Good Shepherd.

Help me be a good shepherd.

Help me see, admit, use, the Power of Good.

Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 12, 2024

John 10:11-18

The Next Suppers

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 14, 2024

Year B: The Third Sunday of Easter

Acts 3:12-19

Psalm 4

1 John 3:1-7

Luke 24:36b-48

The Next Suppers

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Yes, it is still Easter!

Oh, the world has long since moved on, of course.

Stores have run their deep discounts to get rid of all that unsold Easter candy.

And, if we had Easter candy in our house, by now it’s probably all gone. Or, maybe all that’s left is the sweets we don’t like.

By now, the Easter baskets have been put away for another year.

The world may have long since moved on, but for us, for the Church, it is still Easter!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

        Although we’re now well into the Easter Season, I’m still digesting Holy Week. And for me, one of the most moving moments of Holy Week is the Maundy Thursday service.

If you can, you really should attend next year.

On Maundy Thursday, we turn our attention to the Last Supper.

Now, the Last Supper is the most famous meal ever, right?

It’s the meal we remember and reenact every Sunday when we gather here around the Table and receive the Bread and Wine, when we take Jesus into our bodies and hearts.

The Last Supper is the most famous meal ever, but on Maundy Thursday we slow down a bit and really focus on that night, on that solemn and somber gathering in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago.

For a while, Jesus had been predicting what was going to happen to him – rejection, death, and resurrection – but the disciples hadn’t understood.

Or maybe they just didn’t want to understand.

But gathered together on that night, the hard truth was sinking in.

Jesus uses these last few precious minutes to teach some most important lessons.

Despite Peter’s initial objection, Jesus washes the feet of his friends and says that this is how it should be among them – among us - that we should serve one another – that we must love one another, as Jesus has loved us.

Jesus blesses the bread and wine and promises to be with us each time we gather around the table just like this, each time we remember him.

And Jesus promises that he is going on ahead of us to prepare a place for us – the place of reunion – where, someday, we will all be together forever.

And Jesus says that he is the way to that place.

Jesus is the Way.

At the end of the Maundy Thursday service, after we’ve received Communion, when there’s not much left to say, we “strip” the altar – we clear away all the sacred vessels and linens, the crosses and torches – leaving bare our sacred space, symbolizing Jesus’ absence.

Soon it will be finished.

Or so it will seem.

For the past two Sundays we heard the Easter story according to the Gospel of John – first, Mary Magdalene’s discovery of the empty tomb and her encounter with Jesus in the garden, and then the Apostle Thomas doubting that the disciples had actually seen the Risen Jesus.

And now today we switch to the Gospel of Luke.

And Luke gives us a couple of unique Easter stories.

The first is the story of the Risen Jesus and the two disciples on the road to Emmaus – how the two disciples didn’t know that the stranger beside them on the road was Jesus – they didn’t recognize Jesus until they gathered around the table and he blessed and broke the bread.

In that story, Jesus immediately vanishes before any food is consumed and the two disciples rush back from Emmaus to Jerusalem to share with the other disciples the news that they had seen the Lord.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Which brings us to today’s gospel lesson.

Just like it’s still Easter for us, it is still Easter – it’s still the first Easter, actually, for the frightened and confused disciples in Jerusalem.

Suddenly Jesus appears and says, “Peace be with you.”

For all sorts of understandable reasons that we talked about last week, the traumatized disciples are startled and terrified.

In a world of horrors, good news is just hard to accept – hard to believe. 

Just like we heard in John’s account last week, Jesus shows his wounds – the Risen Christ is still the same Jesus who was tortured and killed.

But, apparently because the disciples still weren’t totally sure that this really was Jesus, he asks a surprising question:

“Have you anything here to eat?”

And the Risen Christ proceeds to eat a piece of broiled fish.

The point, of course, is that Jesus is not a ghost.

Jesus is not a disembodied spirit.

The Risen Christ is still embodied.

The Risen Christ is transformed – people don’t always recognize him and locked doors are no obstacle – but the Risen Christ is still flesh, wounded and scarred - and eating broiled fish with his friends.

It turns out that the Last Supper was not the last supper.

As I’ve sat with this story this week, I’ve understood this meal – and since I can’t imagine Jesus eating alone, surely Jesus invited the others to sit down and enjoy some broiled fish, too – I’ve come to understand this meal as the “Next Supper” – the first of many Next Suppers with Jesus and his friends down through the centuries – the first of many Next Suppers, including the Next Supper that we will share here in a few minutes.

At the Next Suppers, something far better than broiled fish – something way better even than candy - is on the menu.

At the Next Suppers, we receive the Body and Blood of Christ – we receive the comfort and strength we need to go out and be Christ in our world – in our real life, flesh and blood, messed up but still beautiful, world.

At the Next Suppers, we are reminded that Jesus is the Way, the Way to the place of reunion with those who have gone on ahead of us - and the Way of Jesus is the way of loving service, the way of washing feet, the way of giving away our lives for others.

At the Next Suppers, we are reminded that suffering and death certainly do plenty of damage – we know only too well that the wounds really hurt and the scars remain – but, no matter how painful and sad life may get, suffering and death do not get the last word.

Because Jesus is alive!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Lectionary Poem: Startled and Terrified

Startled and Terrified

In a world of horrors,

even Good News startles and terrifies.

What’s the catch?

What’s the trick?

Where’s the anvil, overhanging?

Good News with wounds,

startles and terrifies.

Good News that commands us to go

out,

startles and terrifies.

Good News with wounds,

startles and terrifies.

Before we go

out,

let’s eat broiled fish.

Will it be enough?

Will we be enough,

in a world of horrors?

Year B: The Third Sunday of Easter

April 14, 2024

Luke 24:36b-48

Peace and Joy, With Wounds

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

April 7, 2024

Year B: The Second Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:32-25

Psalm 133

1 John 1:1-2:2

John 20:19-31

Peace and Joy, with Wounds

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

I want to begin today with gratitude – deep gratitude for the many people who worked so hard to give us a richly meaningful Holy Week and an Easter Day that was just overflowing with joy.

I’m especially grateful to our Altar Guild and Flower Guild and to Wanda and the Choir and all of our worship leaders and to our dedicated and talented church staff – and to the many of you who walked the Way of the Cross and then squeezed into church last Sunday, even if that meant you were displaced from your usual seat!

All of us had one goal for last Sunday: joy.

We used our gifts to create joy in this place – the joy of hope, the joy of new life.

You won’t be surprised to learn that, for me, the most joyful Easter moment came during the 10:00 service when I had the great privilege of baptizing Charlotte Enoch and her baby daughter Rose.

Every baptism is joyful – we all agreed about that long ago – but there is something extra joyful when an adult stands up in front of a packed church and says, yes, I want to be part of this – yes, with God’s help, I aim to follow Jesus as faithfully as I can.

There is something supremely joyful when over 300 people – some who hadn’t been here for a while – some who had never been here – together renew the baptismal promises to love our neighbor as ourselves, to seek and serve Christ in every person.

I mean, come on, what could be better than that?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

As we do every year, on Easter Morning we looked back at the first Easter Morning when Mary Magdalene discovered the empty tomb.

And, after a lot of confusion and running around, when Mary finally hears the voice of Jesus call her by name, she’s the first to know the best news of all time.

The God who is always full of life and love has replenished what was empty.

The God who is always full of life and love has turned despair into joy.

Eternal death has been defeated.

At the end of last Sunday’s gospel lesson, we heard that Mary Magdalene obeyed Jesus’ instruction and went to the others, telling them that she had seen the Lord.

We’re not told how the other disciples responded to this startling piece of news but we get a pretty good idea from the start of today’s gospel lesson, which picks up right where we left off last week.

It’s now the evening of the first Easter and the disciples have had hours to absorb, to reflect on, the news from Mary Magdalene.

Yet, it’s not a joyful or peaceful scene, is it?

Not at all.

The disciples are hiding out, as afraid, and probably as confused, as ever.

No doubt they’ve been traumatized by the events of the past couple of days, a trauma that isn’t magically erased by Mary Magdalene’s news.

The disciples are understandably worried that the authorities are coming for them next – that they’ll be the next to face wood and nails, humiliation and death.

And maybe the disciples are unsettled by the news of resurrection.

After all, most of them had abandoned Jesus in his time of suffering – and one, Peter, the so called Rock, denied even knowing him, denied him three times.

So maybe Jesus’ return doesn’t totally sound like good news to people with guilty consciences.

But then Jesus appears. 

Somehow, a locked door is no obstacle for the Risen Lord.

And what are the first words he says to his traumatized and frightened and guilty friends?

“Peace be with you.”

And then Jesus shows them his wounds – this Risen Lord who overcomes locked doors is still the same Jesus who endured wood and nails, humiliation and death.

On the first Easter, there was peace and joy, with wounds.

Of course, not everybody was in the locked room with the Risen Jesus that night.

Thomas was elsewhere.

And I always wonder why he wasn’t with the others.

I always wonder where he was and what he was doing.

We know very little about Thomas but there’s a hint elsewhere that he was a courageous man. So maybe he was willing to take the risk of going out into the city and gathering provisions for the disciples.

Maybe.

But I always imagine him out in the wilderness somewhere, brokenhearted about what had happened to Jesus – angered and disgusted by how he and the others had behaved so cowardly – and maybe dreading what was yet to come.

And so when the others tell him that they had seen the Lord, his heart is just too hardened to believe – maybe it sounded like wishful thinking – maybe it seemed like a desperate and pathetic attempt to tack on “happily ever after” to tragedy and trauma.

If I see the wounds, if I touch his wounds, Thomas says, then I’ll believe.

But to Thomas’ credit, a week later he was there in the room with the others. He showed up. His hope wasn’t fully extinguished.

And, well, you know the rest.

Jesus shows his wounds and invites Thomas to touch them.

And an overjoyed Thomas says more than he probably understood, “My Lord and my God!”

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Peace and joy, with wounds.

In the midst of our overflowing Easter joy last week, I was mindful of the fact that some of our parishioners – many of us, maybe – are suffering.

Some are mourning loved ones who have died since last Easter.

Some are grieving broken relationships and lost work.

        Some might be feeling guilty - guilty of things done or said, things not done or left unsaid.

Others are feeling fragile – worried about our own health or the wellbeing of people we love - and the shocking fall of the Key Bridge has reminded us that things – even seemingly solid and permanent things - can change in an instant.

And many of us are frightened of the future – our uncertain future in an angry and violent and depleted world.

Yet, despite our traumas – or maybe because of our traumas – we showed up, didn’t we? 

We were here, with our wounds.

Like Thomas.

        Like the Risen Christ.

Peace and joy, with wounds.

Now, if I had written the Easter story, Jesus’ wounds would have been miraculously erased.

After all, there were other ways that a woundless Jesus could have confirmed his identity to his friends.

But the wounds remain.

The wounds remain to remind us of all that Jesus endured for us.

The wounds remain to remind us that Jesus our brother suffered, just as all of us suffer.

The wounds remain to remind us that, through Jesus, God really knows what it’s like to suffer and die.

The wounds remain to remind us that suffering and death certainly do real damage but suffering and death do not get the last word.

And though, like the first disciples, we may be traumatized, frightened, and confused, all of us wounded people will keep gathering here – hoping and trusting that Jesus will keep showing up, bringing peace and joy – peace and joy, with wounds.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Liberated to Be Our True Selves

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

March 31, 2024

Year B: Easter Day

Acts 10:34-43

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:1-11

John 20:1-18

Liberated to Be Our True Selves

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

It’s Easter for us and in today’s gospel lesson it is the first Easter morning. 

The disciples have been through so much.

They saw palm-waving crowds hail their Lord as a long-awaited and triumphant king. The crowds thought that Jesus would be a mighty ruler who would liberate them from Roman rule.

But the fact that Jesus was riding a donkey should’ve tipped them off that he was not that kind of king.

When the machinery of the state swung into action to get rid of this would-be king, Jesus did not resist.

He submitted to his fate.

The people turned against him.

Most, if not all, of his friends abandoned him.

And Jesus poured out his life on the Cross.

Empty, or so it seemed.

The disciples must have been traumatized by the suffering and death of Jesus.

They were grieving.

Maybe they felt guilty about abandoning their Lord in his time of suffering. And now most of the disciples were hiding in fear, understandably worried that the Romans would be coming for Jesus’ friends next.

But at least one of Jesus’ friends wasn’t hiding.

Early in the morning, so early that it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb.

We’re not told why.

Maybe she was tired of hiding with the others.

Maybe she just wanted to be close to Jesus, as close as she could be.

Maybe she remembered his promise to rise again on the third day.

Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb and discovers that the stone has been removed and Mary, emptied of all hope, assumes the worst: someone has stolen the body.

Will the horrors never end?

How much suffering and loss must she and the others endure?

She goes to get others – Peter and the other disciple – but, unfortunately, although there’s a lot of running back and forth, these men are really not much help at all.

Finally, finally, Mary is alone in the garden, not knowing what’s happened, not knowing what to do.

Emptiness.

But then, she hears the voice of “the Gardener” call her name.

And, suddenly, Mary knows – she knows the voice of her Shepherd, and now she’s the first to know the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

What was empty has been replenished.

Death has been turned into new life.

Mary’s grief and despair have been transformed into hope and joy.

And, for as long as it took Mary to reach the others, she was the whole church, bearing the Good News:

Jesus has been liberated from the tomb.

And we – all of us here today on this glorious day - we are liberated for new life, liberated to live the way we were always meant to live, liberated to be our true selves.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

For much of the past year, like a lot of people, including maybe some of you, I was fascinated by the story of Flaco, the Eurasian eagle-owl.

Flaco had been born in captivity, and spent more than twelve years in an enclosure in the Central Park Zoo in New York City.

There, he was well cared for, given all the food and medical care he needed. But he didn’t really get to live a fully owl life – he didn’t have to hunt and couldn’t really fly very far.

Well, on February 23, 2023, Flaco’s enclosure was vandalized.

Now, before I go any further, I want to make absolutely clear that I do not condone vandalism. I don’t want to get any letters!

But, on that winter night, apparently the long captive Flaco saw his opportunity and he escaped into a new life, turning up looking dazed and frightened on the sidewalk along Fifth Avenue.

There were attempts to capture Flaco but he evaded them each time – he was not going back to his enclosure.

Instead, quicker and more successfully than anyone expected, he figured out how to hunt for his supper and he gained enough confidence to fly high, hooting from tree branches and water towers atop tall buildings.

Flaco drew a lot of attention, people rooted for him – his liberation and his ability to learn and to adapt to life in the big city touched people’s hearts – and people worried about him, too. After all, as Flaco learned and as we know only too well, as we saw just a few days ago when a bridge we might have thought would stand forever came tumbling down in seconds, the world is full of many dangers.

For Mary Magdalene and the disciples, for all of us, Easter is the moment of our liberation – eternal death is defeated.

Yes, the world is still full of many challenges and dangers, but the God who is full of life and love will not let go of us, no matter what. 

So, we are now free - free to live as our true selves, to be the people that God always meant for us to be.

With God’s help, we are now free to live out our baptismal promises – the promises that, in just a few minutes, Charlotte will now make, the promises that will be made on Rose’s behalf, the promises that all of us will renew.

With God’s help, we are free to take the risk of loving our neighbor as our self – the risk of seeking and serving Christ in absolutely everyone, even the people who are different, the people we don’t like, even the people we don’t trust at all.

We are free to take the risk of being generous, not just giving from what’s left over after all our needs are fully met.

We are free to take the risk of forgiveness, asking for pardon when we mess up and offering mercy when we’ve been wronged.

And when the end – or what seems to be the end - comes – as it did for Flaco and as it will for all of us, we can be free of fear, trusting that the God who raised Jesus from the dead won’t forget about us, either.

It’s Easter.

It may take some time for us to get our bearings, but what was empty has been replenished.

We may not feel quite ready to fly just yet, but grief and despair have been transformed into hope and joy.

It’s Easter. And we have been liberated!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

When the Tomb is Full

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

March 30, 2024

Holy Saturday

Job 14:1-14

Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16

1 Peter 4:1-8

Matthew 27:57-66

When the Tomb is Full

This morning we arrive at the most mysterious, most unknowable, most in-between time of the Christian Year.

The Palm Parade seems a distant memory.

The tumult and suffering of Good Friday is mercifully ended.

Jesus has poured out his blood, his love, his life, and his hope for us.

And this morning we remember the hard fact that Jesus really died.

This morning we remember that, for a time, the tomb was not empty.

The tomb was full.

There are many who believe that the best way to observe this day is simply to be quiet.

There’s wisdom to that but the reality is that most, maybe all, of us, won’t be quiet today.

Instead, we’ll keep busy – maybe getting ready for tomorrow.

Or, maybe just doing our usual chores and activities.

So, that’s why I think it’s important to gather this morning and to remember, to face, this mysterious in-between time when Jesus was really dead.

When the tomb was not empty.

It was full.

Scripture is mostly silent on what was going on during this in-between time.

But that hasn’t stopped Christians from speculating, imagining, what it means that Jesus “descended to the dead.”

Some have described what’s called the “Harrowing of Hell,” that Jesus didn’t just descend to the dead but he liberated the dead, leading them out of hell, with Adam and Eve often pictured at the front of the line.

Or, as I like to think, maybe Judas was the first to be freed.

I don’t know. 

But if Jesus is who we say he is, then in some sense God has experienced death.

God knows what it’s like when the tomb is full.

And so, in those times when it feels like our tomb is full, when we are consumed by fear and grief, when we are confronted by betrayal and death, we can be sure that God knows what this is like, that God is beside us, enduring with us.

And, because we know what – we know who – Mary Magdalene will discover in the garden early tomorrow morning, we can be sure that God won’t leave us in our tombs forever.

After the tumult and suffering of yesterday and in this mysterious in-between time today, and with our own worries and the many troubles of the world, we may be feeling empty.

But remember:

God is never empty.

God is always full of life and love.

Life and love, shared with and through Jesus.

Life and love, shared with us.

The tomb will not be full forever.

Soon.

Emptiness

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

March 29, 2024

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22

Hebrews 10:16-25

John 18:1-19:42

Emptiness

We can only call today Good Friday because we know what awaits Jesus and his friends and us.

Without that knowledge, we certainly wouldn’t be here today. 

And Jesus of Nazareth would be just a footnote in history, if that.

We also know that through much of our history Good Friday has been a very bad day for our Jewish brothers and sisters.

So, it’s important to understand that when we remember the events in Jerusalem two thousand years ago, we are not recalling a long-ago battle between Jews and Christians.

There were no Christians, yet.

And, with the exception of Pontius Pilate and his fellow Romans, everyone in this sad story, very much including Jesus himself, was Jewish.

And although the religious authorities seemed to feel threatened by Jesus and feared that he, or the people who hailed him as king, would bring on a disaster, it was Pilate and the Romans who executed Jesus.

Jesus, like so many others throughout history and still today, was a victim of state-sponsored violence.

But, over the years, the Church forgot – or chose to forget – this.

And, worst of all, Christians held the Jews of later generations responsible for what happened long ago, unleashing horrific violence, cruelty, and suffering.

Tragedy upon tragedy.

In response to this horrible history, today we used a slightly different but perfectly acceptable translation of the Passion, in most cases replacing “Jews” with “Judeans.”

Especially these days with anti-Semitism on the rise, hopefully this language will help us to recognize that the Jews of today have nothing to do with the events that we remember today. 

And, not only that, but hopefully we will remember that God’s covenant with the Jewish people is eternal. 

The Jews are forever our elder siblings in faith.

After Jesus was baptized and then tempted in the wilderness, he spent his time – three years is the traditional count – he spent his time pouring out his life in loving service to God the Father and to us.

Jesus poured out his life, teaching and healing.

Jesus poured out his life, calling us to lives of loving service, instructing us that true greatness comes through loving service - washing feet – giving away ourselves for God and for one another.

Not an easy teaching, for sure, but pretty simple, really.

And yet, people had a hard time figuring him out.

How did an uneducated craftsman from the sticks become such a compelling teacher, such a powerful healer?

Even Jesus’ closest friends usually didn’t really get it.

Instead, they jockeyed for the best seats in heaven.

They resisted the foot washing  - and one even betrayed Jesus, maybe because he wanted to provoke Jesus into being the kind of king that people recognized and expected – the kind of king they thought they wanted.

Just a few days ago we remembered – and, in a small way, even reenacted -Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem.

The crowd sure was excited, shouting “Hosanna!” and placing their cloaks and palms along the way.

But even in this moment, which kind of looked like earthly glory, there were signs that maybe this palm parade wasn’t so triumphant, or not triumphant in the ways that everyone expected.

There was no military escort and no dignitaries gathered to greet the King.

And, instead of an imposing horse, this King rode a donkey.

Well, the mood quickly shifted – and maybe it was some of the same Hosanna-shouting, palm-waving people, who soon enough were shouting, “Crucify him!”

Let’s be done with this loser, this disappointment, this sad excuse for a king.

And Jesus, rejected and abandoned by just about everyone, poured out his life on the cross.

Emptiness.

Or so it seemed.

Speaking of emptiness, as I’ve been reflecting on this story from Jerusalem of two thousand years ago, I’ve been struck by the emptiness of most of the characters.

The religious authorities should have trusted in God but instead they were so afraid, afraid of the Romans, afraid of their own people, afraid of losing their positions of power and privilege.

In the gospels, Pontius Pilate is depicted as kind of wishy-washy but another ancient source indicates that he was ruthless, cruel even by the brutal standards of Rome.

And what did that cruelty get him? Worldly power for a while, yes, but forever remembered for executing the Son of God.

And the people, they seem to just follow whichever way the wind is blowing, welcoming Jesus and then quickly turning against him when they realize he’s not the king that they expected – not the kind of king they thought they wanted and needed.

And most of the disciples reveal their emptiness, too, faithless and disloyal, running away, abandoning, even denying, their friend and Lord in his time of need and suffering.

And, perhaps, if we were there two thousand years ago, we would have revealed our own emptiness, too.

On the cross, Jesus offers us his final teaching.

Jesus pours out his life – giving away all of it - in loving service to God the Father and to us.

Emptiness.

Or so it seemed.

Like those people in Jerusalem long ago, we’ve been through a lot.

We’ve been through a lot even in just the last few days.

And today we may be feeling quite empty.

But just wait.

For now, just wait at the foot of the cross.

And on this hard day and on all the hard days, remember:

God is never empty.

God is always full of life and love.

Life and love, shared with and through Jesus.

Life and love, shared with us.

Pouring Out Lessons

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

March 28, 2024

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Pouring Out Lessons

This past Sunday was the most unsettling day of the Christian Year.

In fact, it’s such an unsettling day that we can’t even decide on one name for it.

It’s officially called “The Sunday of the Passion – Palm Sunday.”

At 10:00, we began out in the parking lot with the Palm Procession, remembering and, sort of, reenacting King Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, when he was greeted with palms and shouts of “Hosanna,” which means, “Lord, save us.”

Lord, save us.

But once we got into the church, the mood turned fast, as we quickly, jarringly, jumped ahead from the palms to the Passion.

It turned out that Jesus wasn’t the kind of King that anyone expected or seemed to want. 

Since he wasn’t a mighty warrior like King David, since he wasn’t going to expel the Roman occupiers and restore Israel’s earthly glory, the people turned against him and the Romans brutally killed him as they killed so many other rebels and would-be kings.

On Sunday, before we knew it, we were shouting along with the ancient crowd, “Crucify him!”

Before we knew it, we were at the foot of the Cross, as Jesus poured out himself: his blood, his love, his life, even his hope.

Emptiness.

Or so it seemed.

And now here, this evening, we back up a day.

We’re still in Jerusalem and the “Hosannas” from the Palm Parade must have still been echoing in Jesus’ ears and in the ears of his disciples, his friends.

It’s hard to know if the disciples really got swept up in all the excitement.

Did they remember that Jesus had been predicting for some time that he would be rejected and killed – and that he would rise again on the third day?

How much of that could the notoriously clueless disciples really grasp and truly accept?

I don’t know.

I do know that it’s hard – so very hard – to face that someone we love is going to suffer and die.

But now, during that long ago evening in Jerusalem, as Jesus and his friends gathered around the table for one last meal, the hard truth must have been sinking in.

And so, with time running out, Jesus the Great Teacher offers some final, most important lessons.

Pouring out lessons.

Jesus blesses the bread and the wine and shares it with his friends, saying this is his Body and Blood, poured out for them – poured out for us - his Body and Blood poured into our hearts, each time we gather around the Table and remember him.

And to the shock and dismay of Peter and probably the others, too, Jesus gets up from the table, pours water into a basin and begins washing his disciples’ feet, yes, including even Judas, who is about to betray him.

Jesus, pouring out himself in loving and lowly service.

And Jesus commands his friends – it’s the “mandate” that gives Maundy Thursday its name – Jesus commands us that if we wish to follow Jesus we must wash feet, too.

We must pour out our lives in loving and lowly service.

We must love one another as Jesus has loved us.

Pouring out lessons.

In a few minutes, we will gather at the Table with Jesus and with one another for the final time until Easter morning.

And at the conclusion of tonight’s service, we will clear away all of the holy objects.

“Stripping the altar” it’s called, preparing for the humiliation and suffering and death that Jesus will face tomorrow, on Good Friday.

And we will bring the Body and Blood of Christ to our beautiful little “Altar of Repose,” echoing Jesus’ night in the Garden of Gethsemane, a night of agonizing prayer and preparation.

By then, there really won’t be anything left to say, so we’ll depart in silence, prepared as best we can be for tomorrow, for the hardest day of the Church Year.

Tomorrow, Jesus will give away himself on the Cross: pouring out his blood, his love, his life, even his hope.

Poured out until nothing was left, nothing but emptiness.

Or so it will seem.

Because, even on the hard days,

Especially on the hardest days:

God is never empty.

God is always full of life and love.

Life and love, poured out, in and through Jesus.

Life and love, shared with us.