Stitchin’ in the Spirit

Luke 24:1-10
     But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared.  They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.  While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them.  The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the  ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.  Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.”  Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest.  Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles.

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

Numerous times each days my words to my children are met with a response something like this, “But I just wanted…  But I was playing…  But I’m not tired…  But I don’t like naps…”  I’m guessing that similar phrases may have even been heard in your homes at some point. 

Well, the Easter story, as told by Luke, is a story which should make defiant children (and adults) rejoice!  This story is what we could call, “The Big But.”  Just for clarification, let me assure you that I’m not talking about large rear-ends.  This is the big B-U-T.  The most grand and joyous act of defiance in history.

This is the BUT that looks fully in the face of death and says, “Ah, but wait…”  You see, we live in a world that thrives on in stark headlines and  scientific rationality, and we are a slow and stubborn people.  Our world states coldly that death is the end.  Hope is gone.  The economy is failing.  War and disaster fill the globe.  Our children will be worse off that we have been.  The sky may indeed fall. 

And in that world, Easter morning says, “Ah, but wait.”  In fact, Easter morning calls us to  shout, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”.  Easter morning looks honestly at war and hate and says, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”  At abuse and violence of all kinds and shouts, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”  At prejudice and bigotry and cries, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”  At economic hardship and unemployment and proclaims, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”  At depression and despair, and whispers a word of hope, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”  And, in the face of fear, sings a song of love, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”

Yes, my words are repititious.  But, there’s that word again, BUT.  But can we proclaim the resurrection too often or too loudly?  No.  We must proclaim it again and again, and in so doing, we may come to truly and deeply believe it.  If we practice hard enough and long enough, we might just start to live like we believe in resurrection.  We might even start to love like we believe in resurrection.

You see, as natural as it may seem to believe in new life, as flowers bloom, grass greens and trees bud, resurrection is truly unnatural.  Yes, we need symbols and reminder, but our simple symbols fail to grasp the immensity and defiance of resurrection — of a faith that says death is not the end; new life and hope will come; there is enough for everyone.

Resurrection faith takes the dedication and determination of Olympic athletes — years of practice, praying and eating in the name of the Risen Christ.  Taking a deep breath at the evening news, whispering a prayer, “Ah, but there’s more.”   Gathering with family and friends to share joys and sorrows, and knowing, “Ah, but there’s more.”  Coming to break the bread and drink the cup at Christ’s table, singing, “Ah, but there’s more! — so much more” 

Alleluia, Christ is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia!  Now, go into the world rejoicing in the power of the Spirit!  Alleluia!

All glory, laud and honor to thee, Redeemer, King! to whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas ring.

We enter the most intense week of the Christian year in joy and celebration with the children throwing palms in Jesus’ path as he enters Jerusalem.  Our Savior has come! 

But, by the time we end our Palm/Passion Sunday service, we will wail with countless generations before us:  Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Palm Sunday, and the whole of Holy Week, invite us to a study in contrasts; invite us to live the roller coaster with the disciples — to find ourselves in the story, rather than as simple observers content to watch from a distance.

The music and liturgies of Holy Week provide the opportunity to make the final journey with Jesus and the disciples.  Both offer powerful and profound opportunities. 

In our Thursday liturgy, as we recall Jesus’ last supper with his friends, his washing of their feet, and the institution of the Eucharist, we will sing, “In broken bread and the cup that we share, we remember you.  We remember you Jesus.  We remember your love for us.  We remember the blood You shed.  We remember You.”  As we end the liturgy, we move in silence to the altar, removing all possible ornamentation from our sanctuary, extinguishing the flame symbolic of Christ’s presence, and draping any remaining crosses in black.

In this stark action, and in the tense silence, we embrace the shame and suffering of the cross.  For the next 72 hours we wait, struggling with the ugly truth of the crucifixion.

Friday takes us back to the melancholy strains of “O sacred head, sore wounded, defiled and put to scorn; O kingly head, surrounded with mocking crown of thorn; what sorrow mars thy grandeur? Can death they bloom deflower? O countenance whose splendor the hosts of heaven adore?” 

And, again, we are left in silence.  Waiting in the darkness.  “Holy darkness, blessed night, heaven’s answer hidden from our sight.  As we await you, O God of silence, we embrace your holy night.”

Do we embrace the holy night?  Do we take the opportunity to enter into the journey, or do we try to skip forward to the bright alleluias of Easter morning?

Easter morning will ring out loud and clear with the glad strains of, “Jesus Chris is risen today, alleluia!,” but we aren’t there yet.

This week we are invited to “Walk that Lonesome Valley,” with our Savior and his followers, finding ourselves among both the abused and the the abusers; the flawed and the forgiven; the angry mob and the adoring crowd.  We find ourselves in both because we are both.  But, we enter the journey assured of the outcome.  We embrace the truth of our own sinfulness in sure and certain hope of the resurrection, knowing that honest assessment of our own place in the story brings us to Easter morning with even greater joy.

We walk this road in that hope, but for now, we enter the journey into Holy Darkness.  Amen.

Isaiah 43:16-21, Psalm 126, Philipians 3:4b-14, John 12:1-8

How would you live your life if you knew you had only a limited amount of time left — a few days, a few weeks, a few months?  That has been our Lenten question — what would it be like to “Live Like You Were Dyin,’” in the words of Tim McGraw?

Over these past weeks, we have dealt with the spiritual importance of taking care of business related to dying; we have thought about relationships and the importance of spending time with family and friends; we have encountered the holy with Moses at the burning bush, and reflected on the importance of honoring holiness in everyday living; and, we have jumped into the pools of forgiveness with the Prodigal Son and his dysfunctional family.

As our journey nears its end, and as death becomes imminent, we dine with Mary, Martha and Lazarus at an aromatic dinner table.  Martha, that pragmatic hostess, has hosted a lovely dinner party for her friend and teacher who has raised her brother from the dead, and likely doesn’t know what to make of her sister lying in the floor, wiping Jesus’ feet with her hair, much less the expense and extravagance of her gift.

How would we have responded to the gesture?  Would we have sat in stunned silence at the overwhelming aroma?  Gasped at the intimacy of wiping this great teacher’s feet with her hair?  Tensed at the thought of such a waste of precious resources?

In light of her extravagant gift to her Lord and teacher — the one who provided resurrection and life to her dead brother, who was himself approaching death — two very different sets of questions arise.   

First, do you have a “bucket list” — a list of things you’d like to do before you “kick the bucket?”  If so, what keeps you from living out those dreams?  What would life look like if you started consciously living them out, spending more time with family, learning a new language or art form, traveling? 

What have you done (or what could you do) to express your love and devotion to God for all we have been given?  Many of us work very hard, and do a great job at fulfilling our obligations, at doing the work of the church.  But, do we REALLY love Jesus?  Do we relish time in prayer, or feel compelled to give beyond reason to those in need?

We can never know the true motivation to Mary’s extravagance, but it has been handed down to us to inspire and move us to lives of extravagance.  The most obvious invitation is to love and worship our Creator/Redeemer/Sustainer with all that we have and all that we are. 

I believe that the invitation here is broader than our worship and spiritual devotion.  I beleive that the invitation offered here is to approach both life and death with a deep appreciation of the fragility of life and nearness of death — to do on a daily basis those things we would do if we (or one we love) were told we have only a short time to live.

The invitation here is to live lives of abundance and joy — to express our care and concern for those we love; to worship with love and abandon; to follow the Spirit’s promptings, even when they may seem a bit crazy.

Tim McGraw song “Live Like You Were Dyin’” asks the question “How’s it hit you when you get that kind of news? [that one is dying]  Man whatcha do?” and then answers with the following:

“I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
“I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
“And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
“And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.”
An’ he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
“To live like you were dyin’.”

Like tomorrow was a gift,
And you got eternity,
To think about what you’d do with it.
An’ what did you do with it?
An’ what can I do with it?
An’ what would I do with it?

Tomorrow is a gift.  What will you do with it?

Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Today at St. Matthew’s we will celebrate the oft-neglected sacramental rite of reconciliation as we delve into the tale of the Prodigal Son — a radical tale of extravagant forgiveness and reconciliation which stood against a number of social norms of the ancient world.

In worship we will have an opportunity to drop lists of our sins and transgressions into a firepot, and see them obliterated before our God of extravagant grace, as we are invited to enter the tale of the prodigal son.

Where do we see ourselves in this story?  Some of us will find comfort as the wandering son.  Oh, we may not have committed such flagrant and foolish transgressions, but we have all wandered at some level and longed for the green, green grass and welcoming arms of home.  This good-for-nothing son reminds us, in the words of that great hymn, that “there is welcome for the sinner, and more graces for the good, there is mercy in the Savior; there is healing in his blood.” And, yes, we are singing these great words of assurance today.

But this story offers challenges as well.   How do we identify with the father in this story?  Are we as willing to grant forgiveness, as we are to receive?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  How would we respond if a beloved child told us to drop dead and sell off a portion of our assets (those that had been in the family for how many generations?) in order to go wander the world and “find herself”?  If we were foolish enough to indulge those whims, how willing would we be to shame our families and embarrass ourselves to run out to welcome that child home?  How far above and beyond social convention would we go to embrace and restore the wandering child?  Do we even want to live that way?

And, what about the older son?  Can we identify with him?  We usually don’t want to.  But, look at him.  He’s the good son — the one who has followed  social convention; the one who has been there for his father through thick and thin; the one who has done the “right thing.”  And now, his trouble-making brother, the one who essentially told his dad to go to hell, who hurt their family in untold ways has come back, and the father has embarrassed himself and the family yet again, to welcome him home in a public display of the family dysfunction.  Who wouldn’t struggle with that?

In truth, most of our families suffer from at least a bit of dysfunction.  Resentment pile up from years of hurts and struggles.  Families are messy and sometimes downright difficult, and this scandalous Gospel story invites us to both offer and receive unexpected and (most generally undeserved) forgiveness, even when it is difficult.  This story invites us to extend forgiveness beyond reason and far beyond social convention — to forgive extravagantly.

Genesis 15:1-12,17-18; Psalm 27; Philipians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

In his book The Last Lecture, Ron Pausch shared all sorts of viewpoints and wisdom garnered from a lifetime spent chasing a fulfilling his dreams, culminating in a terminal diagnosis at a very early age.

As a husband and father of three young children, much of his focus was on leaving a legacy for his children.  For Pausch, that included the practical and concrete (moving his family to another state before his death to insure a solid support base with his wife’s extended family); to the spiritual and emotional (giving a vibrant ”Last Lecture” and writing a book in hopes that he could pass along bits of his philosophy and zest for life to children too young to understand at the time).

Pausch worked very hard in the last months of his life to savor each moment of the present, while preparing for and facing up to the future. 

We find a deeply rooted spiritual wisdom in that approach.  In his lifetime, Abram walked boldly and faithfully with God, leaving his homeland to venture abroad at God’s leading.  In today’s reading, Abram, Sarah and Lot have just been expelled from Egypt, following their escapades there, and Abram encounters God.

In this meeting, Abram bemoans his lack of children, and God makes a covenant with Abram, promising an heir and future generations of descendants.  God makes a promise in love and faithfulness to a faithful servant, assuring Abram (and us) that YHWH is indeed the God of the future, and that the faithful can be assured of God’s involvement in our future.

Jesus’ lament for Jerusalem hearkens back to God’s loving-care for God’s people from the time of the patriarchs.  God has chosen and loved Israel from before the time of Israel!   The image chosen by Jesus to reflect his hopes and angst for Jerusalem take me back to my childhood on the farm.

Our small flock of Bantam chickens had become my responsibility by the summer Dad accidentally ran over a wild turkey nest while cutting hay.  Since I had hens sitting on their eggs, Dad brought those large turkey eggs in from the field and we gently poked them under one of my hen.  In due time, her tiny chicks, and a handful of large, gangly turkeys hatched.  The image of God’s longing to draw Jerusalem (and us) near, reminds me of that little, red hen.  She would hunker down, fluff out her feathers and call to her brood — unlikely a combination as it was — and gather those little chicks and turkeys nearly her size to protect them.

In this same way God longs to draw us near — even when we seem at first glance to be an unlikely lot.  This is the kind of love we, too, are invited to extend to our families and friends.

If there is wisdom and insight about life to be gained from those approaching death, some of it certainly deals with our closest relationships.  As we learn through Abraham, the God of the past is, indeed, the God of the future.  And, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob has continued to love those created in God’s image through thick and thin, through the best and worst humanity has to offer.   Jesus, the Word incarnate, reiterated that love again and again as he willingly approached death.

With this hen and chick image, we are invited to see ourselves in both roles — as the wandering, helpless brood, continually invited to the loving Mother; and as that mother hen, reflected our own belovedness by reaching out in love to those around us.

Pondering the service for Ash Wednesday, in which we impose ashes with the words, “Remember that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return,” has me thinking about death, and about life — about what our live would look like if we lived daily the reality we attempt to deny, that we will all die.

Sounds morbid, I suppose, but at some level, that is the invitation of Lent.  Yes, of course, Lent is about introspection and reflection; contrition and confession; denial and discipline.  Yet, these are not ends in themselves.  These are tools to help us prepare for Easter — for abundant life in the resurrected Christ. 

All of this talk about death and dying is really about life.  The invitation to ponder our own mortality, opens the way to ponder deeper and more abundant life in Christ.

Over the coming weeks, I will be working with the lectionary texts and the Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You Were Dyin’” as a way to re-think the Lenten journey.

From this framework, Ash Wednesday represents receiving the terminal diagnosis.  Our psalm reminds us that we are dust, and that like the flowers amd grass of the field, we too will fade.  The news is sobering at best, calling us to reflection and repentance – into a time of sorting out the good, the bad and the ugly in our lives.

Over the coming weeks, we will be invited to consider our options and the temptations facing us; to gather our loved ones to us and mend those relationships; to encounter the holy; to give and receive forgiveness; and, to live and give extravagantly.

May you have a blessed Lenten journey, and find the blessing in living with the reality that we are dust.

Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12-18, 4:1-12; Luke 9:28-36

Have you been watching the Olympics?  It’s so inspiring to watch the stories of the harwork and hardships overcome by athletes from all over the world just to have a chance to compete in the Olympic games.

And then, for just a few, the years of work and injuries, sweat and tears pay off in that one shining moment atop the podium as their nation’s flag rises to the strains of their national anthem.  The response is profound.  The years of struggle pay off in that moment of glory.

Perhaps that moutain-top experience was a bit like that for Peter, James and John.  They left everything to follow an itinerant rabbi — wandering from town to town, preaching, teaching; healing the sick and casting out demons.  

One might imagine that they came back from their first solo missions exhausted, and so Jesus calls them away to a secluded place and the crowds find them anyway!  So, for their day off, they end up serving dinner to the thousands who gathered to hear those words of life.

In this exhausted state, Jesus invites them to climb the mountain with him — not exactly my idea of rest.  They go.  They follow, but arrive at the mountain-top “weighed down with sleep.”

As they fight sleep, they are astounded with the sight of Jesus, bright and dressed in dazzling white in the company of Moses and Elijah, and is named as God’s beloved child.

In a few verses, Luke will write that Jesus “set his face for Jerusalem,” and we as a church join with him, beginning the Lenten journey, with its inevitable end.  But, for this moment, we are given a gift — a transformative moment to hold in our hearts and minds as we journey toward Jerusalem.  Like Peter, we would like to stay on the mountain-top, but life always moves on.  The journey continues.

For now, we have a gift, a moment of clarity to which we can return in times of uncertainty or loss of hope.  We can’t live there, but we can remember and draw strength from the revelation as we move forward into uncertain days.

Isaiah 6:1-8,(9-13), Psalm 138, 1 Corinthians 15:1-11, Luke 5:1-11

Have you ever had a mystical experience?  Or, if it didn’t seem particularly mystical, have you ever known the presence of God in  real way?

Today’s readings each deal with a profound experience of God’s presence, and each of these stories goes on to tell of the corresponding action of the individuals following these holy encounters.

In the Isaiah text, the prophet has a truly mystical experience in the great temple, complete with visions and voices calling him to action. 

In I Corinthians, Paul refers in passing to his mystical experience on the road to Damascus, and his call to apostolic action.

On first glance, however, Luke’s story seems different.  The first two stories refer to mystical experiences with visions and voices, and these are paired with a story of Jesus climbing into a fishing boat, and eventually inviting Peter, James and John to follow him.  There’s nothing mystical here.  These are exhausted working men stinking of fish.

But, what would possess one to abandon one’s livelihood to follow a wandering rabbi?  I have to believe that somewhere in this “miraculous” catch or fish, or in Jesus’ teaching from the boat, that these three, “happy, simple fisherfolk” encountered the holy in such a profound way that they knew their lives would never be the same. 

And, so, these readings invite us to ponder two different, but related questions.  How and where have we encountered the holy in our lives?  And, how have we responded to that experience?

In the first and last readings, Isaiah and Peter respond in a typical way to God’s call — “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy!”  That’s true.  They weren’t worthy.  Neither are we, and yet, God call anyway. 

In the end, each of these individuals responds to the call of God, and responds, by telling his story, by going out and doing/being what God has asked.

We, too, are invited in today’s Gospel to follow Jesus, and to “fish for people.”  But, what does that mean?  My childhood memories of fishing involve sharp hooks piercing fish and dragging them in flopping wildly about, protesting (naturally) their impending fate.  This metaphor does not move me to evangelism, to telling the story of God’s movement in my life.

But, look at the story closely.  That wasn’t the method use by Peter, James and John.  They cast their nets widely, over and over again.  The discussion leader at RevGalPals shared the following quote from Ann Svennungsen this week:

Svennungsen, as quoted by Kate Huey: “The calling is not to hook people and drag them in,” Svennungsen writes: “It is rather to cast the net of God’s love all around–open to all the world–and then wait with patience for the Spirit’s work and to see if any are caught by God’s vision and grace.”

This is our invitation — to cast the net of God’s love over and over and over again, even when we are met with repeated failure through a long, dark night as were the fisherfolk in this story.  We are called to continually cast that net, relying on the Holy Spirit to draw those around us into God’s vision and grace.  Amen.

RCL Proper 17:  Song  of Songs 2:8-13, Psalm 45:1-2,6-9, James 1:17-27, Mark 7:1-8,14-15,21-23

Does your grocery store have one of those nifty antiseptic wipe dispensers right by the grocery carts?  More and more do.  In recent years, more and more schools have added huge jugs of hand sanitizer or large packages of hand cleansing wipes to their lists of required school supplies.  And, hand sanitizers proudly proclaim that they are “the official hand sanitizer” of theme parks, with gallon jugs hanging near every restaurant and eating establishment within the park.

In the day of pandemic flu, and fear of H1N1, we are obsessed with cleanliness.  Churches discuss whether to forsake physical contact during the passing of the peace, or to place hand sanitizer in every pew to prevent the spread of disease, and schools send home pages of information on proper handwashing techniques.  

This focus on hygiene and preventing the spread of disease seems like common sense.  It seems like a pretty good idea.  However, it begs the deeper question which Jesus raises in today’s Gospel lesson.  With the amount of energy we expend on sanitizing our hands, what are we doing to clean up our hearts?

 It’s a harder job, one that local health departments do not address in notes sent home from school.  Cleaning up on the inside is the domain of preachers, teachers and therapists.  It’s that tricky business of identifying our inner demons, and doing battle with them.  It’s the business of identifying distractions from healthy, loving relationships and doing our best to remove them.  It’s the work of ridding our homes of music, movies and video games which have become casual about violence, hurtful speech, human sexuality and dysfunctional relationships, even when “everyone else is watching it, Mom!!!”

Cleaning up the act spiritually brings into focus the words from James, “If any think they are religious, and do not bridle their tongues but deceive their hearts, their religion is worthless. Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” 

For many of us, cleaning up our hearts involves cleaning up our language — speaking to our families in more loving and positive ways; speaking more out of love and less out of  anger. 

But, then we have to take it a step further.  It’s easy to say we love our neighbors and understand the social nature of the Gospel.  It’s harder to actually work to address the deep and real needs of the world around us both through immediate, hands-on efforts and through public policy crafted to care for the least among us.

But there is grace in these readings.  The One who created us, who calls to us like a love, inviting us to come away from it all, gives the grace, the strength and the motivation to accomplish all of this and more.

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.