Stand Up to Stand Down

Sermon for the diaconal ordination of Jean Long

Jeremiah 1:4-9; Acts 6:2-7; Luke 22:24-27

June 11, 2022

We gather today to begin something that’s been underway a long time now.  In a few minutes, Jean Long will come up here, and Bishop Diane will offer ancient prayers, and lay hands on her, and make her a deacon in God’s Church … at least for a season.  That will begin what the prayer book calls a “special ministry of servanthood,” the hallmark of the diaconate.  And yet, for anyone who’s known her more than five minutes, Jean Long has been living servant ministry for years now.  I don’t think I’ve ever known someone more deeply wired to serve, and her ministry here at St. Andrew’s and in diocesan youth work has revealed that over and over again.

But this special ministry of servanthood will also be a new chapter, separate and distinct from what’s come before.  At least that’s the Church’s hope for what we sometimes call the “transitional diaconate.”  I’m afraid that often, this part of the process toward the priesthood can be just that – part of the process, a box to check, a step to take on the way to somewhere else.  Honestly, that’s what it was like for me.  I came out of seminary, was ordained a deacon, and took charge of a small congregation, serving as a priest in every way except absolving, blessing, and consecrating.  If there’s theological integrity in serving as a deacon for a season, that ain’t it.

So, it begs the question … why do people on the path toward priesthood serve as deacons first?  Probably “because the canons say so” isn’t the best reason.  Here’s another possibility.  It might just be that serving as a deacon helps you remember whispers of God’s call that the priesthood might tempt you to forget.

One of those whispers is the call to serve “all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely,” as the prayer book puts it.  As Jean already knows very well, people will come needing love who can be the hardest to love, and when you’ve got a full schedule of everything else, serving that challenging person you weren’t expecting can take more than everything you’ve got.

But the reading today from Acts reminds me that “all people” includes not only the hard to love but also the hard to see.  The propers for today begin this Acts reading at verse 2 of chapter 6 – an interesting choice because it edits out the presenting circumstance for choosing not just seven people for servant ministry but perhaps these specific seven, too.  Here’s the verse we missed, chapter 6, verse 1:  “Now during those days, when the disciples were increasing in number, the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution of food.”  Then comes the material we heard about needing to set aside people for the ministry of diakonia – which, in Greek, could mean “waiting on tables” or “keeping accounts,” either of which could make sense here.  Then it goes on to name the people raised up for this special ministry of servanthood – at least several of them people from the group whose widows were being neglected.  The seven raised up for this ministry have Greek names.  Now, we don’t know with certainty how many of them were Hellenists, Greek-speakers only; but most likely several of them were.  And the symbolism matters for us, I think.  I imagine the apostles weren’t trying to discriminate against the Greek-speakers.  They just weren’t seeing them.  So, what do you do about that?  Raise them up into leadership.  From the start, diaconal ministry has been about helping the Church see those whom we’re tempted to miss, bring them into the circle, and let the Holy Spirit change us all.

What else can the priesthood tempt us to forget?  How about this: The truth that my voice and God’s voice are not the same.  We heard about that in the reading from Jeremiah today.  There, the young prophet-to-be hears God’s call and says, “What?  You’ve got to be kidding.”  Perhaps that might ring true for some of us.  But the Lord reassures Jeremiah that he won’t be tapping his own resources as a prophet.  “You shall go to all to whom I shall send you,” God says, “and you shall speak whatever I command you.  Do not be afraid of them … [for] now I have put my words in your mouth.” (1:7-9)  In parish ministry as a priest, the temptation is great to speak easy words, words that won’t stir up the folks who are looking for a chance to be reactive.  We know we aren’t called to take the easy way out; so sometimes we overcorrect and lean too far the other way.  We figure my passion must be God’s passion and my righteousness must be God’s righteousness … and we let ’em have it.  Jeremiah reminds us, especially those called to parish leadership, that neither silence nor the Gospel of Me will suffice.  I think when the Good News calls people on all sides to hear a word they hadn’t considered, those are truly words the Lord has put in your mouth.

OK.  There’s at least one more way diaconal ministry can help tune the ears of priests-to-be toward God’s countercultural call, and we heard about that in our Gospel reading today.  At this point in the story, it’s Maundy Thursday; and Jesus has just instituted the Eucharist, the ultimate sign of divine love fully present in the here and now.  He’s given his friends this sacrament so they can remember his paradigm – that self-giving love is, in fact, the reign and rule of God on earth.  If that’s true, then ultimate power comes from the absence of power, the giving up of power … which turns the disciples’ understanding of power on its head.  And you can see why.  All around them, they see power as a function of status.  In the imperial world, power flowed from the one named as Caesar.  In their religious world, power flowed from the ones named as high priest or members of the council.  Even in their own circle, power flowed from the one named as Messiah, God’s anointed king.  And if the Messiah is sitting with them delivering his farewell address, you could understand why his followers might jump to the question, “Well, who has enough status to take over for him?  Which of us is the greatest?”

It’s an opportunity for Jesus to give his friends some parting instruction.  Exercising God’s power has nothing to do with status.  Exercising God’s power has everything to do with authority.  And in the kingdom Jesus is inaugurating, authority has everything to do with the last thing the world would expect: servanthood.  I don’t think Jesus is telling his followers it’s wrong to exercise power.  They can’t help but exercise power.  They’ll be filled with the Holy Spirit, the ultimate power; and that power can’t just lie fallow, with the followers of Jesus twiddling their thumbs and waiting for him to come back.  Instead, they are to lead just as Jesus led – from the bottom up, from alongside “the least” and the broken, from a place of servanthood.  Status has nothing to do with authority, for it is from the bottom up that the power of God bubbles to its boiling point.  And to the extent that we followers of Jesus lean on the status conferred by titles and categories, we might do better to lean on the everlasting arms instead.   

So, why do those who are further ordained in the Church need to be deacons first?  Because that diaconal identity is the soil from which any further ordained ministry must grow.  It boils down to this: Without a servant’s heart, a Christian cannot lead.  So, no matter your order of ordained ministry, you’ve always got to be a deacon.

As we often hear, deacons bridge the Church and the world.  Deacons carry the word of God to a world not always ready to hear it.  Deacons carry the concerns of the world to a Church not always nimble enough to pivot the way the world needs.  Deacons carry the mantle of servant leadership in the stole across their chests, leading not from a seat of power but from the power of service, themselves outward and visible signs of self-giving love. 

Well, Jean, it’s time to stand up and embrace the call to stand down.  As you take these diaconal vows without having to cross your fingers behind your back, here’s my prayer for you:  May you tap the self-giving heart God’s already given you.  May you trust God’s words put into your mouth and heed the call to share them.  May you see those whom the Church may miss and bring their experience into view.  And may you live into Christ’s power and authority by being nothing less than the person God’s already formed you to be – a servant who leads with true power, that power that gives itself away.

Escaping Grandfather's Mansion

Sermon for Ascension, transferred. May 29, 2022

Acts 1:1-11; Luke 24:44-53

There are times when words fall short, and this week is one of them.  On Tuesday, an 18-year-old entered a fourth-grade classroom in Texas and started shooting children and teachers.  Twenty-one are dead, 17 are wounded, and countless others are scarred for life. 

I don’t want to have to talk about this today.  I don’t ever want to talk about this kind of atrocity again.  After Uvalde, and Buffalo, and all the other places whose names we’ve been hearing in the news this week, I want to be done talking about shoppers massacred in grocery stores or fourth graders gunned down at their desks.  I have no words to make this better.

Yet, at the same time, there are moments when words must be spoken, regardless of how they fall short.  For when we are lost, wandering in the darkness, we need to remember who we are, and whose we are, and what that means for us.  So, let’s start by offering God our pain and our compassion for the people of Uvalde through this prayer from the Episcopal bishop of West Texas, David Reed.  Let us pray: 

O God our Father, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust your beloved children of Uvalde to your everlasting care and love, and bring them fully into your heavenly kingdom.  Pour out your grace and loving-kindness on all who grieve; surround them with your love; and restore their trust in your goodness.  We lift up to you our weary, wounded souls and ask you to send your Holy Spirit to take away the anger and violence that infect our hearts, and to make us instruments of your peace and children of your light.  In the Name of Christ who is our hope, we pray. Amen.¹

So, I’m tempted now just to read the names of the victims and have us sit here through several minutes of silent lamentation.  But in this tragic week, we also marked a peculiar major feast of the Church, the feast of the Ascension, as well as Memorial Day weekend.  Now, the ascension of the resurrected Jesus might seem to have nothing at all to do with this tragedy our nation is bearing.  In fact, the cynics might look at this odd juxtaposition of events and holidays and conclude that, indeed, Jesus must have ascended back to heaven, because he sure as heck isn’t preventing the carnage we inflict on each other here.  First, of course, that cynicism reflects bad theology, because God has never been in the business of preventing the carnage we inflict on each other.  Instead, God inhabited our world as Jesus Christ, inaugurating a kingdom of love in contrast to the kingdom of sin and violence that surrounded him – in fact, allowing himself to be sacrificed to sin and violence, in order to defeat them by rising from the grave.  Jesus isn’t about dragging us out of the kingdom of death.  He’s about giving us a different reality to choose – the reality of the reign and rule of God.

In fact, the feast of the Ascension reminds us God’s contrast reality isn’t just a nice idea, a vision of peace and harmony to comfort us.  This contrast reality is the present, active dominion of the Prince of Peace.  The central claim of the Ascension is not that Jesus up and left, heading back to heavenly tranquility.  The central claim of the Ascension is that Jesus is Lord of the Universe, our cosmic CEO, the one to whom our glory and our allegiance must go.  Now, it’s true that we’re empowered by our Creator with free will, the ability to turn against the king, because love cannot be commanded.  But we turn against the king at our own peril – individually and as a broken nation. 

What we see around us is the consequence of the perspective I talked about last week: Seeing ourselves as independent actors, each with the correct answer to any given question and the right to exercise our beliefs as we darned well see fit.  Well, liberty is certainly a gift from God, but as St. Paul said, “Take care that this liberty of yours does not become a stumbling block” to others (1 Corinthians 8:9).  We’ve come to believe so deeply that we are right, and others are wrong, and we can do whatever we want that we’re losing our memory of how to care for one another, how to nurture the common good.  I believe this is our particularly American affliction of original sin: that deep down, we each think we know best and have the right to act on it.  And the more we act that way, the less we can see Jesus beckoning us to follow his reign and rule instead.

Seeing the reality of Jesus’ heavenly reign can be tricky.  In fact, our world conspires against it, turning God’s reality on its head.  To flesh that out a bit, let me share an image I think I’ve mentioned before. 

As a kid, growing up in Springfield, Missouri, my family went to Silver Dollar City just about every year.  At this 1880s-style amusement park, one of the earliest attractions was a funhouse called Grandfather’s Mansion.  The stairs make you lean at odd angles, and the hallways tip you sideways, messing with your equilibrium.  Portraits on the wall change from the faces of kindly elders to demonic monsters depending on where you stand.  You sit on what looks like a level bench and tumble into the person sitting next to you.  You turn on a faucet and watch the water run uphill. 

But maybe the most compelling sight is looking through a window into Grandfather’s bedroom.  Literally everything in it is upside down – a bed on the ceiling, with the bedspread hanging upwards; a chandelier sticking up from the floor; a water pitcher and bowl stuck to a dressing table hanging from the ceiling; and a clock running counter-clockwise, with a long pendulum sticking up from the bottom, arcing back and forth in the air.

As a kid walking through Grandfather’s Mansion, I first found the place deeply disorienting, even frightening; and I wanted to get out because I was afraid of what twisted reality I might encounter next.  But if you spend enough time in Grandfather’s Mansion, your equilibrium sort of adapts, and you can make your way through the off-kilter hallways and down the tipping stairs without much stumbling.  And with repeated visits, of course, Grandfather’s Mansion becomes familiar territory.  You don’t even need to think too much about readjusting your equilibrium to get you through this upside-down world.

I believe we’re living in Grandfather’s Mansion.  More to the point:  I believe we’re choosing to live in Grandfather’s Mansion.  We’ve spent so much time in Grandfather’s Mansion we think it’s reality, that clocks run backwards and water runs uphill.  And it’s long past time for us to make our escape.  This nation of disfigured priorities, this land where me being right matters more than us being safe – this land is not our home.  Jesus, our true Lord, invites us to remember that we are citizens of a different land, a “heavenly country” (Hebrews 11:16) – which specifically does not mean just a promise of peace in the sweet by and by.  It means a responsibility to follow the Prince of Peace here and now, in the twisted reality we’ve created, turning toward his reign and rule instead. 

What would that look like?  It would look like our leaders taking those rituals of failure I mentioned last week and transforming them into kingdom moments, seizing God-awful times like this week and redeeming them by choosing to turn in a different direction. 

Here’s a tiny example.  There was an article in the Star on Wednesday, buried a long way down the feed.  It wasn’t full of emotion or conflict – no police lights or scandal involved.  It was a guest commentary from Bob Boydston, the retired sheriff of Clay County with 34 years’ experience in law enforcement.  Here’s the title of his article: “Don’t say we can’t fight school shootings. Clay County and North KC schools have a plan.”  And the article outlines that plan.  It focuses on achieving what could actually be achieved in this moment, first steps that could make a difference. It would put retired law-enforcement officers into schools at all levels.  This enhanced protection would be funded by taxes on firearms at the points of importation, manufacture, and sale, as well as taxes on video games about killing people.  This tax revenue would also support stronger state mental-health services.²

I raise up this proposal not because it’s “the answer” to gun violence.  I raise this up because it’s one escape window from Grandfather’s Mansion – people coming together to do what they can, in this particular time and place, to reduce gun violence and make people safer.  Now, if we asked the Prince of Peace, our cosmic CEO, whether this is enough, Jesus would say, “Of course not.”  But it’s something – a step toward prioritizing the safety of the vulnerable, putting the well-being of the community ahead of the demands of the extremes.  That sounds to me like a turn toward the reign and rule of God.

We’ve got to start climbing out of Grandfather’s Mansion sometime.  And we’re not going to find the way out by staring up to heaven, like the disciples watching Jesus ascend.  Ultimately, Jesus will return “in the same way as you saw him go into heaven,” as the angels say in today’s reading (Acts 1:11); and we might want to think about consequences for those who ignored his directions now.  Because the Lord of the Universe, our CEO, has already issued his orders for dealing with evil as we await his return in glory.  He’s deputized you and me.  As he said in the reading from Acts and in today’s Gospel, you are his “witnesses” (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8).  You are the proclaimers of the reign and rule of God in the here and now.  Both the principles of our American democracy and the principles of God’s kingdom point us in the same direction on this one:  We the people bear responsibility to end the madness of one mass shooting after another.  We were not given this nation to turn it into a land where the clocks run backwards and the rivers run uphill.  We are citizens of a better country – and it’s time for us to insist on it.  Because, at the end of the day, we are truly citizens of an even “better country, that is, a heavenly one” (Hebrews 11:16) – and it's time for us to act that way.

1.      “West Texas Bishop David Reed requests prayers following Uvalde elementary school shooting.”  Episcopal News Service., May 24, 2022.  Available at: https://www.episcopalnewsservice.org/2022/05/24/west-texas-bishop-david-reed-request-prayers-after-uvalde-elementary-school-shooting/. Accessed May 27, 2022.

2.      Boydston, Bob. “Don’t say we can’t fight school shootings. Clay County and North KC schools have a plan.” Kansas City Star, May 25, 2022. Available at: https://www.kansascity.com/opinion/readers-opinion/guest-commentary/article261769427.html. Accessed May 27, 2022.

Say Yes, Trust, and Rejoice

Sermon for the ordination of the Rev. Rita Kendagor

May 28, 2022

Rita, it seems like a long journey that’s brought you here today.  I went back into my email and found a message about us meeting in December of 2017 because you were hearing God nudging you toward ordained ministry in the Episcopal Church.  It wasn’t exactly a predictable course for someone from the Pentecostal tradition with a long career as a clinical social worker.  But of course, as we celebrate today, your journey’s only just begun.  

That journey of ministry is different for each of us, and it’s a journey each of us takes – not just the people who wear the funny clothes.  We each encounter different challenges, different growing edges, different joys.  So, I wouldn’t dare stand up here and tell you what lies ahead.  But maybe some friends of ours we’ve heard from today can give us some signposts, things to watch for along the way.

One of those friends is the prophet Isaiah.  I can only begin to imagine how Isaiah must have felt receiving this vision we heard about in our first reading.  It’s tremendously inspiring and, at the same time, enough to make you never pray for divine guidance again.  We don’t know the backstory, whether Isaiah had felt stirrings of a prophetic call before, or whether this vision just came out of the blue.  But come it did. 

Isaiah is minding his own business, doing whatever he does in the service of the Temple’s worship life, when all of a sudden, faith gets real.  The presence of Yahweh fills the Temple not just spiritually but physically, the heavenly throne ensconced right there in the Holy of Holies.  It would be as if Jesus were suddenly standing behind the altar on a Sunday morning, serving us Communion:  It’s one thing to believe in a theological truth; it’s another to see it come to life before you … and, for Isaiah, including giant flying cobras known as seraphs, too.  No wonder he’s afraid.  Isaiah also knows he has no business standing there in the Lord’s presence, that neither he nor his people can claim the holiness required for that royal audience.  So, a giant flying cobra picks up a blazing chunk of coal and touches Isaiah’s lips with it.  I’m sure that wasn’t frightening at all. 

But in the midst of this holy terror comes a voice Isaiah knows deep in his soul, the voice of God speaking the last thing Isaiah expects to hear: words of invitation.  “Whom shall I send,” Yahweh asks, “and who will go for us?” (6:8).  It’s not a command.  It’s a request.  The power that shaped all creation and shakes the Temple’s foundations now speaks to Isaiah … and asks for his help.  And Isaiah, probably astonished to hear any words coming from his own mouth, speaks for each of us who’s ever heard God calling in the night: “Here am I,” he says.  “Send me.” (6:8)

As we head down this twisting road of ministry, taking one blind curve after another, here’s the signpost I see our friend Isaiah pointing out: that the sovereign of the universe does not compel our service.  Instead, God invites you, Rita, and all of us, to say “yes” – not just once, but over and over again.  Like Moses at the burning bush, like young Samuel lying in the Temple, like Mary visited by the angel, Isaiah stands before God and says, “Here am I.”  Here am I.  It’s the best news God gets to hear, I think – when a beloved and gifted child says, “Yes.  Here am I.”  And today, we honor that holy “yes” once again, as Rita hears the divine whisper, or sees the burning bush, or dodges the giant flying cobras and says, “Here am I.  Send me.”

We also got to hear from another friend this morning – the Gospel writer John, giving us another signpost along this twisting path of ministry.  John’s telling the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 and then arguing with the religious leaders for the next 38 verses about what the miracle means and who the miracle worker is. 

Before the material we heard today, the religious leaders have asked Jesus what they’re supposed to do to perform the works of God and thereby receive “the food that endures for eternal life” (6:27).  Now, hit the “pause” button just a minute:  Does their way of thinking feel familiar to anyone else here this morning?  Come on, ‘fess up.  “Good morning, God.  Fr. John reporting for duty.  What works do you have on my list today?  Give me today’s assignment.”  Yes, yes, it’s God the Supervisor –not my best God, but the one I default to, I’m afraid.  And with ordination, I think the temptation to see God as our supervisor only gets worse. 

Anyway, the religious leaders want to know how they’re supposed to earn eternal life.  Jesus instead offers to give them “the bread of God … that … comes down from heaven and gives life to the world” (6:33).  They say, “Great!”  And he says, “OK; It’s me.  You’ve seen me, but you don’t believe.” 

And, by the way, the kind of belief Jesus has in mind isn’t the kind of belief we tend to think about.  This isn’t just nodding our heads and agreeing that something is intellectually true.  This is a form of the word pistis in Greek.  In its verb form, it drives your whole life.  It’s really not the same as “believe” in English.  It’s more like “trust,” or even better, “stake your life on.”  “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry,” Jesus says, “and whoever stakes their life on me will never be thirsty.”  I think that’s the signpost our friend John has for us today along the twisting path of ministry:  Keep on coming to Jesus, and keep on trusting in Jesus.  For the bread of life is there, and you can stake your life on it.

Finally, this morning, we got to hear from our friend Paul, in his letter to the Philippians.  Now, good ol’ Paul can be a bit of a curmudgeon, grumpy at this person or that group for missing the mark as we figure out how to live in this new world order that Jesus’ resurrection has begun.  And as we struggle to get it right, as individuals and as congregations and as a Church, I worry that if Paul were here with us today, he might begin his teaching with, “You foolish Episcopalians….”  You can fill in the blank for yourself with your favorite example of how we miss the mark. 

And for those of us in ordained ministry, I fear Paul’s critique might be particularly scathing.  When we’re tempted to make ministry be about us, Paul reminds us to “let the same mind be in you that was in Jesus Christ, who … emptied himself … and … humbled himself … on a cross” (Philippians 2:5-8).  When we’re tempted to get discouraged by the slings and arrows of outrageous parishioners, Paul reminds us that he’s already suffered “calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, [and] sleepless nights” (2 Corinthians 6:5).  And when we’re tempted to divide off into “us” and “them,” following the culture’s siren song, Paul reminds us to “love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.” (Romans 12:10) 

So, what does Paul the curmudgeon have for us on this ordination day?  “Rejoice,” Paul exhorts.  Wait, what?  “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, rejoice.” (Philippians 4:4)  “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (4:6).  Rather than trying to sort everything out on our own, rather than accepting the pressure to be outstanding, rather than seeing every day in ministry as a performance evaluation – focus on where you see the power of God at work, Paul says.  “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever us just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (4:8).  Give your needs to God, Paul says, and give yourself a break, and this whole ministry thing will go much better for everyone.

Rita, these readings capture you so well.  You bring to the Church a prophet’s voice, a believer’s trust, and a contemplative’s heart.  Thank you for offering yourself, for saying “yes” when you heard God calling in the night.  Now, it’s traditional at this point for the ordinand to stand to receive a “charge” from the preacher, so I suppose we should honor that.  Rita, here is the best I’ve got for you:  Keep saying yes to God, despite how scary the call may be.  Keep coming to Jesus, and keep trusting in him with everything you’ve got.  Do not worry, but in everything, with prayer and thanksgiving, tell God what you need.  Rejoice always – and know that, just as we rejoice along with you today, we’ll be here to work alongside you tomorrow.  And through it all, through it all, through it all, know this: that “the God of peace will be with you” (Philippians 4:9).

Healing Together

Sermon for May 22, 2022

John 5:1-9

It’s no great insight to point this out, but I’ll say it anyway:  All around us, nearby and far away, we see brokenness in need of healing.  If we look overseas, we find war in Ukraine, as well as in Myanmar, Yemen, Afghanistan, and other countries.¹  In Buffalo, New York, the community is still reeling from last weekend’s hate-based shooting.  Here in Kansas City, we’ve prayed for 100 people killed in violent acts so far this year,² and Kansas City is now on a pace to surpass last year’s homicide total.³  The pandemic that’s claimed more than 1 million American lives has become more an issue of politics than public health.  Across the country, people are dealing with rising prices for everything including rent, and houselessness continues to grow as a social and public-health issue – including here in Brookside and Waldo.  Sometimes, at least for me, healing society’s wounds feels like an impossible dream.

So, imagine the situation of the man in today’s Gospel reading, who’s been seeking healing for his affliction for 38 years.  The man’s story is fascinating.  After all this time, and all his consistent failure to find healing, you might think he’d either try something different or make peace with his illness.  But even after four decades, the man is still coming to the pool, hoping maybe this time someone will help him.  Don’t you wonder whether he ever asked anyone for help?  Don’t you wonder whether anyone ever offered?  Or, after 38 years, has the pattern simply become set:  Although this sick man keeps hoping healing will come, he keeps pursuing it in a ritual of failure.  And, just as sad, his community apparently doesn’t even notice him anymore. 

Why does this go on?  He’s not finding healing, that’s for sure.  But is this broken present system somehow working for him and his community?  Is he receiving the reward of righteous indignation at those who fail to help him get better?  Are those around him receiving the reward of moral superiority as they watch him fail and figure it’s his fault?  If people weren’t getting some need met by the dysfunction, the system wouldn’t still be going on like this after 38 years.

Does this sound at all familiar?  I can’t help but see parallels to the dysfunction we see, day in and day out.  I think we create rituals of failure for the brokenness that afflicts us.  Every time there’s a mass shooting, we move into a patterned response of outcry, prayer, vigil, and blame … with nothing changing as a result.  Every time there’s a shooting on our own streets, we see the story in the news, lament another lost child of God (usually black or brown), and pray for them on Sunday … with nothing changing as a result.  We see houseless people on streetcorners or at storefronts, asking for cash to meet their daily needs, and we struggle with whether we’re supposed to give them cash or food or just acknowledge their presence … but nothing changes as a result.  Now, I’m no sociologist, but I can see this much:  These rituals of failure have at least one thing in common, and that’s isolation.  We approach them as individuals reacting to isolated situations.  It’s like every morning seeing the man at the pool who’s been sick for 38 years but forgetting that you saw him the day before and never mentioning him to anyone else there.

The powers that work against God’s purposes thrive on our isolation.  And until we break free from seeing ourselves as independent agents facing unique and unrelated problems, there’s a good chance our rituals of failure will continue.  As long as we look to ourselves to solve our problems, rather than looking to our communities as places to build bridges of healing, we will lament and cast blame … and stay stuck in the brokenness we know so well.

I probably sound more judgey than I intend because I know I’m guilty of the same thing.  I certainly follow patterns that really aren’t working for me.  My guess is that you can think of a few of your own.  And as the Church, oh my goodness are we talented at doing the same things over and over and expecting a different outcome!  Where we do see resurrection in the Church, it comes from asking different questions about an “unsolvable” problem or trying on new points of view.  But, like gravity, “the way we’ve always done it” keeps holding us down.

To turn away from our rituals of failure, especially our patterns of isolation and individual response, and to turn toward God’s healing instead … it takes practice.  Patterns don’t change unless we do things differently and build muscle memory for new ways we might seek and offer healing.  Let me share a couple of examples from our experience here at St. Andrew’s. 

As you probably know, we’ve offered an Outreach ministry called the Free Store for several years.  It’s been a great event, an opportunity for scores of us to gather downtown and provide food and clothing for people at risk in the cold.  Unfortunately, this past December, the number of guests was much lower than in the past.  So, to help us think differently about this ministry and how best to help heal the brokenness of people going cold and hungry, parishioner Melissa Rock convened a gathering of other churches and relief organizations that also address this need.  Just in the space of 90 minutes, we began asking really rich questions about the Free Store.  Should it happen at a different time of year?  Should it take place in a different location, or in multiple locations, or maybe as a mobile effort?  Could we partner with other churches or schools or service agencies to leverage their experience and their networks?  And at the heart of all these questions is an even richer one: How can we disrupt the patterns we’ve created so our healing can work better?

Here’s another example from our Outreach ministries.  Last year, led by parishioner Janet Kelley, we began working with a church on the city’s East Side, St. James United Methodist, to help heal the brokenness of people in our city lacking the essentials of life.  We wanted to learn from St. James and then come alongside them to join in.  So St. Andrew’s members worked with St. James members at their Sharefest event in the fall, packing up literally tons of food for distribution, as well as volunteering at St. James’ weekly food pantry.  So, a few weeks ago, Janet Kelley, Melissa Rock, Jean Kiene, and I met with people from St. James to see how we might come alongside them on another event – Connecting Community, which will happen at St. James on Saturday, June 25.  They were planning to offer people food, toiletries, clothing, and diapers, as well as a free community lunch.  We mentioned an idea some of us had been kicking around – Laundry Love, where volunteers provide free use of the washers and dryers in a laundromat and talk with people as they come in.  It turns out, the folks at St. James had wanted to do just that kind of thing … and there’s a laundry directly across the street from their church.  And the Holy Spirit grinned.

I think these examples point us to something vital, something Jesus teaches across his ministry: that we are stronger together than we are on our own.  Free Store will be stronger for us having shared our hopes and our frustrations with potential partners also trying to help people secure housing, food, and clothing.  Working with St. James on their Connecting Community project, we’ll bring added value to ministry that’s already strong, and we’ll build our muscles of collaboration with other Jesus followers who want to heal the same wounds we feel called to heal.  After all, it’s right there in our parish’s purpose and mission statement: “We seek God’s healing love and share that love with all by growing in relationship with God, each other, and our neighbors.”

So, here’s my tiny challenge to us today as we imagine what a community approach to healing might look and feel like.  It might surprise you to hear this, but we have the opportunity every Sunday to live into that kind of healing right here, in this very room.  Every Sunday, there are members of the Order of St. Luke standing in the chapel and in the columbarium, ready to pray with you for the healing of whatever might be broken.  In fact, today, we’re commissioning five new members of OSL, anointing them with holy oil that they might be God’s instruments of healing in our church family.  So, here’s my challenge:  Consider stopping by the OSL station on your way back from receiving Communion.  Consider asking someone for healing prayer.  I know that makes many of us uncomfortable, the thought of sharing our needs or our brokenness with others.  But “with others” is precisely how Jesus goes about working healing in us and through us.  The fact that it pushes us a bit past our comfort zone might be evidence that seeking healing in community, rather than in isolation, is just what the heavenly Doctor ordered.

1.      https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ongoing_armed_conflicts

2.      https://www.kansascity.com/news/local/crime/article257005492.html

3.      https://www.kansascity.com/news/local/crime/article261177247.html

God's Motherly Love

Sermon for May 8, 2022

Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30

Well, the trees are leafing out, it’s raining all the time, and the high temperature can’t decide whether to be around 50 or 90.  It must be springtime in the Midwest.  Today is Mother’s Day, another rite of spring for us.  Graduations are just around the corner, as our seniors know so well.  Soon, summer vacation time will be here.  And at least for me, as we prepare for travel, or rest, or whatever else the summer brings for us, I also find myself traveling back to summers past.

I was enormously blessed as a child to have a family that basically enjoyed being together.  That doesn’t mean there weren’t challenges.  Like all couples, my parents drove each other crazy sometimes.  Like most close siblings, my youngest sister and I took the opportunity to fight over virtually anything.  But nearly every summer, we packed up our station wagon, my sister and me sprawled out in the far-off back in those days before we worried about inconveniences like car seats or seat belts.  The annual trek west to see my grandparents in California was the highlight of our summer, the jewel in the crown of the year – so good that my sister and I would draw up an agreement ceasing hostilities for the four weeks of the trip.  Mostly, we even meant it.

Of course, as a kid, I had no idea the cost that went into these trips.  We had a pop-up Starcraft camper that my grandmother had given us, which meant the accommodations weren’t too pricey but had to be put up and taken down each day.  With six of us traveling cross-country on a college professor’s salary, we cut costs on meals, too.  In the camper, I remember a lot of little boxes of cereal and Tang for breakfast, as well as hamburgers and canned chili for dinner.  It may not sound like a gourmet delight, but I remember those as some of my family’s best meals ever.

But even better were the lunches.  We’d stop in some little town in middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma or Texas or New Mexico, and we’d find a grocery store.  I remember my mother leading us up and down the aisles, creating a picnic.  To a little boy, it was amazing, getting to pick out lunchmeat, and bread, and chips, and pickled beets, and carrots, and fruit, and nuts, and Hostess cupcakes.  Then we’d find a little city park and eat our lunch, and play in the playground, and run around like crazy.  For my parents, I’m sure it was a very intentional strategy, filling us up and wearing us out so we’d fall asleep for the afternoon drive.  But to me, it seemed like heaven. 

Why am I telling you this?  Well, it’s Mother’s Day and, here in church, Good Shepherd Sunday.  So, we’re celebrating the love of motherhood and the people who’ve embodied sacrificial love in our own lives.  And we’re remembering the source of that deep and holy love – the love we talked about last week, the love of agapé, the love that gives itself away to give life to someone else.

What you don’t know, until you have your own kids, is how much it takes to do something as deceptively “easy” as going on vacation.  It would have been tremendously easier just to stay home, but my parents – and especially my mother – wanted more for us.  She wanted to give us new experiences, and a sense of history, and the chance to get to know places that looked and felt and smelled different than Springfield, Missouri.  And she wanted the six of us to experience it together, building memories and sharing love that would stick in our hearts and minds – reminding us later on, in rougher times to come, that a picnic from the grocery store can be a heavenly banquet and that, no matter what happens, we’re truly never alone.

Of course, at that point, I didn’t see God in any of this.  But I think one of the rich mysteries of motherhood – however and through whomever you experience it – is the same truth we hear from Jesus in today’s Gospel reading. 

The religious authorities are pressing him for a straight answer as to whether he’s God’s anointed king, or not.  They want to trap him in a statement of blasphemy and lock him away.  They ask, “If you’re the Messiah, tell us plainly”; and Jesus says, “I have told you” (John 10:24-25) – but actually, he hasn’t.  He will, eventually, but so far in the story, what he’s done is not to tell but to show.  He’s been demonstrating the power of divine love through one sign of abundant self-giving after another.  He’s provided gallons of the finest wine for a wedding banquet.  He’s engaged a hated Samaritan, and a woman at that, in a deep theological conversation, risky for him because the law required that “Jews do not share things in common” (John 4:9) with the likes of “them.”  He’s healed the son of a foreign official.  He’s broken Sabbath regulations to heal a man who’s been ill for four decades.  He’s fed thousands of people from five loaves and two fish.  He’s advocated for a woman caught in adultery.  And he’s healed a man born blind, confounding the authorities who only notice that his healing broke the Sabbath rules. 

Now, I’m not saying that words don’t matter, because they do – especially when they’re words of love; and I was blessed to hear those words from my mother all the time.  But we learn to love from witnessing acts of love.  One act after another of putting the interests of someone else ahead of our own – that’s the love of God, forming us to be the love of God with flesh and bones, hands and feet.  Identifying divine love is like confirming Jesus’ status as God’s king: You truly know it when you see it.

The paradoxical truth is this: Sacrificial love is power.  The love that empties itself and gives itself away is also the love that rules our lives and our universe.  I knew this on a very personal level as a boy.  My father was the family’s provider, our moral compass, our rock.  But my mother was in charge.  When the kids wanted something, she was the decision maker.  And, she had the credibility to exercise her power because she ruled in love.  Day by day, she showed up – opening doors onto new worlds, setting safe boundaries, holding us accountable, bandaging wounds, providing rich feasts, hugging away the pain.  It made sense that she was in charge because she had our back, creating a world in contrast to the world around us – a world in which giving came first.

Maybe that’s just being a good mom, but I think it points to something bigger.  In the reading from Revelation today, the Lamb who’s been sacrificed is also the king on heaven’s throne.  The Good Shepherd, the leader who sets the bar for the reign and rule of God, is the one who lays down his life for the sheep.  The power that saves the world, and the power that shapes our hearts, it’s the same.  It’s God’s own power, piling us into the station wagon to guide us to the springs of the water of life and wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Dying to Live

Sermon for May 1, 2022

John 21:1-19

I want to begin today with a little anti-marketing.  I remember, years ago, when I worked for Cerner’s marketing department, we published newsletters for the users of Cerner’s information systems.  In one of those newsletters, I let slip a true statement from a software developer that was just a little too honest – something to the effect that this particular system didn’t do quite what the company had said it would, but (blah, blah, blah).  My supervisor wasn’t pleased and took me to task for “anti-marketing” the system.  So, here’s another foray into anti-marketing, this time about our spiritual lives:  Following Jesus is risky, even costly … in fact, it might just cost you everything.  But, without that risk and even that loss, resurrection doesn’t happen.

Today’s Gospel reading comes from chapter 21 of John, considered the book’s epilogue.  In much the same way that the Acts of the Apostles is the sequel to Luke’s Gospel, so chapter 21 is the epilogue to John’s Gospel.¹  It gives us a glimpse of what’s coming next in this grand story of Jesus healing the separation between God and people – in other words, the part that Jesus’ followers will play in that.

This glimpse of “part 2” picks up with seven of the disciples sometime after last Sunday’s Gospel story, when the resurrected Christ came to see his friends on Easter evening and then again a week later.  We don’t know how much time has elapsed now, but the disciples have headed back to Galilee and something like the life they knew before they followed Jesus.  They’re back to being fishermen, back out on the lake.  And their luck’s no better than it ever was.

At daybreak, they see a figure on the beach, who asks them whether they’ve caught anything.  The stranger tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat – a dumb suggestion if it came from any of us.  But they do it, and they get this incredible catch, abundant like nothing they’ve ever hauled in before; and John realizes that’s Jesus there on the beach.  Peter, always acting before thinking, puts on his outer garment out of respect for his Lord and then jumps in to swim for shore.  There, he and the other disciples watch as their risen Sovereign makes them breakfast, humbling himself again to serve them, just as he did washing their feet at the Last Supper. 

Then, Jesus takes Peter aside for a one-on-one.  It's one of the most poignant moments in all of Scripture, I think.  Not so many days earlier, when Jesus was arrested, Peter had failed utterly, denying three times that he even knew Jesus, in order to save his own skin.  Peter and Jesus didn’t say anything to each other there in the upper room in last week’s reading, so there’s some seriously unfinished business between them now.

The conversation is kind of heartbreaking even in English.  First, Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me more than these?”  You were the leader of the band, Peter – are you still the most devoted, the rock on which I’ll build my Church?  Peter says, “Yes, you know that I love you.”  And Jesus tells Peter to serve those around him: “Feed my lambs.”  Then the exchange happens again, with Jesus asking about the condition of Peter’s own heart: “Do you love me?”  And Peter says, again, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”  So Jesus directs Peter to keep leading those he’s serving: “Tend my sheep.”  Finally, Jesus asks again, “Do you love me?”; and Peter is hurt, having answered twice already.  But the call to servant leadership comes again: “Feed my sheep.”  Give yourself away.

Now, hit the pause button a minute.  As I said, this exchange is filled with pathos even in English; but in Greek, this is the original “come to Jesus” moment, with Peter having to face truth he really doesn’t want to see.  As you probably know, there are four words in Biblical Greek that we translate in English as “love,” but they don’t mean the same thing.  One’s sort of the equivalent of “I love my car.”  One’s about romantic desire.  The other two are operative in this reading: philos and agape.  Philos is the love of deep, heartfelt friendship, the love siblings might share.  Agape is more than that – the love of self-sacrifice, the love that pours itself out for the other, the love of Jesus on the cross.  That’s agape.

So, here’s how this interrogation plays out in Greek:  First, Jesus says, “Simon, son of John, do you agapas me more than these?”  Will you lead them with a heart like mine, a heart of sacrificial love?  And Peter says, “Yes, Lord, you know that I philo you.”  You know that I love you deeply.  Now, think about that.  Jesus is asking Peter for the love that pours itself out for another; and Peter says, well, yes, you know that I love you like a brother.  It’s an answer, but it’s not the answer Jesus wanted.

So, Jesus tries again: “Simon, son of John, do you agapas me?”  Do you love me the way I love you?  Are you ready to wash my feet and lay down your life for me, like I did for you?  And Peter squirms under love’s harsh light, saying again, “Yes, Lord, you know that I philo you” – that I love you deeply.  And I imagine Peter thinking, God, isn’t that enough?  I’m not you, after all; I’m the fool who denied three times I even knew you.  But I do love you like my own brother. 

So Jesus comes back to the interrogation a third time, but it’s a different question now:  “Simon, son of John – do you phileis me?”  Do you love me like a brother?  Is that really all you’ve got?  And “Peter felt hurt,” the story says, which probably doesn’t even touch the grief Peter is feeling as Jesus looks him in the eye and makes him admit the truth that, no – at the end of the day, he didn’t just deny Jesus in a moment of fear.  He really doesn’t return this love that poured itself out for him on the cross.  “Lord, you know everything,” Peter says.  “You know that I [only] philo you.”  That’s all I’ve got.  It’s not agape, I know it’s not enough.  Three years of following you, and I’ve failed to learn the one thing you’ve been trying to teach me.

And Jesus’ response?  Feed my sheep.  And keep feeding my sheep.  Because, Jesus says, here’s where this story is going for you, Peter.  The love that pours itself out, the love that gives itself away, the love that goes to the cross for someone else – it comes as a work in progress.  “You used to fasten your own belt and go wherever you wished,” Jesus says.  Your unruly heart took its own course, and it still does.  But years from now, Jesus says, “you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you, and take you where you do not wish to go.”  And, just in case we miss the lack of subtlety in the text, the note in my study Bible hammers the point home: It’s “an invitation to martyrdom and death.”²  And still, Jesus says, “Follow me.”  Follow me anyway.

That is Christian anti-marketing at its best.  No one in their right mind would take Jesus up on that offer.  Yet, it’s Act 2 in God’s story of healing the divide between us and God.  And here’s the thing: This call is not just Peter’s.  Nor is it the call for a faceless institution we call “the Church.”  Nor is it just a call to people who wear clerical collars and fancy vestments.  It’s the call to all who hear this Good News – the call to help heal the world by giving ourselves away.  God blesses us with astonishing abundance, nets full of fish we can barely haul into our boats.  And the response God’s looking for?  Give yourself away.  Feed my sheep.  Because the love that breaks you down is what builds you up as well.

From the world’s perspective, it’s an offer no sane person would accept.  The Christian life will cost you.  And like Peter, sometimes we need Jesus to look us in the eye and tell us the truth that, no, we don’t get it right much of the time.  But perfection isn’t the point.  Faithfulness is.  If all you can do now is love me like a sibling or a best friend, Jesus says, OK – go feed my sheep.  Follow me anyway.  Because it’s in taking the journey, and dealing with our failures that mark the path, that we learn how to love just that much deeper the next time.  Those failures hurt – little deaths, each of them.  But, after all, there’s no resurrection without dying along the way.  The truth for Peter also holds for us.  As T.S. Eliot said, “To make an end is to make a beginning.  The end is where we start from.”³ 

1.      New Interpreters’ Study Bible, 1950 (note.)

2.      New Interpreters’ Study Bible, 1951 (note.)

3.      Eliot, T.S. “Little Gidding.” Available at: http://www.columbia.edu/itc/history/winter/w3206/edit/tseliotlittlegidding.html. Accessed April 29, 2022.

Resurrection in the Dark

Sermon for Easter, April 17, 2022

John 20:1-18

I’d like you to close your eyes for a few seconds, and picture for yourself the story we just heard.  Really; indulge me.  Close your eyes, and just take few seconds to see it – the tomb, the stone, the angels, Mary, Jesus.  Look at the scene in your mind’s eye.  What’s the landscape like?  Is the breeze blowing?  Is it clear or cloudy, chilly or warm?

OK, open your eyes.  As we each painted this scene, I’m curious how many of you saw this story happening in the morning light?  That’s definitely what Google sees.  If you search Google for “resurrection of Jesus,” nearly all the images show bright light streaming into a cave, or a well-lit Jesus stepping out of the tomb in triumph.  It’s the final scene of the movie The Passion of the Christ, as Jesus rises from death and steps into the brilliance of resurrection.

But wait.  Stop the movie.  Let’s hear the first couple of phrases from this morning’s story one more time.  There are five little words there most of us probably missed: “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb…” (John 20:1).  And, by the way, this wasn’t “dark” the way we think about darkness.  Many of us have never experienced dark like the dark of the world before electrification.  But today, if you go to a place like rural Haiti, you realize just how dark the darkness is when there are no streetlights or floodlights around.

So, it’s true dark, ancient dark, that’s enveloping this scene.  In fact, at least spiritually speaking, it’s been dark a long time in John’s telling of the passion story.  Back on Thursday night, at the Last Supper, Jesus tells his friends that one of them will betray him, and he identifies Judas as the culprit.  Judas leaves the room to go get the police; and as soon as he does, the story says, “It was night” (John 13:30).  Spiritually, it’s been night the whole time from that moment to Easter morning.  The powers of evil, the powers of this world, the powers opposed to God’s reign and rule – they’ve seemed to be ruling strong.  And as Mary comes to the tomb that morning, it’s still night.

What’s she doing there?  In John’s Gospel, there’s no mention of women coming to prepare Jesus’ body for burial.  Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus have already done that work on Friday afternoon.  So, why is Mary Magdalene coming to the tomb alone in the dark?  Maybe it’s not so complicated.  Maybe she couldn’t sleep, and it just felt right to come and grieve close to the person she’d loved most in the world.  If you’ve ever lost someone who meant everything to you, maybe you know how she felt.  Mary knows she can’t be with her crucified Lord, but at least she can come to his resting place and talk with him there, like we do when we go visit a loved one’s grave. 

So, at the tomb, she comes across evidence that will break her heart even harder but then heal it like new.  She finds that the stone has been removed – but, unlike the version of this story in the other Gospels, there’s no earthquake, no soldiers running away in terror, no drama other than Mary’s compounding grief.  She goes to get Peter and John to help her look for the body … and perhaps to get torches so they can see something.  The three come back, and Peter and John investigate.  Then the two of them go home, leaving Mary is standing there, weeping.  

Finally, Mary sticks her torch into the tomb, and she sees something different from what the guys saw: two angels in white, sitting where the body had been.  The angels ask her why she’s crying.  Well, because someone’s added insult to injury, stealing her Lord’s dead body.  Then she turns around and sees Jesus but doesn’t recognize him … because it’s really dark.  Mary thinks he’s the gardener, and she asks him where the body’s been moved so she can take it away.  Then Jesus speaks her name, and that’s what makes her know who’s standing there, alive, before her.  It’s the Good Shepherd, who calls his sheep by name and whose sheep know his voice.  So, Jesus tells her to go tell the others that she’s seen him, alive and well.  Mary finds the other disciples and announces, “I have seen the Lord!”  The irony, of course, is that she’s seen the Lord while it was still dark.

It’s stories like this that convince me Scripture still speaks to us and always will.  I won’t ask for a show of hands this time, but I’ll ask anyway: How many of us feel like we’ve been living through night?  There’s COVID, two years lost in so many ways.  There’s war raging in Ukraine – and in eight other places in the world, each of which have seen more than 1,000 people killed in warfare just since this January.¹  There’s our changing climate.  There’s violence in our cities – at least 15 people shot or stabbed in metro KC in just in the past two weeks.  There’s the anxiety that our children won’t have the lives their parents have had, a fear only worsened by the highest inflation in more than 40 years.²  There’s despair, including 14 percent of American youth experiencing major depression last year.³  And on and on and on – I mean, a few days ago, the Wall Street Journal ran an article on the resurgent presence of evil in the world.⁴  Now, the promise of Easter is that new life isn’t just a hope but a reality, that love actually overcomes the power of sin and death, that resurrection happens.  But for many of us, the sun hasn’t exactly risen yet on resurrected life.  Maybe we’re standing there, at the empty tomb, along with Mary and Peter and John, holding our torches, trying to stab the night into submission but fearing that it’s always creeping up behind us anyway.

But what if, when we turn around, it’s Jesus we find instead?  What if he’s already up and alive, even in this night we still know?  Maybe he’s calling your name and asking you to see God doing the last thing you’d expect – working resurrection in the dark.

We each have a part to play in that.  Look back to the story.  Jesus doesn’t defeat the power of sin and death with a massive solo show of strength.  He doesn’t gather a heavenly army, and lay siege to the Temple, and shout to the world that Caesar and Satan have met their match.  Instead, he stands there in the darkness, the light of a torch making shadows dance on his face, and he simply calls out a name – “Mary.”  Then he asks her to go and tell the others what she’s seen.  And, remarkably enough, she goes – the apostle to the apostles, the first witness of resurrection.

That was quite a cosmic roll of the dice for Jesus.  Think about it.  Mary easily could have talked herself out of proclaiming resurrection, convincing herself she must have been dreaming.  Mary could have assumed that surely Jesus would have appeared to other people, too, and let herself off the hook so she didn’t have to stand by such a crazy story.  Mary could have just said, like Moses on Mt. Sinai, “Please, Lord, send someone else” (Exodus 4:13).  But instead, she “went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’” (John 20:18).  Mary took the risk and trusted resurrection in the dark.

This morning, that’s our call, too.  You know, the pandemic is easing, but it’s not over.  Russia is still killing thousands in Ukraine.  The earth’s climate is still changing.  Prices are still rising.  Fear and anxiety are still growing.  But we can choose to trust in resurrection anyway – not as pious Pollyannas, sure that everything will be just fine, but as people of the risen King, people who have seen the Lord and decided to follow him into the daylight.

What does that look like?  What would it be like truly to trust that sin and death may still be with us but that God’s already won the decisive battle?  Well, it would look like us following Mary Magdalene’s lead.  Jesus is trusting each of us to speak and live resurrection through words and actions that will never go viral but that matter deeply anyway.  Faced with a pandemic now becoming endemic, get out there and get reconnected in the ways that make best sense for you. Faced with the evil of war crimes thousands of miles away, help us sponsor a refugee family.  Faced with the fear of a changing climate, advocate for good stewardship, use fewer resources, and support companies that do the same.  Faced with economic uncertainty, help those hardest hit when prices rise and opportunity falls.   Faced with anxiety or depression, embrace that truth and seek help, or stand with those who need help.    

In the dark of Easter morning, Jesus’ first words to Mary Magdalene are these: “Why are you weeping?  [What] are you looking for?” (John 20:15)  When we bring our broken hearts to God, looking for daylight with no evidence of dawn, Jesus might just say the same to us: “Why are you weeping?  What are you looking for?”  New life defeats death when no one’s watching.  No bright lights, no earthquakes, no Hollywood cinematography.  Before we can see it, God’s already doing it.  

So, if you feel this morning that you’re lost in the dark, know that the risen Christ is right behind you, calling your name.  Even if you can’t see him well enough to make out his face, Jesus is still asking you to trust resurrection – to go and bear witness to the unlikely truth that the sun is rising to end our endless night.

1.      “List of ongoing armed conflicts.” Wikipedia. Available at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ongoing_armed_conflicts. Accessed April 15, 2022.

2.      Wiseman, Paul, Anne D’Innocenzio, and Mae Anderson. “US inflation jumped 8.5% in past year, highest since 1981.” AP News. Available at: https://apnews.com/article/us-inflation-rate-historic-high-4ba3435cc3730198e299690a9d968038. Accessed April 15, 2022.

3.      “Youth Ranking 2021.” Mental Health America. Available at: https://www.mhanational.org/issues/2021/mental-health-america-youth-data. Accessed April 15, 2022.

4.      Henninger, Daniel. “The Devil Resurfaces in Ukraine.” Wall Street Journal, April 13, 2022. Available at: https://www.wsj.com/articles/the-devil-resurfaces-ukraine-putin-aleppo-syria-grozny-killing-bucha-massacre-attrocity-shooting-subway-brooklyn-holocaust-11649883912. Accessed Aril 14, 2022.