Jamie Parsley's Blog, page 73

The Burial Liturgy for Georgia Patneaude

The Funeral Liturgy forGeorgia PatnaeudeFredrikson Funeral Home
Halstad, MinneostaApril 12, 2015

+ I will be honest with you tonight.  don’t want to be saying goodbye to Georgia tonight. I—like many of us tonight—just aren’t ready. Yes, I know she had a long life. Yes, I know she was tired. I know it was time for her to go.  But, it’s still hard. And I am going to miss her very much.
I knew Georgia for many years. And I certainly enjoyed greatly those years I knew her.  Every time I would visit her, she would always be so happy to see me. She would brighten right up and let out little yelp of joy when I would I come in to see her.  And I enjoyed that. I have always been very grateful for that.
As I said, I, like everyone here,  will miss Georgia dearly. I will miss her kindness, her gentleness, her laugh, her great sense of humor. I will miss that almost contagious joy that she carried within her.
I know this last year was a hard one for her. I saw her three weeks ago tomorrow, and that day she was having a hard day. But, as we talked that day, I can tell you this:  she was prepared. She knew what awaited her after this life.  And it did not frighten her. As difficult as it is right now,  the reality is this. We are saying goodbye, yes. But it is only a temporary goodbye. It is a goodbye until we see each other again.
Georgia, I can tell you, had a very deep faith and belief that we would, one day, all see each other again.  She had a deep faith in her God, who was with her and remained with her until the end. She knew that she was loved and sustained by her God.  I can assure you, her faith was strong. She never wavered, throughout all of those last trials and illnesses. She never wavered through any of the hardships of her life.  She never complained. And, I can tell you,  she never once lost her faith.
Every time I visited her and asked her is she wanted Holy Communion, she very anxiously and excitedly said, “Yes!” She was always, to the very end, a good Episcopalian and a faithful follower of Jesus.  
The scripture readings we have today are particularly apt. Our reading from Romans could have been written with Georgia very much in mind: Paul writes, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.”
And a bit later in Romans, we hear an even more incredible statement:
“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, 39nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Nothing—nothing—separates us from that incredible love God has for each of us.  It’s almost too amazing to even imagine. Georgia knew that love and that strong faith. And last Monday morning, that glory which the Apostle Paul spoke about earlier in that reading, that glory was revealed to Georgia.
She believed in that glory. She knew it awaited her. And she knew she was headed toward that glorious destination.
At the end of this service, I will lead us in what is called “The Commendation.”  For many of us, we have heard the words of the Commendation hundreds of times. But if you listen closely tonight to the words of the Commendation, you will find the heart in which Georgia Patneaude’s faith was found. In the Commendation, we will say,

Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life everlasting.

And it will end with those very powerful words:
All of us go down
to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia,
alleluia, alleluia.
Those are words in which, even in the face of all that life—and yes, even death—throws at us, as it did to Georgia through her life, we, like her, can hold up our heads even then,  with integrity, bolstered by our faith in God. Even in the face of whatever life may throw at me, we can almost hear her say: I did not let those bad things win out in my life. And she did not.

“…yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia,
alleluia, alleluia.”

Even you, death, will not win out over me, Georgia seems to say. Even in the face of these awful things, I will hold up my head and I will face you, death, with strength. And, because I have faith in my God, you, death, will not defeat me.
And I can tell you, death has not defeated Georgia Patnaeude. All that joy, all that love, all that wonderful life that was contained within that little small frame of a body—all of that is not gone tonight. It is not lost. Tonight, all the good things that Georgia Patnaeude was to us—that woman of life and strength and joy—all of that is not lost.  It is not gone. Death has not swallowed that up.  Rather all of that is alive and dwells now in a place of beauty and Light inaccessible. All of that dwells in a place of peace and joy, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.  In a place in which, there never again be any more tears.
Georgia will never cry another tear again. Sadly, we’re not at that point yet in our own lives. We will shed more tears.  Certainly tonight and tomorrow we will shed more tears. But, for us who are left, we know that that place awaits us as well.  That place of light and joy awaits each of us as well.  And we will have the opportunity to dwell there.
Yes, I am brutally honest tonight. I will miss Georgia very, very much.  We will all miss her and will feel her loss for a long time to come. But, on this day in which we bid her this temporary goodbye, let us also be thankful. Let us be thankful for this woman whom God has been gracious to let us know and to love. Let us be thankful for her example to us.  Let us be thankful for all that she has taught us and continues to teach us.  Let us be grateful for the love she felt for us and the love we felt for her. And let us be grateful for all she has given us in our own lives.

Into paradise may the angels lead you, Georgia. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.  Amen.

The Burial Liturgy for Georgia Patnaeude

2 Easter

Low SundayApril 12, 2015
John 20.19-31

+ I’m going to test you this morning. This is going to be a hard test. I’m going to see if anyone here actually read my book of short stories, The Downstairs Tenant. I wrote a story in it called, “I Could’ve Gone on Forever.” In that story, I talked about an astronaut and an actual famous event about astronaut in the 1960s.  So, who was the astronaut I wrote about? Or—and I’m going to make this easy for you who didn’t read it—who was the cosmonaut? It’s all right if you didn’t read the book or the story.
It was about Yuri Gagarin. And today, April 12, is the 54th anniversary of Yuri Gagarin’s trip to space, making him the first  human being in space. In 1961, this was a HUGE event.  
Supposedly, the first words attributed to humankind in space came from him and they were not words of awe, or praise. The first words from humans in space were:
“I see no God up here!”
Actually those words are probably apocryphal.
But, let’s face it—he didn’t see God up there. He didn’t see God there or anywhere. You’ve heard me say it again and again.
I have deep and profound respect for atheism. I truly believe that atheism is fairly simple and straightforward. But belief—belief is hard.  And none of us can believe without a certain level of doubt. Doubt is healthy. It’s an important part of true faith.  In fact, it’s one of the healthiest things we can do as believers.
In this morning’s Gospel, we encounter doubt of course in the person of the apostle Thomas.  Doubting Thomas, as we’ve come to know him, doubted that Jesus was resurrected until he had put his very fingers into the wounds of Jesus.  It wasn’t enough that Jesus actually appeared to him in the flesh. Obviously, Jesus wasn’t a ghost or something after all.  He stood there in the flesh—wounds and all.  Only when he had placed his finger in the wounds, would he believe.
It’s a strange and wonderful story.  I always liked this story and what it stands for. I think it’s always interesting to hear this story of Doubting Thomas.  Thomas, I think, is so much like us in many ways.  We sometimes do need little bits of proof to make our faith meaningful.  We sometimes need to touch the wounds of our own faith to actually believe.  We sometimes need to proof just to get us through the difficult phases of our belief.
But, the fact is, we are not St. Thomas.  For the rest of us, we don’t get it so easy.  Our doubts are not as easily done away with. Jesus is probably not going to appear before us—in the flesh.  And we are not going to have the opportunity to touch the wounds of Jesus.
Let’s face it, to believe without seeing, is not easy. It takes work and discipline. A strong relationship with God takes work—just as any other relationship in our life takes work.  It takes discipline.  It takes concentrated effort.  There will be good days and bad days in our relationship with God.
And with that, we cannot get around the fact there will be times of doubt.  We will question.  We will, however briefly, question God’s actions, God’s love for us. Or even that God exists at all.  We might even question the actual existence of God at times. It’s important to question.  Questioning means we’re not robots. And doubting is not a bad thing in and of itself.  Without some doubt, we would, again, be nothing more than unthinking and unquestioning robots.  And that is not faith.
Faith is being able to weigh both the certainties and uncertainties and still make that step forward into the unknown and hope and believe that we will be sustained.  Doing so is not the easiest road to take.  It takes constant work to make that step into the unknown.  Belief doesn’t—and shouldn’t—come easy.  It takes constant discipline to believe in something we can’t see or touch.  It takes constant discipline to believe that there is something out there that we cannot see or feel that will sustain us when we take that step forward.
In a sense, we are sometimes like blind people groping in the dark, trying to understand who and what God is in our lives.  We make our guesses.  We see God as we want to see God.  We often form God into our image when we can’t do anything else. And when we do that, it’s easy to say that God of our own perceptions doesn’t exists because…that God doesn’t exist.
There’s a great quote I once heard:
“The same God many atheists don’t believe is the same God I don’t believe in either.”
That god is often a god of our own perceptions,a  god created in our image. And I do not believe in that god. If that were THE god, then I too would be an atheist.
But it isn’t that easy, sadly. Now, for Thomas, he saw.  He touched. It was all made clear to him.  We however don’t get that chance.  We are often just groping about in the void, trying to make some sense of who this God is that we follow and love and worship.
“Blessed are those who believe but don’t see,” Jesus says this morning in our Gospel reading.
We are those blessed ones.  We are the ones Jesus is speaking of in this morning’s Gospel.  Blessed are we.  We believe, but don’t see.  Yet.
We are the ones who are able to look into the void, into the very depths, and, unable to see God with our eyes, we somehow still have faith.  Seen or unseen, we know God is there.  And our faith is not based on seeing God here.  Because we have faith that one day, yes, we will see God. We have this faith because the one we the follow—Jesus—showed us the way forward.  He stepped out into that void and was held up by God.  He still motions to us to come forward, to step into what we think is a void.  Because Jesus did what he did, we know we too will be held up by God.  And because he died and was resurrected, even though we might doubt it at times, even though it doesn’t make sense to our rational minds, we know—deeply—that this is what awaits us as well.  And, on that glorious day, we will run to God and see God face to face.  And in that moment, our faith will be fulfilled.
Blessed are you who believe but don’t see now.  The Kingdom of Heaven is truly yours.

Easter

Good Friday

April 3, 2015
+ Last night I preached about how the story of Jesus, for us as followers of Jesus, becomes our story too. Well, here we are.  This too is our story. This is the part of the story we don’t want to be ours.
The bleakness.
The stripped away austerity.
Death.
We have reached the lowest point in this long, dark week. Everything seems to have led to this moment.
To this moment—this moment of the cross, the nails, the thorns. To this moment of blood and pain and death. To this moment of violence and utter destruction.
We are here, in this moment, not finding comfort, not finding consolation. We are here facing not only Jesus’ death, but our own death as well. And nothing fills us with more fear than this.
Here is our identity.
We are reminded of it every time we gather at this altar to celebrate the Eucharist.  We are reminded of it every time, in the Eucharist, the priest raises the broken Bread and shows it to us.
Yes, this is Jesus’ death. But it is ours too. In this dark moment, our own brokenness seems more profound, more real.  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, emaciated body on the cross.
But…as broken as we are, as much of a reminder of our own death this day might be, so too is the next  24 hours. 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. What seems like an eternal brokenness will replaced by complete wholeness.
Yes, we might die, but God is not dead. Yes, we might be broken, but God will restore all that is broken. 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.
God will prevail even over even this.
This is what today is about too. This is what our journey in following Jesus brings to us. All we need to do is go where the journey leads us and trust in the one who leads.

Maundy Thursday

The Funeral Liturgy for Patricia Butler

Patricia A. Butler
(March 17, 1924– March 25, 2015)April 2, 2015

+I am very grateful this morning. I am grateful for the fact that we get this opportunity to  commemorate the life of  Pat Butler and to commend this wonderful woman to God. She was an amazing woman.
I first got to know Pat not long after I first came to St. Stephen’s in 2008. I went over to her home and visited her. And we had a great conversation about her life, about Fargo in 1950s and 1960s, and found out we knew many of the same people.
Over the years, she would often talk about the first years of this congregation of St. Stephen’s. She was one of the charter members of this congregation when it was founded in 1957. And this church was certainly very important to her.
We at St. Stephen’s are very grateful for all that Pat Butler did to make our congregation what it is.  She was a remarkable woman—and I don’t say that lightly. She was a woman of great strength and of contagious warmth.  Whenever I would come and visit her, she would look at me with that brilliant spark in her eyes and would welcome me as though she had known me all her life.  I liked that.
Now I know that if Pat were here this morning, she would be poo-pooing me to be quiet about all these glowing comments about her.  Because in addition to being a strong person—she was also pretty modest.  
And, I can say in all honesty, that she really is with us here this morning.  I am of the belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is a thin one.  And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Pat is close to us today.  She is here, in our midst, celebrating her life with us. And we shouldtruly celebrate her life.  It was a good life.  It was a life full of meaning and purpose. And it was a life full of faith in God.
As her priest, I can tell you that, for Pat, her faith was important to her and I think that faith continues on with those of us who are here celebrating her life.
In this morning’s Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say those wonderful warm words of welcome.
“In my Father’s place there are many mansions.”
In other translations, we hear, instead of mansions, “dwelling places.” In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.  I like that idea of mansions better. After all, would a God of love provide us, who made it through the perils of this life, with anything less than a mansion? Would God provide Pat with anything less than a mansion?  I don’t think so. And I am fully certain that God has indeed provided a mansion for Pat.
That is probably the best consolation we can take away from today. After all, that wonderful life of hers is not over by any means.  It has only blossomed into its fullest meaning. In God—in the God she loved and served—Pat is now fully and completely herself.  She is, in this moment,  whole.
Of course that doesn’t make any of this any easier for those who are left behind. I, for one, am going to miss her.  I am going to miss my visits with her and sharing Holy Communion with her and hearing her wonderful stories.  Whenever anyone we love dies, we are going to feel pain.  That’s just a part of life.
But like any pain, like any sorrow, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well.  They too will pass away. This is what gets us through.
Our faith shows us that we will see her again. And when we do, it will be glorious.
This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. That is what this Holy Week is all about.  Yes, Jesus, this week, was betrayed, suffered and was murdered. Those who loved him felt a despair like no other despair. On that Friday afternoon when he died, few of them could ever imagine that there would ever be joy or hope again. And yet, on that Easter morning, their tears were turned to smiles and their sorrow was turned to joy.
Today, it is an unending Easter day for Pat. And that glorious day awaits us as well.  That is what we hope in. That is where our faith lies.
When the Anglican priest and poet George Herbert said, “Christ dries our tears with his grave clothes,” he wasn’t just speaking poetically.
He was saying that, truly, Christ comes to us in the midst of our losses and shows us the way to Life—to a life reborn out of death.  Into a life without end.  It is a faith that can show us with startling reality every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, as I’m sure Pat would tell you—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear like a bad dream upon awakening.  Pat knew this faith in her own life and we too can cling to it in a time like this. It is in a moment like this that I am thankful for the fact that I knew Pat—I am thankful for the lessons she taught me—because even now she can help someone like me to understand my faith.
So this morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith—that, with God, Pat is complete and whole and beautiful at this moment.  
Today, it is Easter morning for Pat—an Easter morning that will never end.  And let us be glad that one day we too will be sharing with her in that unending joy.  Amen.

The Funeral Mass for Sharon "Angel" Brekke

Sharon “Angel” Brekke(July 5, 1950-March 25, 2015)Samuel Memorial Episcopal Church
Naytawaush, Minneosta

March 31, 2015

+ I am very grateful this morning.  am grateful that Mother Jackie asked me to be a part of this service. When I heard that Angel died, I let Mother Jackie know that I would definitely be here for this service.  Nothing would’ve prevented me from being here this morning to say goodbye to Angel. As you might know, I knew Angel for many years. She was a very important person in the life of St. Stephen’s Church in Fargo, where I serve as priest. And she was an important person in my life too. I certainly enjoyed greatly those years I knew her.  I was very honored to be her priest. And even more honored to be her friend.  I have always been very grateful for her friendship.

The years in which I knew Angel were hard ones for her. She was dealing with much physical pain throughout all of those years. When she wasn’t able to come to church, I would often go to her house to bring her Holy Communion.  And many times we had in-depth discussions about her illness, about death, about what awaits us after this life.  And I can say, this morning, that, like everyone here this afternoon,  I will miss Angel dearly.
I will miss those discussions with her. I will miss her presence at St. Stephen’s.  I will miss the affections and kindness she carried with her.
Certainly, that kindness and affection remained intact even despite the fact that these last several years were hard ones for Angel. That debilitating pain and suffering she experienced over these last many years, took their toll on Angel.
The last time I saw Angel was in late January, right before I was leaving for vacation. At that time, Angel took my hand and said, as she had often said, “You know, Fr. Jamie, the doctors say I don’t have long.”
I sort of poo-pooed her at that time.
I said, “You know, Angel, doctors are not always right.”
She sort of shrugged at this and said, “Well, if they’re right, I’m ready.”
And she was ready.  I had had enough discussions with Angel over the years that I knew she had deep faith in where she was going—and that she would, in the end, be all right.  And she knew she would be all right. She knew she would be taken care of by the God in whom she believed.  She knew there was place awaiting her, where she would not suffer any more pain. We can rejoice, this morning, in the fact that she is there in that place at this moment.
Still, that doesn’t make what we—the ones who are left behind—any easier.  I can tell you that, when I heard the news that Angel had passed, I was hurt. Deeply. I thought to myself, it all seems so unfair.Why? I prayed to God. Why did someone who was so kind and so loving as Angel have to suffer as intensely as she did.
And then I remembered something I read in a book years ago that has been very meaningful for me. 

 In this book, our perception versus God’s perception is explained this way:
Think of a carpet.  From above, the carpet looks perfect.  It’s soft.  It maybe has a beautiful design. It has a color that perfectly compliments the room.  But from underneath the carpet, it looks awful. We see stray pieces of thread. We see the plastic underlining.  We see the dried paste and nail holes.  
That’s what life is like sometimes. We are on the underside of the carpet right now.  That’s how we view life in this moment.   We see the stray threads and the framework, but we don’t see the carpet as it is meant to be seen. We see the ugly things life has thrown at us and it frustrates us.  It’s hard for us to imagine what’s on the other side of the carpet, if in fact there is even another side.
But, God is on the other side of the carpet.  God sees the carpet as it should be seen. While we are here, on this side, we don’t understand why things happen the way they do. We don’t understand why someone like Angel had to experience the set-backs she did over these past few years.  But we trust in the fact that one day, we will cross over to the other side—to God’s side. And when we do, it will all—somehow—make sense. It will all be the way it should be.
Angel is now looking at her life—and ours—from that other side. She is now looking at it all from God’s perspective. And that’s what she would want us to cling to as we go on from here.
Today we are saying goodbye to Angel. But it is only a temporary goodbye. It is a goodbye until we see each other again. Angel, I know, had a very deep faith and belief that we would, one day, all see each other again.  She had a deep faith in her God, who was with her and remained with her until the end. And because of her deep faith in God and in what awaited her following this life, she would not want us to despair over her death.  Because Angel knew that, although we can’t fully understand things now, we will one day. And that when we do, it will be beautiful. So, today, although we might be tempted to despair, we really cannot. When looking at these last few days from Angel’s perspective, this has been one great and glorious day without end for her. She has been relieved of her pain and suffering. The weariness and the strain she carried with her has been lifted from her. And she has now become fully and completely herself.
Yes, we are sad for this temporary separation. But we are not despairing. Because we know that will all be well.  It will all be well.
Today, all the good things that Angel Brekke was to us—that woman of strength and character and integrity—all of that is not lost.  It is not gone.  Death has not swallowed that up. Rather all of that is alive and dwells now in Light inaccessible. All of that dwells in a place of peace and joy, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting. In a place in which, there never again be any more tears. Except, maybe, tears of joy.  And for us who are left, we know that that place awaits us as well. That place of light and joy awaits each of us as well.  And we to will have the opportunity to dwell there.

I will miss Angel. We will all miss her and will feel her loss for a long time to come. But, on this day in which we bid her this temporary goodbye, let us also be thankful. Let us be thankful for this woman whom God has been gracious to let us know and to love. Let us be thankful for all she was to us—a caring and loving presence in our lives. Let us be thankful that even in those moments, when life on this underside of the carpet throws ugly things we don’t understand at us, we can still cling to hope and know that will not, in the end, be defeated.  And, most of all,  let us be grateful for all that love and the care Angel has given us in our own lives.

Into paradise may the angels lead you, Angel.  At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.  Amen.

Palm Sunday

5 Lent

March 22, 2015
John 12.20-33
+ This coming June, we will be celebrating a big day. Our confirmations students will be confirmed. I have really enjoyed our confirmation class. We have some very articulate and precocious students.  Nothing drives that fact home more for me than something we do at the end of our regular confirmation classes.  At of our class, I give the students an opportunity to “Stump Fr. Jamie.”  To “Stump Fr. Jamie” students can ask any question they would like regarding theology or spirituality or the Church.
Let me tell you, these kids do a very good job of trying to stump me.  And once or twice, maybe—just maybe—they’ve come close to actually stumping me.
Now, it’s not really fair. Because any time I might not be able to answer their questions, I just concede to that wonderful thing in the church we have called “mystery.”  Some things are just mysteries and we should accept the mysteries of our faith.  I know. I know. What a rotten thing for a priest to say. What a cop-out.
But what I have discovered every time our confirmation students ask questions is that, in actuality, they really are seeking.  And they are sometimes surprised to their priest himself is a seeker as well.
The fact is, I have never made a secret of the fact that I am also a seeker, just like all of us this morning.  We’re all seekers.  We’re here this morning seeking something.  People who aren’t seekers don’t need to come to church. They don’t need to listen and ponder the Word.  They don’t need to feed on and ponder the mysteries of the Eucharist that we celebrate at this altar.  People who don’t need to seek, don’t come following the mysteries of their faith.
I have discovered in my own life as a seeker, that my seeking, my asking questions and my pondering of the mysteries of this life and my relationship to God, are what make my faith what it is. It makes it…faith. My seeking allows me to step into the unknown and be sometimes amazed or surprised or disappointed by what I may—or may not—find there.
In our Gospel story for today, we also find seekers.  In our story, we find these Greeks seeking for Jesus.
“Sir, we wish to see Jesus,” they say.
This one line—“we wish to see Jesus”—is do beautifully simple. There’s so much meaning and potential and…mystery, to it that I don’t think we fully realize what it’s conveying. And what I doubly love about it is that as beautiful and as simple as the petition is—“we seek Jesus”—we never, if you notice, find out if they actually find him. The author doesn’t tell us. We find no resolve to this story of the Greeks seeking Jesus.
However, despite it being a loose end of sorts, it does pack some real meaning.  What’s great about scripture is that even a loose end can have purpose.  One interpretation of this story is that that the Greeks—as Gentiles—were not allowed to “see” Jesus until he was lifted up on the Cross. Only when he has been “lifted up from the earth,” as he tells us this morning will he “draw all people to [himself].” Jesus’ message at the time of their approaching the apostles is still only to the Jews. But when Jesus is lifted up on the Cross on Good Friday, at that moment, he is revealed to all. At that moment, the veil is lifted.  The old Law of the Jews, according to this thinking, has died—the curtain in the Temple has been torn in half—and now Jesus is given for all. It’s certainly an interesting and provocative take on this story.  And it’s especially interesting for us, as well, who are seeking to “find Jesus” in our own lives. Like those Greeks, we are not always certain if we will find him—at least at this moment.
But, I am going to switch things up a bit.  Yes, we might be seekers here this morning.  But as Christians, our job is not only to be seekers.  Our job, as followers of Jesus, as seekers after Jesus, is to be on the receiving end of that petition of those Greeks.  Our job, as Christians, is to hear that petition—“show us Jesus”—and to respond to it.  This is what true evangelism is. Some might say evangelism is telling others about Jesus.
Possibly. But true evangelism is showing people Jesus.  And, let’s face, that’s much harder than telling people about Jesus.
So, how do we show Jesus to those who seeking him?  Or, maybe, even to those who might not be seeking Jesus? We show people Jesus by doing what we do as followers of Jesus and seekers after God.  We show people Jesus by being Jesus to those around us.
Now, that sounds impossible for most of us.  The fact is, it isn’t.  This is exactly what Jesus wants us to be. Jesus wants us to be him in this world.  He wants to be our hands, helping others.  He wants to speak through our voices in consoling others, in speaking out against the tyrants and despots and unfairness of this world. He wants to be our feet in walking after those who have turned away and are isolating themselves.
When we seek to bring the Kingdom into our midst, we are being Jesus in this world.
We might not always succeed in doing this.  We might fail miserably in what we do. In fact, people might not find Jesus in us, at all.  Sometimes, whether we intend it to or not, we in fact become the “Anti-Jesus” to others. But that’s just the way it is sometimes.
In seeking Jesus and in responding to others who are also seeking him, we realize the control is not in our hands.  It doesn’t depend on any one of us.  Which, trust me, is comforting.  I personally don’t want all that responsibility.  Nor, I’m sure, do any of you.  Who would?
In today’s Gospel, we find Jesus saying: “Very truly I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls on the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”  In those moments in which we seem to have failed to be Jesus to those around us, when those who come to us seeking Jesus find, rather, nothing, or, worse, the “Anti-Jesus,” we find that even then, fruit can still come forth.  God still works even through the negative things life throws at us.  God still works event through our failures and our shortcomings.
Jesus can still be found, even despite us.  Jesus can still be found, even when we might not even be seeking him. Jesus can be found, oftentimes, when we are least expecting to find him.  
Certainly, Jesus is here this morning in our midst.  His Spirit speaks to us in our hearing of the Word.  He is here in the Bread and Wine of our Eucharist.  He is here in us, gathered together in God’s Name.  And let me tell you, Jesus is definitely out there, beyond the walls of this church, waiting for us to find him and show him to others.  He is never far away.
So, let us, together, seek Jesus.  Let us search for God, here, in the Word where we hear God speaking to us, in this Eucharist, in which we feed on Jesus’ Body and Blood. Let us search for God in going out from here and encountering those people who need God.  And let us also help others who are seeking.
“We wish to see Jesus,” the Greeks say to the disciples.
And people still are saying that to us as well.
“We wish to see Jesus.”
Let us—fellow seekers of Jesus—help them to find him.