Pr. Craig Mueller
Fifth Sunday in Lent
March 20/21, 2021
A Dirty Sermon
Warning: this sermon is going to be dirty.
Hold on. I don’t mean dirty as unclean or certain kind of thoughts. I’m intrigued by dirt, by soil, by earth. I even have a book called Dirt: A Love Story. 38 Writers Get Down to Earth. To me, the most compelling image in our readings is the grain of wheat—the seed—buried in the earth. In what looks like death, Jesus says, new life comes forth. Usually, the seed is the star in this metaphor. I think it’s about time the earth—the soil—gets some attention as well.
Surely God loves dirt, God loves earth. We are earth creatures, really, formed from dust of the ground, Genesis puts it. And one of our earth-siblings, Jesus, through his burial in the earth and then his rising, shines with divinity for us. And more than that: Jesus, the seed planted in the earth and rising into resurrection, is an image for us of our own baptism.
Novelist Barbara Richardson writes that for thousands of years humans have looked to the heavens for inspiration. She posits that may be one of our greatest mistakes. We project whatever we want onto the skies. But when we look instead to the earth we get a different message. You can’t fool dirt. Earth gives us other truths: intricacy, impermanence, interrelationship, humility. After all the root word of human and humility is humus, meaning soil and earth.
Let the poets help us a bit. Mary Oliver writes: “The God of dirt / came up to me many times and said / so many wise and delectable things, I lay / on the grass listening.”
What would the God of dirt say to us amid the unimaginable losses of the past year? Like the blood of the murdered Abel crying out from the ground, there is much to lament. Inequities stemming from centuries of racism. A disproportionate emphasis on individual rights and politics over the common good, resulting in a shameful number of deaths.
Remember you are dust, the God of dirt, the God of Ash Wednesday reminds us. But such humble remembering is paired with the biblical response of lament—the passionate expression of grief and sorrow. Many of the psalms are in the form of a lament. Our recent hymnal and new supplement have a section of lament songs and hymns. “How long, O Lord, how long,” the language of lament.
Later in this liturgy we will lament the nearly 2.7 million spouses, parents, grandparents, children worldwide in this pandemic. We will light 27 candles, one for each of the 100,000 lives lost. You may light one or more candles at home as well.
We also lament the increased violence against Asian Americans, especially the recent killings in Atlanta. The ELCA Conference of Bishops declared today a day to lament and express solidarity with and support for Asian American victims of violence.
We each have our own stories and connections as well. In various ways, the past year has worn us down, chipped away at our optimism, forced us to face mortality and vulnerability in new ways. For some, these past months have intensified anxiety and depression, the seeds of which may have been there before, but now keep them awake at night, waiting for a new day, longing for spring. Maybe we are living closer to the rhythm of nature than ever before.
In the book of Hebrews, Jesus is depicted as a high priest who, because of his suffering, is able to sympathize with us in our weakness. When crucified on a cross, he offered up prayers with loud cries and tears, our text today says. Sounds like lament to me.
In the gospel some Greeks come to Philip and simply say, “sir, we wish to see Jesus.” All through his gospel, John is opening our eyes to see God revealed in vulnerable human flesh, in this one full of grace of truth. And now, with the events of Holy Week drawing near, we hear the words, “the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.”
Finally! Enough earth. Give us some sky. Give us some glory. Except. Except in John’s gospel Jesus’ glory is his dying. And his rising. They are one in the same in this gospel. It’s the victory we celebrate on Good Friday—the triumph of the cross. Or as one beloved hymn puts it, “in the cross of Christ I glory.”
To be sure, there is a loss, a letting go, a kind of death as the seed is planted in the soil. It is the mystery of life. In churchy terms we call it the “paschal mystery.” Jesus is the seed buried in the earth. We are buried with him in baptism. And we rise with him to a new life! The pattern of the seed, the pattern of nature, the pattern of Jesus’ dying and rising is the pattern for our lives.
In 2005 Sister Dorothy was martyred in Brazil for standing up for the rights of the poor in the Amazon region. Plenty to lament in her story. Dorothy knew she may lose her life because of her gospel-centered faith. After her brutal death, one of her colleagues told an audience that Dorothy was buried on the land she loved so much. Then after pausing, the colleague went on to say: actually, Sister Dorothy was not buried, she was planted. Her work continues to grow, change is happening. The audience sat in stunned silence, then applauded, imagining planting” of Sister Dorothy.
For the past couple weeks, I have been looking down at the earth, the dirt. And little by little, seeing green shoots coming up. Is not this one of the greatest miracles we could ever behold? I hope it is not lost on you that this is the first day of spring!
Yet it is also true for us earthlings. As one lovely Easter hymn puts it, When our hearts are wintry / grieving or in pain / your touch can call us back to life again . . . love is come again like wheat arising green.
Divine love for this earth, for all creation, for humankind. This divine love, the hope of the world.
So reverence this earth. Love the dirt. Honor the soil. I’m only half serious, but let’s call a spiritual moratorium on stigmatizing dirt!
Put your belly on the ground and say thank you. Let God in the heavens take care of the stars, Richardson writes. We, along, with scientists, artists, and poets, are forever called to loving dirt.
So look down at the dirt, especially these days. And remember you are part of nature. But also look up this day to Jesus lifted high on the cross. A sure sign of spring and the world becoming new. Hear Jesus’ words to you this day: “And I, when I am lifted up, will draw all people to myself.”
We are weary. Lenten people. Lamenting people. Ready and eager, waiting and longing for the God who blesses earth with springtime. Ready for God to shine within our world anew, ready for to bloom within our hearts again, and ready for Christ to raise us up and draw us to himself. O blessed earth, o, blessed spring! Amen.
SOURCE:
Barbara Richardson, “Preface: The God of Dirt” in Dirt: A Love Story. 39 Writers Get Down to Earth. ForeEdge, 2015.