Jamie Parsley's Blog, page 33

6 Easter

Rogation SundayMay 17, 2020
John 14.15-21

+ I know this might seem like some other time—some innocent, more normal time—but in 2014 we did something special at our Rogation Blessing.
On that Sunday six years ago—before there were things like Corona Virus and quarantines—we dedicated our Memorial Garden.
Now, I remember when I first introduced this idea at St. Stephen’s about a memorial garden about a year before that.
There was a bit of frowning.
There was a sense of, “Lord, what is he thinking of doing now?”
There was a groan of “Really? A cemetery? Seriously?”
But, look what a blessing that memorial garden has had in our life here at St. Stephen’s.
Thanks to Sandy Holbrook and the gardening committee and all the people who have worked for that garden and all that beautiful landscaping that was done there, it has become a place of beauty.
And in these six years, our memorial garden has become a place of rest for six people—a new stone was just placed there this past week—and a place of consolation for countless others.
Now I don’t think I’m overestimating it when I say it has also become a place of mercy.
We of course have laid people to rest there who had no other place to rest, who were rejected or forgotten.
Why? Why do we do that?
Because that is what we do as Christians.
In our Christian tradition, mercy plays heavily into what we do.
And as a result, there have been, since the early Church, a series of what have been called corporal acts of mercy.
I’ve talked about this many times before.
These corporal acts of mercy are:
To feed the hungry;To give drink to the thirsty;To clothe the naked;To harbor the harborless;To visit the sick;To ransom the captive;To bury the dead.We at St. Stephen’s, in the ministry we do as followers of Jesus, have done most of those well.
Including that last one. 
Burying the dead is a corporate act of mercy.
And it is something we have do with our services of burial and in our memorial garden. 
And, it’s appropriate we are doing on this Sunday, Rogation Sunday, the Sunday before the Ascension of Jesus.
In our Gospel reading for today we find Jesus explaining that although he is about to depart from his followers—this coming Thursday we celebrate the feast of Jesus’ Ascension to heaven—he will not leave them alone.
They will be left with the Advocate—the Spirit of Truth.
The Holy Spirit.
He prefaces all of this with those words that quickly get swallowed up by the comments on the Spirit, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.”
And just to remind everyone, that command is, of course, “to love.”
To love God.
And to love our neighbors as ourselves.
This is what it means to be the Church.
To love.
To serve. 

To be merciful.
To be Christ to those who need Christ.

To be a Christ of love and compassion and acceptance.
Without boundaries.
Without discrimination.
Because that is who Christ is to us.
When we forget to be Christ to others, when we fail to do this, we fail to do mercy.
We are doing so this morning.
We are living into our ministry of mercy to others.
Today is, as I’ve said, Rogation Sunday.
Rogation comes from the Latin word “Rogare” which means “to ask.”
Traditionally, on this Sunday, we heard the Gospel in which Jesus said,
"Whatever you ask the Father in my name, he will give to you".
Today, with our current lectionary of scripture readings, we actually find him saying, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate…”
From a very simple perspective, the thing we are asking today, on this Rogation Sunday, is to be faithful followers of Jesus, thorough our works and acts of mercy.
Now for some of us, this whole idea of Rogation Sunday and the procession that we will soon be making outside at the conclusion of our Eucharist this morning might seem a bit too much.
 The fact is, it is something, very much like burying the dead on the church grounds.
It is very much a part of our Anglican Tradition.
In the 1630s one of heroes (you hear me quote him and reference him often), Anglican priest and poet, George Herbert, commended these rogation processions.
He said that processions should be encouraged for four reasons:
1. A Blessing of God for the fruits of the field.
2. Justice in the preservation of boundaries of those fields and properties.
3. Charity in loving, walking and neighborly accompanying one another with reconciling of differences at the time if there be any.
And 4 (hold on to your seats). Mercie (yes, mercy) , in relieving the poor by a liberal distribution of the resources, which at the time is or ought to be used.
In so many ways, that is what we do here and what we continue to do here.
Our memorial garden—this visible sign of the final corporal act of mercy—is a part of this Rogation celebration.
This is where we do our blessing.
We process there and bless the earth and the land there.
We ask God’s blessings on the growth not only of crops and fields.
And we do something also very important there: We thank God today for the growth of our congregation.
We are thanking God for the acts of mercy done to each of us.
And we are asking God to continue to make us Christ to those who need Christ.
As you can see, the rallying themes of this Rogation time are hope and justice and mercy.
As George Herbert reminds us there is alwaysroom for charity.
As we process out at the end of the Eucharist today, I ask you to look around the memorial garden.
I ask you to look at the names there.
We know some of them.
Others of them we will never know on this side of veil.
I ask you as you walk about to thank God for them.
I ask you today to thank God for the growth God has granted us at St. Stephen’s
And I ask that you remember Jesus’ call to us, to love him and to keep his commandment of love and mercy.
It is more than just sweet, religious talk.
It is a challenge and a true calling to live out this love in radical ways.
It is a challenge to be merciful.
As we process, as we walk together, let us pay attention to this world around us.
Let us ponder the causes and the effects of what it means to be inter-related—to be dependent upon on each to some extent, as we are on this earth.
We do need each other.
And we do need each other’s love.
And mercy.
We do need that radical love that Jesus commands us to have.
With that love, we will truly love our neighbors as ourselves.
We will show mercy to them.
Our neighbors, of course, are more than just those people who live next door to us.
Our neighbors are all of us, those we do in fact love and those we have difficulty loving.
And our neighbors also include this earth and all the inhabitants of it.
That command of Jesus is to love—to respect—those with whom we live and share this place.
Let this procession today truly be a "living walking" as George Herbert put it.
But let our whole lives as Christians be also a “living walk,” a mindful walk, a walk in which we see the world around with eyes of love and respect and justice and care.
And, most importantly, with eyes of mercy.
Amen.

5 Easter

May 10, 2020
Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14
+ One of my favorite words is "weird."  I like it because, well…I am.
I am weird.
And I just don’t care.
I long ago embraced that word because I realize that "weird" in our society simply means "outside the norm."  And that's me to a T.
It also, in many ways, describes this congregation I serve and the way we do worship.
For some, what we do here is "too much."
For others, "it's not enough."
To a few, it's just "weird."
But for us, I think, "weird" works for us.  And embracing it for all it's worth is a very liberating experience.
I am grateful for St. Stephen's for letting this weird priest do weird things that (in normal times i.e. outside the pandemic) seems to bring new people in the door almost every Sunday.
Now, it shouldn't work.  This weird, progressive Anglo-Catholic very Episcopal  way of worship and ministry.
But you know? It does.
Why?  
Because that's how the Holy Spirit works. The Holy Spirit works in oftentimes weird ways that just shouldn’t work. But somehow does.
There was a great opinion piece published in the New York Times on Friday (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/08/opinion/sunday/weird-christians.html?fbclid=IwAR1y9OxNzybxTXTnSvNtyMb4Xt--WGVp3DEPEwCnIe7bxd71MtBHBQmjSRU) entitled
Christianity Gets WeirdModern life is ugly, brutal and barren. Maybe you should try a Latin Mass.
It’s one of the best pieces of writing about the Church I’ve read recently.  Actually, to be honest, there were a few things in the article I didn’t agree with. But, for the most part, the article really nailed on the head much of what we’ve been doing here for the last 12 years or so, and certainly what many of us are dealing with right now in the midst of this pandemic.
Here’s a bit from the article:
“More and more young Christians, disillusioned by the political binaries, economic uncertainties and spiritual emptiness that have come to define modern America, are finding solace in a decidedly anti-modern vision of faith. As the coronavirus and the subsequent lockdowns throw the failures of the current social order into stark relief, old forms of religiosity offer a glimpse of the transcendent beyond the present.
“Many of us call ourselves ‘Weird Christians,’ albeit partly in jest. What we have in common is that we see a return to old-school forms of worship as a way of escaping from the crisis of modernity…”
A bit later in the article, Tara Isabella Burton, the author of the piece, who is a member of the Episcopal Church of St. Ignatius of Antioch in Manhattan, (one of my dream churches),  writes,
“In the age of lockdown, when so much of life exists in a nebulous digital space, a return to the Christianity of the Middle Ages — albeit one mediated through our screens — feels welcome.”
She then goes on to describe watching the Rector of St. Ignatius livestreaming Evening Prayer, an opportunity in which she writes  “we were not only taking the time to greet our fellow parish members, but also to experience solidarity with a church that transcended time itself. Holed up in an apartment we have hardly left for weeks, we were experiencing both communal connection and a sense that this ghastly, earthly present is not all there is.”
But one of the best points of the article was this. One young man Burton interviewed says, “The pandemic…has made all too clear that both liberal and conservative visions of American life, based on ‘self-fulfillment via liberation to pursue one’s desires’ is not enough. ‘It turns out we need each other,” he said, “and need each other dearly.’“What Christianity offers, he added, is ‘a version of our common life more robust than individual pursuit of desire-fulfillment or profit.’ In the light of that vision, the current pandemic can ‘be both a cross to bear and an opportunity to reflect the love that was first shown us in Christ.’”Now, for us at St. Stephen’s, that doesn’t seem weird at all. This is what each of are bearing and wrestling with during this time of pandemic.
But to others, this does  seems weird.
High Church liturgy, even on social media?
Livestreamed Mass twice a week?
Incense, even through “nebulous, digital space?”
It sure seems weird, doesn’t it?
But, as we have discovered, weirdness is not something to fight. It is not something to avoid. It is something to embrace.  It something that can help not only define our faith, but deepen it as well.
After all, there is something weirdlyliberating in being countercultural—even among other Christians.
And as someone who is inadvertently countercultural, I can tell you, being “weird” is not always easy.
It’s not easy being a weird + progressive +  Anglo-Catholic, + celibate + vegan +  teetotaling + priest AND poet in our society. 
Let me tell you!! None of those things fit into our society very well.  Everything in that statement which describes me runs counter to literally everything our society is and stands for, even in the midst of a pandemic.
I’m the poster child for Christian weirdness! And proudly so!
But, as I said, there is also something very liberating in being “weird.”
The expectations that so many people are slaves to are just not issues with us who are “weird.” This weirdness affects every aspect of our faith, of our relationships, of our very lives. And, yes, even, of our deaths.
Because, as most of you also know, one of the things that makes me ‘weird” is that I talk and preach pretty regular about death.  The reason I do so is because, although society is so uncomfortable about death, our Christian faith is not uncomfortable with it. In fact, it forces us to confront death on a very regular basis.  After all, for us, death is not what death is for the rest of society.  All we, as followers of Jesus,  know of dying is this: we know only that he promises us something greater than this.
And we catch a glimpse of that greater something in our Gospel reading for this morning.
The Gospel we heard this morning is a familiar one for most of us.  This is one of the Gospel readings recommended by the Book of Common Prayer for funerals.  In fact, it is, by far, one of the most popular Gospel readings chosen for funerals.  There’s little doubt why it is.  It is wonderfully appropriate.
The reason it is so popular is because it truly does give us a wonderful glimpse into what awaits us following our death.
This really is the BIG issue in our lives. We might not give it a lot of conscious thought, but no doubt most of us have pondered at some time in our lives, what awaits us following our death.  
The part we no doubt concentrate on in today’s Gospel, outside of Jesus telling us that he is “the Way, the Truth and the Life,”are his words
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.”
I think what he conveys is that God will provide something beautiful and wonderful for us.
And in our reading from Acts this morning, we get to catch an even clearer view of that beautiful and wonderful something that awaits us.  In Acts we find our own dear, patron saint, St. Stephen, being dragged out by an angry mob and stoned to death.  It’s certainly not pretty. But in the midst of that violence and anger, we find St. Stephen having a glorious vision.  He looks up into heaven and is allowed a vision, in which he sees Jesus at the right hand of the glory of God. And with his last words, he prays to Jesus,
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
(A prayer we have memorialized in our St. Stephen window)
This is the first post-Ascension prayer to Jesus in the scriptures.
And it is the most beautiful and most honest prayer St. Stephen could’ve prayed.
So this, morning, in both our Gospel reading and our reading from Acts, we are confronted with glorious visions. Now neither of them are as stupendous as the Rapture. But there is something wonderful in being able to look ahead and see what awaits us.  It is wonderful to be able to see the joys and beauty of our place with God in heaven.
Still, knowing full well what awaits us, having been given glimpses into that glorious place that lies just beyond our vision, we still find ourselves digging in our heels when we have to face the fact of our own dying. We are uncomfortable with this mystery that is death.
In our Book of Common Prayer, we have a beautiful prayer that is prayed for someone near death. It can be found on page 462.  There we find this prayer,
“Almighty God, look on your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort ‘this person’, with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.”
“Comfort ‘this person’ with the promise of life everlasting”
This promise of eternal life, as we have seen in the Resurrection, should truly be a comfort to us, especially in those moments when we fear death.  Thinking about our own deaths isn’t necessarily morbid or unpleasant.  It simply reminds us that we are mortal.  We will all die one day.
But rather than despairing over that fact, we should use it as an opportunity to draw closer to God, to Jesus who is the Way, the Truth and the Life. We should use it as an opportunity to live a more holy life.  And hopefully, living a more holy life, we can pray at that last moment—that holy moment—with true conviction, that wonderful prayer of St. Stephen, the first martyr:
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
Although it’s probably not the most pleasant thought to have that we are going to die, I think it is important to think about occasionally.
The reason we should think about it—and the reason we shouldn’t despair in thinking about it—is because, for a Christian, dying is not a horrible thought.
Dying is not a reason to fear.  Because, by dying, we do come to life everlasting—life with end.
And although we, at this moment, can’t imagine it as being a “happy” or “holy” moment, the fact is, it will be.  It will be the holiest moment of our life and it will be the happiest moment of our life.
For Stephen, who died abused, in pain, bleeding from those sharp stones that fell upon him, it was a happy and holy moment when he looked up and saw Jesus waiting for him.  He was happy because he knew he would soon be received by Jesus and it was holy because, at that moment, his faith was fulfilled. That place toward which we are headed—that place in God’s house—we will find our true home. Heaven—is truly our happy home, the place toward which we are wandering around, searching.
And we will not find our rest until we rest there, and we will not be fully and completely happy until we are surrounded by the happiness there.
See, what I mean: weird.
It’s all weird.
It’s all so countercultural to our society and the world.
And it’s uncomfortably weird.
Which is all right.
Because, let’s face it: almost everything Jesus did and said were considered uncomfortably weird to those who encountered him in his day.
“I am the Way, the Truth and the Life??” I bet someone who was there to firstt hear those words, thought they were a bit weird.
So, let us, the weird, countercultural Christians that we are, not fear. We live in a frightening time. There is a deadly pandemic raging about us.
But in the face of that pandemic, let us not fear it. (Let us also be safe and not do stupid things like not protecting ourselves).
But let us not live in fear.
For this too, we know, will pass.
Let us fear nothing in this world.
But let us be confident.
Let us be confident in our faith in God and in God’s Christ, the Way, the Truth and the Life
Let us be confident in who we are and what we are.
Let us be confident even in our weirdness.
Let us live our weird, countercultural Christian live with confidence.
And, in doing so, let us look forward to that place in which Jesus has prepared a place for us.
It awaits us.
It there, right at this moment, just beyond our vision.
Let us look to it with joy and let us live in joy until we are there together. Amen.

4 Easter

Good Shepherd SundayMay 3, 2020
John 10.11-18
+If any of you have every worked with me for any period, especially if you have served as Senior Warden, Junior Warden, this following statement will not come as much of a surprise to you.
But…
when I was a child, I was, to say the least, a very independently minded child.
Even when I was very young, I liked to do things my way.
I didn’t like to be told what to do.
I hated having to eat what anyone told me to eat, to go where I was told to go, and I wasn’t good at taking orders. 
I wasn’t spoiled (though people thought I was).
I didn’t whine. I didn’t complain. I wasn’t mean or coercive in my independence.
I simply…didn’t do it if I was being told to do it.
When I joined the Cub Scouts—out of curiosity and the appeal of wearing a uniform than anything else—I didn’t last long.
The first order I was given, I refused to do.
When I was told that I had to dress a certain way in a talent show, I refused and when I was told that I HAD to do it, I responded by informing my parents that I was dropping out of the Cub Scouts (I was maybe 8 at this time).
That independent streak has been a difficult one in my life, now especially in my life as a priest.
The reason I say it is difficult is because sometimes, when one is independent, when one is out on the edges, it can be a dangerous place.
We human beings are a social animal, after all.
We like to “fit in.”
We like to be a part of crowd.
And too much independence can be scary because it means we have to rely on our own devices all the time.
Which makes all the talk in the scriptures about sheep and flocks difficult for someone like me.
Which also brings us to our Gospel reading for today:
In today’s Gospel, we find Jesus saying something that is a bit unusual.
In our reading for today, you’ll notice, he does say HE is the Good Shepherd.
What does he say he is?
He says he is the gate through which the Good Shepherd enters.
It’s an unusual image.
But…it is beautiful.
And with it, we get a glimpse into the Divine view of God’s relationship with us.
This image of Jesus as the gate through which the sheep and the Good Shepherd enters is very good.
In this case, he really is both the gate and the Shepherd.
F0r the sheep, there is really no difference.
The gate and the shepherd are synonymous to the sheep.
Which makes the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is a vital one.
It is a popular image because it is an image of God we strive for.
We want a God who will hold us in arms of love and protect from danger.
And I’m happy that is the image most of us have of God.
“I am the Gate for the sheep,” Jesus says. And by saying it, he says, “I am also the Shepherd who enters the gate.”
The story we just heard in the Gospel reading, like most of Jesus’ stories, has of course a deeper meaning.
When Jesus talks about the good shepherd who enters by way of the gate and the thieves who enter to steal, the meaning is clear.
Livestock in Jesus’ day—much like in our own—were valuable.
When the thief and the bandit, the flock needed a wise, caring and strong shepherd to defend them.
The Good Shepherd was the one who, when those nefarious beings began started lurking too close for comfort in the dark, never left even one of the flock to be taken.
The Good Shepherd tried to save each and every single one of them.
He even looked after that one independent sheep who strayed away from the rest of the herd and lived out on the edges.
Even the 8-year-old-Jamie-the-Cub-Scout sheep.
The good shepherd cared for the flock.
He loved them.
He even went one step further.
When the predators came near, the Shepherd put himself between the predator and the sheep, thus endangering himself.
He was willing to lay down his life to protect even the smallest of the sheep.
And how do we know this Good Shepherd?
How do we know who to trust?
The Good Shepherd does not climb over the fence—he does not sneak in.
The Good Shepherd enters boldly into our lives, through the gate.
It is a beautiful image.
Our God is a God who enters our lives boldly as times.
Our God is a God who will not let one of us be lost—no matter how weak or slow we might be.  
Our God is willing to step between us and those dark forces that come into our lives.
Our God even looks out for those of us who are independent and who walk the edges of this life.
And even more than that, our God is willing to die for us.
Over the years, I have encountered many people—whether parishioners or students or people spiritually journeying toward God—who have not always had such comforting images of God in their lives.
Some people have images of a God who is stern and mean and judgmental.
Their vision of God is of a despot who is off in some far-off heaven, watching every little thing we do, waiting for us to trip up or fail in some way so we can be punished.
In many ways, some of us who have experienced God in this way, find ourselves rebelling against that image of God.
And we most definitely should!
I am going to tell you in no uncertain terms—rebel!!
Rebel against any image of God that presents God as anything less than God really is!
Rebel against any image of God that says God is cruel or mean or close-minded or racist or sexists or homophobic.
Rebel against any image of God that makes God anything less than fully loving, fully accepting, fully sheepherding. 
If God is anything other than loving, accepting or caring, that is not the God we believe in as Christians.
That is not the God we want coming to us. 
That is not the God who even allows us to be independent and even rebellious, while still loving us and protecting us.
So, I am thankful for a Sunday like today—this Good Shepherd Sunday—in which we can celebrate and reestablish the relationship we have with a loving and compassionate God—a God who comes to us as a kind and caring Shepherd of us.
As Jesus the Good Shpeherd says today in our Gospel reading, “I came so that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
Our God knows us.
Each and every one of us.
Even those independent ones of us who are out there on the edges of life.
And our God wants us to live, and live abundantly.
That’s what a good shepherd wants.
That’s what a good mother wants.
Our God even knows that we are out there and is watching out for us too.
And we know God. In Jesus, we most certainly know God.
When we look into the face of our Good Shepherd, we see the Face of our Jesus—the Face of someone who loves and cares for us and knows us like a mother.
But I think Jesus is calling all of us to something more than just meets the eye in this morning’s Gospel.
Jesus is not simply saying that we are sheep to be shepherded.
I think Jesus is also calling us to be good shepherds in our own lives as well.
And this is not only a message for those of us who are ordained to be shepherds.
We are all called to be shepherds.
Certainly we are shepherds to someone.
Whether we are mother, or father or teacher or older sibling, we all have plenty of opportunities to be shepherds of those entrusted to us.
Jesus sets quite an example for us.
The Good Shepherd not  only protects the flock.
The Good Shepherd is even willing to lay down his life for the flock.
Few of us are willing to go that far, but when worse comes to worse, we might surprise ourselves.
We might actually be willing to protect someone with our very lives.
So, throughout this coming week and next Sunday—on Mother’s Day—let us remember all that God  has done for us.
Let us remember how God, like a mother, had guided us, protected us and continues to loves us.
Let us listen to the voice of God—a voice we know and heed in our lives/
Let us remember how God knows us—knows the real us—the one no one else knows.
And remember how—in our lives each of us is called to be a good shepherd to those entrusted to us as well.
Let us fear not when the thieves and bandits come sneaking around in our lives or in our world.
Let us not be afraid when the darkness closes in on us.
All we need to do is look toward the Gate.
We are taken care of by the One who knows us and the One we also know.
We, like the lamb in popular art, are cradled in the arms of our Good Shepherd.
We are being held at this moment, and, in that safe place, no danger can ever come too close again.
And in that safe place, we do have life—a glorious, hope-filled life—and we have it abundantly!

3 Easter

Apres l'apparition by Jean Louis Forain 

April 26, 2020

Luke 24.13-35
+ As we continue on in our quarantine, as we still try to figure out who we are as a Church outside the walls of our building, one area that I think is a challenge for us in these seemingly unending days of social isolation is a ministry that we hold very dear here at St. Stephen’s

This incredibly VITAL ministry is the ministry of hospitality.
RADICAL Hospitality.
And if you want to know what real ministry is about, then this is IT.
Real ministry, as we have all discovered, is not about the almighty ME—the individual.
It is about US—all of us, the children of God.
Radical Hospitality, as well know, is not easy.
Ministry is not easy.
And it’s especially hard when we are isolated in our homes.
Sharing our time, our energy, our physical building, is definitely not easy right now.
How do we practice hospitality in this time of Covid?
We do so in any way we can.
We do so with those we live with.
We do so with those we actually encounter, either in person or on social media, or when we actually have to go out and do necessarily errands.
And some of us, of course, are still working.Some of us are still out there doing work in work places.
Being radically welcoming means treating all those people we encounter in our lives, in any way, with respect and dignity.
Now, in today’s Gospel, we find hospitality as well.
And in this story, there is a kind of social isolation happening as well.
We find this beautiful story of Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple encountering Jesus on the road to Emmaus.
Cleopas and the other disciple are, essentially, already in a strange time in their life in following Jesus.
The long week of Jesus’ betrayal, torture and murder are behind them.
 The resurrection has happened, although, it’s clear from their words, they don’t quite comprehend what’s happened.

Of course, who could?
We still, two thousand years later, are grappling with the events of Jesus’ resurrection.
And they are isolated to some extent because they are afraid of the persecutions that are happening towards followers of Jesus following his death.
As these two walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, they are kept from recognizing their friend, the person they saw as the Messiah, until finally he breaks the bread with them.
Only then—only when he breaks that bread open to share with them—do they recognize him.
It’s one of my personal favorite stories in scripture, as many of you know.
In fact when I was installed as Rector of St. Stephen’s last December, some parishioners here, who know my love for this scripture,  gave me a beautiful piece of art, illustration.
It is a drawing by the French artist Jean Louis Forain called “Apres l’Apparition” or “After the Apparition.”
In it, we see the two disciples on one side of a table, one seated, one kneeling in awe. On the table is a broken loaf of bread. And across from them is an empty chair. One of the disciples looks in amazement at the empty chair, a glow on his faces, both of them realizing who is was that had just been sitting and breaking bread with them.  
I love that piece of art (I look at it every day), and I love what it represents.
Because, it’s a wonderful story and one that has many, many layers of meaning for each of us individually, no doubt.
But for us Episcopalians, for us who “gather” together every Sunday and every Wednesday to virtually break bread together even in this time of pandemic, this story takes on special meaning.
In a sense. we are the disciples in this reading.
We are Cleopas and the unnamed disciple, walking on the road—walking, as they are, in that place on the other side of the cross.
They are walking away from Jerusalem, where all these events happened—the betrayal, the torture the murder and the eventual resurrection of Jesus from the tomb—back to Emmaus, to their homes.
Like them, we go around in our lives on the other side of the cross, trying to understand what it means to be followers of Jesus on this side of the cross.
What this story teaches us is that, even when we don’t recognize Jesus in our midst, we should always be cautious.
He might not make himself known to us as he did to Cleopas and the other disciple.
Rather, he might remain cloaked in that stranger who comes to us.
And as a result, it’s just so much better to realize that everyone we encounter, everyone we greet, everyone we welcome, everyone we make room for, in whatever we way we encounter them in our quarantines,  truly is Jesus disguised.
This belief of welcoming all people—of treating all people—as though they are Christ is essential for those of us who are following Jesus.
Because it’s most definitely what we do here at St. Stephen’s., even we are not gathering within these walls.
But, for a moment, just imagine what an incredible world this would be if everyone could do this—if everyone could practice radical hospitality right now, even separated as we are physically.
What an amazing Christian Church we would have if we could do the same, if we could welcome every stranger—and every regular parishioner as well—as Christ in our online relationships, in the relations we have within our confinement, in all we do and say to others.  
Imagine if we welcomed even our very enemies as Christ.
I think many Christians forget this.
We are called to welcome all people as Christ, because we do not know when we will encounter him, in whatever guise he might choose to come to us.
Now, of course, that’s not easy.
In fact, sometimes it’s downright impossible.
Without God’s help, we can’t do it.
Without God’s help—without the Holy Spirit—we first of all can’t even begin to recognize Christ in our midst.
And without God’s help, we can’t seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.
And, let’s face, it’s just easier to choose not to.
It’s much easier to grumble and mumble and complain.
It’s much easier to backbite.
It’s easy not to see Christ in those people who drive us crazy, who irritate us, who say things to us we don’t want to hear.
It’s much, much easier for us to see the devil in people, rather than Christ.
But for us who “gather” at least online,  together every Sunday at this table—at this altar—we can’t use that excuse of being unable to recognize Jesus in our midst.
Jesus IS in our midst.
In our liturgy, we find Jesus in a multitude of ways.
Jesus speaks to us in the scripture readings we hear in the Liturgy of the Word.
The voice we hear in these sacred words is truly Jesus’ voice, speaking to each of us in our own particular circumstances, and to all of us as whole.
Jesus is present with us—in ALL of us—as we gather wherever we might be to worship on line here.  
We, all of us together, are the presence of Jesus in this world as well.
And when we break this bread at the altar, we find whatever spiritual blindness we come here with is lifted at that time.
We see Christ truly present with us—in the bread and the wine,   and in one another .
Radical hospitality DOES make a difference.
Greeting people as though Jesus were present in each person who comes through that door has incredible results—not in only in our collective life here at St. Stephen’s, but in the lives of each of those people coming among us.
We are showing them that, despite the occasionally somewhat ugly reputation the Church has at times—and sometimes deservedly so—we, as the Body of Christ in this world, can do much good as well.
We can truly love.
We can truly be accepting—of all people, no matter who or what they are.
We can truly see clearly that Jesus does still walk beside us.
We can see that he is with us here as we listen to the scriptures and he is here with us that this table in the breaking of the bread.
So, today, let us hear—truly hear—his words in the scriptures we have just shared and in the scriptures we will read this week.
Let us allow Jesus to speak to us with words that are familiar, with a voice that is familiar.
Let us allow him to take away whatever spiritual blindness we might have so that we can truly and completely see him in those people who share our life with us.
Let us allow him to take away that spiritual blindness that causes so much harm in the world so that we can fully experience him and show love and respect to everyone we come in contact with.
And when we break this bread this morning, let our hearts sing, as it no doubt did for Cleopas and the other disciple,
“Be known to me, Lord Jesus, in the breaking of bread.”
And recognizing him here, as we come forward to be nourished in body and spirit by his Body, Blood and Spirit. may we also go out into the world, able to recognize Jesus as he walks alongside us on our journey.
We are living, in this moment, on the other side of the cross.
We are living here, with Jesus in our very midst.
It is truly a glorious place to be.

2 Easter

April 19, 2020
John 20.19-31
+ I saw a cartoon on Facebook yesterday that I just loved.
In it, it shows the 11 apostles (sans Judas) joining in on a Zoom meeting.
In the corner, there is a blank square for Jesus.
From the square, Jesus says, “Hey.”
Simon says, “How on earth is he in the meetings?’
And in the far corner is Thomas, who says, “Unless he turns on his camera I will not believe it.”
Well, in that very simply cartoon, we get where we are right now in our current situation perfectly.
Because if the life of Jesus were happening right now, we know that is exactly what it would be like.
But I get cartoon-Thomas’ skepticism.
I would be the same way.
And I would probably feel the same about the Thomas we encounter in today’s Gospel reading.
Thomas, as we just heard,  refused to believe that Jesus was resurrected until he had put his fingers in the wounds of Jesus.
You know what?
I’d be the same way.
Well, maybe I wouldn’t insist on putting my fingers in a wound.
That’s a bit extreme.
But, certainly, if someone I knew and cared for died and suddenly everyone is telling me that person is now actually alive, I would definitely doubt that.
And if I knew that person had died and was now standing in front of me, I would still be skeptical.
Skeptical of my sanity, if nothing else.
Or my eyesight. 
So, for Thomas, it wasn’t enough that Jesus actually appeared to him in the flesh—Jesus, was no ghost after all.
He stood there in the flesh—wounds and all.
Only when Thomas  had placed his finger in the wounds, would he believe.
That’s great for Thomas.
But, the fact is, for the rest of us, we don’t get it so easy.
We will struggle.
We will struggle with things like the Resurrection.
Sure, we understand “resurrections” in our lives.
We’ve all known what it is be reborn, to feel joy after bad things happen.
But to believe in this event in the life of Jesus—this Resurrection.
The Resurrection.
He died, he was buried, and now, all of a sudden, he is alive.
And is still alive. For us. Right now.
It’s hard.
Our rational minds rebel against this.
It’s easy to doubt.
But faith, that’s hard.
It’s not easy to have faith.
I don’t have to tell anyone watching here this morning about faith.
We all know how hard it really is
It takes work and discipline.
More likely than not, we can all think of at least one or two things we’d rather be doing this Sunday morning than tuning into this Mass at this time.
We could be doing so many other things in our quarantine.
We could be sleeping in.
We could have a nice long breakfast with our families.
We could be reading the newspaper.
We could watch TV while lounging on the couch, or we could be sitting at the computer.
But instead, we made the choice to tune in to our Mass and participate virtually.  
We made a choice to “be” here this morning, and worship a God we cannot see, not touch.
We made a choice to come here and celebrate an event that our rational minds tell us could never have happened.
And not just celebrate.
But to stand up and profess belief in it, even if we might struggle with it.
But even if we struggle with it—it’s all right.
It’s all right to struggle and doubt and wrestle with it.
A strong relationship to God takes work—just as any other relationship in our life takes work.
It takes discipline.
It takes concentrated effort.
As I say, over and over again, being a believer in God does not just involve being nice on occasion and smiling.
It means living one’s life fully and completely as a believer.
And being a Christian is even more refined.
As Christians we are committed to follow Jesus—this resurrected Jesus.  
But it’s even more than that.
Throughout the Easter season we are celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus.
 That fact is a difficult ones for us to understand and believe in.
Certainly,  rationally it might be easy to objectify it and say that if it happened, it happened then, to Jesus.
It really has nothing  to do with us.
But if we just live as though the Resurrection didn’t happen only to Jesus but us too-if we believe that God has and will raise us up just as God raised Jesus—then, that covers so much of that doubt.
Sometimes we just have to square our shoulders and move forward as best we can in our faith.
We just need to live into it, fully and completely, and let our doubts take care of themselves.
Certainly we cannot let ourselves wallow in doubt.
If we’re going to wallow in anything, we should wallow in the Resurrection and life and light and God.
The best way to overcome doubt is simply to get up and go out and just strive to be the best Presence of Christ we can be in this world.
Of course, that’s hard to do when we’re in quarantine.
But we can do it in our daily lives, in our presence on social media, in our care for those around us, in our prayers for those around us.
In whatever ways we can, we all should be striving to simply BE a reflection of God’s all-encompassing love and goodness in the world, in whatever ways we can.
The key words here are “love” and “goodness.”
Yes, things like the Resurrection and the Incarnation are hard to wrap our minds around.
They don’t relate well, sometimes, to our day-to-day lives.
But, loving God and loving one another does.
Of course, that isn’t that easy either. 
But when we do this, we are encompassing every possible thing that the Resurrection means in our lives.
When we do that, we are doing what the Resurrection tells us to do.
By doing so, we bring the Easter joy and light to a world that seems ruled right now be fear and financial anxiety and insane people like those protesters who think we should out others in jeopardy simply because they are being inconvenienced by staying, a place wherein callousness and ugliness and utter stupidity seem to reign supreme.
It is difficult to be the conduit of the Light and Presence—the love and goodness—of Christ when others are shouting in hatred and bigotry in the same name of Jesus.
Now, for Thomas, he saw.
He touched.
It was all clear to him.
But we don’t get that chance.
“Blessed are those who believe but don’t see,” Jesus says this morning.
We are those blessed ones.

All of us.
Our belief—our faith—doesn’t have to be perfect.
We will still always doubt.
Will still always question.
And that’s all right.
We are still the ones Jesus is speaking of in this morning’s Gospel.
Blessed are you all.
You believe—or strive to believe—but don’t see.
Seen or unseen, we know God is here. With us. Right now.
Even in the midst of a pandemic
Right here.
Right with us.
One day, we will not be experiencing God through this veil which seems to separate us.
One day that veil will be lifted.
One day, yes, we will really see God.
We will, on some glorious day—in our own Resurrection—run to God and see God face to face.
And in that moment, our faith will then finally be fulfilled.
Doubt will die for good. Then.
Blessed are we who believe but don’t see now.
The Kingdom of Heaven is truly ours.

Easter

April 12, 2020

+ Finally!
Easter!
I don’t think I’ve ever longed for Easter more than this year.
And, as you know, I am an Easter person. Some people are Christmas people. They live for Christmas. That’s it for them.  For them, that’s the real magical time.
But for me, I gotta admit, it’s all about Easter. This is what it is all about. There is nothing, in my opinion,  like gathering together here on this glorious morning, in all of this Easter glory.
I just love Easter! I love everything about it.
The light.
The joy we are feeling this morning.
That sense of renewal, after a long, hard winter.
But this Easter especially I’ve longed for.
Because, you know what. It was a long and terrible Lent. And it’s about time that we have some beauty in our lives.
Some hope.
Some joy.
It is time for us, even in our quarantine, to rejoice.
It is time for us sing our alleluias and celebrate life.
Unending life!
Eternal life.
There’s an old saying, “Eternal life doesn’t start when we die, it starts now.”
I love that. Resurrection is a kind reality that we, as Christians, are called to live into. And it’s not just something we believe happens after we die.
We are called to live into that Resurrection NOW. Jesus calls us to live into that joy and that beautiful life NOW.
The alleluias we sing this morning are not for some beautiful moment after we have breathed our last. Those alleluias are for now, as well as for later. Those alleluias, those joyful sounds we make, this Light we celebrate, is a Light that shines now—in this moment.
We are alive in Christ now.
Our lives should be joyful because of this fact—this reality—that Jesus died and is risen and by doing so has destroyed our deaths. This is what it means to be a Christian.
Easter is about the fact that we are alive right now.  
It is also about living in another dimension that, to our rational minds, makes no sense.
Even, sometimes, with us, it doesn’t make sense.
It almost seems too good to be true.
Easter almost seems too good to be true.
And that’s all right to have that kind of doubt.
It doesn’t make sense that we celebrating an event that seems so wonderful that it couldn’t possibly be true.
It doesn’t make sense that this event that seems so super-human can bring such joy in our lives.
Today we are commemorating the fact that Jesus, who was tortured, was murdered, was buried in a tomb and is now…alive.
Fully and completely alive.
Alive in a real body.
Alive in a body that only a day before was lying, broken and dead, in a tomb.
And…as if that wasn’t enough, we are also celebrating the fact that we truly believe we too are experiencing this too.
Experiencing this—in the present tense.
It is happening for us too.
We are already living, by our very lives, by our faith in Jesus, into the eternal, unending, glorious life that Jesus lives in this moment.
Our bodies MAY be broken.
It may seem that all the bad things of life may defeat us at times.  
But we will live because Jesus lives.
What we are celebrating this morning is reality.
What we are celebrating this morning is that this resurrected life which we are witnessing in Jesus is really the only reality.
And all those bad things that happen are really only illusions.
We aren’t deceiving ourselves.
We’re not a naïve people who think everything is just peachy keen and wonderful.
We know what darkness is.
We know what suffering and pain are.
We are living in a dark and frightening time right now.
There is illness and death and anxiety and fear all around us.
But, what Easter is all about is realizing that all of that is only temporary.
It is the Light of Christ, that has come to us, this glorious morning, much as the Sun breaks into the darkness, is what lasts forever.
What Easter reminds us, again and again, is that darkness is not eternal.
It will not ultimately win out.
Pandemics and illness and coronavirus are not eternal.
Fear and anxiety are not eternal.
The darkness within all of those things will not win out in the end.
Light will always win.
This Light will always succeed.
This Light will be eternal.
Easter shows us very clearly that God really does love us.
Each of us.
No matter who we are.
God really does love us.
Because, look!
Look what God does for us.
The bad things don’t last.
But the good things do last. Forever.
That is the best gift we could receive from a God who truly does love us.
I wish I could always feel this joy that I feel this morning.
But the fact is, this Light will lose its luster faster than I even want to admit.
This joy will fade too.
But I do believe that whatever heaven is—and none of us knows for certain what it will be like—I have no doubt that it is very similar this the joy we feel this morning.
I believe with all that is in me that it is very much like the experience of this Light that we are celebrating this morning—an unending Easter.
And if that is what Heaven is, then it is a joy that will not die, and it is a Light that will not fade and grow dim.
And if that’s all I know of heaven, then that is enough for me.
The fact is, Easter doesn’t end when the sun sets today.
Easter is what we carry within us as Christians ALL the time.
Easter is living out the Resurrection by our very presence.
As I have been preaching through the Season of Lent, (from the quote by the recently departed Bishop Barbara Harris):
“we are an Easter people.”
We are.
We are an Easter people.
Not just during Easter.
But all the time.
We are, each of us, carrying within us the Light of Christ we celebrate this morning and always.
All the time.
It is here, in our very souls, in our very bodies, in our very selves.
With that Light burning within us, being reflected in what we do and say, in the love we show to God and to each other, what more can we say on this glorious, glorious morning?
What more can we say when God’s glorious, all-loving, resurrected realty breaks through to us in glorious light and transforms us;
Alleluia! Christ is risen!The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Holy Saturday

April 11, 2020
Matthew 27.57-66
+ Yesterday, in my sermon for Good Friday, I quoted the great Bishop Barbara Harris who once said,
“We are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.”
I think that quote is very true. But, for me, I think we are actually an Easter people living a Holy Saturday world right now. Because, let’s face it: that’s exactly what our collective life seems like right now. Like one long, prolonged Holy Saturday.
Here we are today in a church stripped of everything symbolic.
The cross hangs before us, veiled in black.
The altar is stripped.
The aumbry, that held just a few days ago the Body and Blood of Jesus, is now empty, its door wide open.  
The sanctuary light, which gently reminds us of the holy Presence of Jesus in that Bread and Wine, is extinguished and has been taken away.
For those of us who delight in the Presence of God—who strive and long for the Presence of God—who find our purpose and meaning in the Presence of God—today is a bleak day.
That Presence seems…gone.  Or, at least, hidden from us.
For now, in this moment, on this Holy Saturday morning, time seems to sort of stand still.  We are caught in this breathless moment—between the excruciating death of Jesus on the cross yesterday and the glorious Light that is about dawn on us tonight and tomorrow morning.  
For now—in this moment—we are here.
See, it does feel like a world in which a pandemic rules and we live in anxiousness. We seem to be waiting for…something.
On this Holy Saturday, as we look around us, we might be asking where is Jesus?
Today he is not where he was last week or even a few days ago for us.
On this day, we remember that his body was lying there in the dark stillness of the tomb, wrapped and broken and bloodied.
But where is Jesus?
Not his body.
But…him?
This day gives me an opportunity to preach about one of my all-time favorite topics—the so-called “Harrowing of Hell.  
The Harrowing of Hell is that wonderful concept in which we ponder Jesus’ descent  to hell to bring back those captured there.  For me, this is what’s it’s all about.
Hell.
That place we thought was the end all of end-all’s.  
That place that we dread and fear and cringe from. That place in which lies every one of our greatest nightmares and the most horrendous things we could even possibly imagine.  That black, bleak, miserable place.
What I love about today and this Harrowing of Hell is that the fear of this place is broken.   The fear that there is a place in which God’s love and light might not be able to descend is broken open.  Jesus goes even there in search of us, those he loves. 
Now, this imagine carries over into our own immediately lives.  Hell, for us, is not necessarily that metaphysical place of eternal punishment. Hell is right here, in our own lives. In our own minds.  In our own day-to-day lives.
We all know what our own hells are and how isolating they can be.
We know how impenetrable they seem.
What today shows us that there is no such thing as an impenetrable hell.
At least not for Jesus.
No matter how dark, how terrible our hells might be, Jesus will come for us there.
Jesus will descend to us, wherever we might be.  And from that place, he will take us by the hand and pull us out.   Because that is what Christ’s love is able to do.
So, where is Jesus at this strange time in our lives? Is he off somewhere in some high heaven? Is he ignoring us in our fear and anxiety?
No.
We know where he is.
He is here.
Right here.
He is with us.
Even in this dark an strange place.
Even here in this time of pandemic and sickness.
We know that nothing can separate us from that love of Christ.
Not even the deepest hell.
It is incredible when we think of that.  
And, for me anyway, it fills me with such hope, such joy, such love for Christ that even the bleakness of this morning doesn’t seem so bleak.
Oh yes, Jesus has died.   He truly died—he truly tasted death and partook of it fully.  And we too must die as well. We too will taste death and partake in it fully.  
But the fact is that, not even death can separate us from Christ. That place wherein we find ourselves, lost, lifeless, without hope, is the place in which we cannot escape Christ.
In the hells of our lives, even there Jesus comes to us.  In those places in which we seem so far separated from God, from the love that God gives us, from the light God shines upon us, even there Jesus will come to us.
No matter how far separated we might seem from Jesus, Jesus will cover that great distance and come to us.
Even here.
Even here he will find us and take us to himself.
Even here, he will even die, like us, to bring us back to a life that will never end.
 That is what Holy Saturday is all about and that is certainly why I love this day.
 So, on this Holy Saturday, when all seems bleak and lost and without purpose, let us remember: Jesus is at work even in those moments when we think he might not be.
The Presence of God is with us even when it seems furthest from us.  
In the darkest moments of our lives, the bright dawn is about to break.
Let us wait patiently and breathlessly for it.

Good Friday

April 10, 2020
Isaiah 52.13-53.12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4.14-16; 5;7-9; John 18.1-19.42
+ The main theme in my sermons for this Lenten season was the theme of brokenness.
Brokenness. 
In many ways, that is what this day is all about.
Brokenness.
The Jesus we encounter today is slowly, deliberately being broken.
This moment we are experiencing right now is a moment of absolute and complete brokenness.
Brokenness, in the shadow of the cross, the nails, the thorns. Broken by the whips.  
Broken under the weight of the Cross.  
Broken by his friends,
Broken by his loved ones.
Broken by the thugs and the soldiers.
Broken by all those who turned away from him and betrayed him.
 In this dark moment, our own brokenness seems more profound, more real, as well.  
We can feel this brokenness now in a way we never have before.
Our brokenness is shown back to us like the reflection in a dark mirror as we look upon that broken Body on the cross.
 A few weeks ago, on hearing the death of Bishop Barbara Harris, I shared a quote she shared, that really spoke to many people, including myself.
Bishop once said,
“We are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.”
This Lent, this time of pandemic and collection fear, has truly shown us what a Good Friday world is.
Today, on Good Friday, we know what a Good Friday world feels like.
We’ve been living it.
Yes, we have known brokenness in our lives.
We feel a kind of collective brokenness right now in our society.
We feel a collective brokenness in this world of pandemic and anxiety and fear.
There have been moments, recently when we may have felt like maybe it seems God has abandoned us, has deserted us, has turned away from us.
We have known those moments in which it seems sickness and death have prevailed and we feel helpless in the face of it all.
We have known those moments when we have lost someone we have cared for so much.  
We have known those moments of darkness in which we cannot even imagine what light is even like again.
But, for as followers of Jesus, we are an Easter people.
We live, always, even in the darkness of pandemics and sickness and death, in the light of Easter.
Even today, we know it—the Easter light— is there, just beyond our grasp.  
We know that what seems like a bleak, black moment will be replaced by the blinding Light of the Resurrection.  
What seems like a moment of unrelenting despair will soon be replaced by an unleashing of unrestrained joy.

This present despair will be turned completely around.
This present darkness will be vanquished.
This present pain will be replaced with a comfort that brings about peace.
This present brokenness will be healed fully and completely, leaving not even a scar.
In a few hours our brokenness will be made whole.
And will know there is no real defeat, ultimately.  
Ultimately there will be victory.
Victory over this pandemic and this time of quarantine and spiritual isolation.
Victory over everything we are feeling sadness over at this moment.
Victory over the pain, and brokenness, and loss, and death we are commemorating
This is what today is about.   
This is what our journey in following Jesus brings to us.
All we need to do is go where the journey leads us.
All we need to do is follow Jesus, yes, even through this broken moment.
And, in following, we—Easter people that we are—will know joy—even a joy that, for this moment, seems far off.  

Maundy Thursday

April 17, 2013
 Exodus 12.1-14, 1 Corinthians 11.23-26; Psalm 22; John 13.1-17,31b-35
+ Normally, on Maundy Thursday I preach the Holy Eucharist.
Holy Communion.
That would be under normal circumstances.
We are obviously not under normal circumstances.
And to preach about Holy Communion when our congregation can’t gather together to actually eat and drink together at this altar, seems wrong. It doesn’t feel right to preach about that. Not now. Not in this time of pandemic and worldwide illness.
Next year, yes.
But now. No.
Instead, I am going to preach about something I should’ve preached about in the past but have not.  I realized recently that I have never fully addressed this issue, at least not from the pulpit.
But Covid-19 has brought some issues to surface that I realize I need to address. There are a lot of issues that Covid brings to the surface. But one in particular ties in to what we are doing during these three holy days leading to Easter Day.
That is the issue of anti-Semitism. Namely, the anti-Semitism that we may perceive from our readings during these three holy day before Easter. Anti-Semitism is something I hoped was in the past. Something we did not need to deal with anymore.
But Covid has brought it up again.
Yes, we hear the old accusations from some extremists who believe that this pandemic was caused by Jews.  It seems this happens, historically, every time there is a plaque of some sort. Somehow the Jews always get blamed for such things. And the root of that anti-Semitism is, I hate to say it, based in our Christian beliefs.
In our readings from the New Testament during Holy Week, the Jewish people in Jesus’ time do not come off looking very. There is an obvious bias by the authors of these Gospels toward them.  And that is disconcerting.
So, in response, if you are able to access our bulletin for tonight, you will see this statement.  It’s an important statement.  And if you haven’t read it, I’ll read it right now.  The Statement reads:
Jesus of Nazareth was a Jew. Christianity began as a movement within Judaism that took time to form and evolve into the institutional Church of today. There were areas of contention and disagreement among the Jews in Jesus’ time, and the leaders of the early Jesus movement did not shy away from hostile rhetoric against their detractors, as evidenced by a number of New Testament passages.The Greek term usually translated here as “the Jews” varies in meaning and application, alternately referring to the most powerful Jewish religious leaders; Jews of the region of Judea specifically; or to those Jews who had reservations about Paul’s mission among Gentiles. In essence, “the Jews” functions in the New Testament as “the other” against which Christianity came to define itself.When the Roman Empire adopted Christianity as its state religion, Christian rhetoric against Jews gained power, and Christian texts inspired anti-Semitism, most notably during the Crusades and the Holocaust. In our modern context, it is important for us to remember that while New Testament writers took issue with Jews who disbelieved in Jesus as the Messiah and Son of God, these texts do not take issue with anyone’s race or origin. Nor do they prescribe for us, in contradiction with Christ’s central purpose, mistrust or hatred of non-Christians.(I, by the way, did not write that statement, but found it elsewhere and found it helpful for Holy Week)
This is important for us to hear. And it is important for us, on this night in which we observe and commemorate a very Jewish tradition in which a very Jewish Jesus and his very Jewish followers lived.
This Last Supper Jesus celebrates on the night before he died was a Passover meal.  He was observing of that very Jewish feast. And he,  an observant, Torah-keeping, kosher Jew, was doing what was right for he has an observant Jew.
How we tend to forget this as Christians, I do not know. I do not know how any follower of our very Jewish Jesus can still be an anti-Semite.
But I do know this.
We followers of our Jewish Jesus, need to make reparation for anti-Semitic statements made by Christians and even our Gospel writers.  We need to stand up and speak out when he hear them or see them. And it seems we are hearing them and seeing them now more than we have in the last five or ten years.
Our Jewish Savior expects nothing less from us than making it a very real mission in our lives to speak out and protest anti-Semitism in this world.
It is uncomfortable then, for those of us who have made this commitment, to read and hear these scriptures in which Jews are spoken of so adversely.
But we need to remember that it wasn’t the Jews who killed Jesus.
It was the Romans who whipped him.
It was the Romans who mocked him.
And It was the Romans who nailed him to the cross and pierced his side with a spear.
And yet, there is no anti-Roman discrimination.
In fact, Rome now is the very center of the Roman Catholic Church!
The fact is, on this Maundy Thursday, unless we are only observing what we hear and commemorate tonight and not acting on what we find wrong in these false understandings of our Jewish sisters and brothers, this is all just empty. And Jesus would rather have us not observe it.
But if we observe the events of tonight and the next several days through a Jewish lens, we find it takes on such significant meaning.
This Jewish Jesus will tomorrow be tortured and then will be nailed to the Cross.  He was nailed to that cross in fulfillment of Jewish scriptures and the Jewish expectation of the Messiah and the divine Son of God.
The holy concept of the slain Lamb of God is a reference to the lamb that was slaughtered in the temple in Jerusalem as a sin offering.
So, for Jewish followers of Jesus, his death took on deep, very Jewish meaning.
On that cross Jesus tomorrow will die and be laid in a dark tomb.
On Saturday, it will be there, laid out, broken and destroyed.
But on Sunday, that physical Body will be raised by God out of that darkness.  It will rise out of that destroyed state.  It will come forth from that broken disgrace and will be fully and completely alive and present.
Jesus himself, this victim of anti-Semitism, will rise above that brokenness and live.      To see all of that from a Jewish perspective not only helps us make sense of these incredible and amazing events.
It also helps us to understand that all of these things were planned by God for ages before.  And this is a truly holy way to celebrate this holy night.
Yes, we are not able to gather here together to share the Body and Blood of Jesus as we usually do. But we are still sharing in his Body and Blood spiritually. We are spiritually partaking of this Passover meal, this sacrifice of the Lamb of God, this service of Thanksgiving to God.  And because we are, we are being spiritually fed.  We do come away with a sense that Jesus is present and that he goes with us—each of us—all of us—from this altar and from this church building, into the world.
So, let us gather spiritually around this altar tonight.  Let us spiritually share in the Body and Blood of our very Jewish Messiah.  Let us humble ourselves in our hearts And in our hearts, let us be truly fed.  And let us go from here, humbled and fed, to speak out, the defend those who need defending, to stand up against those who oppress our Jewish sisters and brothers and anyone else who are feeling oppressed. And, in doing so, we too are sharing the holy Presence of Jesus with others.

Palm Sunday

April 5, 2020
Matthew 26.14-27.66

+ Here we are this morning at the beginning of Holy Week. And let me tell you, this is the weirdest Holy Week I’ve ever experienced.
Usually, without fail, I begin this week with a big mix of emotions. But this year…I don’t even know what I’m feeling.
This strange year.
This bizarre and unprecedented Lent.
Certainly, this week is the apex of the entire Church Year. Everything seems to lead either to this week or away from it.
But, I don’t even know what to say about this Holy Week. The fact that we are not all gathered together here this morning and that we won’t be gathering this week, just makes it all so…different…so unreal.  
Of course, we will do the best we can this week.  We will celebrate our liturgies as we always do, though they will be pared down considerably. We will observe the last events of Jesus’ last earthly moments before his crucifixion, as we always do, though we will be doing through social media together.
That’s all the surface “things.”
This coming week will be a hard one because the virus will possibly intensify this week. This coming week will be hard because more people will get sick, and more people will die.  This coming week will be hard because the quarantine is taking a toll on all of us. We can only socially isolate ourselves for so long before we start feeling its deep effects.
And to top it all that off, for us who are Christians, we must also walk with Jesus on a journey none of really want to walk with him on, especially not now. Not right now.
We, as followers of Jesus, as people who love Jesus and balance our lives on his life and teachings and guidance, are emotionally tied to this man, after all.
This Jesus is not just some mythical character to us.  He is a friend, a mentor, a very vital and essential part—no, he the very center of our lives as Christians. He is our Savior. He is our tie to God, our connection with the God who loves us.   So, to have to go through the emotional rollercoaster of this coming week in which we have to see him betrayed and murdered is hard on us.  
 And today, we get the whole emotional rollercoaster in our liturgy and in our two Gospel readings.  Here we find a microcosm of the roller coaster ride of what is to come this week.
What begins this morning as joyful ends with jeers and bleakness.
The Jesus who enters Jerusalem is the Jesus who has done some incredible things in the past few weeks, at least in the very long Gospel readings we’ve been hearing over the last few weeks.
Three weeks ago, he turned the Samaritan woman’s life around.
Two weeks ago, he gave sight to a man born blind.
Last week, he raised his friend Lazarus from the dead.
This day even begins with us, his followers, singing our praises to Jesus, waving palm branches in victory.  He is, at the beginning of this week, popular and accepted.  For this moment, everyone seems to love him. But this procession of his is different than the normal procession of a monarch.
The great theologian Marcus Borg wrote this:
“[Pontius] Pilate’s procession embodied the powers, the glory, and violence of an empire that ruled the world. Jesus’ procession embodied an alternative version procession and alternative journey...an anti-imperial and non-violent procession.”
Such a procession, as wonderful as it seems, is, however, dangerous.  Such an anti-imperial, non-violent procession is a threat.
And as a result…within moments, a darkness falls.  It all turns and goes horribly wrong.   What begin with rays of sunshine, ends in gathering dark storm clouds.  Those joyful, exuberant shouts turn into cries of anger and accusation.  Those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem have fled.  They have simply disappeared from sight.  And in their place an angry crowd shouts and demands the death of Jesus.
Even his followers, those who almost arrogantly proclaimed themselves followers of Jesus, have disappeared.  Their arrogance has turned to embarrassment and shame.  Even the Samaritan woman, whose life he turned around, the man born blind, and his friend Lazarus have disappeared and are nowhere in sight.
Jesus, whom we encounter at the beginning of this liturgy this morning surrounded by crowds of cheering, joyful people, is by the end of it, alone, abandoned, deserted—shunned.  Everyone he considered a friend—everyone he would have trusted—has left him.  And in his aloneness, he knows how they feel about him. He knows that he is an embarrassment to them. He knows that, in their eyes, he is a failure.
Throughout this coming Holy Week, the emotional roller coaster ride will get more intense.
On Maundy Thursday the celebratory meal of Passover will turn into a dark and lonely night of betrayal.  Jesus will descend to his lowest emotional point after he washes the feet of his disciples and heads out into the garden of Gethsemane.
Friday will be a day of more betrayal, of torture and of an agonizing violent death in the burning hot sun.
Saturday morning, while his body lies in the tomb, he descends to the depths of hell and from there will be lead those who went before into the depths. Not even the depths of hell are more powerful than he.  Saturday will be a day of keeping watch at the grave that would, under normal circumstances, be quickly forgotten.
Through our online liturgies, we are able to walk with Jesus on this painful journey and to experience the emotional ups and downs of all that will happen.
And next Sunday morning , the roller coaster will again be at its most intense, its greatest moment.  Next Sunday at this time, we will be rejoicing, though, yes, that rejoicing too will be subdued. Next Sunday, we will be rejoicing with all the choirs of angels and archangels who sing their unending hymns of praise to him from our homes.   We will be rejoicing in the fact that all the humiliation experienced this week has turned to joy, all desertion has turned to rewarding and wonderful friendship, all sadness to gladness, and death—horrible, ugly death—will be turned to full, complete and unending joy.
And that is the message we take with us during this temporarily bizarre time.
All of this will be turned around.
And we will, sooner than later, rejoice together with real joy.
Marcus Borg finished that quote we heard earlier in this way:
“Which journey are we on? Which procession are we in?”
Are we in Pilate’s arrogant procession?
Are we the crowd, are we the religious leaders who call for Jesus’ death because he doesn’t meet our personal needs?
Or are we in Jesus’ procession?
Are we following Jesus even in these dark, strange times?
We know the answer to that question.
Let us join Jesus’ procession, as uncomfortable and frightening we might be right now.   As we trek alongside Jesus during this Holy Week of betrayal, torture and death, as we journey through another week of uncertainty and anxiety, let us keep our eyes focused on the Light that is about to dawn in the darkness of our lives.
Let us move forward toward that Light.
Even though there might be sadness on our faces now, let the joy in our hearts prompt us forward along the path we dread to take.  And, next week at this time, we will be basking in Christ’s incredible Light—a Light that triumphs over the darkness of not only his death, but our as well.