Sermon for Easter Sunday, 2020

The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, first born of the dead, and well spring of eternal life, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you now and always! 

I might be unique in this, but part of my morning routine these past few weeks has been to check the news to read or hear the new death tolls, the new levels of infection, the news of quarantine and if we here in Iowa are likely to finally be told to shelter in place. Seems like a fairly grim way to start the day, a cup of coffee and casualty reports. 

This though is what we hear is happening in our Gospel reading today, the two Marys are heading out to the tomb, but unlike the other gospels, in Matthew, they are not going to the tomb to prepare the body of Jesus. That was already done. Instead we are told that they are going to see the tomb.  

They were heading to the tomb to view it. The tomb was sealed and under guard, they knew that they would not be seeing Jesus body, they just went to see the aftermath of death, to mourn and weep for their friend, teacher, and son.  

My father died when I was 14 years old. When I was 16 and able to drive myself out to church, before Sunday Services, I would go down to the graveyard to my father’s grave.  The church I attended, St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church on the Hill, was 9 miles from town and, you guessed it, built on a hill. The church’s graveyard was to the north of the church building on a gradual slope away from the building. 

That graveyard was an odd place when I think about it. The first burials occurred in the 1850’s with burials still occurring out there occasionally. There are a wide variety of styles, heights, and ornamentation to the gravestones / tombstones / and markers. Some are flat to the ground and completely invisible in the summer when the grass is long. Others are monumental. Some have crisp lettering, a growing number are being slowly eroded by the wind, water, and wind driven soil and sand. 

The graveyard was a place of quiet seriousness when we laid a member of the church to rest. It was a place of quiet mourning when anniversaries of death would come and go, mother’s and father’s days, birthdays, all seemed to be marked by a single person or a small group of family standing around a grave leaving flowers. A particularly poignant place in the cemetery, especially now with what the world is going through, was the marker for the “holy innocents.” During the time of Spanish influenza, about a century ago, the congregation had a mass grave for all the children who fell ill and died to that virus. 

I know that there were plenty of times that I walked through that cemetery, and down the hill to my father’s grave filled with the seriousness of a mournful teenager. Full of sorrow and full of a certain degree of fear, particularly a fear of my own death.  

But, there were also experiences of immense joy in that graveyard. Easter egg hunts among the stones, games of tag, playing with the farm cats and kittens while sitting on a grave, and I have heard told, many tales of clandestine first kisses in the dark after Lenten or holy week services. Even in this place of sorrow, joy could still be found. 

That first Easter morning, the Marys walked toward the tomb, they were filled with sorrow, with disappointment, with fear. Their teacher, friend, son, and the man they truly believed had been sent by God, laid in the tomb, dead and decomposing. 

They arrived at the tomb, found the guards standing there to ensure that no one moved the stone and stole the body in order to claim that this Jesus had been risen from the dead. Then, the earth shook. Just a few days before, when Jesus breathed his last, the earth had shaken, ripping the curtain in the temple that divided the holy of holies from the rest of the temple, stones were split, and other tombs were broken open, and the dead inside had begun to walk about. 

This morning when the earth quaked, an angel came down and rolled the stone away and sat on the stone. I have such a silly image of this...probably caused by not a few bad stage productions of passion / resurrection plays and just as bad Christmas programs. I picture some youth being lowered from the rafters of a church (which has skillfully, with construction paper, Paper Mache, and an inordinate number of Easter lilies, been transformed into a garden). Spotlights are aimed at the kid who is wearing a white acolyte Alb with poorly constructed wings and a garland halo. The spotlights are so bright and focused on the child, that they must be getting a sunburn. They push away a stone with great ease (either they truly have been granted supernatural strength for just today to make the program seem real, or more likely the stone was a combination of paper mache and foam). Then sit on top of the stop, smiling (maybe even waving at grandma). Immediately the guards collapse and become like the dead.  

The women are equally terrified. But then the Angel speaks. 

"Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.  He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay.  Then go quickly and tell his disciples, "He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.' This is my message for you." 

Then they left the tomb with fear and great joy. We translate it fear, but that is not really the best word for it. It isn’t fear that something horrible will happen, or the fear of a great and powerful person. It is fear better translated as awe, I have always liked the term, numinous awe, for this sort of fear. Numinous Awe is that feeling of having been in the presence of that which is greater than you can comprehend, something that is outside of your ability to understand or control. It is most often used to describe experiences of God (makes sense since the term was coined by Rudolph Otto in 1917 to discuss God), but some earthly experiences might also evoke this same sensation or emotion, such as standing, staring at the ocean while large waves crash around you, or maybe when you stand at a great height and can see the ground far below, maybe the city streets stories below you, or trees, mountains, stretch out as far as the eye can see. 

As they are running to tell the other disciples (the text doesn’t call the women disciples, but they surely are among the first disciples, and they have been commissioned and sent by and angel, and momentarily by the Risen Christ Crucified, to be the first mortals to spread the good news that Jesus has died and has been risen from the dead, just as he had said), Jesus is suddenly there with them on the path. Greetings! Do not be afraid, go, tell my brothers to go to galilee, there they will see me.  

From this place of death and sorrow, joy and the full experience of God’s presence through the Crucified Jesus is made known. Joy is present amid the stones of sorrow. 

This is where we find ourselves today.  

Yes, we know that Christ has been crucified, died, and was buried. We know that Christ defeated death though his own death and resurrection, he has freed us from our captivity to sin, death, and the devil. We know that Christ was raised from the dead, ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the father and creator. We have been promised that Christ will come again to judge the living and the dead. We also have the Holy Spirit and Christ, God with us, in the here and now, supporting, sustaining, and continuing the work of reconciliation in us and in the world.  

Yet, we still live in a world filled with pain, with suffering, and death. The world is a place where sorrow still has a foot hold. Even in this sorrow, there are times, moments short and long where joy can dwell even in the darkest times.  

This Easter, we are like the disciples who have been told by the Marys to rush to Galilee, for there we will see Jesus. Our sorrows remain, but now there is visible hope and joy of a future reunion. We know that this virus will not last, soon, though it might still be a while, we will again see each other in the flesh, and when we do it will be a joyous occasion. Likewise, soon, we will be reunited with Christ and our joys will be complete. 

My siblings in Christ, Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!  Proclaim this promise, the hope of reunification with every breath you are given, knowing that this is God’s will that we be together again with God the creator, Christ crucified, and the Holy Spirit, in flesh and spirit. Do not be afraid. God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit love you, and I love you too, my dear church, be of good courage. 

Sermon for March 29th, 2020, 5th Sunday of Lent

Grace and Peace to you, from the one who is, who was, and who is to come, Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen. 

 Hope. 

As I sat, or paced, or laid, trying to still myself enough to hear the quiet whisper of God this week. As I tried to listen for the spirit of God to tell me what to proclaim today, what God wants you to hear, and what I need to hear this week. I kept coming back to that quiet, word. Hope.  

We are living in an odd time. We have become a people, a culture of busyness. We are used to having so many things to do, that even in our moments of leisure, we have so many options of what we can do that we can’t just to one thing, but we have to multi-task our leisure time. We are connected to an abundance of information constantly. We are flooded with status updates, silly quizzes, an endless stream of videos and audio to fill our time and our lives. At a time in which the internet has made us ever more connected to one another, given us not only windows into each other’s lives, but occasionally, even constant live streaming into each other’s lives, we find ourselves less connected than ever, we have followers and we follow others. The connections we form, don’t really fulfill our human desire for relationship, but they are more like well curated gossip magazines of self-posted snippets of information. 

For many of us, COVID-19 is forcing us out of this culture of busyness.  

If I am going to be truly honest this cult and culture of busyness has been a serious addiction in my life. Running from one thing to the next thing, always moving, always doing, always connecting, reconnecting. Never just doing one thing, but even when I am relaxing, I am listening to an audiobook, watching a movie, tv show or online video, texting, snapchatting, scrolling through the news, facebook, twitter.  

Then a few weeks ago, things changed. It is really weird to see both how slowly and how suddenly everything has changed. Where there was tons of things to do, now things are slowing down. For those of us who still have work, the nature of work has changed, what we used to be able to expect, well is not really what we see in our day to day. Many are now finding that in this time of physical distancing, they do not need to work, or their job just plain disappeared, a long unexpected furlough and vacation. Same with the students, classes are going quiet. Maybe there is some online work, or your parents have found ways to encourage continued learning, but the routine and rigor of school has been replaced. The run to complete homework on time between all the different activities, sports, the arts, and just socializing, instead of a sprint, has become a leisurely walk, if not just a crawl or the slow becoming one with the couch. 

For many of us, we have found our identity from what we do. Until a few weeks ago, I was a caregiver, a service coordinator for men and women with disabilities, a pastor/pulpit supply, and a student. Then I left Hope Haven and my identity shifted to being a pastor/vicar and a student. Now I am a pastor to a congregation that cannot meet physically together, I am a pastor who cannot go out to the nursing homes, hospital, or folks’ homes to visit and bring communion. I am still a student, but it even feels like that has changed in the last couple weeks. 

So, I am left with the question, that I think many of you might be facing today, Who am I? 

I know that in times like these there is a dramatic increase in depression and anxiety. We as a community, as a nation, and globally are experiencing a significant trauma. Unlike a storm or war, or terrorist attack, or other natural disaster, none of which have stopped during this pandemic, this event is happening all over the world at the same time. During this time, we have become exiles from each of our community. It is for some of us not at all safe to be with other people during this time, for the rest of us, we need to become exiles in order that we can contribute to the health and safety of our neighbors, our family, and the community.  

I know from my own experience this week, and through listening to my fellow seminary students and professors, that this is a time in which hope seems hard to grasp. Hope is replaced with a profound feeling of loneliness, of helplessness, and some doubt. We want to be able to do something, really anything to fight this disease, to speed the recovery of those who are sick, to stop the spread, to help the economy grow, to be with those who mourn. We want to be doing something to bring about an end to all this, but, we find that we are at our limit of our abilities. We cannot really do anything personally to change what is happening in the world around us. We don’t have any control over what is happening. 

We are not alone in this. In our reading today from the Hebrew Bible we hear this prophecy and vision of a field covered in dry bones. Dry bones do not contain life, they don’t even contain much of a memory of life. The dry bones of this story are the people of Israel. They had been conquered and sent into exile, in a land far from home. They lost all control over their lives. They are not only far from home, unable to return to their normal existence, because they are far from the temple, unable to make sacrifices or to worship God. They are questioning if God can even hear them anymore. 

But, Ezekiel is shown a vision. God is hearing his people cry out. God knows the longing of the people and promises to return life, to reknit muscles and ligaments and tendons. God will breathe new life into the people of Israel. They will return home, the connections that had been destroyed will be recreated, life after the exile will be different, it will leave a permanent scar on the people of Israel, a scar that our siblings of the Jewish faith continue to feel and see today, but even though life would be different, life will continue even after the exile.  

 That does give me hope. We are already seeing that in some parts of the world, the virus is starting to abate. In Wuhan, they have gone nearly 10 days with no new cases of COVID-19. And there is talk that after 85 days of quarantine, that Wuhan will lift the lockdown on April 8th. Doctors in Canada and the US are working on promising vaccines and courses of treatments. While we still haven’t seen the peak of cases here in Iowa, let alone the USA, we know that it will come, the virus will be contained, will be treated, will be weakened, and life will return to a normal. We will pay a price for our slow reaction time. People are and will suffer because we are not self-isolating faster and stricter. The isolation itself exposes flaws in our system and our culture. Children and spouses of abusers are trapped with the possibility of violence. Children who depend on free or reduced meals for their daily bread are forcing schools to continue to provide meals. The homeless and the incarcerated are at greater risk of infection and complications. Holes in coverage of medical availability are being exposed, the lack of affordable childcare, so many things that we have allowed to occur are becoming more visible. 

 We have hope that this will pass. But the suffering will leave a scar. I hope that we as a people, as a community, and as humanity can learn from this experience. Not only that we need to do a better job at providing for the vulnerable, but that we also have to take seriously and make a real effort to build connections, authentic connections with our loved ones, with our communities.  

 We also hear Mary and Martha’s pointed statements to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” What isn’t said here, is what I think I would have been feeling, there is a sense of blame, Jesus, because you were not here my brother has died, and also an unspoken question, Jesus, why weren’t you here? 

 I know that we are tempted to ask those things today, or at times of grief, sorrow, or fear. We are tempted to call our faith into question when things are difficult. If God were here, how is God allowing this or that thing to happen. We want to place blame on God when things go wrong, or we beg and barter with God to change the course of things. Maybe we just question, Where are you, Jesus?  

But we also hear that when Jesus saw Mary and the other mourners weeping, Jesus was “deeply moved” and wept with them. Christ wept with his friends as they mourned, he wept for the fact that this is part of what we as humans must continue to face until the Kingdom of God is realized. Jesus mourns with us, but time still must march on, we remain human and sin is still a real and present thing. God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit watch and weep with us, waiting for the time when God’s glory will be revealed.  

 While we also watch, weep and mourn, we trust that God is with us, giving us grace and supporting us through the trials of life. Through our suffering it is also revealed ways that we can work in the world to bring about God’s kingdom and Christ’s peace. In this, we manifest God’s hope for creation, by becoming like Christ, co-creators of the kingdom of God. Today we see more clearly the suffering of our neighbors, and we are finding ways to alleviate their suffering in this time. It is my hope that we can continue to work after COVID to alleviate the suffering in the world in more ways. To find our voice and our work in the world more unified in Christ’s proclamation to bring sight to the blind, release the prisoners, and free the oppressed. 

 In this time of difficult decisions, of loneliness, of helplessness, remember Hope, Hope for the future, hope that things will change, and the hope that comes from Christ alone, freedom from sin, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. 

 O God, where hearts are fearful and constricted, grant courage and hope. Where anxiety is infectious and widening, grant peace and reassurance. Where impossibilities close every door and window, grant imagination and resistance. Where distrust twists our thinking, grant healing and illumination. Where spirits are daunted and weakened, grant soaring wings and strengthened dreams. All these things we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen. 

Sermon for March 22nd, 2020, 4th Sunday of Lent

Grace and Peace to you, from the good shepherd, our brother, and Lord, Jesus Christ, now and forever, Amen. 

Today is the fourth Sunday of Lent. Historically, it is known as Laetare Sunday. Laetare is Latin for “to rejoice.” The fourth Sunday of Lent was meant to be a time to remember the joy of our faith, amid the somber penitential season of Lent. In many ways it was designed to help the youth and those with waning or new faith to have a short break in this difficult season.  

This year, a break from the difficulties that we are all experiencing seems even more important and valuable.  In the past week, I have spent a great deal of time on Facebook, YouTube, and other social or entertainment websites than normal. I have loved how many people are using these platforms to share pictures and memes, and messages of joy and hope amid all the news and false information that is also populating the pages of the internet. Be it images of quokkas, this odd little marsupial from Australia that always seems to have a smile, pictures and stories of parents, children, or pets experiencing this time of forced togetherness in fun and creative ways, or building community and family in amazing, digital ways.  

This week, I want to lift-up our Psalm, Psalm 23 during the sermon. For most of us, when we hear the familiar words, we are transported to times of immense grief. This hymn or prayer of confidence in God’s love and provision is most often recited and printed in connections with funerals.  

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. 
   He makes me lie down in green pastures; 
he leads me beside still waters;     
he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake. 
Even though I walk through the darkest valley, 
    I fear no evil; 
for you are with me; 
    your rod and your staff— 
    they comfort me. 
  You prepare a table before me 
    in the presence of my enemies; 
you anoint my head with oil; 
    my cup overflows. 
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me 
    all the days of my life, 
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord 
    my whole life long. 

The first three verses, sets the tone when God is compared to a shepherd. A shepherd provides for and protects their sheep. A shepherd must be vigilant, unwatched sheep are likely to nibble themselves lost. A bite of grass here, walk a bit, another nibble of grass there, and next thing you know the sheep have walked behind a rock, fallen down an embankment, or been eaten by wolves. But God the shepherd, is ever watchful. We do not want when we are with our shepherd, God is our provider that doesn’t just meets the basic needs of God’s sheep but gives abundantly. Grass is good, any water source is good for a sheep, but our shepherd takes use to rest in great verdant pastures, and leads us beside still, clean water. But our shepherd isn’t just content with making sure that we are physically taken care of, but more importantly God is interested in our spiritual and emotional well-being too. 

This is the shepherd I want in charge of my life. This is the leader I want to follow. 

Then the psalm brings us to an interlude. It is important for us to remember that even with the abundant gifts that God gives us, we will still need to travel through the darkest valleys. Sometimes there will be difficulties, there will be doubt, fear, illness or even death. But these are not times for the sheep or us to be afraid. Because God is with us. Each of us collectively and separately. This reminds me of the season of Advent, another penitential time in the life of the church. We talk about Emmanuel, God with us. And into our doubts, our fears, and our sorrows, God promises to be a God who is with us. Jesus Christ came to the world, became a human, experienced joys and sorrows, to be with us. Jesus even gave his life, died on a cross, so that we could be reconciled with God, to know God, to know God’s love and care in our lives. Because God is with us, Emmanuel, we can fear no evil. Christ and the Holy Spirit protect and guide us. We can be comforted by the presence and promises of God to not abandon us when times are difficult, but to be with us. 

If we didn’t understand the first 3 verses, we get another image of God. God is no longer a shepherd, but a host. God sets a table for us even among our enemies. Again, God is providing for our needs even when things are difficult. But again it isn’t just the basic needs, God pours oil over our heads, anoints and chooses us, our cup overflows. God provides for us and all of creation abundantly. Our joy, our love overflows because of God choosing us, God calling us, and providing for us, even in the dark nights and dark forests of our lives.  

The next verse is incredible to me. We tend to translate it as “surely goodness and mercy will follow me all of my days.” but in the Hebrew that verb to follow is far too passive. It isn’t just that God is walking quietly behind us, instead it is pursuit. Goodness and mercy will chase after me all the days of my life. We have many things that we talk about as a chase or a pursuit, but what strikes me most is the idea of love, or romance. God is chasing after us, like a lover. For God so loved the world, that God sent God’s only son, so that whosoever believes will not perish but might have eternal life.  

So, I will end reminding you, that even though we walk in dark valleys today, God is with us, Christ and the Spirit of God dwell with you. Continuing to provide, to comfort, to protect, and to love you. 

 Our Lord God, We have no idea where we are going. We do not see the road ahead of us. We cannot know for certain where it will end. nor do we really know ourselves, and the fact that we think we are following your will does not mean that we are actually doing so. But we believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And we hope we have that desire in all that we are doing. We hope that we will never do anything apart from that desire. 

And we know that if we do this you will lead us by the right road, 

though we may know nothing about it. Therefore will we trust you always though we may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. We will not fear, for you are ever with us, and you will never leave us to face our perils alone. 

Amen.