Sermons
Let us sing praises, and let us come into God’s presence, and let us fall down in worship, and let us listen. Listen to the readings from the voices of our friends. Listen to the same prayers recited this day across the country. Listen to the ways God is comforting us during this time, listen to the ways God is teaching us to love each other in this time, listen to the ways God is saying, “it will be okay one day, and I will never, ever let you go. No matter what.”
We practice generosity, so that we might be more generous, even on the days that are hard. We practice graciousness, so that we might be more gracious, even on the days that are hard. We practice joy, so that we might be more joyous- even on the days that are hard.
Practicing these gifts, and others entrusted to us, won’t always be easy, that’s certain. There may be times we prefer to go and hide in sorrow, anxiety, and grief. But I’m confident the Holy One can hold us in our anxiety and in generosity, keep us in graciousness, even in the midst of sorrow, and invite us into joy even when full of grief.
Even when we can handle no more delays, Christ comes and welcomes you to the feast of life: in your midnights, in your sleepless nights, when you have nowhere else to turn, when your oil is running out, when you are foolish and hoard, when you are tired of waiting, tired of delays. Time is running out. The oil is running out. The darkening days of November reveal this.
Iin the waters of baptism we connect to our cloud of witnesses who surround us, singing as a testament that these waters can be for us our sign of the end of all tears. One day we will meet with the saints on the other side of the river, but until then we listen deeply for their song and try to find our own part in the song. We join the hymn of all creation as we celebrate the baptized people of God, living and dead, who make up the body of Christ.
As our country faces another bruising battle over a supreme court justice; as many worry whether the upcoming election could break America; as we prepare to discuss the fair tax and other difficult issues, as we prepare to rally, canvass and protest and vote; as we prepare to face the fearful difficult weeks and months, these are not easy words to hear. Most of us would rather be fired up to become more radicalized, rather than heed Paul’s words: be of one mind. Empty yourself. Look to needs of others before your own.
In these weird, freaky, frightening days, as we begin to sink, Jesus reaches out his hand to us. Catches us. Even when we don’t recognize him—or any divine purpose for it all. Even when we are manipulative or secretive, like Joseph. Even when we don’t think there is any way we can get out of this mess, this sinking ship.
In our doubt, in our despair, we hear hopeful words. “Take heart, it is I, Jesus. Do not be afraid.” It is the moment of recognition. The words we long to hear. The peaceful presence in the midst of the storm we are now living.
I dare say we’ve been on the run. At least before March 2020. Hurrying and scurrying. Playing fast and loose. Swindling more than our share from our siblings. Repressing our nation’s tragic history of racism. Tricking our minds into believing that we could abuse and pollute the earth with no consequences. Living with plenty privilege, and more than enough dysfunction and hostility. There are a multitude of needs this day. As many of us receive communion for the first time since March, Christ comes among us. With great compassion for our world. He comes in the faces of one another—in our homes, on Zoom, in the street. He comes in broken bread, in the brokenness we see all around us. In wounds, in scars, in suffering faces, and in the limp itself.
Christ feeds us and all the world with boundless grace. Even as we become the bread of life for others.
A limp, for sure. Yet no longer on the run. A deep peace comes over us. What we need is here, this day. There is enough.
As followers of Christ we have been set free from the laws of sin and death and in the famous words of Leo Balmudo from Grease, “the rules are there ain’t no rules,” just our response to the love and grace we have experienced through Christ's death and resurrection. Christ IS victorious over death and has sown in us a victory garden with seeds of freedom planted in the soil of our lives, watered by our baptism, that give way to glorious, life-giving fruit. Through the example of rule-breakers like Jacob, Paul, and even God, our profligate seed sower, we are invited to also not follow the rules, and instead follow Christ and respond to the love and grace we have in Christ by extending that same love and grace to others.
Remember you are God’s pride and joy. You have a future! God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah is for you as well. For everyone born, a place at the table. Isaac and Ishmael. Muslim, Jew, Christian. All those longing for a cup of cold water, those praying for a new day, a better world, a more equitable society, a future bright with promise. People of all colors, races, genders, sexualities, religions, spiritualities, ideologies. For everyone born, All God’s beloved children. God’s pride and joy.
Just like many great love stories in the Bible, this one began with well-springs of water at the baptismal font, when promises were made by God and humans. In those waters we were claimed as God’s beloved, a relationship with the Holy one was born, and God’s faithfulness secured. We are invited to embrace this never-ending love story and say “Yes!” Yes, to God’s love for us. Yes, to God’s love for the world. Yes, to God’s faithfulness, trusting that God will provide all that we need as we work to love our neighbors as ourselves, trusting that God provides for all generations.
Laugh with me! Join God’s dream to make the impossible possible. I love this quote from theologian Harvey Cox: “holy laughter is the gift of grace. It is the human spirit’s last defense against banality and despair. We praise of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Sarah, Rachel, and Rebekka. Mary, Jesus, and Paul. God is faithful. You have a future. All will be well. All will be healed. It is the kind of joy we saw at George Floyd’s funeral and at the funeral of the Emmanuel Nine. Even with hearts breaking, we join the laughter of the universe! For Christ is risen. A good laugh, indeed.
There’s no going back to the way things were, things will never be the same, but that doesn’t mean things will be worse. In many ways we have an opportunity to make things better, and by contributing to a better future for all people and not just some, we can be the change that creates a more hopeful future. With the Holy Spirit as our ever present advocate and defense, we can confidently and faithfully step into this future together with hope.
With heavy hearts, you may be more open than ever to see Easter revealed among us in surprising ways. You may be more open than ever to envision a new society, a new church, a new way of walking on the earth. You may be more open than ever to share your deepest heartache and listening with compassion as others do the same. You will indeed walk on, as the beloved song from Carousel names. “Walk on, with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone.” Community, indeed. But now more than ever, we may also find the gift in standing still. In being with what is. In expressing our fears, our tears, our hopes, our prayers. In leaving silence for someone else to cry or to lament. With burning hearts, with open eyes—and with one another—we will walk on. And I am sure of this: through the resurrection of Christ, a new tomorrow, filled with Easter hope, is already dawning.
Christ rose from the dead to liberate us from our captivity, to bring us into the fullness of God’s family, and to be found by God’s divine love over and over and over again. The Marys have shown us what it looks like to dare to be found, and they were found because the first thing that the risen Jesus does is to go find others to invite into a life of divine love — a life of love that death cannot destroy. This morning is your reminder that you have already been found by God’s Divine Love, but it’s also your invitation to live into God’s Easter liberation and to dare to be found again and again by God’s divine love!
I imagine Mary standing at the foot of the cross eyes swollen with tears, her heart breaking, her lungs gasping for air as she watches her son dying for the suffering of the world. Her grief, our grief, the world’s grief are held in the arms of the crucified one this night and every night. Our suffering and sorrow, our doubts and despair, our agony and anguish are joined not only to Christ’s but to the brokenness of all creation. And yet, in John’s gospel what looks like defeat, is victory. What seems like an ending is new birth. Maybe all we can hope is that God will be here now, in our flesh. And that somehow, the cross will be to us healing and resurrection.
Though we shelter in place, we do not forget the fragile and those in need. We seek new ways to care for one another. To check on neighbors. To express gratitude to medical professionals, delivery workers, first responders. And Easter arrives. We long for that day when the stone is rolled away. We hope for the day when social distancing is past, our masks are off and we begin to see others previously camouflaged by our own prejudice or indifference. And Easter arrives. This is the night. Easter has arrived. And in the darkness light shines. Freedom dawns. Hope burns brightly. We step boldly into the future. And this night as always, alleluia is our song.
Around the table of the Lord—the table for which we long—we sing “hosanna in the highest,” in times of deep joy and times of deep sorrow. All these times coexist for us, as individuals and the people of God. God’s passionate mercy and love embrace us and all our suffering world this day. Holding us close, even as we are physically distant from one another. For as we walk the way of the cross, we trust the promise of spring, the hope of resurrection and new life.
