Abundant Alleluias in a World Hungry For Hope

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

April 4, 2021

Easter Day

Acts 10:34-43

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:1-11

John 20:1-18

Abundant Alleluias in a World Hungry For Hope

        Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Happy Easter, everyone!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

So, fair warning: I’m going to try to get as many “alleluias” as I can into today’s sermon and service.

I doubt there will be any complaints about that, because it feels so good to say this ancient and beautiful word of praise, doesn’t it?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Part of the reason why it feels so good to say “alleluia” this morning is that during Lent, in addition to asking us to make a personal sacrifice – chocolate is the classic example – the church also requires us to fast from saying what we refer to during those forty days as only the “A word.”

So, ever since Ash Wednesday, over the long season of Lent, the word “alleluia” has been completely absent from our lives.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true.

I can think of at least three times over the last few weeks when I’ve heard and, yes, even said, “alleluia.”

Back just before the start of Lent, I reminded everyone who calls into our Church By Phone services that we would be refraining from saying “alleluia.”

Most people remembered, a few slipped up in the first few days, and one person just kept on sharing her “alleluias” with the rest of us.

Day after day, I’d conclude each service with “Let us bless the Lord.”

And, without fail, she would respond, “Thanks be to God. Alleluia! Alleluia!”

At first I thought about giving her a call and explaining about how we give up that word for Lent, but then I thought, you know, this has been such a hard time - it feels like we’ve been in Lent for a whole year – and it sounded to me like she just could not contain her “alleluias.” It sounded like she couldn’t help but express her joy and gratitude that, despite our forced separation, we can still hear each other’s voices, we are still able to pray together, even if it is over the phone.

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

The second time I crossed paths with “alleluia” was at our dear brother Alton Avaloy’s funeral, just a few weeks ago.

It was such an emotional afternoon, all of us still shocked and sad at the sudden loss of this good man, but also reassured by the resilience of our community – a community that, after all this time apart, came out in large numbers to say goodbye to our friend and to support his family, especially his mom, Sonia.

In my homily I told everyone that we were going to break our Lenten fast and shout “Alleluia” because, despite our grief, we rejoice that God is never going to let go of Alton, we rejoice at Alton’s new life with God, we rejoice that for Alton it was already Easter – for Alton, it is Easter forever.

How could we possibly contain our “alleluias?”

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

And, finally, there was Maundy Thursday evening.

Our Holy Week services are always important to me, but this year I tried to enter into them more mindfully as usual, taking in the beauty of this place, appreciating the chance to be here with “tech support” and Gail, with so many of you participating at home.

When I had reviewed the bulletin a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t noticed that the “Hallelujah” at the end of the psalm had not been deleted.

So, there we were, live on Facebook on one of the most solemn nights of the year, Sue and I reciting the psalm responsively, and I concluded the last verse loud and clear so everyone at home could hear it, “Hallelujah!”

Sue flinched.

A split-second later I realized what I had done and almost clapped my hand against my mouth, trying to retrieve the forbidden word.

I was embarrassed. How could I, “a highly trained and deeply experienced religious professional,” make such a mistake?!?

But, later that night, I thought about all that we have been through together – all that this place has meant to me and will always mean to me – and I thought, how could I possibly contain my “alleluias”?

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

Early on that first Easter morning, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb of Jesus. 

John doesn’t tell us why she was there by herself, alone in the dark.

Maybe she remembered Jesus’ promise of rising on the third day, and she went to see, just in case something so unlikely could possibly be true.

Maybe - after all the horror of past few days and looking ahead to an uncertain future - she just wanted some time as close to Jesus as she could get.

Maybe even she didn’t know why she was there, what she hoped to find.

Well, at first, when she discovered the empty tomb, Mary’s heart must have broken yet again, fearing that someone had stolen the body, creating even more suffering for all those who had loved Jesus.

She rushes to get help. And Peter and the other disciple run their race to the tomb. They see its shocking emptiness. All that’s left is a cloth and linen wrappings. Maybe out of shock, fear, or just not knowing what to make of all this, the two disciples head back home – no help at all.

But Mary Magdalene remains.

And then, in one of the most powerful and poignant moments in all of Scripture she hears a voice – she hears that voice - she hears the voice of Jesus – call her name, “Mary!”

And, right then and there, early in the morning in a garden, a new age dawns.

In that moment, Mary Magdalene is the church – she’s the first person in the whole world to know the good news, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And, there’s no way that Mary Magdalene could possibly contain her “alleluias,” right?

So, she immediately rushes to tell the others - and soon enough Peter and the other apostles, and Paul, and so many others through the ages won’t be able to contain their “alleluias,” either.

They will share their abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And now, my dear St. Paul and Incarnation friends, it’s time for us to share our abundant alleluias in a world that is so hungry for hope.

It’s time for us – all of us, now – to share our “alleluias” each time we call in for prayer.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by welcoming our first refugees and asylees into the new Lighthouse.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by feeding the hungry and clothing the naked at Triangle Park, and the homeless drop-in center, and wherever we find them.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” with the young people of our community, offering them a different way, offering them love and opportunity, inspiring them to finally lay down their weapons – the best way, the only way, to honor young men like Zaimier and Kaheem, whose young lives were recently snuffed out on the streets of Jersey City.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by heading into our future, not with fear, but with the confidence of people who know that since Jesus is raised, no matter what happens, no matter how far from home we travel, there is nothing that can ever separate us from God’s love, nothing that can separate us from each other.

After all we have been through together – after journeying from death to new life – how can we not share our abundant “alleluias” in a world hungry for hope?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Even at the Grave, We Hope

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

April 3, 2021

Holy Saturday

Job 14:1-14

Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16

1 Peter 4:1-8

Matthew 27:57-66

Even at the Grave, We Hope

When someone dies, the immediate family and closest friends grieve, of course, but usually they also get caught up in the business – the busy-ness of death.

Even in the midst of grief, there’s lots of work to be done – which can be a kind of comfort.

There’s the meeting with the funeral director and the meeting with the clergy.

There’s picking out hymns and readings for the service.

There’s writing the obituary, choosing people to read or offer reflections at the service.

There’s greeting family and friends when they come to the funeral home, the church, or the repast – accepting condolences, somehow managing to make small talk with people who are sad and uncomfortable, not really knowing what to say.

In those first few days after a death, lots of people check in with calls and emails, maybe some drop off food, or send cards and flowers.

But, then, after not too long, most everybody else gets back to their normal lives. They soon stop checking in with us. But we who have suffered a terrible loss are not ready, just not able, to get back to normal – whatever normal will be without someone we love but see no more.

That’s what Holy Saturday morning always feels like to me.

Here we are up early on Holy Saturday morning, this strange time, this unsettling place, somewhere between Good Friday and Easter, between grief and joy, between death and new life.

You know, even people who take Holy Week and Easter seriously often skip over this moment – maybe eager to put yesterday’s sorrow behind us, maybe feeling time pressure because there’s always so much that needs to get done.

I’m sure it wasn’t so different back in Jerusalem two thousand years ago. 

The death of Jesus of Nazareth must have seemed to most people to be just another crucifixion in an occupied city punctured by crosses – another cautionary tale from Roman brutality - another tragedy in a world full of pain, suffering, and loss.

So, it’s better not to think about it too much – how all that hope that Jesus offered seemed to be extinguished on the cross – better to just mind our own business and get on with life. After all, there’s always plenty that needs doing to stay sheltered and fed, to survive.

So, most people moved on.

But, not everybody.

The grieving family and friends of Jesus could not move on so quickly.

We don’t know exactly what they were up to during this strange in-between time.

Maybe some ran off, frightened that the Romans would come for them next.

Maybe some gathered together, like the disciples in the locked room, also scared but maybe also trying to hold onto Jesus’ promise of the third day – not really believing it, but waiting around to see, just in case. 

And others, like Mary Magdalene and some of the other women, made preparations to do the only thing they could now do for Jesus, getting ready to visit Jesus’ grave and bathe his dead body with ointment – an act of love that seems pointless, an act of love that is, in fact, a sign of hope.

So, here we are.

Even people who were paying attention yesterday have already moved on, but here we are in this strange in-between time – grieving so much suffering, past and present, and looking ahead to an uncertain future.

Here we are, up early on Holy Saturday morning.

Because, even at the grave, we hope.

The Hope of a Suffering God

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

April 2, 2021

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22:1-11

Hebrews 10:1-25

John 19:1-42

The Hope of a Suffering God

Today we come to what must surely have seemed to be the end of the story of Jesus – the end of all the hope that he inspired among so many people – the end of the new life foreshadowed by the cleansing of lepers, the restoration of sight to the blind, the raising of the dead.

Of course, unlike the first disciples, we know that this was not the end of the story of Jesus – just the beginning, really.

So, without any irony, we can call today Good Friday.

But, it’s essential that we remember that, for most of our history, this day has been anything but good for our Jewish neighbors, our elder brothers and sisters in faith.

Over the centuries, our Christian ancestors forgot – or chose to forget – that just about everyone in the story I just read was Jewish – we forgot or chose to forget that this is a Jewish story – it’s a story of division among Jewish people – it’s a story of some Jewish leaders justifying the death of Jesus as a price to pay for keeping the peace under the brutal rule of the Romans.

Over the centuries, our Christian ancestors forgot – or chose to forget – that Jesus died at the hands of the Roman Empire, a cruel regime represented by Pontius Pilate – who, in the gospel sounds sort of reasonable, even regretful about this unpleasant business, but who was, in fact, more brutal than most.

Even worse than forgetting all of this, over time our Christian ancestors heard this old Jewish story and made the leap to blaming the Jews of their own time, punishing the Jews of their own time, for the death of Jesus centuries earlier.

Yes, for most of our history Good Friday has been a very bad day for the Jews.

I begin my Good Friday sermon this way every year, and it would be nice to think that we’ve all finally gotten the message, but, unfortunately, current events suggest otherwise.

We live in a time when the old demons of racism and prejudice and violence are on the loose – a time when people seen as “other” – very much including Jews - are in real danger.

So, once again, it must be said, Jesus was a victim of state-sponsored violence - killed by the Romans, who tolerated no threat to their rule.

In Jerusalem of two thousand years ago, crucifixion was a terrible but routine event. 

The city was often punctured with crosses, each holding a decomposing body, each standing as a grim and effective warning to anyone who might think about challenging Roman power.

And yet, despite the suffering of Jesus, and the suffering of so many other people back then and today, we insist that today is Good Friday.

And it seems to me that today is Good Friday most of all because now we know for sure that God knows what it’s like to suffer – to really suffer – to experience rejection, torture, abandonment, and even death itself.

In and through Jesus, God does not stand aloof from us, but instead enters into the mess of life, willing to suffer alongside of us.

Some of you may remember William Sloane Coffin, chaplain at Yale, pastor of the Riverside Church. He was one of the best-known American pastors of a few decades ago.

Back in 1983, Coffin’s son Alex, twenty-four years old, was killed in a car accident. And, just ten days later William Sloane Coffin somehow managed to preach a remarkable, now famous, sermon, in which he said:

“My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”

“God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”

And in the same way, the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when Sidney and Alton took their last breaths – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when each of the millions of people around the world succumbed to Covid – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when broken men opened fire in Atlanta spas and a Boulder supermarket – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when 16 year-old Kaheem Taylor was shot and killed in an apartment building lobby on Bergen Avenue, just a mile or two south of here.

And if God – who could have easily avoided all our suffering, standing aloof from us forever – if God is willing to suffer like we suffer, then we can be sure that God walks beside us, giving us the strength we need to endure our suffering – and, even more than that, giving us the grace and wisdom to someday stop hurting each other, to beat our swords into plowshares, to finally, finally, take down our crosses and put away our nails.

These are surely difficult days as we endure a virus that does not care if we’re tired of it – as we face economic uncertainty, political instability, and the resurgence of ugly hate and destructive violence against anyone seen as other, anyone we can blame for our troubles.

Yet, we insist that today is good, because today of all days we know for sure that God is here in the mess of life, suffering alongside of us, and showing us the way to new life.

The hope of a suffering God.

Amen.

Jesus, Teacher of Hope

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

April 1, 2021

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Jesus, Teacher of Hope

In the gospels there are many titles for Jesus, but one of the most common is one that we heard tonight:

Teacher.

Jesus’ own disciples often call him “teacher,” as do others who are curious, or maybe even skeptical, about his message.

Jesus the teacher.

And, all these centuries later, Jesus is still rightfully celebrated as the great teacher. After all, we still remember the lessons that he taught long ago. We are still learning the lessons that he continues to teach us.

Tonight, on Maundy Thursday, we remember Jesus the teacher gathered with his closest disciples for one last meal.

For some time, Jesus had been predicting his suffering and death, but, understandably enough, his friends and followers did not – or maybe could not – hear what he was trying to tell them.

But now, together at the table one last time, the truth must have been sinking in.

And now, with time growing short, Jesus the teacher uses this meal as an opportunity to teach a few final, most important, lessons.

Jesus the teacher uses the most vivid and unforgettable imagery available in an effort to get through to his friends who, while lovable, often had a hard time understanding his meaning.

So, Jesus takes and blesses the bread and wine – this is me, he says, broken and poured out for you.

Jesus promises, each time you gather at the table just like this, I am here – I am among you always.

Do this in memory of me.

The second lesson of the Last Supper is perhaps even more stunning and memorable – it’s the lesson we reenact here just once a year, but we should probably do it more often.

Jesus washes the feet of his friends – an act so down-side up that Peter immediately objects.

But, to Peter’s credit, when he realizes the stakes, he gives in pretty quickly.

Peter and the others finally learn that following Jesus means allowing him to wash us.

Following Jesus means washing the feet of our brothers and sisters, offering loving service to people whose feet are covered with dust – caring for people whose hearts are covered with the dust of suffering and despair.

And, in one of the biggest miracles of this whole story, the disciples did not forget Jesus’ lessons.

They remembered what Jesus taught that night and passed on these lessons to us.

And, we’ve been breaking bread and washing feet ever since.

A year ago when Sue and I were alone here for our Maundy Thursday service with all of you watching on Facebook, the pandemic and virtual worship was still very new to us.

We consoled ourselves by thinking that we would need to do this just once and that a year later the thirty or so of us who usually gather for this service would be back again, some of us choosing to have our feet washed in what is always a beautiful and awkward moment.

But, now, a year later, it’s still just the two of us here.

And after the year of suffering that we have endured – and with an uncertain future ahead – I’m learning something new from Jesus’ lessons – or, at least something that’s new to me, anyway.

Yes, Jesus is teaching that he will always be with us in the bread and the wine, in our community.

Yes, Jesus is teaching that we must be washed in Baptism and give away our lives in loving service to others.

But, you know, gathered around for that final meal, facing the death of the one they had come to know as the One, the first disciples must have looked to the future with only fear and dread.

How could they go on?

What new horrors awaited them?

And now for us, after all we’ve been through this past year – a raging pandemic, political instability, a shattered economy, ugly prejudice and brutal violence against people seen as “other,” after all we’ve been through this past year, maybe we also look to the future with fear and dread.

And so tonight, Jesus teaches hope – hope – not magic, not wishful thinking, and not even optimism - but hope.

Just when it seemed like we were reaching the end of the story, Jesus points to the future.

Jesus teaches that this isn’t the end, it’s a beginning.

No matter what terrible things may happen, Jesus will always be present in the bread and the wine.

Jesus will always here in the community when we gather around the table. Yes, even on Facebook.

Hope.

Jesus points to the future that God and we can build together – a future we make real by washing the feet of people so desperately in need of kindness – a future we make real by giving away our lives in loving service to others – a future we make real by following Jesus’ command to love one another as he has loved us.

Hope.

Just when it seemed like we were reaching the end of the story, Jesus points to the future.

So, tonight, like the first disciples, in our own time of fear and despair, let’s learn from Jesus the teacher.

Let’s learn his lessons of bread, wine, and water.

Let’s learn his lessons of love.

Let’s learn his lessons of hope.

Amen.

 

God’s Love in a Time of Expectation and Disappointment

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

March 28, 2021

The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday

Mark 11:1-11

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Psalm 31:9-16

Philippians 2:5-11

Mark 15:1-47

God’s Love in a Time of Expectation and Disappointment

        I don’t know about you, but I barely remember last year’s Holy Week services.

It was still the early days of the pandemic, just a few weeks after so much had suddenly closed down – including church – all in a desperate effort to “flatten the curve.”

Remember that?

A year ago, we were just beginning to figure out online worship – experimenting with new technology – trying to get the lighting and the sound as good as we could.

A year ago, the virus was burning through our area, all of those out-of-state ambulances were lined up outside the Jersey City Medical Center, ready to race across our city, sirens blaring, bringing ever-increasing numbers of very sick people to an already packed ICU.

A year ago, we were just beginning to realize that the pandemic would be a prolonged ordeal – much longer than just a few weeks. We wondered how we would manage, and we feared that many of us would not survive.

So, a year ago, we gathered – just Sue and me here in church – and the rest of you out there – and we retold the old stories, we journeyed with Jesus to the cross, and not unlike the first heartbroken and terrified disciples after the death of the One who was their Lord and friend, we waited, hoping against hope for new life.

Well, in the year since, Sue, Gail, and I have become quite skilled at online worship.

You have all figured out how to find us here week after week.

Over time, we’ve developed new rituals – Sue and I doing our “high five” pass at the peace – you all typing in greetings to each other, and giving responses to what you hear in the service, and when we’re done, wishing each other a good week.

And, over just the past few months, miraculous vaccines have arrived and gradually more and more of us have gotten our shots, taking that most important step to a return to whatever normal is going to look like.

So along with many of you, I began to expect that our masks and our distancing and our hand washing and our vaccines would all work to bring down our infection rate, and, until just a couple of days ago, I held out hope that we could have some kind of in-person worship for Easter.

But, it is crushingly disappointing that here in New Jersey, and especially in Hudson County, we are still  very much in the red zone. Infections are widespread and dangerous.

On Friday afternoon, Bishop Hughes issued some revised instructions, advising against in-person worship, but reluctantly allowing small outdoor gatherings and even smaller indoor assemblies.

But, considering our situation here, the wardens and I agreed – with great disappointment – that we will remain online for now.

So, here we are, a year later.

We’re no longer stunned, no longer terrified by the pandemic.

Instead, we’re living in a combustible mix of expectation and disappointment – expecting that this nightmare will all be over any day now and disappointed that things are not happening the way had hoped and wanted.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s leaving many of us so desperate for interaction that we take risks we would have never considered just a few months ago.

But, you know, I think living in a time of expectation and disappointment can help us identify even more closely with the crowds of people in Jerusalem for the Passover, some two thousand years ago.

In today’s first gospel lesson we hear expectation, don’t we?

The people of Jerusalem were chafing under Roman rule, anticipating that any day now God would act again, just as God had acted in the past to liberate God’s people, expecting that a savior would ascend to David’s long-vacant throne, at last restoring Israel’s independence and power.

Word had gotten around about Jesus of Nazareth.  People had heard the stories of the blind receiving sight, the dead raised from the grave. Admittedly, Jesus wasn’t a perfect fit, being from Galilee and all, and didn’t seem to have any military skill, but anyone who knew even just a little bit of scripture knew that God delights in choosing unlikely people for big jobs – look at David, himself.

So the crowd gathered to welcome this unlikely King Jesus as he rode on into his capital city, laying palms and cloaks on the road before him, shouting “Hosanna!” – “save us!”

The expectation must have been at a fever pitch, giving the powers that be something to worry about, convincing them that they must be quickly rid of this so-called “king.”

And then, for the people there came the crushing disappointment of a King who doesn’t summon the troops, a King who doesn’t resist the Romans and the Jewish leaders who would do what they had to do to keep the peace.

The people must have been stunned by the crushing disappointment of a King who doesn’t fight back, who allows himself to be arrested and brutalized.

So, the disappointed crowd – probably some of the people who had so recently welcomed King Jesus with shouts of “Hosanna!” now call for his death.

Obviously, he’s done. And, they’re done with him.

“Crucify him!”

A time of expectation and disappointment.

So, now in our time of expectation and disappointment, maybe we can identify a little more closely with the people of Jerusalem two thousand years ago.

Of course, we have an important advantage over them because we know the rest of the story.

We know that the Cross was not the end for Jesus.

But, that’s for next week.

For now, as we live in our own combustible mix of expectation and disappointment, the story of the crowds and Jesus in Jerusalem two thousand years ago offers us some important and timely reminders:

Jesus does not make all of our problems disappear.

No, Jesus saves us with love.

Jesus is God’s most convincing assurance that God is always right here, here in the mess, right here with all of us.

In and through Jesus, God shows us that no matter what happens, no matter pandemic and political unrest, no matter if we're stuck in "Facebook church" for a while longer, no matter how many times we mess up and fall short, no matter how wrong things go, no matter what happens, we are loved – so loved that God endures rejection, forsakenness, and even death at hands just like ours – we are so loved that even death itself cannot separate us from God.

So, no matter what happens, we can be sure of God’s love - the best news of all in a time of expectation and disappointment.

Amen.

Seeing Jesus, In and Through Us

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

March 21, 2021

Year B: The Fifth Sunday in Lent

Jeremiah 31:31-34

Psalm 51:1-13

Hebrews 5:5-10

John 12:20-33

Seeing Jesus, In and Through Us

Last Sunday afternoon I sent out an email to the parish announcing that I had accepted a new call to serve as Rector of St. Thomas’ Church in Owings Mills, Maryland.

I know that this news landed as a big shock to many, and so I’m especially grateful for the kind responses that you have sent, expressing surprise and sadness, yes, but also offering congratulations, and wishing the best for Sue and me as we begin this next chapter of our lives.

I think my favorite response was from the parishioner told me he’s going to move to Baltimore - but he absolutely draws the line at rooting for the Orioles! Fair enough.

As I wrote to you, this was one of my most difficult decisions, and even now I feel an uneasy mix of sadness and joy, loss and hope. 

I guess that’s what leaving home often feels like, right?

The decision to leave Jersey City and head to Owings Mills was the product of a long discernment – a time of reflection, prayer, and conversation that began last summer when Sue and I began to kind of casually think about what might be next for us.

We wondered if, after nearly eight years back here with all of you, might God be calling us to something new?

Meanwhile, down in Maryland, the people at St. Thomas’ were also discerning. 

What might their next chapter look like?

And eventually we began to discern together.

And now, as the initial shock and sadness begin to wear off, it’s time for our church – time for St. Paul and Incarnation - to begin the work of discernment, too.

What might your next chapter look like?

What is God calling you to be now?

This is an important opportunity for this church and I hope – and fully expect – that you will take full advantage of it.

Over the past few years, the wardens and vestry and I have had some conversations about our mission – trying to clarify who we are and what we are about – working to distill a clear mission statement for our church. We’ve asked, what is distinctive about St. Paul and Incarnation? What might God be calling us to during this time of challenge and opportunity?

But, the truth is that we’ve had a lot going on these last few years: bringing together two churches, selling the former home of the Church of the Incarnation, all of the usual ministry and business of the church, and, of course, a global pandemic that has kept us out of our buildings for more than a year now.

So, the mission conversation has been knocked from the top of the agenda. That is, until now.

Since God is good at finding ways of getting our attention, now the leaders of this church and all of you have the opportunity and responsibility to think about who you are, and what God is calling you to be.

What is God’s dream for St. Paul and Incarnation now, and in the days ahead?

Well, today’s gospel lesson is a good place to start.

We’re told that some Greeks are in Jerusalem for the Passover and they say to the Apostle Philip, 

“Sir we wish to see Jesus.”

Throughout the gospels, Jesus is usually seems to be pretty accessible. People are always coming up to him, asking questions, begging for healing, even touching his clothes.

But, in this case, maybe because Jesus’ notoriety has grown, or maybe because his time is growing short, these Greeks have to ask for help in seeing Jesus. 

Then Philip, maybe following some kind of protocol, first goes to Andrew and then these two apostles present this request to Jesus.

“We wish to see Jesus.”

On one level it seems like Jesus ignores the request – we’re never told whether he did give these Greeks any of his time.

But on another level, Jesus grants the request.

Jesus says to see him means seeing a grain of wheat fall to the ground, dying in order to produce much fruit.

To see Jesus means seeing his followers who are willing to give away their lives in loving service to Jesus and his people.

To see Jesus means seeing a rejected and crucified Lord who wants to draw the whole world – absolutely everybody – to himself.

That is Jesus’ answer to the Greeks who want to see him.

And now today, our world is filled with so much suffering and despair.

In our angry, frightened, armed to the teeth, and often profoundly ignorant land, we are so ready to hate and often quick to kill.

Just in the past week, in Atlanta and San Francisco and elsewhere, we have been horribly reminded of the abuse and violence faced by our Asian-American brothers and sisters, who have somehow been blamed for a virus that they had nothing to do with (of course), a virus that threatens all of us. They’ve been seen as easy targets, as convenient ways for some to vent hatred and even to blame for sexual hang-ups. 

So much suffering and despair.

Just in the past week, some leaders of the Roman Catholic Church reasserted church teaching that it is “impossible” for the church to bless same-sex relationships. That was nothing new, but the authors of this document went out of their way to exclude our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters in particularly harsh terms, condemning as “sin” relationships that so many of us know to be loving and committed and life-giving.

So much suffering and despair.

Speaking of sin, just in the past week, here in Jersey City people were forced to face the fact that we have drastically underfunded our public schools for years, shortchanging our own children, cheating our own future, while developers have gotten sweet tax breaks, growing ever richer off of our valuable waterfront. We were forced to face this sin – forced to face this institutional child abuse - but lots of people sure don’t want to make the hard choices necessary to make it right.

And so, today, amid all of this suffering and despair, the people say – probably without even knowing it – usually without saying it out loud – amid all of this suffering and despair  - the people say:

“We wish to see Jesus.”

We wish to see hope and love and sacrifice and new life.

Just like those Greeks long ago, people today say:

“We wish to see Jesus.”

And, I suggest to you that the mission of St. Paul and Incarnation – the mission of St. Thomas’ Owings Mills – the mission of any church that dares to follow our Lord is to be Jesus in the world – to help people see Jesus, in and through us.

And, as I look back over these past eight years, at our best, we have done just that – people have seen Jesus in and through us.

When we welcome absolutely everybody – especially the people who may be turned away elsewhere – the people we really might not be so sure about – the people we maybe don’t like so much or even trust – when we welcome absolutely everybody, people see Jesus in and through us.

When we share good food – food at least as carefully prepared and delicious as what we usually enjoy here at coffee hour – when we share good food with people who have no place to live, who usually get maybe just a cheese sandwich or not even that, people who might be sick or drunk or high, people who might be so tired of always having to say thank you that they take what we offer without a word – when we share good food with the people at the homeless drop-in center - people who can never repay us – when we do that - people see Jesus in and through us.

When we opened our community center down in Triangle Park, investing money long entrusted to us, using that wealth not for our own wellbeing but to help a neighborhood so long neglected, to offer food and diapers and information and art to people who will never become members of our church – when we do that – people see Jesus in and through us.

When Deacon Jill and the leaders of Incarnation agreed to open the Lighthouse over on Storms Avenue – to offer hospitality to refugees and asylees – offering a place at the table people so often feared and demonized and shut out – and when Jill has persisted over these past few years against obstacle after obstacle to reopen the Lighthouse in its new location – when we do that – people see Jesus in and through us.

And when two churches, separated by about five blocks and a century’s worth of bad history, take the risk of losing what’s familiar, risking at least part of our hard-won identity, choosing to come together not in some cold, technical, legalistic way, but as beloved brothers and sisters – when there is no argument about what to call this new church – when we become so united that new people can’t distinguish who is an Incarnation person and who’s from St. Paul’s – when parishioners from both churches came out on Friday afternoon to support Sonia and her family in their time of grief – when we do that – people see Jesus in and through us.

So, I know that last week I delivered some surprising and even shocking news.

But, as we all work through our mix of emotions, I hope we will all see this as a moment for discernment, an opportunity to really reflect on what kind of church we are and what kind of church we want to be.

And, although it can be difficult, it is a blessing to be forced to consider these important questions, to get clearer on our mission.

And it’s urgent – not because I’m leaving and you’ll have to call a new priest – it’s urgent because there are so many people out there hungry for the good food we receive here – the good food that we are eager to share.

There are so many people in our sad and troubled world saying:

“We wish to see Jesus.”

Let them see him.

Let them see Jesus, in and through us.

Amen.

God is All About Transforming Death into New Life

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

March 14, 2021

Year B: The Fourth Sunday in Lent

Numbers 21:4-9

Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22

Ephesians 2:1-10

John 3:14-21

God is All About Transforming Death into New Life

        We were all horribly shocked and deeply saddened when we received the terrible news that our much-loved brother Alton Avaloy died suddenly and unexpectedly this past week.

Alton was a big, solid guy – a gentle giant – a loving father, a devoted son and brother, and a loyal friend.

He was a quiet but steady presence, always willing to help out around here, especially if that meant flipping pancakes on Shrove Tuesday or grilling burgers at our Pentecost picnic.

Especially after a year of so much loss, his death is a cruel blow for us and for the many people who loved him.

But, as Christians, even as we mourn the distance that now exists between Alton and us, even through our tears, we still do not give up hope.

At his funeral service on Thursday, we will even pause our Lenten fast, and we will say the “A” word, that ancient and beautiful expression of praise and joy.

Even in our grief we are still going to celebrate because we know God – and, for God, death is never the end.

No, God is all about transforming death into new life.

Today is the Fourth Sunday in Lent, often called “Laetare Sunday,” from a Latin word meaning, “rejoice.”

Even in our sadness, we Christians rejoice.

Today we pull out the rose (not pink!) vestments as a way to signal that our Lenten fast is drawing to a close.

Even in our sadness, we know that soon it will be Easter.

Soon, in the garden, at the empty tomb, God will transform death into new life, once and for all.

And the new life that God gave to Jesus is always offered to us, too

As the author of the Letter to the Ephesians writes, 

“But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ…”

God is all about transforming death into new life.

Today’s Old Testament lesson from the Book of Numbers is a strange and disturbing tale.

For starters, it’s a story about snakes – creatures that frighten many of us – not me, of course, but lots of other people.

And, as you know, snakes don’t have a great reputation in the Bible. It’s not for nothing that it’s a serpent in the garden that tempts the first humans to do the wrong thing.

But, snakes are also amazing animals, able to shed their skin, to regenerate body parts – leading many ancient cultures to see them as symbols of fertility and resurrection.

Anyway, some of the ancient rabbis who studied the biblical texts so closely were embarrassed by this story – not so much because God got so fed up with the complaining of the Israelites that God sent poisonous snakes to kill them. I think all of us who have had to deal with chronic complainers can relate to that!

No, what bothered the rabbis was the pole that Moses made with the bronze serpent – and the idea that, if any Israelite was bitten by a poisonous snake, all he or she had to do was look at that bronze serpent and live.

That sounds like magic and it made some of the ancient rabbis uncomfortable, and maybe it makes us uneasy, too.

But, it seems to me that the point is not that Moses was able to create a magic bronze serpent, but that God is able to transform the snake a symbol of suffering and death into a sign of hope and new life – just as real-life snakes are to able to shed their skin and live anew.

God is all about transforming death into new life.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus looks back to that old snake story, drawing a connection between the snake pole and the cross.

With the cross, once again God takes a tool – an instrument – of suffering and death and transforms it into a sign of hope and new life.

And then Jesus continues into some of the best-known verses of the Bible, John 3:16:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

Many people have committed those beautiful words to memory. Some even hold up “John 3:16” signs at football games. But we shouldn’t ignore what comes next. Jesus says:

“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

God is all about transforming death into new life.

And, we can believe that not just because of an old snake story, and not even just because of the words of Jesus in the gospels.

We can believe that because we see God transforming death into new life all around us.

God’s transforming work is built right into creation.

Last fall the leaves turned orange and brown and fell from the trees to the earth.

And, during our long, cold winter much of the ground looked utterly barren, devoid of life, dead.

Even just a little more than a week ago, there was still old and dirty snow piled on corners and by the side of the road. It felt like we would never be rid of it. It felt like it would never be spring.

It felt like that, but we knew better, of course.

And sure enough, about a week ago the last of the snow finally melted and right here in our church garden, out of that seemingly barren soil, the first signs of new life arose, some small but colorful flowers – the first sign of Easter joy.

God is all about transforming death into new life.

Finally, I don’t know if you followed this on the news, but I was so moved by the recent visit of Pope Francis to Iraq.

Besides Afghanistan, it’s hard to think of another land that has suffered more than Iraq during recent decades, during a brutal dictatorship, during wars with neighbors and the U.S., and during the chaos that has followed our invasion and occupation.

Although it’s long been a predominately Muslim land, Christians have lived in Iraq since nearly the birth of our faith, and the faith roots are even deeper than that, since Iraq is the homeland of Abraham and Sarah, the patriarch and matriarch of Jews, Christians, and Muslims.

In recent years, the Iraqi Christians have suffered terribly at the hands of ISIS, their churches bombed, their homes destroyed – forcing them to flee to relatively safer places in the country or, if they’re fortunate, to escape Iraq entirely.

So, it’s hard to imagine a less hopeful place.

Yet, fulfilling a longstanding desire, that’s where Pope Francis went, at significant risk to his own safety, offering a message of reassurance to the Iraqi Christians who remain, and also extending the hand of friendship and solidarity to the Muslim community.

At Abraham and Sarah’s hometown, the Pope said:

“From this place, where faith was born…let us affirm that God is merciful and that the greatest blasphemy is to profane his name by hating our brothers and sisters.”

One of the most vivid images from the trip was the Pope’s visit to the simple home of Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, the leader of Iraq’s Shiite Muslims.

Did you see the picture of these two old men sitting together, talking quietly, bridging centuries of so much bad history, reaching out and holding each other’s hands?

That was a miracle at least as unlikely, and at least as life-giving, as Moses’ snake pole!

So, today, as we mourn our brother Alton and all of our other many losses during this year of pandemic, and as we look ahead to a future that is always uncertain and often frightening, please remember that the God who offered healing in the wilderness long ago - the God who raised Jesus from the dead - our God - is still all about transforming death into new life.

And, for that, we rejoice.

Amen.

Renew

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

March 7, 2021

Year B: The Third Sunday in Lent

Exodus 20:1-17

Psalm 19

1 Corinthians 1:18-25

John 2:13-22

Renew

Last week the small group that has been working on our oral history project – it’s called “Lifting Our Voices” - met to update each other on our progress.

Although we’re just a few weeks into our interviews and research, it’s already been fascinating to hear stories of the Episcopal churches in Jersey City, many stories that are new to me, and I bet to most of us.

As you’d expect, the memories that we are unearthing are as mixed bag – some wonderful stories of being loved unconditionally at church and encouraged to dream big, to demand justice, and to imagine a world where all people are respected and valued.

And there are some less wonderful stories of racism in the church – in our church – stories of desperately trying to keep our churches going when it sure seemed like some people in authority did not have our best interests at heart.

A few days ago I had the pleasure of talking with longtime St. Paul’s parishioner Carole LaBate, someone who will be well remembered by you old time St. Paul’s people out there.

Carole was a fixture of this church for decades, serving as a junior warden, and worship leader (she suspects she was the first woman in both of those roles), and as an usher. In fact, Carole had usher duty on the first Sunday that Sue and I walked through those doors – and her warm smile and welcome immediately signaled that we had found a special place. 

As we talked over Zoom, Carole’s eyes lit up as she remembered our church decades ago – a place not without conflict, to be sure, but a community of love, a church where her daughters learned about God’s love.

Carole moved out of Jersey City quite some time ago but she insisted to me that her heart – and her church membership – will always be right here.

In talking with Carole and hearing the stories from others, I was struck by the power of memory. We don’t have total recall, of course, and yet many of us are able to remember details of the past, big moments, yes, but also seemingly stray and random details.

For example, when I first sat down to reflect on today’s lessons, one word immediately flashed in my mind:

Renew.

But, it was more than just the word “Renew.”

It was a specific memory from church long ago.

Most of you know that I grew up in the Roman Catholic Church, specifically Our Lady of Mercy Church, which is down in the southern part of Jersey City, near the Bayonne line.

Anyway, back in the 1970s, there was a program in the church – not just OLM but the other churches of the Archdiocese of Newark – and that program was called “Renew.”

Banners were hung in our church bearing that word, “Renew.”

Now, I was just a little kid at the time so, until two days ago when I looked it up, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about “Renew” – no idea what kind of renewal movement this was.

But, it was that image that popped into my head – “Renew” – and I’ve learned enough to know that, when that happens, I should pay attention.

Renew.

The setting of today’s gospel lesson is, of course, the Temple in Jerusalem.

We’ve talked many times about the Temple, but it’s important to remember that this vast and impressive complex of buildings and courtyards was the center of Jewish life, believed to be the holiest place on earth, God’s house, the place where, in a sense, God dwelled.

Jews came to the Temple to pray and to make animal sacrifices, all in an effort to keep up their end of the Covenant with God.

Maybe not surprisingly, I always feel a lot of sympathy for the priests who were responsible for keeping this huge complicated operation running smoothly and safely, and who also had to perform the animal sacrifices.

The money changing was necessary because people would arrive at the Temple with coins bearing the graven images of the Roman emperor or some other ruler and those could not be used to purchase animals for sacrifice.

So, that was the scene that Jesus walked into that day – a scene that he had probably witnessed many times in his life, since, like most Jews, he would have regularly gone up to Jerusalem for the great festivals, especially Passover.

OK, so let’s stop right there for a moment.

On most Sundays we’ve been hearing excerpts from the Gospel of Mark, but not this week. Today we heard from the Gospel of John.

John was the last of the four gospels to be completed, probably around the year 100, seventy or so years after Jesus’ earthly lifetime. So, John is the product of decades of storytelling and of divinely inspired reflection on what Jesus means for the world.

And so, John shapes the story of Jesus in a very different way than the other gospels, and that very much includes what we heard today: Jesus’ bold, angry, even violent actions in the Temple.

All four gospels include this story, but Mark, Matthew, and Luke, place it near the end of Jesus’ ministry – in fact, it seems that Jesus’ dramatic action in the Temple is one of the reasons the authorities decide they need to be rid of this troublemaker who some called a king.

But, the Gospel of John tells more or less the same story but places it not at the end of Jesus’ life and ministry but at the beginning – Jesus overturning the tables and chasing out the merchants and the animals, pouring the coins on the ground – the way John tells it, all of this is really Jesus’ first public act.

At least in this case, John isn’t concerned with chronology.

No, by placing the story right up front, John is teaching us that Jesus has entered the world to shake things up, to overturn the tables - to usher in a great renewal.

Christians often call this incident the “Cleansing of the Temple” but I’ve resisted using that term because, first of all, it’s offensive to our Jewish brothers and sisters, implying that the Temple was somehow stained. But, it wasn’t. The Temple system was functioning exactly as designed.

No, rather than cleansing, I think Jesus called people to renewal. Ritual and sacrifice are important, for sure, but the bottom line is that the Temple was God’s house, a house of prayer – a truth that could be easily forgotten amid all the noise, all the business being transacted.

By the time the Gospel of John was completed, the Temple had been rubble for decades, burned by the Romans in the year 70, with its treasures looted.

The destruction of the holiest place on earth was a profound trauma for the Jewish people, and at first, some wondered if they could even continue as a people without the Temple and all that had gone on there.

But, over time, there was in fact a Jewish renewal. No longer exchanging currency, no longer slaughtering an endless stream of animals, they turned their attention to careful study of Scripture and its interpretations, keeping the Covenant by following God’s Law.

While at the same time, the early Christians came to see Jesus as the replacement for the Temple. For Christians, the first Easter was, in a way, the rebuilding of the Temple in three days, the ultimate renewal, just as Jesus had predicted.

Renew.

And, now, for just about a year, we have endured our own trauma. And, you know, I wonder if God hasn’t used this terrible time as a call to renewal, a reminder of what’s most important.

Last week I was talking to local activist Amy Wilson – she’s the one who collected all those diapers for Triangle Park that I talked about a few weeks ago - and she told me that so many people in the more affluent parts of our city are newly eager to help people in need – and not just by writing a check or clicking Venmo, though that’s nice – but also by leaving Downtown and working side by side with people who live in other parts of the city.

And, even here at church we have heard a call to renewal, too.

A year ago we had our challenges, sure, but we were functioning pretty well, pretty much as intended – church, coffee hour, some outreach.

Then the virus struck.

And, while it hasn’t always been easy, for the past year we really have been renewed – praying harder and more regularly than ever – reaching out to others more frequently – getting more creative than ever, remembering that our mission is more than just doing things the way we have always done them.

Renew.

So…about the “Renew” of the 1970’s.

Well, since we live in a time when you can find just about everything on the Internet, it only took me a minute or two of searching to discover that “Renew” started in the Archdiocese of Newark in 1976 and in the years since it has spread across the Roman Catholic Church.

And, just what is “Renew,” you ask?

Well, according to the website of “Renew International,” “Renew” invites people to meet in small groups to pray, to reflect on Scripture, to share their faith, and to commit themselves to live their faith in daily life.

I laughed when I read that because, of course, that is exactly what we are beginning to do here with our own small faith groups.

So, I’m not sure about a whole lot, but I’m convinced that during this time of upheaval, during this holy Lent, God is calling us to renew.

Amen.