Easter 5A

A reflection on the readings for Easter 5A:Acts 7. 55-60, 1 Peter 2. 2-10, John 14. 1-14 by The Rev. Dr. Sarah Rogers

I thought I was going to get out of writing a sermon this week, but the world didn’t end yesterday as predicted…! Although whether Harold Camping’s calculation has taken into account the change from the Julian to Gregorian Calendarso I’m not quite sure. Judgement day is of course no joking matter, but I don’t think we should spend too much time worrying about it if we are living good and godly lives. After all, we are all going to meet our maker one day. We have reasonably comfortable lives here, we are able to worship in freedom. That isn’t the case everywhere and as this country becomes more secular and more multicultural, perhaps we will loose our freedom too. There are places around the world where Christians even today have to put their lives on the line for their faith, they do not have freedom to worship and they face persecution and martyrdom.
Given the persecution that Jesus himself faced, and the manner in which he died. It was not a surprise to his followers that the authorities would not take kindly to this new movement that was growing. In a few weeks time we will celebrate the feast of Pentecost, the birthday of the church, the day when more than 3000 were baptised. That must have frightened the authorities. Soon after Stephen was made a deacon, and is seized by the scribes and elders, accused of speaking against the law of Moses. In his retaliatory speech he skilfully re-tells Israel’s past, challenging those who are listening to him to realise that there is a higher authority than the law of Moses, finally pointing out to them that they betrayed and murdered Jesus, the ‘Righteous One’.

Stephen is an excellent example of Christian witness in today’s world, he is a reminder of what it means to lay your life on the line for your faith – he certainly had a ‘no holds barred’ approach. He is dragged out and executed for his faith.

Saul, the one who would go on to persecute the church, was there, minding the coats – was it Stephen’s fervour that prompted him to take a stand against the evolving church? Perhaps after his conversion, it was the example of Stephen that drove Paul to be such a fervent ambassador for Jesus Christ. Later in Acts, Paul readily admits later in Acts that he was looking on and complicit in the stoning of Stephen. Paul’s words also indicate that Stephen was already seen as the first ‘martyr’ by the early Christian’s. He uses the word marturos which means first and foremost that Stephen was a witness. That is clear from the description of the manner of Stephen’s death. Stephen, filled with the Holy Spirit doesn’t see the hostile faces of the council staring at him, instead he lifts his eyes to heaven and sees deep into the heart of heaven, he sees the ‘glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.’ He is a witness to the risen and ascended Christ. Paul acknowledges that Stephen’s blood was shed because he was a witness to Christ and so, he becomes the first ‘martyr’ the first Christian ready to die for his faith, to accept his fate without question and without fear. He wasn’t trying to draw attention to himself, he was just trying to make people see the truth. He was a witness to Jesus as the apostles were witnesses and later Paul himself was a witness. Stephen, as others have done after him, provided a living testimony to the transformative presence of God in the world. He stands firm in the face of hostility. But, the crowd didn’t want to hear him, they cover their ears and refuse to hear the message he has to offer them, and they descend on him and take him out and stone him.

It is scene reminiscent of Jesus’ own death. Stephen prays that Jesus will receive his spirit as Jesus himself prayed and commended his own spirit into God’s had. Stephen also asks for God’s forgiveness for those who kill him, they do not know what they are doing as they did not know what they were doing when they put Jesus to death and because of their refusal to listen to the message Stephen was trying to give them, they still don’t know. Stephen’s death, like his life, is modelled on the example of Jesus Christ. Jesus said ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life’ and Stephen lives that out fully. His death also gives us a further pointer to the full meaning of the resurrection. Stephen sees deep into the heart of heaven. All of our readings today suggest that our earthly home is only temporary, that our true home is in heaven with our Father. Jesus says ‘in my Father’s house there are many mansions’ or ‘dwelling-places’. God has plenty of room for all his children, and we will all one day have a home there.

Jesus is the way the truth and the life, he is the one we must follow, and he is the one who will lead us through this life and into the next. God enters into his creation in the form of Jesus, he becomes human to experience our life and death. Jesus understands what it is to live in this world and he gives himself completely and utterly to it. We must follow his example and engage fully with the world around us, to take part in creation, to protect it and interact with it. If we engage and interact fully within the world, if we live our lives to the full, then we build ourselves into a living temple where we can serve and praise God wholeheartedly. If we do that, then we follow fully in the steps of Jesus and when our time finally comes we will meet him face to face in honesty, knowing that he has been our guide all our days.

Easter 4A

A reflection on the readings for Easter 4A: Acts 2:42-47, John 10:1-10, by The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski

When I was a young girl my mother was fond of telling me the story of how she named me. The top five names for girls in 1957 were: Mary, Susan, Debra, Karen, and Linda. My mother wanted a different name for me, unique and unusual, at least in her mind. She had a photo of me that was printed in the Salt Lake City newspaper on my first birthday, along with all the other kids celebrating first birthday's. The photographs made her point, three of the girls were named Debra and then there was me, Terri Lynnette: Terri spelled with two “r's” and an “i.” Simple as my name is I have had to spell it for people my entire life. And, in my entire childhood the only other Terry's I knew were boys. Sometimes I wished for a typical girl's name. Now, I know other women with the name Terri, although there are a number of different spellings.

My mother's given name was Joan, but in her 40's, with her children grown, and following a divorce from her second husband, she claimed a new identity through her Irish heritage. As a natural red-head with green eyes, she legally changed her name to Shannon.

Regardless of how intentional we are in selecting names, compared to the ancient world, the modern practice of naming is arbitrary. In the world of Jesus and those who came before him, Abraham and Sarah, names designated something particular about the person. Through God's blessing Abram, Sarai, and Saul under-go a change of name – Abram becomes Abraham, Sarai becomes Sarah, and Saul becomes Paul – the great St. Paul. The name change for these people in the Bible signifies a change in who they are, their identity has changed. The names of people in the Bible give us insight into who the person is.

In the Bible the name of God is a central theme. Knowing the divine name gives privilege to some, and invoking that divine name, according to Biblical stories, brings gifts of grace. Can you think of some the names of God that you know of from the Bible? In the Hebrew Bible God is named “El” which is also translated as “God.” Also - “El Elyon” - God most high; “El Olam” - everlasting God; “El Shaddai” - Almighty God. God revealed God's name to Moses as “I AM” which over time became known as YHWH – and is sometimes pronounced as Yahweh – although traditionally it is not said out loud. Christians have traditionally used Lord – a male noun describing authority; Adonai – which also means Lord; and Kyrios which for the ancient Greeks distinguished God from the Roman emperor.

The ancient Christian Church soon adopted Lord as the title for Jesus. But there are many other names for Jesus found in the Bible. Can you think of some? Here are a few names for Jesus that we find in the New Testament: Word, Lamb of God, Son of God, Rabbi, Messiah, son of Joseph, King of Israel, Son of Man, Emmanuel, bread, vine, a mother hen, and, from our reading in John this morning, the good shepherd.

Many of the passages in scripture, including the Acts of the Apostles, which we hear every year in the season of Easter, remind us that the Christian life and faith proceeds from and , in, the name of Jesus.

In a few weeks, on the feast of Pentecost, we will baptize a new member into our community of faith and into the Christian Church. From now until that day we will pray for this young baby, by his first name Peyton, and his two middle names – Edward and Kirkland. But we won't use his last name, his surname because in baptism we all the same last name – Christian. So in a few minutes, when we pray for Peyton Edward Kirkland remember in the back of your mind that he will soon add another name – Christian. He will join us in the family of faith.

Being named Christian, and claiming our mutual identity as members of the family of Jesus, calls us to a particular identity. It's this forming and claiming of identity that brings us here each Sunday. Here to be reminded, through scripture, and prayer, and hymns, what we are to be about as the family of Christ. In other words, Christian is not only a noun, but it's also a verb. Christian is a call to action, to follow the shepherd, to live abundantly.

What do you think of when you consider what it means to live abundantly? I imagine most of us have had a change of heart about that term over the ten years or so. For most of us living abundantly no longer means having more things, bigger and better stuff. As Christians living abundantly has a particular context that models the life and ministry of Jesus. It means something along the lines of having abundant generosity and compassion for ourselves and for others.

One of my favorite television programs is “The Good Wife.” Tuesday night's episode was particularly gripping as Alicia wrestles with the betrayal of her husband's brief affair with her best friend and co-worker, Calinda. In one scene, Calinda, the tight-lipped, unemotional, private investigator for the firm, distraught over her broken friendship with Alicia, begins to fall apart. All alone in an elevator she dissolves into tears. In another scene, her boss, Will, a partner of the firm, notices that Calinda is not her self. Reaching out with care and compassion he suggests to her that one day she will need to confide in someone. But Calinda, stoic and resolute, responds, “There is one thing I have learned, I NEVER have to confide in anyone.”

As human beings we are born with a complex range of emotions and feeling. We need each other in order to become fully who we are intended to be. Our Christian identity is formative in that regard. Our call to live in community is intended to be supportive, each of us for the other. Day in and day out living our life of faith, worshiping together, praying together, breaking bread together – either in the Eucharist or over a meal – spending time learning about our faith and one another, being present for each other through our struggles and our joys – are all part of our Christian identity. Living a life of faith transforms us. Embraced in the love of Christ, in the security of Jesus, the Good Shepherd, we learn that we are not alone. Living the life of faith teaches us the depth of God's love for us, we come to know that love as an inherent component of our identity. And in being loved, and named as God's beloved, we are called to do like wise, to go and love others as Christ loves us.





- Portions of this reflection were informed by: Gail Ramshaw, “Treasures Old and New” Images in the Lectionary, from the chapter, “Name of God”

Easter 3A

A reflection on the readings for Easter 3A by the Rev. Jacqueline Schmitt

This is where I am starting my thoughts for a sermon for this Sunday, May 8, the Third Sunday of Easter: with the history of Mother's Day and
more.

It was started in 1870 as a day for mothers to pray and work for peace, for the end of war, to decry that their sons and husbands would go to war and, as Julia Ward Howe wrote in her Mother’s Day Declaration, “unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.” Howe was an abolitionist, a worker for peace and woman suffrage – the epitome of the late 19th century progressive, convinced that women truly and naturally embodied all Christian and civic virtues. The carnage of the Civil War so disturbed her that she was moved to commemorate the values of peace and motherhood with this Mother’s Day. It was celebrated in June in her lifetime, and she funded many of the commemorations.

As the battle scars of the Civil War faded, and after Howe’s death, Anna Reeves Jarvis rekindled and readapted Howe’s commemoration – she called it “Mother’s Friendship Day,” with the intention to “re-unite families and neighbors that had been divided between the Union and Confederate sides of the Civil War.”

In 1908 Anna M. Jarvis, her daughter, yet again revived the holiday, now a commemoration both of peace and of the dedication of her mother, as a Sunday School teacher and as the founder of Mother’s Day as a day of peace and reconciliation. After a quiet gathering at her home in Philadelphia, Jarvis went public with Mother’s Day at her Methodist Church in West Virginia – and in today’s terms, it went viral. The idea of honoring mothers with flowers (white carnations for the dead, pink or red for the living) and festivities – struck a chord in the human heart, and soon lots of churches and communities were doing it. Anna M. Jarvis became a political activist, to have Mother’s Day, as she conceived it, to be recognized nationally as a holiday. This was backed by the YMCA and, very powerfully, by the World Sunday School Association, and this Progressive Era victory for the virtues of motherhood was signed into law in 1914 by Woodrow Wilson.

Ironically, the declaration coincided with the meteoric rise of commercialism and advertising in the US, and from the 1920s on, the flower and greeting card industries have taken on Mother’s Day for their own. This profit-making Mother’s Day disturbed Anna M. Jarvis greatly, and she loudly and publicly opposed what she deemed a misuse of the holiday – from 1920s until her death in 1948.

It is poignant, indeed, as we contemplate Mother’s Day 2011, thinking about its origins in the protest of the carnage of war. When late 19th and early 20th century women banded together for peace, they believed that their womanly and motherly virtues transcended national borders, and that women around the world would unite to bring an end to war. As Julia Ward Howe wrote in her original declaration:

"We women of one country
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says, "Disarm, Disarm!"
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice!
Blood does not wipe out dishonor
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war.
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace,
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God.

Solemn thoughts to consider during this week that saw one of the declared enemies of America brought to a violent end. I was relieved that President Obama did not rattle swords or preach bellicosity in his address to the nation, but I was made slightly uncomfortable by the campus and community demonstrations on Sunday night and Monday. Has our younger generation taken the rhetoric of patriotic valor into the arena of vengeance and American exceptionalism?

Most news coverage early in the week, however, included more nuanced reflections on the American reactions to the killing of Osama bin Laden. Young people growing up in the shadow of 9/11 have had these events and debates thrust upon them at every turn. From Tuesday’s New York Times, I found this helpful to read:

"In the world of the so-called millennial generation, said Neil Howe, a writer and historian who is often credited with defining that term for the generation, “Evil is evil, good is good. There are no antiheroes, there is no gray area. This is a Harry Potter vignette, and Voldemort is dead.”

“In a Harry Potter world,” he said, “their mission is to save the world for the rest of society. This is their taking pride in what their generation is able to do.”

Reading on, though, it was clear that not everyone cast their lives in Manichean terms. The article quoted one young woman, a Muslim American, who said she began wearing a head scarf after the attacks on the World Trade Center:

“I feel like regardless of your religion after 9/11, it made everyone question what it was like to be an American.”

That same New York Times article, that talked about how vocally patriotic young adults had become, also noted that these same young adults were increasingly likely to want to get to know the world around them, to study abroad, to learn about other societies and religions. That’s good. Even these young people who have seen so much violence and disruption during their whole lives, whose own families and communities may have been harmed by those terrible events of September 11, seem to be continuing the trend we have seen for a generation, of teenagers who enter young adulthood wanting to make a difference, to give back, to get involved, whose hearts burn within them to make the world a better place.

That’s where I’m going with my sermon this week: to connect the experience of the disciples on the road to Emmaus, who described their encounter with the risen Jesus as something that made their hearts burn within them, with people who, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, find the energy and commitment to get up and work to make the world a better place. To me, the connection is discipleship, and how we form our children, and each other, to be the kind of followers of Jesus who recognize the love of God in the unlikeliest of places – to be the kind of people whose hearts are set on fire for that love, and who know that justice and mercy truly walk hand in hand.

Easter 2A

A reflection on the readings for Easter 2A: Acts 2:14-41, Psalm 16, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:19-31 by

Janine Goodwin, M.A., M.S. Ed.

Everything in this week’s readings is about the assurance of faith, the certainty of belief in a God who has done certain things and can be trusted completely.

Everything except the Gospel.

I love that.

I love it because the Gospels are not the stories of perfect people getting it about God on the first try, but of misunderstandings and blunders and the whooshing sound that the point makes going over everyone’s heads. (Ever notice how often Jesus hears that sound? His physical presence was no guarantee that anyone would get what he was saying.) I love it because the stories in the Gospels show that faith is not a course we take for a grade, but a life we live. I love it because stories like this one show conclusively that we are not required to be perfect disciples—there are no perfect disciples. I love it because the story of Thomas, and the story of Mary Magdalene at the beginning of this chapter, are about people struggling with their faith, misunderstanding what they see and hear, and going on in faith anyhow. On a personal note, I love it because despite a lifetime of faith and throughout a lot of attempts to be more certain than I am capable of being, I’ve never stopped doubting and struggling. I’ve come to believe that those attempts to be certain were a waste of time—time that could have been better used asking the tough questions aloud.

The story of Thomas is part of a larger story. Chapter 20 begins with Mary Magdalene coming to the tomb and meeting Jesus, a story some of us heard last Sunday; its center is Jesus’ appearing to the disciples and breathing out the Spirit upon them in the first part of today’s reading; then comes the story of Thomas. Thomas seems not to have believed Mary Magdalene, and he certainly isn’t impressed by the story of a whole group of disciples. Thomas wants his answer his way. Unlike most of us, he gets his answer his way.

No one in these stories is perfect. The beloved disciple, extolled by many commentators as the perfect example of faith and as superior to Mary Magdalene and Thomas, misses seeing Jesus at the tomb because he has run away, leaving his sister disciple weeping alone; he believes, but the text gives no evidence that he shared his belief with others. It’s not clear that Peter believes anything at the tomb. Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener, and he has to tell her not to cling to him. The disciples see Jesus in the room with them because they are, despite Mary’s witness, hiding from the world outside. And then there’s Thomas, the kind of difficult person who says what others won’t admit they are thinking.

Many of us have been taught, over the years, to hear “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” as a rebuke to Thomas—and, by extension, a rebuke to us if we have trouble believing. It need not be read that way. It could be, instead, a way of acknowledging our doubts and our difficulties, our imperfect faith. It could be Jesus’ way of allowing us space to doubt like Thomas, to misunderstand Jesus’ appearance like Mary Magdalene, to remain silent when we could speak like the beloved disciple—and still to be present when Jesus is among us offering the Spirit.

Thomas and Mary do the one most important thing: they keep trying. Their faith and their perceptions are limited, but they keep seeking Jesus. They do so imperfectly, and Jesus comes to them anyway. They trust enough to keep going. Their struggles are ours, and we need not fear our own. Even in John, the gospel with an insistence on the divinity and pre-existence of Jesus, the gospel with the most exalted view of Jesus, the gospel in which Jesus is shown as foreseeing everything and predicting everything, shows the disciples as people with faith as imperfect as ours. Jesus works with that. He wants to be with people who ask questions, get it wrong, and even give him attitude.

Thomas and Magdalene have moments of certainty, as do all the followers of Jesus, and they tell each other about them. For many of them, their faith will lead to death; for all of them, it will last through their lives. It will not always be certain. It will not always be free of doubt. It will be enough.

Before I read theology, I read a lot of devotional books on how to have complete, joyous, permanent faith that wouldn’t take a stain or sustain a dent. They always produced considerable despair in me because I never had that kind of faith. Perhaps that is behind my uneasy response to the passages that are all about certainty and are the reason I like this Gospel better. Perhaps, having seen that neither doubt and certainty are the final word about one’s faith, I will be able to embrace certainty more.

Yes, Christ is risen; the Lord is risen indeed, alleluia. No, we aren’t always sure of that. No, that doesn’t settle everything. Yes, we still doubt and make mistakes and persist in looking for Jesus. Jesus is still with us and still offering the Spirit, which gives not omniscience, but hope. Faith is a conversation between believers, but not a competition: it’s not about who has more faith or less faith, but about what we can learn from each other’s faith and each other’s stories.

I love that.

This reflection owes much to two excellent academic articles by women theologians:

Lee, Dorothy A., “Partnership in Easter Faith: The Role of Mary Magdalene and Thomas,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 58 (1995) 37-49

O’Brien, Kelli S., “Written That You May Believe: John 20 and Narrative Rhetoric,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 67, 2005

The work of committed scholars is a great gift to the faith community.

Easter Day

A reflection on John 20:1-18 by the Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig

Of the two Gospels in the Lectionary for Easter Sunday, I found myself drawn to John. A part of that attraction for me is Mary. Mary who went out to the tomb while it was still dark. Mary Magdalene who has been confused and merged with the other Marys of the Gospels. Mary who has been maligned through the ages as prostitute and sinner. Mary apostle to the apostles. Mary of the many narratives, is the one on this Easter morning who brings us the story, the one who is the bearer of the news. Ultimately not only the good news of that Easter morning that Jesus was not in the tomb, but the ultimate Good News that the love of God is stronger than death and the grave is not the end. This Mary has a story to tell us in her own words….

It seemed like so many days since the last time we were together, that night we ate and drank together. That night started out strangely, with him insisting on washing our feet. I mean, not that this wasn’t the thing to do before a meal, but to have the host do it, well that was just not what you’d expect. But then Jesus always was the master of the unexpected. And then there was that strange business with Judas. Of course it all made sense later, but at the time, I was so confused.

He spoke to us of so many things that night. He told us again and we must love one another. He said it very strongly, commanded us even to love one another, I remember he said, as he had loved us. I remember it made me think when he said that about the way he did love others. About the way he was with people, how he seemed to really see them, to be able to see their very souls, and what this did for their lives. Like the woman at the well who had such an experience of him that she left her water jar behind when she ran off to tell the others in village about him! I remembered how he healed that blind man, and how the man kept changing the way he talked about him calling him first a man, then a prophet then calling him “Lord.” I remember how that man stood up to the Pharisees and talked right back to them, asking “so why are you asking me all this? Do you want to become disciples too?” I had to laugh at that. I remember my own healing and liberation. I remember how he always included those who were out at the edges and those that the others left out, and that he preached that we must always forgive others, and that his love was a very radical kind of thing, and how he told us to do the same. So when he said that night to love one other as he had loved us, I knew he was asking a lot.

I think he tried to prepare us for what was to come….not just that he was going to die, but that he would be with us again, But he was right in that we did not understand all that he meant. But I had not always understood him. What he said or what he did. Healing people from illnesses, and even bringing his friend Lazarus back to life after four days in the grave. We all know that he had talked of eternal life, we all had come to know there would be a resurrection on the last day, but when he called Lazarus out and asked us to help him loose himself from those grave clothes, our belief in him as the Messiah was strengthened even more.

This was the Rabbi and teacher we loved, who had taught us all along, the one who had amazed us and sometimes baffled us but always loved us. But on that night there was something different about him, a new kind of intensity, an urgency. Now of course it all makes sense, but at the time, all I knew was that what he said was challenging and a little frightening. He talked about others persecuting us and even killing us for following him. And he kept saying he was going away, going to a place that we could not go, and if he did not do this, the spirit could not come. But that if he did go, this spirit he called the Advocate would come and would guide us into truth and righteousness.

And he said he was giving us peace but not the way the world did, but that we should not be afraid. I remember as much as trusted and loved him, I couldn’t help feeling troubled by all this talk of his leaving, and yes, I was afraid. I loved him with all my heart and I did not want him to go anywhere. We had only had him such a short time and he was doing so much good.

Love one another….Oh yes clearly I remember, he said that a second time. He said it so strongly, that command. I remember being a little taken aback by that, as he was so forceful about it. He said “no one has greater love than to lay down his life for a friend.” At the time I had no idea what was to come so soon, that he was talking about himself…his own great love, such great love.

He talked about how in a while we would not see him and again a little while and we would see him…and he said he was leaving the world and going to the Father. And we had no idea….no idea that this meant that in such a short time he would be taken from us, taken off for that travesty of a trial and be mocked and flogged and finally hung on that horrible cross. That was the worst day of my life, standing there with his mother, seeing the pain on her face as she watched him suffer and finally die. We just could not understand. After all that he said and did, for it all to end there, it simply made no sense. I really had believed that night when he said all those things, that he was that close to God, that he was more than just the wonderful Rabbi and teacher that I loved. But that day, I was there and saw it all, and I have to say that my belief in it all, in him, wavered. It pains me to admit it, but it did. When I went to the tomb that dark, dark morning it was to grieve him and to grieve the ideal of all he stood for. I had lost my hope. I had accepted the unacceptable. My Rabboni was dead, and dead with him were the dreams that the Messiah had come and all that came along with that. The group had broken up even before he was tried, hiding, fleeing, denying they knew him, afraid for their own skins. It was worse than if we had never known him. My heart was breaking, I really thought I might die from sadness. The only thing I could think to do was to go to the grave. If nothing else I could be close to the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid him. The garden was soothing, maybe I would find some peace just being near him there. But when I arrived to find that the stone had been rolled away from the tomb, the bottom dropped out of my world even more. I had thought I could feel no worse, but I was wrong. My despair knew no bounds as I knew that the grave robbers had likely taken him. I ran for my friends, but all they could do was confirm what I had feared, the tomb was empty, the wrappings all that remained. They went back home. But I could not leave. Something just compelled me to stay. It was not hope, for I had none. There was nothing to hope in. It was not faith, for I had no faith left. It was not belief, for there was no one left to believe in. Then I looked in the tomb. I have no idea why I looked, Simon Peter and John had already told me there was nothing to see. But there were messengers there…two of them who asked me why I was crying. I told them of course, and it was then that I turned and saw the gardener; at least that was what I thought at first, that he was the gardener, or that he was another vision of some kind. That maybe I was just was just hoping that much to see him….but then I remembered that I had no hope, had no faith, had no belief. It had all dies on that awful cross with him. But then in the quiet of that empty place, I hear a familiar beloved voice say my name and I know who this was beyond a shadow of a doubt. It is he who has called by name, he who sees and knows all of me, he who has healed me, he who has recalled me to life even as he has risen from his own death. “Rabbouni, beloved teacher” I cry as I recognize him. I must not let him get away from me again! I cannot go back into that hopeless darkness now that his light has shone on me again. I grasp at him, but gently he pulls away and looks at me with great love, “Don’t hold on to me now. When I go to my Father, I will be available to all of you.” And I remember all of those things he said to us on that last night. And suddenly it all comes together and it all makes sense. This is Jesus, the Messiah, the Incarnate one of God. I trusted him then and I trust him now. This is the greatest news of all! I have seen the Lord and he is risen from the dead!

Palm/Passion Sunday

A reflection the readings for Palm Sunday by The Rev. Camille Hegg

Palm Sunday is a spectacle and a range of actions and emotions. It goes from Jesus setting his face to Jerusalem and disciples having to decide to follow him and ‘die with him’ as the gospel from last week says. Emotions in that decision had to had been vast and many. Crowds were there waiting for him, with palms on the ground to honor him. How did they know he was coming? Now, we have Twittter and Facebook that can send instant messages to many people to expect and to gather at certain places.

Palm Sunday is a good story. It has drama, mystery, pathos. It goes from festival atmosphere to the confusing, angering, sad actions of human beings reacting to what they don’t understand, and the death of an innocent man. It is a strange story, too. All those events and emotions in just a few paragraphs rather than not an epic novel with chapters nor a history book with footnotes.

In one liturgical day emotions which we experience in our lives happen. What begins with Palm Sunday ends with Passion Sunday. In many churches there is no final processional hymn, but a procession in silence to symbolize the absolute outrage and sadness of what happened.
We find ourselves confronted with outrage and sadness on many occasions. Sometimes, for me, the only response to both of these emotions is silence. Sometimes what starts as a good day ends with some unforeseen event that is sad or outrageous or angering. We may want to shout, but I find silence a better friend than shouting.

It was a Sunday in 1985. The epistle that day was the Ephesians’ admonition to wives to submit to their husbands and so forth. In preparing my sermon I decided it was time to preach on this text. I used a true example of the mother of a grown daughter who came to talk to me. The husband of the daughter had put the daughter in the hospital with internal bleeding, bruises, a black eye, and a broken collar bone. The mother who came to me asked me to pray that the husband would quit beating her daughter. I asked her if she wanted her daughter to go back home with the husband and this mother said, “Oh yes, marriage is sacred. She has to stay with him. I just want him to quit hurting him.”

All of us reading this have stories like this. I decided it was my time to speak about this text. Wiithout going into the sermon much further, I will say that I raised questions for the congregation and said that this was a misunderstanding of the gospel of love. I felt that I had done a good job of preparing and delivering the sermon. I received a very loud applause. I was surprised and I will admit it felt good. That feeling stayed with me through the morning. When I walked into my house after church the hpone rang and it was my sister telling me that our father had died that morning of a massive coronary. I was silent. I finally said that I would be there soon.

This story is nowhere near the events of Passion/Palm Sunday. It came to me as an instance of a time when I myself went from that ‘festival’ of the palms and the procession, (feeling uplifted from my preparation and delivery of the sermon, the congregation’s response), to the “passion” of the sudden, unexpected and stunning sadness of learning of my father’s death. Over the years I have pondered my father’s sudden death, but never have I thought of it in this context. A Sunday like this week’s does have something to say to us about life’s changes and chances. It is remarkable to me that the church, lectionary, seasons, community can help us process our lives amidst the changes and chances of our lives.

Seeing With New Eyes

A reflection on the readings for Lent 4A: John 9:1-41 by the Rev. Margaret Rose

I love to travel. Perhaps it comes from growing up in a small town where the world beyond always seemed to invite me to something more and better. And even as a child it didn’t much matter where outside: a bus to Atlanta to visit a friend when I was six, or a drive to an even smaller town nearby—Villa Rica which my mother reminded me meant “Village of the Rich” in another exotic language or so she said. That love of travel had to do with a desire to experience something new, visit another place and to see something I had not seen before. Now “traveling” has become a metaphor for seeing things anew, suspending belief and starting with a clean slate experiencing lives and sights that do not have my history or baggage. Traveling to far off places or to new neighborhoods allows me to let go assumptions or labels or judgments, generalities, or stereotypes.

Traveling has become a state of mind which is about heightened senses and paying attention to surroundings, getting away from the routine in order to get at the heart and soul of a place, a culture, a person. Some days even walking to work is like traveling, if I have allowed my mind to be uncluttered by the worries of the day and can simply observe the life around me. Taking notice of the environment, of who and what is there. It may be a “green raincoat day” or a “dog walking day”, or one where it seems everyone needs help crossing the street. Patterns emerge I had not seen before. No doubt they are not real patterns but part of everyday, but with open eyes I somehow see what I had long ignored.

This may be a simplistic way to think about the story of the Man Born Blind in John’s gospel. Certainly, it is one of the “miracle stories” but the real truth of the text is in the whole story and the movement from those whose eyes may see but who are spiritually blind to the truth that sight does not rest in the eyes only. ( This is no doubt why the RCL has included all 41 verses of the story.) The lead up offers one more example of Jesus turning the social structure on its head—healing on the Sabbath, and the discussion of whose fault it is that the man is blind and Jesus’ retort that this is not about sin but the need for healing. Neither his parents’ guilt nor his own is the culprit. (Something we would do well to remember.) The deep lesson of the text comes in the dialog between the blind man and those who hear about or witness the miracle. The man born blind becomes increasingly insightful even as the religious leaders are more blind to the identity of Jesus and the meaning of the miracle.

The dialog plays out like a comedy street scene: the beggar is healed by Jesus using what might be a folk way of mud and saliva and prayer. The onlookers do not believe it is really the same man or that he can really see so they deny it among themselves: This wasn’t really the blind beggar was it? No, just someone like him is the reply. Others respond to the blind man’s proclamation that he can now see by whispers of denial among themselves: He wasn’t really blind in the first place. Still others go to his parents to confirm his identity and his infirmity.

Clearly , the Pharisees did not want to have their eyes opened to Jesus. To accept that the healing was of God would call into question their set rules, would have forced them to give up some very precious and long held understandings about life codes and ways of worship. Their privilege as religious leaders might be called into question. They had a lot to lose by listening to the words of the outcast better, a blind man, a lot to lose if they began to explore the possibility that this healing was of God, or that Jesus might possibly be the prophet or a foretold messiah. In short, a lot to lose by having their eyes opened. Those physically able to see became spiritually blind, unable as they were to risk the loss of comfort, power and long held assumptions of their faith.

The blind man, however had nothing to lose. He knew his infirmity, his blindness, and knew that Jesus had opened his eyes. As he told the story, becoming aware of Jesus’ identity, he is able to proclaim it. The poor blind beggar is open to grace and to Jesus as the Christ. The one who was blind is able in the end to see most clearly physically and spiritually.
What about us? What helps us to see most clearly the healing that God offers us? Perhaps first it has to do with recognizing the places where we too suffer from spiritual blindness, examining what we hold most closely and imagining that others may hold opposite views just as faithfully. In a parish I served, we decided one year to have a program called “Controversial Issues and How to Talk about Them” As one might expect, the series included such topics as sexuality, economics, abortion. There were those who were clear about what the moral or Christian response to each dilemma was to be. But the group agreed that the ground rule for the work would be “sacred listening”, acknowledging that each of us may have some blindness within ourselves. The ensuing conversations were not easy. But the transformation made possible by the commitment to listening created bonds of community which would not be broken across lines of disagreement.

A few years later, the youth director of that same parish had twins, born prematurely, and as it turned out one is completely blind and the other with significant visual impairment. I recently visited them back in that same small town where I grew up. The boys are now about 2, and though there are ongoing issues, they are healthy. As Luke and Jack romped and tumbled and climbed over each other, their mother and me, as they ran around the house shouting and laughing, I could not help but think of the text for today. When this young couple discovered they were pregnant, their joyful expectation of parenthood did not anticipate so great a challenge. Some of the ready made plans had to be forgotten. No doubt this Sunday, these parents will be listening to the text and wondering if Jesus might come by to spit on the ground and hold healing mud on the eyes of their two boys.

But it may be that the healing mud has already come. The eyes of the parents are open to the deep life of God’s spirit working within them and their boys. And they have become a gift to the community they serve. Would I want their eyes to be repaired? Of course. But the ability to see does not depend on it. Thanks be to God.