Sermon Archive: Lent and Easter 2008

May 4, 2008

Seventh Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 1:6-14
1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11
John 17:1-11
Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36

The Rev. Arthur Holder

Do Not Leave Us Orphans

What were you thinking when we prayed the collect or opening prayer for this Sunday after Ascension Day? In case you missed it, here it is again: “O God, the King of glory, you have exalted your only Son Jesus Christ with great triumph to your kingdom in heaven: Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us, and exalt us to that place where our Savior Christ has gone before.”

Like most of the collects in the Prayer Book, this one was composed by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer in the sixteenth century. And like virtually all collects, it starts by reminding God of God’s own nature and what God has done in the past before going on to ask God to do something particular for us now and in the future. In this case, we acknowledge that God is the “King of glory” who has taken Jesus back to heaven in triumph after the crucifixion and resurrection. Then we beseech God, “Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us.”

In Cranmer’s day, the English word “comfort” meant not only consolation but also strengthening. But there is still another meaning embedded in this collect that only becomes evident when we consider two of its sources. The immediate source is an antiphon for Vespers on Ascension Day, which the Venerable Bede sung in tears on his deathbed when he died on Ascension Eve in the eighth century. That antiphon is pretty much the same as our collect except that instead of “leave us not comfortless” it says “do not leave us orphans.” And that points us to Cranmer’s more remote source in the fourteenth chapter of John’s gospel, which we actually read last Sunday, where Jesus promises the disciples at the Last Supper: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

So I don’t know what you were thinking about while we were praying the collect, but I was thinking about being an orphan. When my mother died in October, several people who knew that my father died many years ago said to me, “So you’re an orphan now.” It hadn’t occurred to me really, because I thought that orphans were always little children who had lost both of their parents. But then my friend Herbert Anderson, who teaches pastoral care at the Lutheran seminary here in Berkeley, gave me an article he wrote about the impact of the death of a parent on middle-aged sons and daughters. (Herbert Anderson, “The Death of a Parent: Its Impact on Middle-Aged Sons and Daughters,” Pastoral Psychology 28:3 (1980): 151-67.) That article really helped me understand some of what I was experiencing after my mother’s death, and now I think it also speaks to our condition as disciples of Christ in this rather peculiar part of the Easter season between Ascension and Pentecost.

I call this a peculiar season because we are in a state of arrested development, as it were. Our Lord Jesus was alive, then he was dead, then he was here again, and now he’s gone again. He has promised to return, but not in the same way. So we are waiting for something to happen . . . again. At Advent we were waiting for Jesus to be born. On Holy Saturday we were waiting for him to rise from the dead. You’d think we’ve had enough waiting, but here we are again. This time, between Ascension and Pentecost, we are waiting for God’s Holy Spirit to come and empower us. We are waiting to become the Church. We are waiting to grow up. It is a time of grief, and hope, and fear, and even joy. It is our orphan-time.

Professor Anderson says that middle-aged orphans face three challenges. How they negotiate these challenges—or not—determines how well they are able to integrate the experience of loss and move ahead into the future. I see these same challenges facing us as disciples of Christ.

The first challenge is a loss of role. When the last parent dies, the adult orphan is no longer anyone’s child. There is no father or mother there to call for help, or to ask for advice, or to look to for approval. The child has become the adult, ready or not.

The second challenge for adult orphans is dealing with autonomy and independence. As much as they may have resented having parents tell them what to do, at least they had the parents’ advice to accept or reject. Now they have to make their own decisions and take responsibility for their own actions. As one of the people Professor Anderson interviewed put it, “Before I was riding in my parents’ car, but now I’m in the driver’s seat.”

The third challenge for adult orphans is that there is no longer a generational buffer between them and death. They are the older generation now. The sense of personal mortality becomes acute, and time is of the essence. Adult orphans realize that they are at the front of the line of life, and time is marching on. The greatest fear is no longer a fear of being abandoned, but a fear of dying, and being dead.

Now think about how those same three challenges might apply to the disciples between Ascension and Pentecost, and to us as Christian people, and as a parish church.

First, there is the loss of role. Remember how Jesus says to the disciples in John 15: “I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.” There is some security in being servants, or pupils, or parishioners who just come to church in order to be fed. But to be Jesus’s friend is to take on his work and share his load. Remember in the reading from Acts how the angels chided the disciples after Jesus ascended into the clouds: “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” In other words, “You are grownups now. Time to get busy.”

Second, there is the challenge of autonomy. We have to make our own decisions now. Of course we want to be true to the wisdom and insight of Jesus’s teachings, but we have to apply them to new situations. Contrary to what some theologians, bishops, and other church authorities would have us believe, Jesus did not leave us the Bible as a rule book with all the answers. What he told the disciples in John 16 was: “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.” And in John 13 he told them: “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” Being a Christian is not just a matter of remembering what Jesus said and did—important as that is. He is the vine and we are the branches; we have to be the hands and feet of Jesus, and also his heart and voice, if the world today is going to see him in action.

Third, there is the challenge of facing up to death. In Acts, Jesus tells the disciples that when the power of the Holy Spirit comes upon them, they will be his witnesses “in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” You know what the Greek word for “witness” is? Martyr! “You will be my martyrs to the ends of the earth.” And within a few years, most of them were killed for their testimony to Jesus and his inclusive love for all people. Again from John 15: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you.” To be a Christian is to lay down your life out of love for the unloved, and even for the unlovable. It’s what the Master did, and what we are to do.

All of this is a tall order, to be sure. Growing up isn’t easy, even for adults. Being Church isn’t easy, even for disciples. Orphans have a lot to deal with, at any age. But we have the promises of Christ: “I will not leave you orphaned.” “You will receive power.” “Peace I leave with you. . . .Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

Come back next week on Pentecost Sunday. Meanwhile, make the most of this, our orphan-time. Wait for the promise from on high. Prepare to receive the Holy Spirit that will set you on fire with God’s own love. It’s time for us to stop just going to church. It’s time for us to be Church. It’s time to grow up!

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Arthur Holder

April 27, 2008

Sixth Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 17:22-31
1 Peter 3:13-22
John 14:15-21
Psalm 66:7-18

The Rev. Micah Jackson

A friend of mine once complained, “My kid won’t take out the trash. I don’t get it. He’ll play in the mud for hours at a time, merrily splashing, but trash in a bag is too gross to touch. What’s up with that?” But she continued by telling me that she had found a way to get him to do the task. “How?” I asked. “I just helped him to see that taking out the trash is just another chance to play with dirt. Yesterday he complained that we’re not making enough trash.”

Isn’t that just like a human being? How often have we resisted doing something right because we perceived it as a duty, when we would gladly do something just like it, if only we saw it as our free choice?

In Acts, we see Paul behaving very much like this wise mother. He has come to the city of Athens—famous for its devotion to the goddess Diana, and for its marketplace where you could buy a statue of any pagan god or goddess you could name. And, apparently, one you couldn’t. At first he must have been puzzled by the little altar he saw which was dedicated “to an unknown God.” But then, like my friend, he saw a chance to help the Athenians reframe their restless but sincere desire to know the Divine. He saw an opportunity to move them from being seekers after the True God, to being worshippers of the True God. His speech is a tour-de-force of logical Christian evangelism. He begins by praising them for what they are doing right, “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’” (17) And seeing that he really does praise their desire to worship whatever gods there may be, he proceeds to tell them about the God Who Is, the one who made the heavens and the earth, who placed humanity all over the face of the earth and gave them the desire to desire to seek after and find him, and who sent Jesus among us to teach us how to live, so that we might not fear the day of judgment. Powerful stuff.

You know, when I hear this passage it always reminds me of the trend we hear about in the news these days of people who are “spiritual but not religious.” Do you know anyone like this? They say that they know and love God, but don’t see why you have to worship in a church. They feel that a grove of trees and a picnic lunch are just as close to God as a traditional church and the Eucharistic elements are. Religious scholar Robert Fuller wrote a book on these people and he found that they value a private relationship with the Divine, while at the same time, devaluing a public manifestation of that relationship. According to survey results they are

less likely to evaluate religiousness positively, less likely to engage in traditional forms of worship such as church attendance and prayer, less likely to engage in group experiences related to spiritual growth, more likely to be agnostic, more likely to characterize religiousness and spirituality as different and nonoverlapping concepts, more likely to hold nontraditional beliefs, and more likely to have had mystical experiences.

Fuller goes on to reveal that, “Many have had negative experiences with churches or church leaders. For example, they may have perceived church leaders as more concerned with building an organization than promoting spirituality, as hypocritical, or as narrow-minded.” Well, that’s interesting. Sometimes I perceive church leaders that way, too, but I’m still committed to public worship among my religious community.

Perhaps these people who are “spiritual but not religious” are simply waiting for someone to show them the value of a religious community. Maybe they are like the Athenians that Paul spoke to. Clearly, they are hoping beyond hope to have an encounter with God, they just want it to be in a life-giving context, not one that closes of their way of being in the world. Well, St. Mark’s is a place where that happens every week. We are proud of our claim that we don’t ask anyone to check his or her mind at the door. And if that’s a true description of our Church, shouldn’t we be telling people about ourselves?

Could it be that simple? With Paul no longer on earth to preach, could it be that some of these people are waiting for you or me to say to them, “Americans, I see how extremely spiritual you are in every way. For as I went through this country and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To a joyful and life-affirming god.’ What therefore you fear is impossible, this I proclaim to you.”

Remember the story of my friend with the mud-flinging son? She was able to help him to see that the thing he wasn’t doing was actually something that he would enjoy. Church doesn’t have to be about finger pointing and threats of Hell as punishment for bad behavior. Now this is not to say that bad behavior should be tolerated. Rather, shouldn’t we follow God’s decrees because they work? Because they make us happy? Shouldn’t we come to church week after week because we want to sing and praise the Creator of all for what we have been given? Seen that way, it’s not really a duty. It’s what we’ve been seeking all along, an energizing relationship with a loving God.

Now the people who made up the lectionary left off the next few verses. It turns out that Paul is not as wildly successful with his preaching as we might have imagined. The story goes on

When they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some scoffed; but others said, “We will hear you again about this.” At that point Paul left them. But some of them joined him and became believers, including Dionysius the Areopagite and a woman named Damaris, and others with them.

It is clear from Paul’s experience that evangelism doesn’t have to be about showy tent meetings, altar calls, and thousands of souls won for Christ in a single afternoon. It is enough to pique someone’s interest in hearing more about the hope that is in us. It is enough only to reach the heart of Dionysius and Damaris if they are the ones the Spirit has made ready. It is clear from my friend’s experience with her son that changing someone’s heart and mind doesn’t have to be done by force. It is enough to help someone to reframe their fear of duty into the joy of service. Your successes may be large or they may be small but, with God’s help, they will be enough.

Works Cited: Fuller, Robert C. Spiritual, but Not Religious: Understanding Unchurched America. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Micah Jackson

April 20, 2008

Fifth Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 7:55-60
1 Peter 2:2-10
John 14:1-14
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

The Rev. Catherine Costas

I’ve been serving as a supply deacon in the diocese, filling in for other deacons when they’re sick, on vacation, or need a day off.  I also work with Sojourn, the multi-faith chaplaincy program at San Francisco General Hospital.  “Multi-faith” means serving people of faiths outside of Christianity, including Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Wicca, and any and all other paths that people might use to get closer to God.  As a way to better serve the patients and staff at General, I decided to start reading the Koran.

In the Koran, Muslims, Christians, and Jews are known collectively as “the People of the Book”.  Muslims believe that we all serve the same God, but our different peoples were led to him by different prophets.  The Koran hails Jesus as an apostle of God, similar to Moses and Mohammed, and Muslims accord him the same respect.

Knowing that we serve the same God, it seems strange to me that Christians and Muslims hold such animosity towards one another.  The root of the argument lies in the way Christians and Muslims view Jesus Christ.  In Islam, Jesus is hailed as the Jewish Messiah, but is not divine.  There is one God, and no other gods stand with him.  The idea of God having a Son is anathema to Muslims.  From Sura V:

Infidels now are they who say, “God is the Messiah, son of Mary;” for the Messiah said, “O children of Israel!  worship God, my Lord and your Lord.”  Whoever shall join other gods with God, God shall forbid him the Garden, and his abode shall be the Fire; and the wicked shall have no helpers.

They surely are infidels who say, “God is the third of three:” for there is no God but one God, and if they refrain not from what they say, a grievous chastisement shall light on such of them as are infidels.

I have to admit, I see their point.  As Christians, we believe in one God, but we also believe in the Trinity, where God consists of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  The attempt to reconcile these two viewpoints leads to the beloved Anglican tradition of having the low person on the totem pole preach on Trinity Sunday.  Even now, when asked to explain Trinitarian doctrine, I’m tempted to say, “it’s a mystery,” and leave it at that.

The Gospel of John contains many of the passages later used to justify the argument that Jesus was both “fully human” and “fully divine”.  Our Gospel today includes several verses where Jesus seems to claim to be God:  “If you know me, you will know my Father also.”  “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.”  “I am in the Father and the Father is in me.”  Elsewhere in John, Jesus states, “I and the Father are one.”  The obvious conclusion from these statements is that Jesus is God, equal with the Father, and that Christianity and Islam will forever be at odds.

We could argue that the vision of Jesus as divine came long after Christ’s death, and that the early Christians misinterpreted John’s message.  We could believe, as Muslims do, that Jesus was simply a man, inspired by God.  We could also say that Jesus is coequal with the Father, God present in human form, and that the Muslims will just need to accept it before they can enter Heaven.  We could claim it’s a mystery, and leave it at that.  (See how tempting that is?)

The way I interpreted all this, when I was low person on the totem pole and had to preach Trinity Sunday, was as follows:  I believe Jesus was both human and divine.  He had a human body, which lived and breathed and bled and died on the cross.  During his life, he was filled with the Holy Spirit, the “breath” of God.  He had a human soul, but that soul stepped aside so that the Spirit could work through him.  We see Jesus’ human soul in Gethsemane, when he begs God to save him from the cross to come.  In the end, Jesus the man steps aside so that God, through him, can accomplish God’s purpose.

In the Gospel today, Jesus also says, “the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.”  We, as humans, can also make Jesus’ choice, to put our human need for control aside, and allow God to work through us.  We see the Father through Jesus, because Jesus allowed the Father to be in him and work through him.  And just as Jesus showed God to us, we can show God to others.  By stepping aside and letting the Spirit work through us, we fulfill our destiny as “God’s own people.”

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Catherine Costas

April 13, 2008

Fourth Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 2:42-47
1 Peter 2:19-25
John 10: 1-10
Psalm 23

The Rev. Micah Jackson

If you paid attention to the readings this morning, you might have detected a theme. A fluffy, white theme that goes “baaaaaa.” That’s why today is sometimes known as “Good Shepherd” Sunday. It’s a tricky passage for those of us who preach, because the theme is so strong that it’s hard not to begin by explaining what sheep are (as if you didn’t know), and what they might have meant to Jesus and those who heard him use this analogy so many years ago, and then continue by explaining how much we are like these sheep. We are “going astray like sheep,” the Bible tells us.

But that’s not where I want to take this sermon. For one thing, we all know what sheep are like, or think we do. I grew up in the city, so I only know sheep from petting zoos, but if I recall correctly, they are stupid, foul-smelling animals with a herd mentality. And, at least on our good days, Episcopalians are not like sheep in those ways. And, besides, it doesn’t really matter what the image of sheep might have meant to Jesus’ first-century hearers, because they didn’t understand his analogy any more than we do. John is very clear, “Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.” So maybe, at least for this story, the sheep aren’t the point, no matter how prominently they feature in the stories.

Besides, Jesus’ point in the Gospel is not about the sheep. It’s about the shepherd. Interestingly, in this passage, Jesus has not compared himself to a shepherd because he protects the sheep, it’s another time that he uses this metaphor. Today he uses it because of the relationship between the sheep and the Shepherd. The shepherd in this story is distinctive because he knows their names and the sheep know his voice. They recognize and trust him, and they follow him willingly because they know he is their leader. They will not follow a stranger.

But here’s the strange part. Jesus does not say that he is the shepherd. Jesus says that he is the gate to the sheepfold, and the true shepherd will demonstrate his authenticity because he goes in and out by the gate. OK. No wonder Jesus’ hearers didn’t understand what he was talking about. But in this church we take Jesus seriously, so we’ve got to make an attempt to get into his image and see what sense we can make of it.

Do you know the writer Martha Beck? She’s a Harvard trained sociologist and life coach who has written widely, including a several books which address how altering patterns of thinking and behavior can affect our lives. She has a concept that she calls “The Everybody.” You know this dynamic. Perhaps you find yourself saying, “Everybody knows I can’t do that.” Or perhaps you might say, “Everybody thinks that I’m right about this issue!” Beck suggests that when you start using Everybody language, that you should start asking yourself, “Who, exactly, thinks that?” Consider the case where “Everybody” knows you can’t run a marathon. Name five people who know that. Chances are you can’t, and your claim of “Everybody” is revealed as false. But suppose you have no trouble naming five, or even ten such people. Then maybe it’s true. Maybe from where you are, indeed “Everybody” does say that. Martha Beck would say, then, “You need a new Everybody.” You need to fire your negative friends and find an Everybody who will support you in the life you’re building.

Think about the example of the Apostles we heard from Acts 2, “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.” It seems hard to imagine that kind of fellowship. We might be tempted to say “Well, they probably didn’t actually sell all their possessions and share everything in common.” But what if they did? Wouldn’t that be a powerful Everybody? No wonder we hear that “many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles.” Everyone knew that it could be done. And so it was.

Sisters and Brothers, it isn’t hard to have such an Everybody. Look around you. On your left and on your right, in front of you and behind you are an Everybody who knows that lives can be changed by an encounter with the Risen Christ. All around you is an Everybody that knows for sure that sin and death are defeated and hold no power anymore to define our lives. All around you is an Everybody that can do wonders and signs that would amaze even the Apostles. What kind of wonders and signs? I don’t know. But Everybody knows it’s true.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that we should isolate ourselves and associate only with other Pollyannaish Christians. Jesus came into the world and surrounded himself with all kinds of weird and wonderful people. But his closest associates, his Everybody, was made up of people who believed that he could do it. They supported him. They heard his voice and followed him.

Jesus is the gate, and the way to abundant life in this world and the next. Make your Everybody the ones who come in by the gate, not the ones who sneak in to steal and destroy the abundant life you deserve. The gatekeeper will open the gate to those who belong inside, both the shepherds and the sheep, for day by day, the Lord is adding to our number, those who are being saved.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Micah Jackson

April 6, 2008

Third Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
1 Peter 1:17-23
Luke 24:13-35
Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17

The Rev. Ellen Ekström

How is it possible that joy springs from grief?

In the last weeks, we’ve been on the road to Jerusalem with Jesus and his followers.  We’ve witnessed the glorious entry into the city, the poignant supper at which a woman anoints Jesus and washes him with her tears, we’ve seen the incredible and necessary raising of Lazarus, and we’ve experienced the Seder in the upper room, and finally the trial and execution of Jesus. After some pretty amazing moments that give life and hope comes a horrific, mind and spirit numbing death.  So it’s hard to imagine that something good could come of it.  If you, as I, have lost someone you knew, someone you loved, with whom you shared a life, meals, joys and sorrows, then you’ve felt the pain that comes from such loss and the accompanying grief.  It’s not hard then, to put ourselves on the road to Emmaus.

My first experience of Emmaus was Rembrandt’s famous painting “The Supper at Emmaus.”  In typical fashion, the painting is suffused in dim colors and light; Jesus’ face is bathed in gold light, he looks wistfully to the heavens and is captured in mid-prayer.  The disciples gaze in wonderment.

There’s more to this town, though.  It was some seven miles out of Jerusalem, and had a history of violence.  It was thought to be the base camp for Judas Maccabeus and his uprising, and it was burned by the Romans in retaliation for the unrest and revolts following the death of Herod – two thousand rebels were crucified there.  People in that generation would have memories of the crosses lining the road.  On that third day after the crucifixion, a place of defeat and lost hope is restored by Jesus as a place of fellowship and love. 

This morning’s story begins when the two disciples on that Sunday afternoon walk away from Jerusalem, perhaps running for their lives, maybe they feel lost, hopeless, let down.  They discuss the events of the last week and in particular the discovery at the tomb that very morning.  A stranger joins them on the walk and the disciples are amazed that there is actually one person in the region who has not heard about the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Here they recount what they’ve been discussing and add a personal postscript:  that they had hoped Jesus would be the one to redeem Israel.  Let me put that remark in context.  There had been prophets before Jesus who claimed to be the Messiah and their message and ministry didn’t strike the right chord with the people.  They were executed as Jesus had been, so their missions were considered failures.  This is probably what Cleopas and his friend were thinking – here was yet another so-called prophet who didn’t make good on his claims; he, like all the rest, failed and it was business as usual in Roman-governed Palestine. 

But Jesus did something different.  He kept his promise.  He fulfilled the prophecies.  He did rise on the third day.  These facts, and his message proclaiming the kingdom of heaven, his call to a unique and unconditional love, made this call to right action very different, very powerful – and as we know today, very successful.

The disciples didn’t know this.  They are so deep in their misery, they don’t recognize the man walking with them.  This stranger interprets scripture and the events of the week as part of the greater story of humanity and of God’s action in the world as chronicled by the prophets and scripture.  Yes, it was necessary that Jesus suffered, died and was buried, but death is not the end of the story.  He reveals himself to these disciples in an act of love and fellowship that they would have recognized if they had been present during the feeding of the five thousand and if they were at table at the last supper -- a simple breaking of bread and sharing a meal.  Something Jesus did every day with his friends.  It is at that moment eyes are opened, and memory and recognition come into play.  Hearts that have been lit aflame by the interpretation of Scripture still burn after they recognize it was Jesus, who vanishes as mysteriously from their table as he appeared on the road. 

The disciples return to Jerusalem, where, by the way, they were commanded to stay by Jesus, and tell their story.  Earlier in the day, they didn’t believe the women when they ran back from the empty tomb and tried to tell everyone what they’d seen, but because these two disciples had seen the risen Lord, their doubt becomes belief.  Through these events a new community emerges.  It is a community of faith built on understanding of scripture, worship and the sharing of a common experience of the risen Christ.  Jesus’ words to Thomas from last week’s Gospel are still ringing in our ears:  “Blessed are those who had not seen, yet come to believe.”  That would be us.

But we’re human, we have our expectations.  We had hoped . . .

Each one of us, in our own way and times, has repeated the words of the disciples, “we had hoped.”  The first of four times for me was in April of 1969, and if you had told me then that joy came of grief, I would have ignored it, or more probably, slammed my bedroom door shut and turned up the volume on the Moody Blues, the Beatles, or the Rolling Stones – whatever I was annoying my family with that day.  I was 15, you see, and my mother had just died unexpectedly.  One afternoon she was there, the next morning she was gone.  No warning, no nothing.  She was gone.  The days and weeks that followed were a blur then, and still are.  It was full of moments I do remember, moments in which I sought answers and wondered how my brother and sisters were handling their grief – we never talked about it.  We had hoped, you see, that she could still be with us.

I’ve thought like this, said these words aloud and to God.  What about you?  I disobeyed Christ, in that I walked away from Jerusalem, away from the pain and memories, away from the life Christ gave me.  The grief clouded my sight and I didn’t want to see past it.

It happens to all of us.  We wish we could have had one more day to say all that needed to be said; we wish we could make things right between our loved ones; we wish it all could have been done differently; said “I love you and always have, always will.” 

Valid and real thoughts, honest emotions, these. 

We weren’t and aren’t alone.  We were and are heard.  As we hope and wonder, Jesus comes into our lives with words of comfort and hope. We are reminded that God became one of us, and shared our experience, our joys, our grief, our pain.  Jesus reminds us that on the Cross, God took and blessed and broke the most perfect of lives and offered it to us in the midst of suffering so that all sadness and pain might become a bridge to a loving, sustaining presence.

And if there’s a small voice within that still hedges, still whispers, “Yes, but . . .”  Then come!

I invite you to this table.  Come here where Jesus invites you, me, all of us, anyone who is hungry to take as often as necessary the bread that he blessed and broke and shared and drink the cup he pours out for all humanity.  Your eyes will be opened and your hearts will be burning with hope. 

Jesus will always be with us on our roads and at our tables.

He is risen, Alleluia!  

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Ellen Ekström       

March 30, 2008

Second Sunday of Easter, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 2:14a, 22-32
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 20:19-31
Psalm 16

The Rev. Micah Jackson

Some of you in the congregation today may be members of a collegiate fraternity or sorority, a member of a Greek society. Or some of you may be physicians, or lawyers, or former members of the military, or have PhDs, some of us, I know, are clergy. At first these groups might seem to have nothing in common, but I claim that they do have at least one important thing in common. They are all groups which have a profound sense of what it means to be a member of that group, and what it takes to become one. At their most basic, the hazing rituals of the college fraternity are not that different from the hazing rituals of writing a dissertation, even though the latter involves spending lots more time in the library than the former. At their best, these rituals do serve to initiate one into the group by ensuring that all members of the group have at least one profound experience in common. At their worst, they’re just mean-spirited attempts to make sure that “what happened to me happens to them.”

I was thinking about that kind of ritualistic initiation this week in connection with today’s readings. Here we have the story of good old “Doubting” Thomas (about whom more in a minute or so) paired with First Peter’s word of encouragement in the face of challenges. And doesn’t that make you think that the problem in these texts is that in our sinfulness we continue to insist that we need to have incontrovertible proof before we will believe. That was Thomas’ problem wasn’t it? He said, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Then Jesus appeared to him, and Thomas got his wish, and so he believed. But Jesus scolds him, saying, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” That’s a very common view of this text, isn’t it?

But I think that there’s more going on here than just that. As always, the Bible reveals itself more fully when we pay more careful attention. Remember how this whole incident with Thomas happened in the first place. Jesus appeared to the disciples while Thomas was gone for some reason. Perhaps he went out for groceries or something. But John in very clear about what happens during that first appearance when Thomas was missing. John says, “Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side.” Did you hear that the first time? All Thomas wants is to have the same experience of the risen Christ that the other disciples had.

Well, that changes the story a little doesn’t it? It’s no longer a story about a bunch of disciples with great faith and one who needs proof. Now it’s a story about a bunch of disciples who have an experience of the risen Christ and one who just wants to have the same experience the others did.

That’s why I was thinking about professional initiations so much this week in connection with this story. I don’t want to say what Jesus can and can’t do, but it does seem to me that by and large, he’s stopped appearing to people in the flesh and letting them touch the nail holes and put their hands in his side. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t have an encounter with the risen Christ. In fact, it happens to me all the time. And if you’re aware of it, it happens to you all the time, too.

Were you here last Saturday night for the Easter Vigil? We made three new Christians that night by the sacrament of Baptism. After each baptism Robbin lit a candle and handed it to the newly baptized (in Benjamin’s case she only “showed” it to him, though he did try to grab it). She said something like, “This is the light of Christ, take it and be the light of Christ in the world.” After baptism, the person is often clothed in white, and it’s explained with another scriptural reference, “as many as are baptized into Christ have put on Christ.” Sisters and Brothers, we who are Christians are called to be Christ in the world, so that everyone we meet can have an experience of the Risen Christ.

It’s the same with this community of St. Mark’s. This parish is called to be Christ in the world, so that those who come into this place have an experience of Christ. That should be the standard we measure ourselves by, and our rule of behavior. Does what I am doing, does what we are doing, allow people to encounter the Risen Christ. Our community is full of signs of God’s super-abundant love. The choir’s music, our Easter coffee hours, the liturgy with its rich food from the table of God’s Word and the Table of the Lord’s Supper, the welcoming smiles during the peace. All of it is a chance to encounter the risen Christ. If you are a guest today looking to have such an encounter, you’ve come to the right place. If you are a member of this community, that is our continual challenge.

But do not forget, the Risen Christ still has the wounds of his crucifixion. This is important. Firstly, because it shows that God doesn’t heal us by making things as if they never happened but by showing us that our wounds do not define us. With God’s help, we grow through, and eventually past, our wounds. And secondly, because that is how we recognize Christ. We know it’s him because of his wounds. These two points mean that we shouldn’t be afraid to acknowledge our faults before others—neither those that are ours alone nor those that belong to our community. That is how healing begins, and how we show who we are and how we got that way.

Sisters and Brothers, evangelism does not consist of going around and telling everyone that they need no proof and should simply believe. No, true evangelism is showing those you meet the wounds in your hands and side, the wounds you received from the world but transformed by Christ’s all-healing resurrection. This is how to give Christ another chance to come to this hurting world, to breathe the Spirit upon it again and say, “Peace be with you.”

© 2008 by Rev. Micah Jackson

March 23, 2008

Easter Sunday, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Acts 10: 34-43
Colossians 3:1-4
Matthew 28:1-10
Psalm 118:14-17, 22-24

The Rev. Robbin Clark

Alleluia! Christ is risen.
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Welcome to all of you. It’s so great to see this joyous crowd. I, and all the good folk of St. Mark’s are delighted to be sharing this bit of Eastertide together, and with you. Our festivities today are a great way to put the exclamation point on the resurrection, which we ushered in at last night’s Great Vigil.

There, we rehearsed the stirring saga that prepared us for our new life in Christ and we welcomed three new Christians into that life we share. We started in the darkness where Good Friday had left us and recalled God’s many promises of salvation. Then we claimed our salvation anew in the first Alleluias of Easter and celebrated together at altar and rich-laden reception tables, even as we will do again today.

We’re pulling out all the stops, as is only right for the very heart and center of our faith. Our songs of celebration speak of victory, conquest and triumph: “The strife is o’er, the battle done, the victory of life is won.”   -“Hell today is vanquished, heaven is won today.”  -“Death is conquered, we are free. Christ has won the victory”  -“Christ has conquered. Christ reigns.”
From the time of St. Paul, this has been a core image for the fruits of Christ’s work among us. “Thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ,” he writes to the faithful in Corinth. It’s a language we understand. We know winning and we know losing. And we like winning better. What sports figure was it who said, “Winning is not the most important thing...it’s the only thing.”?

But that battle talk in Christianity has always made me a bit uncomfortable. It has long found its way into both description and exhortation regarding the Christian life itself. We are encouraged to “fight the good fight with all our might” and to journey “onward [as] Christian soldiers, marching as to war.” Conversion has historically been made a term of conquest, and we have too often boasted of having ‘God on our side’ in times of conflict. When religion turns to the military metaphor, we get terms like crusade and jihad. That worries me. I look at the news. Five years ago, we declared ‘victory’ in what was to be the brief and specific intervention in Iraq, and look where we are today. Four thousand U.S. casualties later, we are still embroiled in a war I find neither triumphant or holy. So I am very wary of using battle and conquest terms for the resurrection.

Today we do celebrate what is truly a victory. We embrace our participation in Christ’s triumph over the powers of death. Or, I should really say, God’s sovereignty, even over death. Because, as the powerful and amazing angel at the tomb told Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, “He has been raised from the dead.” The resurrection is God’s act. And God has never been subject to death.

So maybe we should look, instead, to the other core symbolism for Easter, that of spring. Even though Easter is about as early as it can be, here in California, we are awash in signs of new life. The trees are pink with blossoms and tulips and daffodils abound. The days are warming and lengthening and signs of new life are everywhere. After six weeks of a bare church during Lent, it is wonderful to see the profusion of flowers everywhere. And, as if nature’s renewal and fecundity were not fully enough represented by the flowers, soon we will be hunting for eggs hidden by bunnies. These images also find their way into our songs (which is so often where our faith and piety really do reside – not in tomes of theology).  -“’Tis the spring of souls today”  -“Daily the loveliness grows, adorned with the glory of blossom.”  We sing of the “green blade rising” and of “the queen of seasons bright”. It seems so totally natural to pair our new life in Christ with the new life we see returning after the seeming death of winter.

But the problem is, that like the rhetoric of battle and conquest, it just isn’t very accurate. The cycles of nature are marvelous and resilient and they are the work of God.  But the living creatures don’t participate. Each has a unique life span, and when it is over, it is over. As we read from Job at the Holy Saturday liturgy, “For there is hope for a tree, if it is cut down, that it will sprout again...but mortals die and are laid low; humans expire, and where are they?” And, much as we may joke about wanting ‘to come back as a ...(whatever)’, our faith offers no place for a doctrine of reincarnation.

So where does that leave us? Perhaps this is the moment to turn to our second reading. St. Paul writes to the Colossians, “If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.” St. Peter also speaks of “new heavens and a new earth” in store for us. Since resurrection is so profoundly ‘UN-natural’ and the force of battle and conquest is an equally unnatural milieu for the Prince of Peace, seeing ourselves as explorers of an uncharted realm may be more helpful.

We are raised with Christ as we emerge from the waters of baptism. Our life is now hidden with Christ in God. Yet we are also still living day to day, and we know precious little about life on the other side of the grave. What exactly should we be seeking? I’ve only talked with one person who’s been there, but his report made a big impression on me. Doug was a young man who had fallen desperately ill, so ill that he twice had a "life after life" experience, as they call it. He experienced leaving his body and being beckoned through a passageway into a place of light and warmth and welcome. He had a profound sensation of peace and wellbeing. He kept trying to describe it to me. When he spoke, his face lit up and his eyes sparkled. He spoke more rapidly and urgently, but quite softly and tenderly. He would say things like, "I looked to the right...but it wasn’t really like looking and there weren’t any directions like you know them, and...” Each attempt to explain would end with a deep sigh and his saying, “It’s no use. You just don’t have the categories to understand.”

And so it is. All of the categories and metaphors of this world are insufficient to describe the new life that is the gift of Easter. All we can affirm is that, by some great and wonderful mystery, we have been enfolded in the very being of God. That is the reality of eternal life and it is our baptismal birthright.

The only thing we know here and now that even approaches “the things that are above” is love. Love is the greatest mystery of our lives. Love at its best is a place of warmth and welcome, of peace and wellbeing. Love makes our face light up and our eyes sparkle. Love is both tender and urgent. Maybe that’s why Jesus’ only new commandment to us is to “Love one another as I have loved you.” Love is the map of the new heavens and new earth we are bound for. When we cry out, “he is alive! He has been raised!,” we are bearing witness to the persistence and power of love, even when existence and hope have gone. So let’s make love the touchstone of our Easter joy. Love alone “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things endures all things.”  And like our new life in Christ, it never ends.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Robbin Clark

March 9, 2008

Fifth Sunday in Lent, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Ezekiel 37: 1-14
Romans 8: 6-11
John 12:1-8
Psalm 130

The Rev. Robbin Clark

No Way! Never! Fergedit! Impossible!

How many times have you uttered those words? Something is so out of the question that you can’t even imagine it happening. Absolutely not. And how many times have your eaten those words? The impossible, the unimaginable has in fact come to pass. And you are left with your mouth agape, blinking and rubbing your eyes before that which could not be, but is. Sometimes the shock is horrific. Either way you are left wondering about your own grasp on reality. How could you have gotten it so wrong? Been so sure? And how can you now wrap your mind around what you thought was pure fiction, outside any realm of possibility, let alone likelihood?

Let’s take ourselves back to that day in Bethany. Finally Jesus has turned up, but he’s four days late. They’d sent the message in time, Mary and Martha, but he didn’t come. Their brother is dead and buried, long gone by the time he strolls into town. Martha runs to meet him, full of remonstrance and brave confidence. I personally wonder if she really believed what she was saying, “Even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus fences with her just as he did with the disciples when the message from the two sisters first reached him. It’s the same dynamic we’ve seen in all the great Johannine stories we’ve heard this Lent. And we thought it was only Ezekiel who dealt with wheels within wheels. These discourses of Jesus, first with Nicodemus, then with the Samaritan woman and last week with the man born blind and his family, all played out against backdrop and counter point of the reaction of the disciples and assorted onlookers, take place on many levels. But there is a commonality. And it goes something like--- No Way!, Never!, Fergedit!, Impossible!

Jesus tells Martha, “Your brother will rise again.” And she accepts this as pious hope. But he says, ‘No, here and now---because of who and what I am and have come to do.  Are you with me on this?’ She sidesteps a bit, but makes a huge confession of faith, the very one found on the lips of St. Peter in the other gospels, “ I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” Notice that she doesn’t say, “I believe that today you will raise my brother from his grave and restore him to us.” What she does do is run get her sister, who confronts him with the same reproach but with out the same words of hope. Now then scene widens and the drama deepens. They all gather at the tomb. “Take away the stone,” Jesus says. “Yuck! Gross? Eeww! It’ll stink!”, they respond, but they do it. Now Jesus plays the big card. “Lazarus, come out!”, he cries. And can’t you just hear the chorus?--- No Way! Never! Fergedit! Impossible! Everybody’s holding their breath – and not just because of the smell either. Slowly the sepulchral figure emerges, wrapped and bound. The dead man came out. There is a huge gulp of eaten words, and jaws drop throughout the crowd. Jesus just tells them to get on with it – to unwrap the poor guy so he can get back to living.

So, what are you ‘certain’ can’t happen in your life? What are the hopes you’ve let die? The plans you’ve put aside as ‘unworkable’? What actions have you taken to assure that the door to some scary possibility will remain closed? That you won’t have to face trying and failing? How have you let--- No Way! Never! Fergedit! Impossible!  Rule your life instead of trusting in God’s desire and ability to give you a new life beyond what you’ve ever dared hope for?

In each of our stories this Lent, Jesus’ offer of new life and vision has been met with suspicion and even skepticism at first. It had been misunderstood and maligned.  But eventually the message gets through. The promise is real. The words are true. The ‘impossible’ is possible.

Consider then, how do these ‘impossibilities’ become actualities? What does God do to bring them about? Here, let’s go back and visit with Ezekiel. The Lord takes him out into a distant valley filled with bones – with very dry bones. And God poses a question to the prophet: “Can these bones live?” His answer is our first lesson. Does he say (which he was probably thinking)--- No Way! Never! Fergedit! Impossible!?  No. Instead, he defers to the Divine on this one, “O Lord God, you know.” Point #1- Don’t be too arrogantly sure of your own opinions. Then God gives him instructions: He’s a prophet. It’s time to prophesy according to the message God gives him to transmit. Point#2- When dealing with God, its best to do as you’re told. When he’s done that Ezekiel notices the job is only half finished, and God tells him how to bring it to completion. So he does that too, and he sees the amazing result- a vast living, breathing multitude where before there had been nothing but a jumble of parched bones. But that’s not all there was to it. The whole thing was an illustration of what was in store for God’s people, in contrast to what their potential seemed to be. Layers and levels again, just like in John’s stories. So, Point#3- Things are seldom only  what they seem. Life overflows with a surplus of meaning and significance if we are attentive to its nuances and implications.

Two more points deserve mention. They involve the means by which the seeming impossibilities become reality. The first is that new life involves community. All the bits and pieces had to grow and be knit together. A bone is useless on its own. Sinew and flesh and skin must play their own role to complete the picture. Connectedness is key. Even the resuscitated Lazarus needed his friends to unwrap him from all those grave cloths before he could be free to live again. The second is that this new life must be animated by Spirit, the very breath of God. As Paul reminds us, the flesh of itself is as good as dead. And despite all the sinew and flesh, those bones couldn’t stand up until God’s breath came into them.

So when you’re tempted to say your own--- No Way! Never! Fergedit! Impossible!---  about your life or our common life, Remember this: “He who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.” Nothing is impossible for God. And God wills that we should live fully and faithfully in fellowship with one another. But remember also: don’t let your own sureties get in the way of God’s greater reality. Trust the promise, and the one who makes it. Be obedient and faithful to God’s word and will in your life. Keep searching for the story behind the story, the meaning beyond the obvious, the layers upon layers and the wheels within wheels. Keep the options open. You may still be left with jaw slack and mouth agape, but at least you’ll be expecting it.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Robbin Clark

March 2, 2008

Fourth Sunday in Lent, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

1 Samuel 16:1-13
Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41
Psalm 23

The Rev. Micah Jackson

This is not really a story about a man born blind. Unlike many other healing stories, Jesus doesn’t ask the man if he wants to be healed, and the man didn’t ask for it either. This man is, when the disciples first ask Jesus about him, just a human example in an ongoing debate about what causes illness. The disciples might have gotten just as much mileage out of an argument about a man born with a runny nose. What they want to know is “who sinned—this man or his parents—that he was born blind?” Jesus replies, as he often does, by suggesting that the disciples are much more ignorant than they look. “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” At least Jesus understands that this man is not just a pawn in a religious argument, but is rather a real man, with work from God to do, just as everyone else. And unbeknownst to the man born blind, the day for God’s works to be revealed had arrived. Jesus put the mud on the man’s eyes, and told him to go wash in the Pool. And when he came back… he could see!

And that’s when we get the next piece of evidence that this is not a story about a man born blind. This is a story about the neighbors born stupid. Unlike some of the other stories where Jesus gives someone sight, and there are descriptions of that miracle, this one happens entirely off the page. The man goes away, and comes back able to see. But now his neighbors are blind. They no longer recognize him, because he is no longer blind. If he’d been known as the “Man with the yellow hat” or whatever, perhaps they could have handled it, but they seized on a single thing about the man, and when that thing changed, they no longer had any handle to understand the man and his place in the world. The had to say, “No, it’s not him, but it’s somebody who looks like him.” And they stuck to that story, even though he kept saying, “I am the man.”

No, this is not a story about a man born blind. This is a story about the religious leadership born cranky. They quiz the man all about how he came to be able to see, but they never ask him what, exactly, it is that he can now see! All he will say in answer to the questions is “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.” And, “He (that is Jesus) is a prophet.” But they were not able to believe him, so they said Jesus was a sinner, and that the man was a liar.

No, this is not a story about a man born blind. This is a story about parents born cowardly. We’re told that when the leaders of the synagogue came to the man parents, even they didn’t know what to say about what had happened. All they would confirm was that he was their son, and that he had been born blind, but that’s it. Everything else, they refer to him. They don’t want to get caught up in the debate, for they might lose their place in the community.

No, in the end, this is a story about a man born Divine. This is a story about Jesus of Nazareth. This is a story about the way that an encounter with this man can change everything—from the way the world sees you, to the way you see the world. No, this is really not about blindness. Not physical blindness anyway.

You see, not all of us are blind, and those of us who are don’t always need, and don’t always want to have their sight back. Some of the blind people I know tell me that they are able to interact with the world using their other senses. They encounter God in the world, just as all do all who seek the Lord. I’m sure it was just the same with the man in the story today both while he was blind, and when he suddenly could see.

And so it will be with you. Sisters and Brothers, who sinned, you or your parents that you were born the way you were? Jesus assures us that no one sinned. Your life is not punishment for you or for anyone else. You were born this way, given the gifts and challenges you face in this life for the same reason as everyone else. You were born this way so that God’s works might be revealed in you. When Christ puts mud on your eyes and bids you to wash, and all is revealed, get ready to give glory to God.

 © Copyright 2008 by Rev. Micah Jackson

February 24, 2008

Third Sunday in Lent, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Exodus 17:1-7
Romans 5:1-11
John 4:5-42
Psalm 95

The Rev. Robbin Clark

If Nicodemus is the patron saint of the clueless, we meet many of his devotees as we continue through the Gospel of John. Today’s story introduces us to the Samaritan woman that Jesus encountered at the well and reminds us that the disciples themselves were not immune from cluelessness. These several Sundays in Lent bring us some of the greatest stories of John’s gospel. They are all baptismal teachings ‘hidden in plain sight’, as it were. And they all depend in part on the cluelessness quotient to move them forward and make their point.

Over the centuries, we’ve had it well established for us in liturgy and theology that being "born again by water and the Holy Spirit" refers to the new life in Christ that is conferred upon us in our baptism. And we know as a certainty that the sacrament of our initiation bestows upon us the gift of which Jesus speaks in today’s gospel story: “living water, gushing up to eternal life.” Next week we’ll hear that "washing in the Sent One," that is, being baptized into Christ, can cure us of a blindness much worse than the physical by opening us up to the light of Christ. And, finally, we will be shown, through the raising of Lazarus, that Jesus has the power to conquer even death itself and lead us to a new and resurrected life.

Then and only then will we be ready for the journey of Holy Week – we will move from the fragility of false accolades and temporal triumph to the play of shadows across a moving and momentous meal. We’ll face the heartbreak and horror of betrayal, abandonment and death. Finally, we will gather in darkness to keep vigil and reenact our baptismal passage through death to new life. We will immerse ourselves in the great stories of salvation and we will baptize three new Christians and renew our own baptismal covenant. Then we will celebrate the fullness of God’s love and triumph in the first Eucharist of Easter.

By these holy acts we come to know and affirm who we most truly are. In the ancient rituals we merge our own stories into the great saga of salvation. The light of truth pierces our cluelessness and helps us see the world anew and aright. Our thirst is quenched and we are able to start the journey again, refreshed with hope and able to move forward in confidence and joy.

What we are doing in this liturgical time is not unlike what happened to the Samaritan woman we have encountered in today’s gospel.  She is engaged in her normal daily tasks when, suddenly, her day becomes anything but normal. Eternal truth breaks in, and she finds herself in conversation with the Messiah himself.

At first it’s just kind of strange, her being addressed by an unknown man, and a Jew at that, as she goes to draw water at midday. He wants a drink. She comments on the strangeness and his response is stranger still. He’s going to give her water? He doesn’t even have a bucket! Clueless. So she taunts him a bit. "Where do you plan to get this water? Jacob gave us a well. Now you’re gonna just up and get water in this desert? What kind of big shot do you think you are?" His answer this time is really strange. "Living water? Eternal life? Sure, I’ll trade my bucket for that."

You can just see her rolling her eyes and thinking, "I’ve got a real nut case here." He changes tack and asks her to return with her husband. She says she doesn’t have one and he lays out her whole relationship history for her. Now it’s her turn to be the clueless one. She suddenly realizes she’s in much deeper than she thought. Surely this stranger is at least a prophet. Maybe he is greater than Jacob. She probes further and hears about worship in spirit and truth. Could this be the one who is to “proclaim all things?” Quietly, he affirms it. He is the Messiah. She runs to tell her neighbors.

And what she says to them is, “come, and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” I find this fascinating. Among all the great themes touched on in their conversation – internal springs gushing forth to eternal life, worship in spirit and truth, the source of salvation – she chooses this. That this man knew and set forth without judgment the deepest truth of her life was the most compelling for her. It reminds me of the times Jesus did physical healings to show that he had the power to forgive sins. And, as in his encounter with Nicodemus, he checked that she could believe earthly things before he told her of heavenly things.

Maybe it’s as much because I spent a day and a half this week sitting through a jury selection process, as because of the Samaritan woman’s testimony, but I’ve been particularly struck by the power of being completely known, of having one’s life be an open book. “Pretty scary,” said the person I mentioned this to yesterday. And so it is. But how liberating as well – no need for secrets and hiding; no spin-doctoring; just the unvarnished truth; just the ‘is’ of life. The woman’s story wasn’t one to be proud of, but Jesus didn’t judge her or put her down for it. Rather, he used it to clear away the poking and parrying he and the woman had been doing so they could get very real with each other.

And that’s one of the important things that happen when we enter into liturgy. We get very real with ourselves and with God. Right up front we affirm God as the one “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hid.” We make prayer and confession in that open context of awareness. During our Lenten use of Rite I, we spend more time with the uncomfortable truth of our own sinfulness. But it is always enfolded in the mantle of God’s mercy and graciousness toward us. The one who created us knows our every breath and thought and deed, and is not deterred by them from loving us and offering us the gifts of new life, of living water, of eternal salvation.

How outrageously wonderful is that?! To be both utterly known and utterly loved; To be offered a fresh start every time we choose to confront and confess our sins and turn from them; To have planted within us at baptism a spring of living water gushing up to eternal life.

Lent is a particularly important time to put cluelessness aside and deal with the twin truths of our sin-filled lives and God’s grace. Let us allow the liturgy be our teacher so that we can indeed worship “in spirit and in truth.”

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Robbin Clark

February 17, 2008

Second Sunday in Lent, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Genesis 12:1-4a
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17
Psalm 121

The Rev. Ellen Ekström

I have a number of favorite heroes and heroines from scripture, just as I’m sure some or all of you may have.  In the Hebrew scripture, I count Elijah, Ruth, Deborah, Jael, and Daniel.  In the Christian scripture, there’s Peter, Mary -- all of the Maries -- including Magdalene, Stephen, our sister Phoebe, a deacon, and of course, Jesus – and Nicodemus.  Nicodemus shows us that sometimes discussion is inadequate in experiencing the understanding God.  Sometimes, you have to just let it, to get it -- and by that I mean one needs to let God take over, let these inspired and inspiring words sink in.  You have to shut up, open your heart and mind, and let the beauty and mystery of God’s love happen to get what’s going on.  And how wonderful and inspiring this Gospel of John is!  It stands apart from the Synoptics, for its advanced Christology, its mystery, its allusions to water, life and light; and as we’ve heard in the scripture passage this morning, Nicodemus goes to Jesus under the cloak of darkness and ultimately comes to the light.

When Nicodemus meets Jesus, perhaps you get a sense, as I do, that things are changing for him.  The location of this meeting isn’t mentioned, but given that Jesus has upset the local authorities and the local economy by chasing the merchants and money changers, the cattle, doves and sheep out of the Temple right before this visit, it is somewhere in Jerusalem.  Perhaps Nicodemus was a witness to Jesus’ protest, or had seen and heard him elsewhere in the city.  Perhaps he was present when the Temple authorities decided that Jesus had crossed the line, was a threat and must die.  Whatever the circumstance, the teaching he’s witnessed and his station in society compels him to go to Jesus.   Nicodemus comes in secret during the night so as not to be seen.  And he’s a man in the dark.

You have to feel for him: he approaches Jesus wanting answers, and no doubt risks his life in doing so because he’s a Pharisee, he’s a man of reputation and Jesus is still an unknown, a Galilean rabbi who’s cause a bit of trouble.  Nicodemus addresses Jesus with respect – rabbi – a little one on one rapport - and receives puzzling responses.  Is Jesus being deliberately rude?  I don’t think so.  Jesus is responding in a way that initiates an intimate dialogue – he answers questions with questions of his own, questions that provoke deeper thought, prayerful consideration.  Questions that sometimes reveal innocence or naivety.  We don’t get the answer we expect, but we get word play: wind and spirit, the lifting up of Jesus – up on the cross and then into heaven – and the curious statement from Jesus that you can’t enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit, that you must be born from above.  Is it any wonder that Nicodemus goes away dazed and confused, takes these statements literally?  He doesn’t have the filter of two thousand years and countless commentaries and critiques to ‘get it.’  He either doesn’t understand, or chooses not to.  I think it’s the first, for he’ll later defend Jesus and offer costly spices for his burial.  At some point, the light glows brightly for him and he understands.

This is a bit more than my experience.  I can relate to Nicodemus, whom I like to call the patron saint of the clueless; I count myself among those lucky few.   Aren’t there times when you find yourself stumbling in the dark, looking for the light?  When you’re so confounded that all you can do is just scratch your head and nod, pretending to get it?  We’re enlightened, intelligent people; we subscribe to the theory of via media and live by scripture, reason and tradition.  We’re Episcopalians!   Don’t we have all the answers?  Not on your life.  Aren’t there moments when you do come to an understanding, you cry, “Ohhhhh!  So that’s what he meant!”

And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Sometimes we have to step back and just live in the awe.  We can be like Nicodemus and walk away, dazed and confused, with answers that answer nothing, but there’s beauty in that.  As we grope in darkness, we find ourselves dependent on a God that comes to us and connects us, giving us a bridge to salvation and eternal life, unconditional love. 
How can this be, Nicodemus asks?

It can be because God makes it so.

It is not that we are expected to undergo a physical renaissance, but that we undergo a transformation within, a spiritual rebirth, which is more meaningful, more powerful; that is what we are being called to.

And if we step back and take it all in, we can let it be.

Eventually we’ll get it.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Ellen Ekström

February 10, 2008

First Sunday in Lent, Rev. Common Lectionary Year A

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7
Romans 5:12-19
Matthew 4:1-11
Psalm 32

The Rev. Robbin Clark

“In Adam’s fall, we sinned all.”

So begins the New England Primer, a book that shaped generations of American school children, from its publication in 1690 well into the nineteenth century. It taught them, not only their letters, but the very shape of their world. Along with the alphabet, they absorbed their pious elders’ constructs of reality. “In Adam’s fall, we sinned all.” was simply the way it was. And not only that, but how it got that way. 

A fancier name for this is "etiological mythos," and the first eleven chapters of Genesis are rife with it. They se the context for our observation of our world and establish the ground of our reality. In a vast sweep of “Let there be”s, we read, God’s word created all there is and pronounced it good. But we can look around and notice that, to be sure, not everything we see is good. Something must have happened. Enter today’s first reading.

We know the lead-up. Adam (which is less a proper name than a typological handle, like "Everyman" in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress”) has been created as the crowning creature and allowed to name everything else. Eve has been given to him as partner and helpmeet. They have the Garden to supply all their needs and responsibility to “till it and keep it.” And they have this one, big ‘no-no’ – “you shall not eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.”   Big stakes here.

Now the dark side makes its appearance. In the guise of a crafty, slithery serpent, denial deception, doubt, deviousness and a dare all burst on the scene. The unashamed openness and trust that had prevailed were scoffed at as gullibility. God’s motives and veracity were impugned. The serpent assured them that they were just as good as God at assessing reality, so why shouldn’t they have access to the same knowledge? They bit (literally and figuratively) and thus began the shame/blame game that has dogged us ever since. “In Adams fall we sinned all.” And that’s why life is so hard- why there is enmity, and pain, and back-breaking labor; why we so seldom ‘fess-up’ if we think we might get away with something; why we hide from each other and even from God.

Etiological myths are about the foundations of reality – how and why things are as they are. They are the collective formational stories of communities. And sharing such a story binds individuals together into a whole people, or tribe or nation and it shapes their common understanding of the world. Looking around, I see precious little common denominator to give me a shared sense of what’s what and why. It’s all competing viewpoints and alternate versions of reality. And there’s nothing quite like our extended electoral process to bring that home to me. Every political hopeful touts a particular construction of reality. ‘This is how things are. This is what made them that way. This is what is needed to make them better. Vote for me.’ How are we to sort out all the competing claims? How are we to discern truth? How, when we come right down to it, is our reality to be constructed?
God had created a reality for Adam and Eve, but they just couldn’t leave it at that. Their temptation was, and perhaps the ultimate and all-encompassing temptation for all of us remains, to remake reality and according to their (our) own standards and preferences. As we learn in our catechism, “Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.” And so we can still say, “In Adam’s fall we sinned all.”

St. Paul is saying as much in his letter to the Romans. He bears witness to an innate human tendency to turn away from God and fall short of God’s glory and God’s intent for us. Whether or not we calculate our relative disobedience according to a set of laws, he says, none can count themselves righteous before God on their own merit. But, he goes on, there is a remedy for our  condition. That remedy is found in the complete obedience of Jesus Christ to God’s will. The loving faithfulness of Jesus is his gracious gift to us. And it is a gift of such magnitude that it totally reconstructs our reality. “Therefore,” he writes, “just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all.”

The story of Jesus is, for us as Christians, the etiological mythos.  It tells us why things are as they are. And it tells us who we are and where our reality finds its foundation. The story is all of a piece, as it must be to form the fabric of reality. Not for Jesus were the hollow fasts or the piety for show we heard railed against on Ash Wednesday. Jesus had integrity and a ‘through-and-through-ness’ that made him always what and who the truly was – God’s beloved only-begotten. What tripped up the first humans, and continues to cause us to stumble, is choosing to see them (our) selves and the world as other than the way God made it, and to live in it in ways God has warned against. Jesus, the paradigm of our new reality, did not fall pray to this deception. Matthew’s telling of the temptation in the wilderness demonstrates the reversal of our condition before God. It is set at the very beginning of Jesus’ ministry and framed as a ‘test’ by the same Holy Spirit that had rested on him at his baptism. In keeping with Matthew’s portrayal of Jesus as the ‘new Moses’, called to lead his people to freedom, the story recapitulates the struggles of the Israelites during their forty years in the wilderness, and redeems it in the process. They railed against God in their hunger. Jesus refuses to turn stones to bread. He refuses to test God as they did. And there’s no golden calf for Jesus. He will serve and obey God alone. Jesus’ faithfulness sets before us new standards for our own. But we worry we, won’t be able to measure up. As we noted in our collect, we “are assaulted by many temptations and we each have our weaknesses. We have just beseeched God (some thirty plus time in our litany) to hear, spare and deliver us. And we have prayed that we each may find God “mighty to save”. The Good News is that we will find God not only mighty, but eager, to save and to give us the gifts of grace we so urgently need to live faithfully in our own situations.

Our part, and it is crucial, is to look toward God and ground our reality there. The truth of our situation is found both in the state of the world and in our familial relationship with God through Christ. That is why we need two foundational stories. As Jim pointed out in the sermon on Wednesday, we are dust, but we are holy dust, imbued with the sparkle of eternity. This is the bedrock of our reality and we ignore it to our detriment and peril. We were formed to care for creation and each other and to live openly and unashamedly in faithful obedience to God. Because we don’t always manage that, we rely on a savior who did. It may be that, “In Adam’s fall we sinned all,” but it is equally true and immensely more powerful that, “Faith of Jesus sin releases.”

All temptation is predicated on choice. Lent is a time when we consciously examine the choices we have made undertake disciplines to help us align our choices with the faith of Jesus. Lent is a time to get back to the foundational truth of who we are and what we are here for. Choice by choice, and by God’s grace, we can construct real lives of faithfulness, grounded in the reality that we are beloved children of God.

How is your reality constructed? Is it proof against the incursions of denial and deception? May this Lent be a time for you to strengthen your foundation in Christ and to let the life of Jesus be lived in and through you. For this is how it really is.

© Copyright 2008 by Rev. Robbin Clark