A sermon for the Easter Vigil, with the first celebration of the Resurrection. The Gospel is Mark 16:1-8.

Listen to the sermon HERE. 

Whenever I work on a sermon or whenever I write something, I tend to start at the end.  In other words, I usually have a point to make, an ending in mind, a destination I want to reach; and so the writing is really just filling in, along the way to the place I want to end up.  The problem with this is that I sometimes miss all the possibilities along the way.  Because I already know where I want to go, my perspective is limited, and my vision narrower.

But I don’t only do this in my writing.  Maybe some of you are like me, that often, when we see someone approaching, we already have in our mind an “ending place”—a certain assumption or expectation about how the person might sound, what they might think, where they might come from.

We can do this in other parts of our lives—where we live as though we know the ending of the story—the course of a date or interview or meeting, the result of a special occasion, the journey through an illness or another kind of challenge.   Again, like in writing, the problem with expecting or anticipating a particular ending is that we might miss other options, other possibilities, other courses or experiences.

Our Gospel tonight represents one ending of the Gospel of Mark.  You probably know that the Holy Scriptures come down to us from various sources.  There are numerous versions of most books of the Bible and scholars still try to determine which are earliest and which came later.  Sometimes versions of the same book of the Bible differ, and that’s part of what’s going on with the ending of the Gospel of Mark.  Some early sources end with what we heard tonight, at Chapter 16, verse 8.

Jesus has been crucified and his body has been buried in the tomb.  But the next day, Mary Magdalene and some of the other women take spices to anoint the body and make final preparations.  But the stone entrance to the tomb has been rolled away.  They encounter a young man (Mark doesn’t say he’s an angel) and the young man tells them “He has been raised; he is not here.”  And the young man tells the women to go and tell the other disciples this good news.

But in this ending of Mark, the women leave, terrified. And they say nothing, because they are afraid.

This is a bleak ending, a sad ending.  In some ways, it suits the rest of the Gospel of Mark, which is spare and short. There’s no mention of John or Mary being right there at the cross, and we’re told that Mary Magdalene and some of the other women are looking on, but from a distance.

But other early versions of the Gospel of Mark add a longer ending, which is printed in most Bibles.  This longer ending does not leave the women paralyzed by fear.  Instead, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene, then to two other disciples, and finally to all eleven disciples. Mark’s longer version ends Jesus commissioning the disciples to “go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation.”  And finally, Jesus is taken from them, ascending to God.

Scholars and theologians wonder about these different endings and what Mark might have meant, what early Christian communities might have meant, and certainly, what God might be meaning by giving us these scriptures to wrestle with. At Holy Trinity, we’ve explored these questions this Lent, as we’ve studied a book on the Gospel of Mark by the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams.

Williams suggests that the Gospel of Mark leaves off the way it does because it’s FOR US to finish the story.  The ending has not been written, because we are a part of it.  As Williams writes

What Jesus did and does has no end, and certainly not in the pages of a book, because the work he does he is doing in every new reader, and there will always be new readers….[I]t’s for us to decide whether we become part of the that process of spreading the word of the resurrection that the women at first are too frightened to. The work of Jesus in the reader the “end” of the Gospel.  (Meeting God in Mark: Reflections for the Season of Lent, p. 72)

And that only ends, when we see God face to face and hear how God REALLY wants to end the story.

We might feel like we’re living in stories that have already been written, that have particular endings, and are restricted to specific characters and plot lines—but one aspect of the Good News of Easter is that the story isn’t finished. “The Greatest Story Ever Told” is a misnomer, because with faith—with you and me—who knows? Maybe the story is just getting to the good part!

Alleluia, Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia!

A sermon for Good Friday, March 30, 2018. The scripture readings are Isaiah 52:13-53:12, Psalm 22, Hebrews 10:16-25, John 18:1-19:42.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

The strangeness of this day is captured in the way we name it: Good Friday. Some suggest that this may have originally been “God’s Friday,” later shortened simply to Good Friday. Theologians suggest that it is good, in that it is because of this day, that salvation is accomplished for us.

Good Friday reminds us of how Easter is possible. It represents the darkness before the light, the depth of emptiness before God returns with love. It represents time in hell. But especially in John’s Gospel, we also see the triumph of the cross—even on Good Friday.

The cross has often been used as a triumphant image. From the very beginning the cross was used a symbol of strength to keep weak people in their place. The cross on which the Romans nailed a criminal was meant to be a triumph over crime, but also a triumph over disorder, a victory over anyone who might challenge the Roman rule.

One of the most famous crosses is the one that appeared in the sky for Constantine, just before the Battle at the Milvian Bridge in 312. The symbol of the Chi-Rho, forming a cross and representing the first two initials of Christ appeared in a vision. That vision assured Constantine that he would have victory over his opponents. Constantine instructed his soldiers to put the symbol of the cross on their battle standards, and they marched forward. It was victory, and Christianity was soon legalized.

There are many places in the history of our faith where the cross has been used as a symbol of victory over other people, over people I disagree with, or people I dislike, or people who are my enemies, or people who I decide are evil. But to use the cross in such a way, to imagine the cross as a weapon over other people is to misunderstand completely the language of Holy Scripture, the teachings of Jesus and the very power of the cross.

On Palm Sunday, we heard the epistle Reading from Philippians proclaim that God has exalted Christ. Christ is exalted, his is lifted up, but it is an exaltation won through obedience, through humility, through service, through hardship, through sacrifice, through love. God himself, in the form of Jesus, “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.”

Jesus is exalted when he heals a blind person. He is exalted when offers food to a hungry person. He is exalted when he kneels to wash the feet of his friends.

Elsewhere in John’s Gospel Jesus assures us that when he is lifted up, he will draw all people to himself. The cross is a victory, but it’s a victory over all that might possibly keep people from Christ. The cross is a victory over death, a victory over disease, a victory over ignorance, a victory over evil.

It is on the cross that God’s heart breaks. But through that heartbreak, the power of love is unleashed in the world in completely new way, a way that wipes away sin, that dries up tears, that raises the dead to immortal life.

Through the cross,
the soul of Christ sanctifies us,
the body of Christ saves us,
the blood of Christ makes us drunk with life,
the water from the side of Christ washes us.

As we give thanks for the love of the cross, may we know the exaltation of those who offer themselves in the service of others. May we use the cross, and be used by the cross, to draw others to Christ, to his love and to his life everlasting.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

A short sermon for Maundy Thursday, March 29, 2018.  The scripture readings are Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14 , Psalm 116:1, 10-17, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, and John 13:1-17, 31b-35. 

Listen to the sermon HERE.

At the 2016 Democratic Convention that Michelle Obama gave a rousing speech that included a section where she talked about some of the things she and President Obama tried to teach their daughters. In a famous line, she said that, “we explain that when someone is cruel or acts like a bully, you don’t stoop to their level. No, our motto is, when they go low, we go high.”

In many ways that motto became the slogan for many during the presidential campaign and since. I have often thought of it, when I was tempted to respond to something I saw on Facebook or something I read or heard in the news.

While I have complete respect for Michelle Obama, I’ve been thinking lately about some possible limits in what might be thought of as “going high.”

The problem with “going high” is that one can end up seeming aloof, distant, or indifferent. Even the language of “going high” or “taking the higher ground” implies the obvious—that the person I’m having trouble with is lower, or inferior, or “less than.” And so, without doing or saying anything, I have created more distance between me and the other person, not less.

Now, of course, “going high” is often the best tactic—in public relations, with email, when someone slights us on the street or in a line at a store. But when it comes to relationships we value—family, friends, colleagues with whom we actually WANT a better relationship or need a better relationship, then “going high” just doesn’t accomplish much. It becomes a version of the question, “Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?”

This is what Jesus is modeling at the Last Supper, as he kneels to wash the feet of his disciples. Not only does Jesus wash the feet of Simon Peter, who resists, but then gives way. But evidently, Jesus also washes the feet of Judas Iscariot, since (as John tells the story) Judas only leaves the Upper Room after the footwashing and meal.

Perhaps in the spirit of Maundy Thursday, we might try some time—just as an experiment, perhaps—“going low,” instead of going high. By “going low,” I mean that we do something to serve the other person, we move towards the other person, we do something to try to understand their point of view, their belief, their hopes and their fears. The action for us to move outside ourselves might entail going high, going low, going right, or going left. But if we go with the heart of Jesus, we are not alone, we need not be afraid, and we will be following the New Commandment of our Savior and Friend, that we try to love one another as he loves us.

May the Spirit continue teach us to serve, as we try to follow Jesus.

A sermon for Tuesday of Holy Week.  The Epistle reading is from 1 Corinthians 1:18-31.

Listen to a version of the sermon HERE.

I really wish that tonight’s Epistle, from Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians, because Easter Day this year is on April Fool’s Day.  Later in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, he spells it out:  We are fools for the sake of Christ (1 Cor. 4:10), but Paul is leading up to this in tonight’s passage:

God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God.  (1 Cor. 1:27-29)

Many of us are familiar with the idea of a court jester, someone who might seem, at first, to entertain the king or queen, but who was also able to communicate deep truth to the monarch.  Good kings or queens would look to their jester, or “fool” not only for foolishness, but also for wisdom.  But others have taken their inspiration from the scriptures and have played the fool for Christ, but also played the fool for the Church.

An early fool was Simeon, who in the 4^th century lived for 37 years on a little platform on top of a high pillar near Aleppo (in modern Syria.) Others came after him, playing the part of the fool and sometimes taking his name.

In the 6^th century, another Simeon went into the desert to understand God more deeply and when he came back into town, he came, dragging a dead animal behind him. He would go to church and throw nuts at the priests while they were leading services.  And most outrageous of all, Simeon would stand out side the church on Good Friday (when most were fasting) eating sausages!  He did all he could to poke fun at people who took themselves too seriously, the sort of Pharisees of his day.  Another Russian fool lived during the time of the Tsar Ivan the Terrible, but it was said the only person Ivan feared, was the fool named Basil the Blessed.  It’s this Basil that the famous cathedral in Red Square.  Basil sometimes walked around wearing nothing but a beard.  He stole from dishonest merchants and threw rocks at the house of rich people who ignored the poor.

There’s a legend from the middle ages of a juggler who wondered what he could give for God, and so one day he stood in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary and juggled for her.  He juggled, and danced, and stood on his head—to amuse Mary and her son Jesus. St. Francis sometimes portrayed this jongleur de Dieu, or jester/juggler for God; and it’s a part of responding to God in faith that we need to remember.

Inspired by a topsy-turvy God, the Blessed Virgin Mary sings of a world that only a holy fool can see or imagine, a world in which

He has shown the strength of his arm,
he has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of his servant Israel,
for he has remembered his promise of mercy …
(Magnificat, Book of Common Prayer version)

Especially in times such as ours, when the king (or the president) needs a good jester to poke fun and speak truth, we can be inspired by the tradition of the Holy Fool.

When we read scripture, we see over and over again how people though Jesus was foolish, a little off in his head, or perhaps took the “God-thing” a little too seriously.  We even have stories about how his family thought he’d gotten out of control and tried to bring him home.  Peter tries to tame Jesus from time to time, and some suggest Judas lost all patience with Jesus’s foolish way of wisdom, and betrayed him precisely for that reason.

There is a tradition of what is called the Risus paschalis or Easter laugh.   The 4^th century preacher, John Chrysostom preached an Easter sermon in which he described the crucifixion as a Godly joke on the devil, allowing the devil to think he had won by killing Jesus, only to laugh at him as Jesus is raised from the dead.

Jesus mus have seemed to be speaking in a riddle when he said, “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”  What foolishness (to some.) But hope, promise, and truth to those who believe.

Not only this April 1, but on every day of faith, may we be filled with the gift of holy laughter, that we would sustained by the foolishness of Christ to enter one day into the eternal laughter of God.

A short reflection for Monday of Holy Week, March 26, 2018.  The Gospel is John 12:1-11.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

The Gospel for Monday in Holy Week can stir up strong emotions.  But the genius of the way St. John tells the story invites us almost to take sides, to notice which character with whom we might most identify.

There’s Lazarus, who has just been raised from the dead. He probably just wanted a nice, quiet meal with his friends and family, and how nice that Jesus could stop by on his way to Jerusalem for the Passover.  And now, Mary had to get all dramatic and Judas had to say something, and then Jesus got serious all of a sudden and the whole mood changed.

There’s Mary, who (we know from other stories) is inclined to listen to Jesus and hear what he’s really saying in a way that most people miss.  She’s the mystic in the bunch, and something deep down told her that this might be the last time she would see Jesus.  The expensive oil might seem extravagant, but something about Jesus, about this night, about the movement of God in and around these lives—it just seemed right, and so she followed her passion.

You might identify with Martha, Mary’s sister.  Martha gets things done: keeps the house going, get the food, puts it on the table, cleans up—she’s that person.  Sometimes Mary gets on her nerves, but she also sort of wishes she could sometimes slow down like Mary, sit still, and really hear what Jesus is saying.  But whenever she tries, something else pops into her head—Is Jesus staying the night?  If so, where’s he sleeping? Should she tell the disciples that she doesn’t trust Judas, or mind her own business?  And then, she’s always worried about Lazarus.  They almost lost him recently and he hasn’t yet gained full strength.

Judas is the outsider.  His nickname, “Iscariot” means “from the city,” or “Judas, the city-boy.”  This is how the other disciples—all from Galilee—though of him. And so, he’d gotten used to his role.  He would guard the money and make sure it lasted. He would make sure it wasn’t wasted, because Jesus kept making pronouncements and promises that this ministry simply couldn’t afford.  Someone needed to keep an eye on things.

In the midst of all of this, Jesus makes it clear that whatever else they might be concerned with, Mary is closest to the truth—they won’t always have Jesus, or at least, he suggests that the bond with him (which is to say, the bond with God) is the most important thing.  Everything else can and should be adjusted so that our love for God.

And so, on this Monday of Holy Week, it might be interesting for us to think about which of the characters in tonight’s Gospel we most identify with, and then pray that God would help us move more closely to Jesus.

If you’re like Lazarus, maybe understand that Jesus as the priority is more important than a stress-free evening.
If you’re like Mary, follow your passion, but see if you can bring others along, too.
If you’re like Martha, pray that God would take away the stress and worry and show you how to pray and move closer.

A sermon for Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion, March 25, 2018.  The scripture readings are Mark 11:1-11, Isaiah 50:4-9a, Psalm 31:9-16, Philippians 2:5-11, and Mark 15:1-39. 

Listen to the sermon HERE.

Unless you’ve been hibernating or so busy as to miss the news, you know that yesterday around the country, young people led “March for Our Lives” demonstrations.  Especially coming out of anger, frustration, and fear after the Valentine’s Day shootings in Parkland, Florida, young people have led the way to advocate for stricter gun control while calling out our politicians who seem paralyzed.

Like with other rallies and demonstrations, there were huge crowds.  Yesterday, people with energy, signs, purpose, and resolve.  Today:  many of those same public spaces that held yesterday’s demonstrations will be filled with joggers and sunbathers, strollers and shoppers.

Crowds move through today’s Gospel and through the events we recount in Holy Week—the events that led to Jesus’ crucifixion, death, and eventual resurrection. And like in our world, the crowds come and go.

The very first part of the Gospel we heard this morning, the “Palm Gospel,” tells us about the crowds that surrounded Jesus as he rode a donkey into Jerusalem.  While the donkey can seem comical, to those who knew the prophecies, they understood the political and religious significance:  the messiah would do such a thing. For the people to yell, “Hosanna in the highest…Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!” was for the people to engage in political action. And among the disciples, there seem to be several who were part of the radical Zealot party, those who advocated an overthrow of the Roman occupation. But all too soon, the crowd seems to disperse.

They gather again outside the temple court for the mock trial of Jesus, and now, it seems the crowd is just as easily swayed to another point of view. When giving the choice, they ask that Barabbas be freed.

As Jesus is led along the way of the cross, the crowd looks on, but gradually gets smaller and smaller and smaller, until it seems like Jesus is mostly along on the cross.  Mark’s Gospel is the loneliest, in many ways.

Huge questions arise from today’s scriptures and hover over Holy Week.  If we are to follow Jesus, do we act for justice first, and pray later if there’s time?  Or, do we go deep in the temple, say our prayers and wait for God to move us into action?  Or, do we struggle to find a balance?

This Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion.  Monday and Tuesday remind us of other events that happen to Jesus in his final days.  Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, all have major themes to explore.  But there’s a little pause in the week, on Wednesday night, that can serve as a reminder, a reflection, almost, of our lives and the life of God in our midst.

On Wednesday, we offer a little service with a funny Latin name, called “Tenebrae.”  Some churches offer it on other nights, and the serve can differ.  It’s a sort of combined service of the readings from Morning and Evening Prayer, along with some other readings and a bit of drama, thrown in.

“Tenebrae” comes from the Latin word for “shadows” or “darkness.”  Through the prayers, candles are gradually extinguished. The light decreases until the space is in total darkness. Then, by tradition, there’s a loud noise. The “strepitus,” or great noise, is a clang, a bash, a rumble that represents several things related to the crucifixion—the disciples running out of the Garden of Gethsemane, the tearing of the Temple curtain in Jerusalem, and the earthquake reported by Matthew.

After noise, there in the dark, there is only silence. The crowd has all gone home.  The silence can sound like failure. Desertion. Loneliness.

But after a time, a small light appears—usually a single, flickering flame of a candle. Sometimes it’s the last candle of those extinguished earlier and instead of being put out, it has simple been hidden behind the altar. This single, small light represents the light of Christ—the light that is dimmed, that is hidden, that seems to completely disappear on Good Friday.

I think about the silence and darkness of Tenebrae when I read Mark’s Passion, St. Mark’s version of the Crucifixion that we just heard.

You may recall that each of the Gospels offers a particular point of view—of Jesus, and certainly of the Crucifixion. In Luke’s Gospel there’s a lot more attention given to the political and theological aspects. Matthew presents the crucifixion and resurrection as one event, leaving no doubt that Jesus is the King of Kings. Likewise, in the Gospel of John, Jesus is a champion, totally in control, the “true light who shines in the darkness.” But in Mark’s Gospel, the version we heard today, it sounds like darkness has indeed overcome the light. Jesus is the victim.

The great preacher & commentator Fred Craddock points out that the verbs themselves show that all the action is “done to” Jesus. Jesus is betrayed and let down by his friends, the disciples. Jesus is arrested and taken away. His friends and disciples desert him. Jesus is taken to the high priest. He is interrogated, spit upon, and beaten. Jesus is bound and led away further. When Pilate tries to cut a deal with the religious leaders and release a prisoner, Jesus is passed over for Barabbas, the murderer. Jesus is handed over to others, and he is beaten again. He is made to carry his cross. He is brought to Golgotha. He is crucified. Darkness came over the whole land. Darkness seemed to overtake the whole world and it feels like no one is around—not even God.

Mark’s version of the Crucifixion is not an easy one to hear, but it’s real. It’s true. And some of us know a bit of what that darkness is like.

The shootings at schools seem to continue, and when suburban kids are the targets, there are rallies and demonstrations.  Every day and night, our cities and neighborhoods hear gunfire, and young people die quietly, out of the news, and far from the crowds of cameras and politicians.  In our own lives and among our families and friends, there is sickness, illness, death, and uncertainty.  For some, it is a dear friend and neighbor who was a young mother and wife. For another, a husband and friend who had persevered through transplants and therapies. Another mother, wife, and friend. Church leaders. A brother, a sister, a child…

Darkness is real. The shadows touch our lives with sickness and disease, with addiction, and mental illness. Where is God when we can’t see him or feel him or in any way apprehend him?

Again, I go back to that liturgy of Tenebrae for a reminder. One essential part of Tenebrae is the reading we heard today from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians, often sung as the antiphon, “Christus factus est.” The words are prayed even in the darkness. The words are prayed especially in the darkness because they emerge from the shadows:

Christ became obedient for us unto death,
even to the death, death on the cross.
Therefore God exalted Him and gave Him a name
which is above all names.

There is something in that mystery, something in that movement of humility, self-offering, of suffering-with, that gives pierces the darkness, as though a knife were put through a black shroud, flooding the place with light. God doesn’t let the light go out even though we might not see it, just like at night the sun is still shining—it’s just on the other side of the world.

One of my favorite versions of the Tenebrae service follows the normal pattern of readings, music, and decreasing light. The candles are extinguished one by one. And as the lights go out, there’s a sadness that falls over the space. It is unspecific and large. It seems to include all of our pain, all of our heartache, all of our questioning. But then, as one become uncomfortable in this deep darkness, and one tries to adjust one’s eyes, there’s the faintest hint of light. One wonders if it’s in the imagination. But then it seems to be moving and approaching from behind. Gradually, slowly, silently… from way in the very back of the church, a little child comes, carrying a single candle. As the child moves through the space shadows dance all over the place, no longer threatening but animated with hope, with joy, with expectation.

The light shines in the darkness.  The light that shines, never went out. It just changed. It just seemed to go away. But here it is, faint but full; small but strong; vulnerable, yet eternal.

The liturgies of Holy Week give us various opportunities to seek the light. We are invited to slow down, to set aside the calendar, and our “to do” list. For a few days, we might even put on hold our endless list of “shoulds.” Whether we spend time in this church, another church, or somewhere else, Holy Week invites us to notice the dark places in our lives, the shades and shadows and allow God to be there with us.

Even if we can’t feel the warmth of the light, even if we can’t get a glimpse of it yet, the faith of the Church assures us that “What has come into being in [Christ] was life, and the life was the light of all people.” (John 1:3-5)

Whether we’re against the crowd, with the crowd, or feel like the crowd has forgotten us or left us behind, God is with us. Christ leads us in the way of prayer and action, as we follow his love—through the cross, into the tomb, and into the eternal love of God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.