Keeping the Season

"Pieta - Death of Christ 01" by Waiting for the Word, on Flickr

Reading for the Annunciation of Our Lord: Luke 1:26-38
Reading for Good Friday: John 18:1-19:42

Mary Speaks
by Madeleine L'Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give power, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, light comes from you.
O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace, I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for, now I hold you.
May I be faithful to this final test, in this last hour I hold my child, my son;
His body close enfolded to my breast:
The holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; your work is done.

--
The Crucifixion
Anonymous, Irish

At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, 0 Swan!
Never shall lament cease because of that.
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah, sore was the suffering borne
By the body of Mary's Son,
But sorer still to Him was the grief
Which for His sake
Came upon His Mother.

"Palm" by brooklin, on Flickr

Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, [Jesus] went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem.

When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’ ” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”

--
Friends, here we are, again, at the beginning of the end. Palm Sunday, our entry into Holy Week, the first movement of a long and difficult story that leads to death, and then to resurrection.

Palm Sunday is the beginning, which makes it a bit of a challenge to preach, because every sermon seems unfinished. Jesus has come to the city, but for what? We don’t actually hear the most important parts of the story until later in the week.

This year, as I kept pouring over the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem, I found myself thinking most deeply about the disciples, and about how joyful and confident they are in their faith today, and I started thinking about how their faith will crumbles as Jesus gets closer and closer to the cross.

Did you notice, when we read from Luke’s gospel today, that unlike the other gospel writers, he doesn’t say anything about palm branches? And the word “hosanna” doesn’t show up? And there aren’t huge crowds of people and children. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem is heralded only by the disciples (who are doing their best to make some noise) and the Pharisees (who are trying to hush them up).

Jesus comes down the path, and it is the disciples, the faithful ones, who can't hide their excitement about Christ their king, who is is Son of God, Ruler of the Universe, teacher, healer, redeemer. In this moment, they aren't ashamed of who they are or what they believe.

They "praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen" and they shout, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” It's a reprise of the song of the angels at Jesus' birth

Right now, on the hillside, with nobody but a few religious authorities to see them, they don't care that they are making a ruckus, they aren't worried that their shouting might offend the empire. When the authorities rebuke Jesus for this unsightly and unsanctioned demonstration, he says that if the disciples weren’t shouting, the very stones along the path would be crying out.

The stones and the disciples alike trust that Jesus is the one who brings cosmic love, forgiveness, redemption, salvation, peace, and grace to the deepest longings and groaning of the universe. I have no doubt that the disciples were sincere and earnest as they cheered alongside the road. They have noble and grand intentions.

But things are about to get unsafe. And difficult. And real.

There will be an awkward washing of feet and a last family meal. There will be an armed cohort rushing them in the garden, and a kiss of betrayal, and all of the sudden, the obnoxious but neutral Roman occupation will start to feel threatening, and Jesus will be treated as a common criminal, and all of the sudden, all of the beautiful, idealistic visions of Jesus's promised kingdom will seem less immediate and less important than keeping a low profile to save their own skins.

Do I think that the disciples intended to desert Jesus in the garden? Do I think that Judas, when he first started following Jesus, intended to become cynical and greedy and bent toward betrayal? Do I think that Peter intended to deny Jesus around the fire? Do I think that the disciples, looking post-resurrection, intended to be so afraid that they would lock themselves away in an upper room?

I don't think the disciples intended any of this.

They followed Jesus as far as they did because they believed in his vision of an upside-down kingdom. Every miracle that he did, every person he healed, every parable he taught revealed to them a beautiful world of hope and healing, running counter to politics and power as usual.

But maybe they hoped that Jesus was exaggerating when he said that this kingdom could only come through suffering and his death. And when things start to look dangerous and bleak for Jesus, and for the disciples by association, their fears start to overcome their faith. Giving into the anonymity off the masses starts to sound appealing. Staying silent seems more prudent than crying out.

As I've been preparing for Holy Week this year, I've started to latch on to the absurdity off this holy story at the very heart of our faith. That we need Jesus to be a servant, to give his body for us, to give up his pride and his life on the cross. That somehow death and resurrection bring salvation. It is a crazy-hard sell.

So I guess what I’m saying is that on days then the stakes aren’t so high, I’m right there with the cheering disciples who praise Jesus as king. And I am great at talking a big game about how Christ’s suffering redeems our suffering…when there is nothing in particular riding on those words. And sure, I can stand up here and preach inside the safety of the sanctuary that Jesus is Lord.

But ask me the last time I started a conversation about the saving grace of the suffering Christ with an acquaintance down at Java John's. Ask me if I always have the courage to believe that God really is suffering along side me when I am feeling lonely as I grieve for myself or for the world. Or ask me the last time that I shamelessly stood up for the plight of the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the homeless, the immigrant, the refugee, the outcast or the outlaw...without either first putting a disclaimer on my words, or following up my words with an apology.

I totally understand the reluctance of the disciples to keep up their cheering as the pathway led closer and closer to the cross. Sometimes, when the stakes get high, it seems far more practical and neutral to stay quiet, lest you offend anybody, and to stay hidden, lest you accidentally admit to yourself or others that maybe you don't have your faith all figured out.

This is exactly why we can’t skip from Palm Sunday to Easter.

I mean, if life were all Palm Sundays and Easter mornings, then faith would be only confident hosannas and joyous alleluias. And we’d send out the message that being a person of faith means that you always get it right, and you always live up to your end of the baptismal covenant, and that nothing bad happens and nothing ever scares you and somehow faith means that death or despair aren’t real.

Except that today we laud a king who is marching into Jerusalem not to pretend that everything is perfect, but to take on every fear, every doubt, every frailty. Jesus did exactly what we could never do. He took the difficult, awkward, painful, shameful, weak stuff in our hearts and in our world, and instead of bringing shame or judgement, he brought redemption and resurrection.

It is how salvation is meant to work.

God shows up in fragile places: in a helpless baby, in a mortal human form, in an outcast, a suffering servant, one who washes feet and touches lepers and reinterprets himself as the Passover lamb, one who is mocked, tripped, unjustly accused, hungry, thirsty, bleeding, dying.

It is the cross that exposes God. It is the cross that exposes us. It leaves nothing hidden and, more importantly, it leaves nothing unredeemed.

What a crazy story our faith is. That the God of everything would be brought to nothing so that all of your own weak and worried parts would be brought to new life. So that all of the dark shadows of this world might not win the day. So that the hidden things might be uncovered, and all might be brought to light. Your fear and your shame, our brokenness and our ailing creation. All of it revealed. All of it redeemed. All of it saved.

So maybe….maybe we give a little grace to the disciples this week. And maybe we give a little grace to ourselves. It is okay if we don’t have it all together this week, because honestly, the whole story of our faith is about to come unhinged. It’s going to get scary and painful and confusing.

So if you get squicked out on Maundy Thursday at the thought of someone washing your feet, it’s ok.
If you get angry at Judas for betraying Jesus and if you get angry at Peter for denying Jesus, it’s okay.
If you cry on Good Friday when Jesus dies, it’s okay.
And if you spend Holy Saturday in a fog, because you really aren’t exactly sure what happens in the waiting space between death and resurrection, it’s okay.

If you have grand intentions in faith, but get scared, it’s okay.
If you love Jesus but don’t have it all together, it’s okay.

The disciples didn’t have it all together, either.

And yet…Jesus died to save them anyway.
And he died to save you too.

Amen.

"Christus Vineit" by Phil Roussin, on Flickr

Isaiah 6:1–8
Romans 8:12–17
John 3:1–17
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?

Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

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.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.

--
Friday night, I was jolted awake by the sound of a loud, unidentified crash from somewhere in the house. I shot out of bed and down the dark staircase to figure out what the cats had knocked over. I looked in living room: nothing. Study: nothing. Downstairs bathroom: nothing. Kitchen: nothing. Dining room: nothing. Back up the stairs I went. Upstairs bathroom? Ah, there it was. A basket full of nail polish bottles and assorted extra toiletries, that usually lived on a shelf above the sink, dumped over and scattered across the floor. I scooped everything back into the basket - nothing was broken, thank goodness! - and staggered back to bed. My heart was still pounding. I looked at the clock: 4:27 a.m.

I laid back down, pulled the covers up to my chin....and, nothing. No heavy eyes, no drowsy face, no sleepy limbs. I was wide awake. And inexplicably anxious.

You've all been there, right? Awake in the middle of the night, feeling every anxiety, every worry, thinking about everything that you wish you could forget and everything that you can't afford to forget, all at once. It is in the middle of the night that we feel most certain that our prayers have been lost, and when we also feel most certain that we have no other option but to keep praying.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I often find myself thinking about my dad, replaying over and over again his last days and moments in the hospital, as if there were anything I could do now to have changed the outcome.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I try to reason with the universe in order that I might make any sense of tragedies that shake our community. Tragedies like freak accidents that claim the lives of loved ones, or the dark and fear and inner demons that could drive a terribly young person to take his own life.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I worry about everything that is beyond my power to fix or to understand.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I have no patience for mystery. Insomnia makes me a chaser of reason, rationality, and control.

The same might be said of poor Nicodemus. He is a chaser of reason, of understanding, and I wonder if Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night because he too was already lying in bed awake, struggling with all of the mysteries of the universe, struggling with his own doubts, struggling with impossible questions that need answers.

Nicodemus gets out of bed, and comes to Jesus. They have this conversation that goes in circles, all about the work of the Spirit to rebirth and recreate hearts, and about the work of God in Christ to save the world and not to condemn it.

But dear Nicodemus, bless his heart, can’t wrap his head around all of it. He can’t for the life of him figure out the mechanics of rebirth, or what on earth Jesus means when he talks about being born of the Spirit, and even this business of a God who loves and a God who dies and a God who brings eternal life is a puzzler for him. Nicodemus tries to figure out the inner workings of God and gets stuck in mystery instead. He leaves with more questions than he started with.

Which is pretty much what happens to us every time we try to find answers for this mysterious thing called the Trinity. A word, of course, that Jesus doesn’t use, and a word that never shows up in the Bible, but a word that describes the very Biblical phenomenon of a God who exists and acts as Father and Son and Spirit.

Questions abound. How is God simultaneously three and one? How can God exist in three persons, but we still say that we are monotheists, worshiping only one God? How is God different than merely a shape-shifter? What is the heavenly “division of labor” and which person of God - Father, Son, Spirit - is responsible for which divine tasks?

Let's be honest, there is no "figuring out" the Trinity. Many have tried, many have failed. Heresies abound! In fact, over dinner earlier this week, Pastor Chad jokingly asked me if I was a risk to preach heresy this weekend, to which I responded that preaching heresy is a risk I take every single week, not just on Holy Trinity Sunday!

But very seriously, you'll never hear me claim to understand the Trinity. Because I don’t. Even Martin Luther himself, preaching on Holy Trinity Sunday in 1522, conceded that the best thing you can say about the mystery of the Trinity is that you don't understand it: "We cling to the Scriptures, those passages which testify of the Trinity of God, and we say: I know very well that in God there are the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; but how they can be one I do not know, neither should I know it."

I might not understand the Trinity, but I understand dark sleepless nights. And I understand grief. And I understand that our souls constantly need to keep making the choice for hope and against despair. And I think the Trinity might have something to say about this.

Because having a God who exists as three means that we have a God who has experienced everything that there is to experience. God as Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer has the divine ability to hold together all creativity, need, hope, suffering, and salvation. There is no dark night, no creative moment, no mystery or question or joy or confusion, on earth or in heaven, that God-in-three-persons has not already experienced, loved, and redeemed.

But more than that, at the heart of our faith is the cross. And at that pivotal moment when Christ died to destroy death, the whole Trinity was at work. While God in Christ faced death head-on, God the Creator took on the work of grief, God the Spirit made space to do the work of hope and resurrection. Because the Godhead is three-in-one, God didn't die alone on the cross, God didn't grieve alone in heaven, and God didn't lose hope.

And when you put all three of these truths together, you find the whole work of salvation; a mystery as expansive as Isaiah's smoky, terrifying vision of God filling the temple, and yet it is a comfort as dear to us as a father's tender touch.

Paul writes, "When we cry, 'Abba! Father!' it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ — if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him."

Yes, even as we cry "Holy, holy, holy" to a God bigger than we can fathom, we also cry "Abba! Father!" to the one who loves us and claims us, and carries us through our sufferings to the glorious promise of our salvation.

And so in our sleepless nights, in our dark nights of the soul, no matter what mysteries we face, no matter what anxieties plague us, no matter what feeble prayers we raise, no matter how out of control or fearful we feel, the Trinity reminds us that God is bigger than all of it. And God has been through all of it. And God will redeem all of it.

The God who fills the temple is the God who fills the earth, who is Creator and Redeemer and Life-Giving Spirit, who is so huge that there is no place on earth or in heaven, in our heads or in our heart, where God is not present.

Madeleine L'Engle says, “I will have nothing to do with a God who cares only occasionally. I need a God who is with us always, everywhere, in the deepest depths as well as the highest heights. It is when things go wrong, when good things do not happen, when our prayers seem to have been lost, that God is most present. We do not need the sheltering wings when things go smoothly. We are closest to God in the darkness, stumbling along blindly.”

Brothers and sisters, I do not know what your darkness is right now, whether you feel a few casual doubts or whether you wrestle with the very meaning of your life itself. But I do know when we, with Nicodemus, stumble along blindly under cover of night, we do not stumble to our doom; rather, we stumble blindly into the waiting arms of Christ. I know that in the waking hours of the night, when we reach out into the darkness, we do not reach out in vain; rather, we brush fingertips against the hem of God’s kingly robe, which stretches like a blanket over all creation. I know that when we face deepest darkness and long for sheltering wings, we do not go unembraced; rather, God pours upon us water and Spirit, flooding us with assurance of our baptisms, drenching us in the promise of God’s presence, cradling us in the reassuring and persistent flow of all love and rebirth and hope.

The Trinity is an eternal mystery. But it is proof for us that God is able - and willing - to reconcile all things to himself, no matter how painful or contradictory those things may be. The Trinity is assurance for us that we are yet children of light, even when we sit in darkness. For God loves the world. Christ saves the world. The Spirit breathes rebirth into the world. Even in the middle of the night, there is hope.

Let us pray.

God of the Heavens,
keeper of the stars,
Lord of the darkest, most remote places
of the universe,
the one who hovered and breathed life,
and the Creator of every living thing:
Be our salvation, our comfort,
our hope, for you are holy and righteous,
your words are true
and your light dispels all darkness.

Glory to the Almighty God,
Sun of Righteousness
and Breath of Life.
Amen.
(prayer by Thomas Turner; posted on everdayLiturgy)

"Christus Vineit" by Phil Roussin, on Flickr

Isaiah 6:1–8
Romans 8:12–17
John 3:1–17
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?

Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

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.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.

--
Friday night, I was jolted awake by the sound of a loud, unidentified crash from somewhere in the house. I shot out of bed and down the dark staircase to figure out what the cats had knocked over. I looked in living room: nothing. Study: nothing. Downstairs bathroom: nothing. Kitchen: nothing. Dining room: nothing. Back up the stairs I went. Upstairs bathroom? Ah, there it was. A basket full of nail polish bottles and assorted extra toiletries, that usually lived on a shelf above the sink, dumped over and scattered across the floor. I scooped everything back into the basket - nothing was broken, thank goodness! - and staggered back to bed. My heart was still pounding. I looked at the clock: 4:27 a.m.

I laid back down, pulled the covers up to my chin....and, nothing. No heavy eyes, no drowsy face, no sleepy limbs. I was wide awake. And inexplicably anxious.

You've all been there, right? Awake in the middle of the night, feeling every anxiety, every worry, thinking about everything that you wish you could forget and everything that you can't afford to forget, all at once. It is in the middle of the night that we feel most certain that our prayers have been lost, and when we also feel most certain that we have no other option but to keep praying.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I often find myself thinking about my dad, replaying over and over again his last days and moments in the hospital, as if there were anything I could do now to have changed the outcome.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I try to reason with the universe in order that I might make any sense of tragedies that shake our community. Tragedies like freak accidents that claim the lives of loved ones, or the dark and fear and inner demons that could drive a terribly young person to take his own life.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I worry about everything that is beyond my power to fix or to understand.

It is in the dark middle of the night that I have no patience for mystery. Insomnia makes me a chaser of reason, rationality, and control.

The same might be said of poor Nicodemus. He is a chaser of reason, of understanding, and I wonder if Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night because he too was already lying in bed awake, struggling with all of the mysteries of the universe, struggling with his own doubts, struggling with impossible questions that need answers.

Nicodemus gets out of bed, and comes to Jesus. They have this conversation that goes in circles, all about the work of the Spirit to rebirth and recreate hearts, and about the work of God in Christ to save the world and not to condemn it.

But dear Nicodemus, bless his heart, can’t wrap his head around all of it. He can’t for the life of him figure out the mechanics of rebirth, or what on earth Jesus means when he talks about being born of the Spirit, and even this business of a God who loves and a God who dies and a God who brings eternal life is a puzzler for him. Nicodemus tries to figure out the inner workings of God and gets stuck in mystery instead. He leaves with more questions than he started with.

Which is pretty much what happens to us every time we try to find answers for this mysterious thing called the Trinity. A word, of course, that Jesus doesn’t use, and a word that never shows up in the Bible, but a word that describes the very Biblical phenomenon of a God who exists and acts as Father and Son and Spirit.

Questions abound. How is God simultaneously three and one? How can God exist in three persons, but we still say that we are monotheists, worshiping only one God? How is God different than merely a shape-shifter? What is the heavenly “division of labor” and which person of God - Father, Son, Spirit - is responsible for which divine tasks?

Let's be honest, there is no "figuring out" the Trinity. Many have tried, many have failed. Heresies abound! In fact, over dinner earlier this week, Pastor Chad jokingly asked me if I was a risk to preach heresy this weekend, to which I responded that preaching heresy is a risk I take every single week, not just on Holy Trinity Sunday!

But very seriously, you'll never hear me claim to understand the Trinity. Because I don’t. Even Martin Luther himself, preaching on Holy Trinity Sunday in 1522, conceded that the best thing you can say about the mystery of the Trinity is that you don't understand it: "We cling to the Scriptures, those passages which testify of the Trinity of God, and we say: I know very well that in God there are the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; but how they can be one I do not know, neither should I know it."

I might not understand the Trinity, but I understand dark sleepless nights. And I understand grief. And I understand that our souls constantly need to keep making the choice for hope and against despair. And I think the Trinity might have something to say about this.

Because having a God who exists as three means that we have a God who has experienced everything that there is to experience. God as Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer has the divine ability to hold together all creativity, need, hope, suffering, and salvation. There is no dark night, no creative moment, no mystery or question or joy or confusion, on earth or in heaven, that God-in-three-persons has not already experienced, loved, and redeemed.

But more than that, at the heart of our faith is the cross. And at that pivotal moment when Christ died to destroy death, the whole Trinity was at work. While God in Christ faced death head-on, God the Creator took on the work of grief, God the Spirit made space to do the work of hope and resurrection. Because the Godhead is three-in-one, God didn't die alone on the cross, God didn't grieve alone in heaven, and God didn't lose hope.

And when you put all three of these truths together, you find the whole work of salvation; a mystery as expansive as Isaiah's smoky, terrifying vision of God filling the temple, and yet it is a comfort as dear to us as a father's tender touch.

Paul writes, "When we cry, 'Abba! Father!' it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ — if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him."

Yes, even as we cry "Holy, holy, holy" to a God bigger than we can fathom, we also cry "Abba! Father!" to the one who loves us and claims us, and carries us through our sufferings to the glorious promise of our salvation.

And so in our sleepless nights, in our dark nights of the soul, no matter what mysteries we face, no matter what anxieties plague us, no matter what feeble prayers we raise, no matter how out of control or fearful we feel, the Trinity reminds us that God is bigger than all of it. And God has been through all of it. And God will redeem all of it.

The God who fills the temple is the God who fills the earth, who is Creator and Redeemer and Life-Giving Spirit, who is so huge that there is no place on earth or in heaven, in our heads or in our heart, where God is not present.

Madeleine L'Engle says, “I will have nothing to do with a God who cares only occasionally. I need a God who is with us always, everywhere, in the deepest depths as well as the highest heights. It is when things go wrong, when good things do not happen, when our prayers seem to have been lost, that God is most present. We do not need the sheltering wings when things go smoothly. We are closest to God in the darkness, stumbling along blindly.”

Brothers and sisters, I do not know what your darkness is right now, whether you feel a few casual doubts or whether you wrestle with the very meaning of your life itself. But I do know when we, with Nicodemus, stumble along blindly under cover of night, we do not stumble to our doom; rather, we stumble blindly into the waiting arms of Christ. I know that in the waking hours of the night, when we reach out into the darkness, we do not reach out in vain; rather, we brush fingertips against the hem of God’s kingly robe, which stretches like a blanket over all creation. I know that when we face deepest darkness and long for sheltering wings, we do not go unembraced; rather, God pours upon us water and Spirit, flooding us with assurance of our baptisms, drenching us in the promise of God’s presence, cradling us in the reassuring and persistent flow of all love and rebirth and hope.

The Trinity is an eternal mystery. But it is proof for us that God is able - and willing - to reconcile all things to himself, no matter how painful or contradictory those things may be. The Trinity is assurance for us that we are yet children of light, even when we sit in darkness. For God loves the world. Christ saves the world. The Spirit breathes rebirth into the world. Even in the middle of the night, there is hope.

Let us pray.

God of the Heavens,
keeper of the stars,
Lord of the darkest, most remote places
of the universe,
the one who hovered and breathed life,
and the Creator of every living thing:
Be our salvation, our comfort,
our hope, for you are holy and righteous,
your words are true
and your light dispels all darkness.

Glory to the Almighty God,
Sun of Righteousness
and Breath of Life.
Amen.

(prayer by Thomas Turner; posted on everdayLiturgy)

"Holy Saturday" by elizabethgrayking, on Flickr

Kelly Renee Gissendaner with the theologian Jürgen Moltmann in 2011, when she completed a prison theology program. Credit Ann Borden/Emory University; photo from New York Times

Genesis 17:1–7, 15–16
When Abram was ninety-nine years old, the LORD appeared to Abram, and said to him, "I am God Almighty; walk before me, and be blameless. 2And I will make my covenant between me and you, and will make you exceedingly numerous." 3Then Abram fell on his face; and God said to him, 4"As for me, this is my covenant with you: You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations. 5No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. 6I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. 7I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. 15God said to Abraham, "As for Sarai your wife, you shall not call her Sarai, but Sarah shall be her name. 16I will bless her, and moreover I will give you a son by her. I will bless her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of peoples shall come from her."

Romans 4:13–25
13For the promise that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. 14If it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void. 15For the law brings wrath; but where there is no law, neither is there violation. 16For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (for he is the father of all of us, 17as it is written, "I have made you the father of many nations") — in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist. 18Hoping against hope, he believed that he would become "the father of many nations," according to what was said, "So numerous shall your descendants be." 19He did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was already as good as dead (for he was about a hundred years old), or when he considered the barrenness of Sarah's womb. 20No distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, 21being fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. 22Therefore his faith "was reckoned to him as righteousness." 23Now the words, "it was reckoned to him," were written not for his sake alone, 24but for ours also. It will be reckoned to us who believe in him who raised Jesus our Lord from the dead, 25who was handed over to death for our trespasses and was raised for our justification.

Mark 8:31–38
31Then [Jesus] began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. 32He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. 33But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, "Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things." 34He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. 35For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. 36For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? 37Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? 38Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels."

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There are times that you sit down with the lectionary and can think of a million different directions to preach. And then there are times when you don't have any clear idea, and so you pray - beg, even - for the Holy Spirit to show up. The problem is that sometimes, when you beg, the Holy Spirit indeed shows up...and you sort of wish she hadn't.

Today is one of those days. I'm sure that if I hadn't begged for the Spirit's inspiration, I would have preached some bland but nice sermon about God's covenant promise with Abraham and about the covenant promise that God makes with us through the cross of Christ. But instead, I prayed for the Holy Spirit.

And in a five-minute span, two things happened.

First, I read anew today’s reading from Paul's letter to the Romans, where he contrasts the judgement of the law with the promise of faith: "The law brings wrath,” he writes, and “for this reason [our inheritance] depends on faith, in order that [God’s] promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants.”

Second, I did a quick check of the news, and tripped face-first over the story of Kelly Renee Gissendaner, someone for whom the wrath of the law and the promise of faith stand in dire opposition.

See, Ms. Gissendaner is a death row inmate in Georgia. She was sent to prison in 1998 for orchestrating the murder of her husband at the hands of her boyfriend. Earlier this week, her final petition for clemency was denied by the Georgia board of parole, and she is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection this Monday (tomorrow).

In 2010, Ms. Gissendaner joined some of her fellow inmates in a year-long theology course, run by Atlanta-area divinity schools and universities. She became a dedicated student of theology, passionately devouring works by the likes of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Rowan Williams, and Jurgen Moltmann. As it turned out, Ms. Gissendaner's theology professor was friends with Professor Moltmann. If you aren't quite up on your contemporary theologians, Jurgenn Moltmann is a biggie. He's eighty-something years old and his works are pretty much required reading at all seminaries and divinity schools. With nothing to lose, Ms. Gissendaner asked her teacher whether it might be okay for her to write to him, thanking him for his writings, which had so moved and inspired her. The two became unlikely pen pals, sharing their faith and their insights with one another. Professor Moltmann even offered a commencement address for Ms. Gissendaner and the ten other inmates who were graduating the year-long theology course.

Ms. Gissendaner continued her theology studies even after the program ended, and has kept up her friendship with Professor Moltmann. She has leaned on her ever-deepening faith to sustain her through these last years in prison, and now into these last few days of her life. She has served as spiritual advisor and counselor to other women in prison with her. She has admitted to the brutal and broken circumstances of her crime. She has prayed and confessed and become a sign of the mercy of God. She has turned to God with her moments of trust and moments of doubt and moments of anger. And now, she looks to God as the giver of resurrection and life as she stares her own mortality squarely in the face.

Jesus says, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life?"

Yes, Jesus says, the value of life is infinite, incomprehensible. So what does it profit any one of us to gain the whole world, and in the meantime, lose our lives? What is the cost of losing a life, either outside the law or at the hands of the law? What does it profit any one of us to be arbitrator of life and death? In the grand scheme of things, knowing that none of us will escape the cost of death, what is the true value of our lives, and where does that value come from?

Jesus, being no stranger to human life, human suffering, and human death, is also no stranger to being handed a life sentence. I have to believe that these words about the way of the cross are, at least in part, born out of the terror and grief of staring down his own untimely death at the hands of an empire, a law, and a people who will fail him.

We, as humans, routinely, spectacularly fail one another. Abraham and Sarah had failed one another in their childless old age. Peter had failed Jesus in a moment of weakness (and would continue to do so). Kelly Renee Gissendaner, by her actions, failed herself and her boyfriend and her husband and the social contract. And parole boards and prosecutors and judges and juries have now failed her. Someday, we, too, will be failed by our systems and structures, and ultimately, by our mortal bodies themselves.

The threat of death makes us honest, I think. Makes us see more clearly what really matters. Makes us more desperate to imagine a future with hope. Makes us more concerned with finding a word of promise to leave for those who will come after us.

This word of promise doesn't come from laws or institutions or human logic. Friends, our justice system will not save us. Neither will any attempts at vigilante justice. Neither capitalism nor Congress, banks nor universities, hospitals nor public servants will be able to guarantee us health, happiness, and life.

But Abraham and Sarah's story, the fervent and effective witness of Peter and Paul and all the apostles, and the very resurrection of Christ serve as reminders to us that the promise of God is an unbreakable promise for a future, and a future with hope, no matter how unlikely it seems. A future that is bigger than we are, a future that does not depend upon fallible human hands and hearts. A future of reconciliation and mercy and beautiful justice that God is ushering in despite all of our best attempts to mess it up.

My heart grieves, it breaks, for Kelly Renee Gissendaner. And for all criminals on death row. It breaks for their friends and peers and for their jailers. It breaks for lawyers and for parole boards and judges and juries. My heart breaks for the victims of violent crimes and their families and friends and supporters. I mean...my heart breaks for a lot of things. Basically, it breaks for all the ways that the laws of this world, written and unwritten, miss the mark in securing a hopeful future for all of our weary world.

The antidote to our grieving, breaking hearts? It is to lose ourselves in faith; to be absorbed by the divine light who gave us life; to put down the cross of anxiety or fear and to take up the cross of Christ; to be willing to lose everything that we might, at the mouth of the empty tomb, gain back everything we hoped for and more. Christ's resurrection is our unshakable assurance of God's promises fulfilled, of the perfect completion of the covenant that God makes with each of us.

When we set our minds on these divine things, rather than on human things, we will see that, though none of us is righteous by our own means, we yet receive righteousness reckoned to us by faith. And whenever and however our mortal lives are taken from us, it is by our faith in the gospel that we - and even Kelly - will yet receive life everlasting.

In the words of the aforementioned Jurgen Moltmann, from his work, Theology of Hope:

Faith…becomes itself a contradiction to the world of death. That is why faith, wherever it develops into hope, causes not rest but unrest, not patience but impatience. It does not calm the unquiet heart, but is itself this unquiet heart in man. Those who hope in Christ can no longer put up with reality as it is, but begin to suffer under it, to contradict it. Peace with God means conflict with the world, for the goad of the promised future stabs inexorably into the flesh of every unfulfilled present.

The promise of God for us and for all creation is permanently marked on each and every one of us, in that oil-drawn cross on our foreheads, given to us in baptism. The oil may have long faded away, but the cross marks us forever. It remains our assurance of hope, but is also stands as a testament to our calling.

May we bear God's hope into the world in many and various ways, but specifically as we, the baptized, take seriously our vocation: To live among God's faithful people; to hear the word of God and share in the Lord's supper; to proclaim the good news of God in Christ in word and deed; to serve all people, following the example of Jesus; and perhaps most importantly in our current world, to work for justice and peace in all the world; not peace as the world gives, but peace according to the compassion of Christ.

I pray today for you and for me, that God would raise up in our hearts a fire for justice and an tenderness toward all creation. I pray that we might not fear, but be bold in our proclamation that God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's promise of hope is deeper than human ambition. I pray for Kelly and those who love her. I pray for her murdered husband and all who love him. I pray that we, as a society, continue to question and struggle and seek ways to protect and preserve life. I pray that each of us, driven by our faith, will anticipate God's risen and restored future, and work to bring about glimmers of that light-filled kingdom, however imperfectly.

We pray, come, Holy Spirit, come. Live in us. Move in us. Breathe in us. Challenge us. And send us out as signs of hope, symbols of peace, living witnesses to Christ, our savior, our redeemer, and the life of the world.

Amen.

"Glory of Christ" by Stephen B Whatley, on Flickr

2 Corinthians 4:3-6
And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. In their case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus' sake. For it is the God who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

Mark 9:2-9
Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, "Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, "This is my Son, the Beloved listen to him!" Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.

As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.

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On days when my dad was feeling too tired, too weak from chemo, and too loaded up on painkillers to concentrate on reading or talking, he would curl up on his end of the couch and turn on the Home and Garden network, watching hour after hour of home improvement and renovation shows.

My favorite part of home renovation shows is the end, when the homeowners get to see all the work that the designers have been doing. For each room, there is a “before” and an “after” shot that we, the viewers at home, get to see. The old room, with its mismatched furniture or its peeling linoleum floor, and the new room, filled with light and with the smell of freshly painted walls.

Whether the change is drastic or subtle, I grew to love watching these shows with my dad, because I loved how the designers always had an eye for a room’s potential. Even as they were looking at the “before,” they could see in their heads the “after. The purpose of their work was to uncover the inherent beauty in a house’s bones, to shine up the elements that were already there, to reveal beauty instead of building it from the ground up.

During this season of Epiphany, we have been revealing and uncovering the good news of who Jesus Christ is for the world. Transfiguration is sort of the ultimate Epiphany. This day in the church year, like those home renovation shows, is all about revealing beauty. It is about throwing off the veil and uncovering the brightness of Christ, which, incidentally, has been there all along. And transfiguration is about throwing off the veil and uncovering the beauty in ourselves and in the world, which, also, has actually been there all along.

Jesus is up there on the mountain with his disciples, and before their very eyes, he becomes bright as the sun, cloaked in dazzling white. He is revealed, with Moses on one side and Elijah on the other, as the fulfillment of all the law and the prophets, a savior who has all authority in heaven and on earth. And a voice from heaven on the mountain echoes the words of the voice from heaven at Jesus’ baptism: "This is my Son, the Beloved.”

A favorite hymn of mine is "Love Divine, all Loves Excelling." In the last stanza of that hymn, we sing "Finish then thy new creation, pure and spotless let us be. Let us see thy great salvation perfectly restored in thee. Changed from glory into glory, 'till in heaven we take our place; till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise."

That phrase, "changed from glory into glory" is exactly what is happening to Jesus at his transfiguration, exactly what happened to him in his baptism. In both of these "before and after" events, all of the divine mystery that was already pumping through his veins was affirmed, intensified, identified, made more real. Realer than real, if you’ll pardon my making up of words.

At his baptism, God says of Jesus, “this is my Son.” Except that it’s not like Jesus wasn’t the Son of God before his baptism. Up on the mountaintop, the voice from heaven says “this is my Son - listen to him!” but it’s not like Jesus didn’t have authority before his transfiguration. I mean, for the last three weeks or so, Mark’s gospel has told us over and over again about Jesus having the authority to heal the sick and cast out demons.

No, in both of these epiphany moments, it’s like God had this plan to open up the heavens to remind Jesus of who he really was. To change him from glory into glory. To affirm the “before” and let that affirmation itself be the “after.” To give a name to the beauty that already existed in him, that the disciples and all the rest of us might see him for who he really is.

For those of us who are waiting to see ourselves and our creation renewed and reordered, Jesus’ transfiguration is a sign for us that the work of God in our lives is not to create beauty out of ugliness, but to uncover the beauty that has been in us all along.

Which is sometimes very hard to believe. Any number of magazines, self-help books, and makeover shows make it seem like we are beautiful only after some renovations, and not before.

Like…maybe we think that we will be more beloved after we get better at attending worship regularly. Or we think that we will be more valued after we get that degree or that promotion. Or we are told that we will be more lovable after we lose those last ten pounds. We get duped into thinking that our lives are incomplete until after we get married, or after we have children, or after we buy a house, or maybe we are in a place where we think that our lives are worth joy and peace only after we retire.

And as we look deeply into the world around us, we see racism and classism and poverty; we watch our fragile creation groan as we damage the tender ecology of our planet; we see nations at war and innocent lives taken by terror and violence. And we sometimes get numb and think that the kingdom of God will show up only after our world is back on track.

But Paul reminds us that God is the one who, at the birth of creation, said “let light shine out of darkness,” and that in all of creation, there has not been a time when light and beauty has not existed. God shoots beautiful beams of this light directly into our hearts, that we might be enlightened and empowered by knowing God’s glory as revealed to us in Christ, both up on the mountaintop and on the cross.

By Christ’s death and resurrection, we take heart knowing that God sees us as beautiful even while we are yet imperfect and incomplete. We have confidence that every day, God intends to change us not from rejection to glory, but from glory to glory.

And so all the times where we need help seeing God’s potential in our world, to all the places where we need help seeing beauty in both the “before” and in the “after, Jesus, dazzling on that transfiguration mountaintop stands for us as a symbol of the power of God to make beauty out of beauty, to draw light out of light.

Transfiguration pushes us to see belovedness in one another and in all creation, even while we are still waiting for the dazzling restoration of all things. Transfiguration empowers us to work for justice and peace in this world, right here and now, not waiting idly for God's "after," but treating our current world as the kingdom of God in our midst, doing what we can to uncover the goodness and beauty in all this created universe.

For God created the world and called it good and beautiful - alleluia!
We have put on the dazzling brightness of Christ, in whom we have been baptized - alleluia!
We are named "beloved" and "child of God." - alleluia!
We have been changed from glory into glory with all the communion of saints - alleluia!

May you know this day and always that you are beautiful, beloved, and filled with the light of Christ. May you shine with this light each and every day.

Amen.

"Crumbs" by Jonathan Green1, on Flickr

Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32
I ask, then, has God rejected his people? By no means! I myself am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, a member of the tribe of Benjamin. God has not rejected his people whom he foreknew. For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable. Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received mercy because of their disobedience, so they have now been disobedient in order that, by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy. For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all.

Matthew 15:21-28
Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon." But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, "Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us." He answered, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." But she came and knelt before him, saying, "Lord, help me." He answered, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." Then Jesus answered her, "Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish." And her daughter was healed instantly.

--
The world is heavy these days, my friends. You know it as well as I do.

Conflict continues at the Russia/Ukraine border, as both tensions and weapons mount, and as the world still struggles to piece together an investigation of Malaysian flight 17 that was shot down by rebels.

Conflict continues to shake the Middle East, as Israel and Palestine struggle over the Gaza Strip; rockets are flying, violence continues to put civilians and refugees in increasing danger.

Political turmoil and violence churn in Iraq, as terrorist groups continue to sweep through villages and into the mountains, killing women and children in their wake.

The Ebola virus has claimed more than a thousand victims in west Africa, and the Center for Disease Control has issued its highest alert, confirming the outbreak as a world health emergency.

There has been a surge in the number of unaccompanied immigrant children at our border, children who are making a dangerous and uncertain journey for the hope of a better life as they flee violent or abusive or situations in their home countries.

It has been a week of grief in Ferguson, Missouri, after the police shooting death of Michael Brown, which has given way to protests, violence, curfews, and questions about justice and the reach of law enforcement.

A cloud of suspicion and shock surrounds the death of NASCAR driver Kevin Ward after being hit on the track by rival driver Tony Stewart.

Hollywood and society are shocked and saddened by the untimely death of actor Robin Williams, which has sparked an important national conversation about depression and suicide.

And then, of course, we each have our own personal list of troubles and fears to add to this list. Broken relationships. Illness. Addiction. Food uncertainty. Job uncertainty.

I consider myself an intensely hopeful person; a die-hard optimist. It’s in my nature and in the nature of my faith to see hope beyond despair, to trust the promise of the resurrection. But friends, I’ll be honest. The world outside is dark and heavy right now, and holding on to hope feels a bit like scrambling for crumbs beneath the table.

“Lord, help me,” the Canaanite woman begged.

The woman’s world was dark and heavy. Her beloved daughter was tormented by a demon, and surrounded by the power of darkness. This child was in need of more than healing; she needed salvation.

“Lord, help me,” the woman pleaded to the disciples and to Jesus.

And in what is perhaps the most disturbingly out-of-character moment of Jesus’ whole life, he turns to the woman and dismisses her. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel,” he says. “I am only for the chosen.”

And just like that, things have gone from bad to worse. The Canaanite woman’s fear for her daughter suddenly becomes fear of being rejected by God himself.

This fear of rejection is also the fear of the Jewish community in Rome to whom Paul is writing in our first reading. They fear that if God, through Christ, has opened salvation to the Gentiles, that it might mean he has rejected - turned his back - on the Israelites, his chosen people.

We can sympathize with these fears that God has turned his back on us. When we see the horrors on the news, and look at a world that seems to be getting worse and not better, it can feel like God has rejected us, because we just don’t know how else to make sense of the darkness and pain that we see.

A friend and colleague of mine has recently been dealing with ongoing relapses with a chronic illness. Earlier this month, she wrote a piece about the difficulty of reconciling faith and hope with the struggles of facing one bad turn after another.

She says,

I don't know where I am on the "how much control does God actually have?" spectrum anymore. I used to attribute every blessing in my life to God. Every good news. Every happy moment. Every joy. Every meaningful coincidence. Every learning opportunity. It was all: thanks be to God. But lately I'm wrestling with how reasonable it is to give God the credit for every good thing but never for the bad things. That's how I've been operating. "Thanks be to God" for the good stuff. But "it's not God's fault...God can't control it" for the bad stuff. [But] It doesn't seem logical [anymore] to try and make a matching pair with those two cards.

This is the struggle of the Canaanite woman, the struggle of the early church in Rome, our struggle: how to deal with the problem of a God who gets credit for the good stuff, and a God who might seem at best, absent, or at worst, at fault for the dark and heavy things in our world.

I don’t think our gospel reading today gives us an answer as to why bad things happen, why it sometimes feels like God has turned his back on us. Our gospel reading is difficult and problematic and forces us to look at a cranky side of Jesus that we don’t quite believe actually should exist.

I could debate with you, as theologians do, about whether Jesus was just testing this woman, or whether he was just grumpy and tired, or whether he really meant it when he said that she wasn’t included in his plan for salvation. I could try to say something clever that would bring a satisfactory resolution to the encounter, tie the story up with a nice, neat bow.

But I can’t do any of that. I don’t pretend to see the obvious moral truth in this story, I don’t know what Jesus was thinking or intending, and all attempts to turn this messy story into something neat and today seem like gloss in the face of a world that appears to be falling apart.

So let me tell you what I do know.

I know that the Canaanite woman had faith. I know that she had heard about Jesus - about his healing power, about his care for the broken and the outcast. I know that she, out of blind faith, chose to believe that there was yet hope for her and for her daughter, even when it looked like the Son of God was going to turn his back on her.

She knew that even a crumb of hope, a speck of healing, a tiny taste of salvation would be enough. Maybe not enough to make everything all better forever and forever, but enough to get her through another day.

When the choice laid before her was hope or despair, she chose hope, and grasped at crumbs, and looked God in the eye, saying “You know that you aren’t in the rejection business. You know that you are in the business of salvation.”

And her reward for having even a few crumbs of hope was receiving wholeness and more hope. Her few crumbs of hope gave way to a giant loaf of hope bread. Because even a little bit of hope, even a little scrap of faith was enough to see through her fear, to see straight into the heart of God’s love, a love that dealt with all of the crap in our world by showing up on earth, in the flesh, and making a beeline for the cross, that we might know that there is no suffering that is unredeemed and no chaos that is beyond reordering and no fears that fall on deaf ears.

I can’t promise you that if you just go toe-to-toe with Jesus you’ll always get what you want. I can’t promise you that if you just pray hard enough, the world will right itself. I don’t want you thinking or worrying that salvation for our broken world somehow depends on how much strength you can muster, because friends, I know how hard it is to keep faith sometimes, and I know that there are days when it takes every bit of energy that you have just to pull yourself out of bed for the day.

But I can promise you that the mystery of God’s love and salvation is brighter than any darkness this world tries to throw at it. And I can promise you that even the tiniest bits of hope and faith will get you through to the other side of this present darkness. I can promise you that God’s gifts and God’s callings in your life are eternal, without strings attached. I can promise you that God hasn’t turned his back on you or the world, even when it really really feels that way.

Because the crumbs of bread that we will share today around this table bind us together in the one hope of Christ, who himself called out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you rejected me?” but who three days later walked out of that empty tomb, stomping down darkness and death beneath his feet. Christ, our bread of life, knows both rejection and resurrection, and when we eat and drink the bread and wine, we share in that hope that our own fears of rejection will also give way to the promise of resurrection, for ourselves and for our world.

So catch a few crumbs from under God’s table today. Taste the bread and the wine that are sweet with salvation. Let these crumbs sustain you through all fear or despair. Hold onto whatever bits of faith you have. Praise God for the light, even if you do not understand the darkness. Even a crumb of grace and a sliver of faith will be enough to sustain you, for God promises that his hold on you is for all eternity. There will be light. There will be hope. There will be salvation. Thanks be to God for that.

Amen.

"The Dark Side of Matter and Energy..." by Tremain Calm, on Flickr

Matthew 10:24-39
Jesus said, "A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher, and the slave like the master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household!

So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops. Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.

Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven.

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

For I have come to set a man against his father,
and a daughter against her mother,
and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
and one's foes will be members of one's own household.

Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it."
---

In college, taped to the hallway wall outside my husband’s dorm room, was a large piece of brown butcher paper, with a thumbtack in the corner from which hung a pen on a string.

This was the quote board.

Throughout the year, as Matt, his roommate, and their friends said memorable things - whether funny or absurd or eyebrow-raising - they would document those statements on the quote board.

The things written on that piece of paper made the most sense to you if you were there when they happened. It became a fun and funny way to reminisce with one another. But if you read through the quotes on the board without knowing their history or their context, the quote board became something of a puzzle, and an unsatisfying one, at that. It’s hard to read isolated statements, without context, and feel like you can really know what they mean.

I mention this because today's gospel reading reads very much like that piece of butcher paper. When we read this strange list of difficult sayings of Jesus, we have to remember that this section of Matthew’s gospel was likely pieced together from a variety of things that Jesus said in a variety of contexts. Jesus probably didn’t say all of these things right in a row at one moment in time on one particular day to one particular group of people. As Matthew’s gospel was handed down and eventually written down, these independent teachings of Jesus were grouped together, even if they don’t quite fit together, because they all have one thing in common:

All of the statements in today’s gospel point to the truth that being a follower of Jesus is difficult. It will separate you from the world, from those you love, and even from a former version of yourself.

Even though we are joined to Christ in baptism, even though we been gifted the whole of God's grace and mercy, the faith that saves us is also the faith that puts us at odds with the wider world. This is the dark side of our faith.

Even though we walk with Christ to eternal and abundant life, the reality is that there is a cost to putting the demands of discipleship ahead of all the other things that we hold dear. This is the shadow-side of being a Christ-follower.

Jesus says, "What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light."

Most of Jesus' statements in today's gospel are statements about how following him will put us into dark places.

Jesus warns us of the dark of being shunned or even persecuted because we seek justice for the poor instead of rewards for the rich.

Jesus warns us of the dark of isolation when we choose to put the needs of outsiders ahead of the needs of the insiders.

Jesus warns us of the lonely dark of relationships broken over putting God's values ahead of our own.

Jesus warns us of the darkness of conflict that will come when we seek true, lasting peace instead of mere platitudes and preservation of the status quo.

Jesus warns us of the dark night of the soul that comes as we wrestle with the meaning of life and death, of dying to our old selves and rising to Christ; for the breaking open of our hearts, even for Christ's sake, can be a painful process.

What Jesus says to us is that being a disciple is dangerous. That God is dangerous. That discipleship will lead us into the dark, where everything we thought was certain becomes fuzzy around the edges. Where the well-worn paths of our lives become obscured by shadows. Where our worldviews, our perceptions, everything we can take for granted in the light suddenly become veiled as we step into the thick cloud of God's presence. That there is a curious and disorienting fog that comes with leaving ourselves behind to become disciples of the divine.

The writer Barbara Brown Taylor recently released a new book focused entirely on meeting God in the darkness, entitled Learning to Walk in the Dark.

She writes,

[The darkness in which we meet God] is an entirely unnatural darkness - both dangerous and divine - that contains the presence of God before whom there are no others....This thick darkness reveals the divine presence even while obscuring it, the same way the brightness of God’s glory does....While this darkness is dangerous, it is as sure a sign of God’s presence as brightness is, which makes the fear of it different from the fear of snakes and robbers. When biblical writers speak of “the fear of the Lord,” this is what they mean: fear of God’s pure being, so far beyond human imagining that trying to look into it would be like trying to look into the sun....[The church father] Gregory [of Nyssa says that], those of us who wish to draw near to God should not be surprised when our vision goes cloudy, for this is a sign that we are approaching the opaque splendor of God. If we decide to keep going beyond the point where our eyes or minds are any help to us, we may finally arrive at the pinnacle of the spiritual journey toward God, which exists in complete and dazzling darkness. (47-48).

I wonder if Jesus, in all of his difficult statements about the cost of discipleship, is really trying to tell us that there exists a spiritual practice in losing yourself to dark places with the trust that in this dark, you will meet the God who promises you light.

Because at the end of the day, doesn't discipleship ask us to follow Jesus all the way to the darkness of his cross and his death, that in that most final darkness of death, God might surprise us with the light of the resurrection dawn? Isn't discipleship, at its very heart, the practice of walking into and meeting God in the dark places in our world, that we might bring to the world the promise of light?

“What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light,” Jesus says.

What dark places has God called you to in your life? Where are the dark corners to which Jesus has led you? What are the shadowy places in your heart where you feel pain or fear or disquiet? Where are the thick clouds that press in on your soul?

And what might God be saying to you in those dark places? What whispers of hope do you hear? What are you learning about God, about redemption, about yourself and your faith from these dark spaces?

In the last few weeks, God has pushed me into a few dark corners. The clouded work of holding vigil during someone’s last fleeting hours of life. The nightfall of cancer diagnoses. The shadowlands of working with neighbors who need money and food and support systems that they do not have.

And let me tell you. The darkness is not a place that I enjoy being. Jesus certainly isn’t asking us to like the darkness, and isn’t asking us to pursue darkness just so that we can say we are disciples. But Jesus is always helping to redeem our darkness. He gives us the assurance that for as long as find ourselves in dark spaces, God remains with us, and that we will emerge on the other side of the veil changed by the encounter.

So my friends - my fellow disciples - blessings be with you on this journey of faith. Blessings to you in the darkness and in the light. Blessings to you as God gives you the grace to take risks for your faith. May your discipleship be bold. May your faith be strong. May you hear God’s voice even in the darkest night, and may you be bold to proclaim his grace in the morning!

All praise to thee, my God, this night for all the blessings of the light.
Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings, beneath thine own almighty wings.

Now and forever.
Thanks be to God.

Amen.

"Women Arriving at the Tomb" by He Qi

Matthew 28:1–10
After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "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." So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, "Greetings!" And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

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It is a gray, rainy Easter morning. A far cry from the brilliant sun of the resurrection dawn that we would like to see shining above us.

But, truth be told, there is something telling about the gray morning.

We awake to so many gray mornings in our world. All it takes is a few minutes of watching or reading the news, and even the sunniest morning can turn gray. My news reading this morning included stories about Russia’s aggression in the Ukraine, about the continued search efforts for Malaysian flight MH370, the aftermath of the Korean ferry accident that claimed more than 100 lives, ongoing concerns over the Heartbleed Bug and internet security, landslides out west, shootings in Chicago…

We don’t have to look very hard to find the power of sin and death in our midst.

The author Sara Miles writes, ”Death, and the fear of death…drive so much on earth. They lie under all human violence, drive our sad struggles for domination, allow the manipulations of religion and empire to thrive. As a war reporter, surrounded by terror, I’d experienced the power death had to make me betray or refuse to help others. I’d seen people who were, in their souls, no more than walking dead: they were completely ruled by fear of the grave. I believed in my own churning guts, those mad days and nights, that violence was the real force driving the world. Death seemed unstoppable.”

Friends, this is where our Easter story truly begins. We, with the Marys and the disciples, approach the garden, feeling deep in our hearts that death is unstoppable. The doubting parts of our hearts keep expecting THIS to be the year when we do find Jesus' broken body there in the tomb, just like the usual way things work.

I don't think it mattered how many times Jesus told his friends and disciples that he would rise from the dead; they still came to the tomb expecting to grieve his body, not to find the cave empty.

We expect death. We expect what we know, what is usual.

Which is why we need the earthquake.

Did you notice the earthquake in today’s gospel? Matthew, in his gospel, isn’t subtle. The Marys don’t come to a peaceful garden where the mouth of the tomb is already gaping open. They arrive to a closed tomb, and then the whole earth begins to tremble. The ground beneath their feet shakes, the trees quiver and birds fly from the branches in fear, dust and pebbles shake loose, and a messenger of the Lord, descending in a flash of light, moves the stone from the mouth of the tomb in dramatic fashion. The scene is so startling, so overwhelming, that the guards at the tomb fall to the ground, paralyzed.

I had a Sunday School teacher who liked to say, “God sends bricks,” meaning that when God wanted to tell you something, there’d be no question, no mystery about it. God sends bricks to hit you over the head.

On this Easter morning, perhaps we should instead say, “God sends earthquakes.”

The earthquake happens to that there might be no question about the power of God. Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed. Resurrection is real, and life, and the whole earth trembles before the power of God to do the impossible. The unthinkable. The terrifyingly unexpected.

We come to the empty tomb again and again, because we need to be shaken up, because we forget, because we keep believing that death is the final word, because we still never expect resurrection because it just doesn't make sense.

The resurrection is the surprising, startling good news that death does not win, that dry bones will live again, that the floods will not overwhelm us, that sin has no hold on us, that we are not doomed to endless night, brokenness, shame, or fear.

The resurrection is new life springing up from the cracks. It is the sunshine rising in the morning, and new shoots rising from the well-watered earth. It is the power of God to break through stony hearts with the unlimited power of grace and mercy. The resurrection is what makes our hearts leap for joy, knowing that even though we die, we will live, and that whoever lives and believes in Christ will never die.

The resurrection is the flash of new creation before our eyes, the jarring news to our souls that when we pray “your kingdom come, your will be done,” this kingdom has already come, and God is already here, doing his will in us and among us.

I still hear the words of last night's Easter Vigil ringing in my ears as we sang,

Rejoice, now, all heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels! Exult, all creation around God’s throne! Celebrate the divine mysteries with exultation; and for so great a victory, sound the trumpet of salvation.

Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor, radiant in the brightness of your King! Christ has conquered! Glory fills you! Darkness vanishes forever.

Rejoice, O holy church! Exult in glory! The risen Savior shines upon you!
Let this place resound with joy, echoing the mighty song of all God’s people.

Today the sun rises on a world triumphant. The darkness of Good Friday and the finality of death have been dispelled by the shining brightness of Christ's resurrection. This resurrection shakes the whole cosmos and redeems it.

I do not know what is going to happen in the Ukraine, nor do I know how to ease the grief of those missing loved ones after plane crashes and shipwrecks. But one thing I do know: I know that my redeemer lives.

Sara Miles finishes her opening thought by saying this: “Christ, crucified, has come to sweep away fear. The power to reject and hurt and kill is shown by Jesus as, finally, irrelevant, in the face of the power to love so unreservedly that you gladly pour out your life for others. God’s weakness turns out to be stronger than human strength. Even death is over"(Jesus Freak, p. 125-126).

Yes, I know that my redeemer lives.

I know that the redeemer of the whole world passed through death, and carried with him the weight of the world, so that neither life nor death, angels nor demons, things present or things to come, neither height nor depth or anything in all creation can separate us from the love and life of God.

I know the hope to which I cling: that in Christ is life and life abundant, hope for our weary world, peace for our restless souls, water for our parched lips, nourishment for our hungry spirits.

I may know nothing else, but I do know that my redeemer lives.

And so we say with confidence,

Christ is risen!

He is risen indeed!

Alleluia!

"#crucifix" by p7taylor, on Flickr

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Crucifixion
by Anna Akhmatova

"Weep not for Me, Mother,
in the grave I have life."

I.

The choir of angels glorified the great hour,
the heavens melted in flames.
He said to His Father: "Why hast Thou forsaken me?"
and to His Mother: "Oh, weep not for Me..."

II.

Mary Magdalene smote her breast and wept,
the disciple whom He loved turned to stone,
but where the Mother stood in silence
nobody even dared look.

As a pastor, I have the unique and beautiful privilege to be in the business of blessing. I get to bless babies at baptism, bless children at communion, bless congregations for service at the end of worship, bless men and women who are drawing near to death.

As a pastor, I also have the peculiar duty, once a year, to look into the faces of my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, and to speak words that seem very far from blessing: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

These words of mortality are not reserved only for the adults and aged among us. I speak these very same words to old and young alike. This year, for the first time, I will speak these words as I stare into the sweet face of my own three month old son, and I know that I will feel my heart sink into my stomach as I, for that brief moment, must acknowledge that his life is as fleeting as mine and yours.

It is a hard truth to swallow, that from the moment of our birth, we have already begun our return journey toward the God who created us.

In the season of Lent, we focus on repentance, on turning around, on reorienting ourselves toward God. Lent is the season of returning. Returning to the foot of the cross, returning from the wilderness back to the heart of God. Tonight is our call to mortality, our call to dustiness, our reminder that we have wandered, our reminder that without Christ and the cross, we would be nothing but empty dust, blown about by the wind and scattered, far from the arms of our loving God who longs to embrace us.

As I look around this place, I think about all of the dust that clings to our common life together, a symbol of the earth from which we were created and to which we shall return. I think about the dust of death, as we weekly remember in our prayers those who have lost loved ones. I think about the dust of mortality, as many among us face chronic and terminal illnesses. I think about the dust of fear and uncertainty, as members and friends struggle to find jobs or to make ends meet. I think about the dust of despair, as many in our midst face the gaps in their lives where dreams seem lost and prayers seem unanswered.

Ash Wednesday gives us permission to linger in this dusty space for a bit. Tonight, we let ourselves touch, however briefly, the vulnerable parts of our souls, the parts of our hearts that are keenly sensitive to the temporary nature of this life. Ash Wednesday and Lent give us space to to embrace our dustiness. Embrace the parts of us that fear and doubt and struggle. Embrace the parts of us that feel pain. Embrace all the parts of us that long for redemption.

“Remember that you are dust,” we hear, “and to dust you shall return.”

These are words of mortality, but they are also words of redemption.

For in the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, God formed us out of dust and breathed into us his spirit of life. And when we return to the dust of the earth at the end of our days, we will return to the one who created us and called us good; beloved.

For at our baptisms, the sign of the cross was made on our foreheads, sealing us as God’s claimed and adopted children. The cross was marked with oil, anointing us as if we were kings and queens.

The cross of ashes that we bear tonight is a dusty version of that baptismal cross. It is God’s promise of life that is revealed more clearly with each passing day, with every speck of dust that we kick up along our life journey. It is a symbol of life rising from the ashes; a sign of God’s promises rising to bless us.

“We are treated as dying,” Paul writes in tonight’s Epistle, “and see — we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

Tonight is the beginning, my friends, of our long return journey to the cross. It is the beginning of a journey where we will encounter Jesus in many ways and many places: in the wilderness, in water and in spirit, in living water poured out for all, in new sight, in death and in life, in the pain of the cross, in the glory of resurrection. Just as surely as the oil and the dust cling to our brows, reminding us of the promise of life, so does Jesus cling near to our hearts, our living promise that God is the one calling us back, waiting at the end of our long life’s journey, arms open, feast prepared, anxious for each of us to return home.

So, my friends, “even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.”