Sermon: Foot-washing can heal the world (Feb 25, 2018)

Lent 2 (NL4)

February 25, 2018

John 13:1-17

INTRODUCTION:

            When we left off, Jesus had just brought Lazarus back to life, called him out of the grave, and commanded the community to “Unbind him and let him go.” The act had so upset the authorities that they began to plot Jesus’ arrest and his death. Since then, a couple important things have happened: Jesus has gone into hiding to stay safe from the Jewish authorities. He has had his feet anointed by Mary (Lazarus’ sister) in their home. He has given his last public discourse, and, he has arrived in Jerusalem for the Passover. His triumphal entry into Jerusalem is what we normally recall on Palm Sunday, and that’s what we will do this year well – so dog-ear that page, we’ll come back to it! But now, we skip ahead to the eve of the Day of Preparation for the Passover feast. The Passover, you may remember, is the Jewish festival that remembers the story of the Exodus of the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt, through the Red Sea, and into freedom. In the other Gospels, do you remember what major event happens at this meal? … The institution of the Lord’s Supper, in which Jesus gives the disciples bread and wine and calls it his own body and blood. In John’s Gospel, though, the meal is not the featured event. Instead, Jesus gives of himself in a very different way: he kneels down to wash the disciples’ feet. Let’s hear what happens. Please rise.

[READ]

Public Domain. Accessed at Wiki Commons.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            In 1964, in the midst of the struggle for civil rights, some black and white protesters in St. Augustine, FL staged a “wade in” at a “whites only” pool at a motel. It was a typical non-violent protest, like a sit-in at diners, not meant to do harm so much as make a statement. The owner of the motel was displeased, and he tried to drive them out by throwing acid into the pool water.

A few years later, a new children’s show began, hosted by the Presbyterian minister, Fred Rogers. Mister Roger’s Neighborhood first aired 50 years ago this past week. When Mr. Rogers was assembling the cast, he heard an African American man by the name of François Clemmons singing in church, and he invited him to join the cast as a singing police officer. Clemmons was hesitant at first – he had grown up in the ghetto and been poorly treated by the police, and didn’t think such a role would make much difference in the world anyway – but he agreed.

In an early episode, 1969, exactly five years after that motel swimming pool incident, Mr. Rogers began his show sitting in front of his house, with his feet soaking in a kiddie pool of water. He invites Office Clemmons to join him in soaking his feet. Officer Clemmons does, and the two men, black and white, soak their feet together. When Officer Clemmons gets up to leave, Mr. Rogers dries his feet for him. In an era in which black people and white people could not even drink from the same fountain, much less swim in the same pool, in which black people were routinely beaten and disparaged, Mr. Rogers publicly shared a pool with a black man, and then knelt down to serve him.

25 years later, for Officer Clemmons’ final appearance on the show, the two repeated the scene. This time, Officer Clemmons finished the scene by singing, “There are Many Ways to Say I Love You.” Later, in an interview with NPR’s StoryCorps, he commented, “I was not convinced that Officer Clemmons could have a positive influence in the neighborhood, or in the world neighborhood, but I think I was proven wrong.” (Listen to the StoryCorp episode of these stories here.)

Well, who knows the impact that scene in a children’s show in 1969 had on the larger fight for civil rights in America. No question, it was a bold move by Fred Rogers, to invite François to be a police officer on his show at all, much less to broadcast sharing a pool with a black man in that moment in history. One thing we do know, though, is that this scene, and the biblical scene it harkens, in which a first century rabbi named Jesus washes the feet of his disciples, has the power to heal the world.

In the scene we just heard from the Gospel of John, tensions are running high. The disciples and Jesus both know that Jesus is a wanted man, that the authorities are trying to kill him. They know something big is about to happen. To prepare them for this, Jesus doesn’t arm them, teach them self-defense, or show them how to form a human barricade around him. No, he shows them in the most shocking and unexpected way the depth of his love for them: he, the rabbi, kneels down to wash the feet of this ragtag bunch of sinners and misfits. This was unheard of in the first century – people generally washed their own feet, or maybe a servant girl would do it, but never did a rabbi wash the feet of his followers.

I said this simple act could heal the world – how could that happen? It’s not so much the act itself – clean feet alone are good, but that won’t heal much – but rather, what heals is the acting out of what is required to carry out such an act: namely, humility, and vulnerability.

First, humility: Humility in this case is a willingness to kneel at someone’s feet, even to become the lesser, to put someone else ahead of you. To metaphorically wash another’s feet is to take the time to dwell completely in the needs of another – not with the intention of responding, nor certainly to refute, but simply to allow them to be heard, and their needs to be met. It is taking the time and energy to notice what is someone’s deepest need, and then simply to be there with them in it, and in doing so, to genuinely connect with them. This sort of connection takes a lot of humility, but this humble connection that Jesus demonstrates is what has the power to heal our divisions and our pain, wherever in our life they occur.

The flip side of humility is vulnerability – and vulnerability is indeed a powerful tool for healing. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it, because we normally associate vulnerability with weakness. Like if you don’t have proper armor in battle, then you are vulnerable to injury. But when I say vulnerability, I mean a willingness to truly be seen. Just as the foot-washer exercises the humility to dwell in your deepest needs, the washed allows those needs to be seen and expressed. Vulnerability is letting another see not just the shiny exterior you work so hard to make look presentable and acceptable to the world, but also the dark, embarrassing parts – your dirty feet, as well as your broken heart. It might look like admitting some of those less nice emotions we all have – like saying aloud to someone else that you are scared, or sad, and what it is that makes you feel that way. It might mean being willing to admit you are wrong about something, or that something you did or didn’t do allowed for someone to be hurt. It might mean being brave enough to say something important into a group where you know others disagree. It might mean admitting you don’t have the answers.

Each of these runs so much against our instincts when we are feeling hurt – our instinct is to protect our hearts, not to bare them! When you break a bone, it heals by putting a cast on it, not by leaving it loose and exposed to further danger! Why should our broken hearts be any different? And so we seek protection by becoming harder, by hiding, or by lashing out. It is not generally our first instinct to respond to pain by opening our hearts to the possibility of more pain. Peter shows us this when he insists Jesus not wash his feet. I usually read this like, “Jesus, you have no business washing my feet!” but I wonder if there is also a bit of, “I don’t want you seeing that embarrassing part of me.” But, as Jesus points out, this sort of exposure and vulnerability is required to have a close and meaningful share in a relationship with Christ.

And why wouldn’t we want Christ to see these parts of us? Yes I know, Jesus knows us through and through whether or not we share it with him – but I believe healing can only come when we actively share them with Jesus, when we take off our shoes and socks and show our smelly feet to Jesus and say, “Here, Lord. Here is where I need to be well. Help me.” Maybe that happens in prayer, maybe in a conversation with a pastor or a trusted, faithful friend. Whatever the case, however it looks, when we can be vulnerable with Christ, healing can begin.

I keep thinking about that scene from Mister Rogers. MLK had just been shot, racially charged tensions were high, black people were being beaten and lynched… and a neighborly young man invites the black policeman in his neighborhood to join him a moment, relax, and soak his feet. Clemmons said later, “The icon Fred Rogers was not only showing my brown skin in the tub with his white skin as two friends, but as I was getting out of that tub, he was helping me dry my feet. And so that scene touched me in a way I was not prepared for.” Mr. Rogers took a risk with this scene, and so did François. Though on the show they are just two friends, having a nice chat, we know that to play out that scene in that particular era required immense humility and vulnerability. And maybe it did do something to heal, as François called it, the worldly neighborhood in which they were living. But at the very least, it brought healing to a young African American singer and actor – because someone had been humble enough to make a real effort to truly see him, to know him, to dwell in his needs, and because he was vulnerable enough to let that happen.

At the end of our reading from John today, Jesus says he is setting an example. That example is both to venture out to wash one others’ feet – that is, to be willing to notice and listen to people’s deepest needs and to dwell with them there – and also to be vulnerable in our interactions with others and with Christ. If we are able to do this, I believe that the simple act of foot-washing can indeed heal the world.

Let us pray… Rabbi, Teacher, you showed us what true love looks like: to be humble and vulnerable with one another. Give us the courage to follow your example, and in doing that, make us agents of healing in this broken world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Lament leads to hope (John 11:1-44)

Lent 1 (NL4)

February 18, 2018

John 11:1-44

INTRODUCTION

The raising of Lazarus is one of the most famous stories about Jesus. It is, of course a story about God’s glory and power. In fact, God’s power is so apparent in this story, that it is what finally moves the Jewish authorities to arrest Jesus – they feel that Jesus is a threat to their power. Immediately following this miraculous sign, they begin to plot Jesus’ death. It is an amazing moment, when Lazarus comes out of the tomb!

But today, as we begin our Lenten focus on healing and wholeness, we would be wise to consider what comes before that moment of glory. Just like the story of the man born blind that we heard last week, the actual event of the raising of Lazarus only takes a couple verses, at the very end. Most of the 44 verses we are about to hear are dedicated to the events and feelings of the surrounding circumstances: in particular, two devastated sisters and their friends, grieving, weeping, and even assigning blame in order to make sense of this tragedy. As you hear the story, take note of those feelings. Consider whether you have ever felt such feelings in the face of tragedy. And, consider what God can do with those feelings. Let’s hear the story.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            When we decided last fall that this year for Lent we would focus on healing, we knew it was a timely choice. We all have various sorts of brokenness in our own lives, whether that is an active illness or injury from which we seek healing, or painful relationships, or past hurts that we are still trying to work through. And we all have heavy hearts about the state of the world right now, whether your concern is with world hunger, or the environment, or the largest refugee crisis since World War 2, or tension with North Korea, or the decline in civil discourse and rampant fear and blame going on in our own country. All of that… and then, as if to hit home the immense need for healing in our communities, this past week, on Ash Wednesday, we learned of yet another school shooting, the 44^th mass shooting this year alone. The picture that accompanied the Washington Post article showed a woman weeping in the arms of another woman who had an ashen cross on her forehead. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” – those words she heard that day as she received that cross should not have become so real to her so soon and so tragically.

Our hearts are broken. This world is broken. The world is in desperate need of healing.

            Enter, the story of the raising of Lazarus. Here is a story in which grief is palpable. As I mentioned, the actual raising of Lazarus doesn’t even happen until the last two verses. Everything before that is the immense grief that accompanies pain, loss, death – the grief that accompanies brokenness. It is Martha, begging Jesus to ask God to fix it. It is Mary, weeping at Jesus’ feet, even, accusing him of not coming sooner. (Don’t we always want to do that in the face of tragedy? Assign blame to someone or something, in an effort to make some sense of it?) It is even Jesus himself weeping openly over the loss of his friend.

            It is so important not to gloss over this grief. Maybe we’d like this story just to be about the raising of Lazarus, but it isn’t. We’d like for it to go like this: “Jesus learned that Lazarus, whom he loved, was sick. So he immediately traveled to his friend, but he was too late. Only a little too late, though – no sooner had Lazarus died, then Jesus raised him again! New life! And everyone was happy. The end.” That’s how we want our own stories of loss to go, too. Immediate return to normal. No time to dwell in sadness. No time to fight about it. Just move on, and pretend nothing happened.

We as a society do not like to leave space for lament. And yet, the raising of Lazarus shows us that healing and new life must begin with lament: lament over the loss of something we loved, lament over the pain we and our loved ones feel, lament over things no longer as we wish they were. Only after we have done this, can we truly hear those words, “Unbind him and let him go!” as good news, and enter into the new life God has in store for us.

This focus on lament is one of the gifts of Lent. I often hear grumbling about Lent, with its sad hymns and focus on sin. As for me, I love that about Lent. Life so often demands that we put on a happy face and pretend everything is fine, even when it really isn’t. But here, we have the chance to admit to God, “No, everything isn’t fine. I am broken inside. I need some Jesus. I need the mercy and compassion of a loving God. I need healing, and freedom from my dis-ease.” Lent is a time when we can stand at the foot of the cross, and ask God to call us out of the dark tombs we find ourselves in, and to remove from us all that binds us, all that keeps us from living as full and abundant a life as God wants for us. It’s a time when we can listen for God to demand the bindings that keep us from freedom be unbound. Lent is not a time to wallow and stay still and throw up our arms and say, “There’s nothing that can be done. It is what it is.” No, the lamenting we do during Lent necessarily calls us out of the tomb, out of despair, and into hope and new life.

This morning, I’d like to start with you that process of recognizing what we need to lament, what we need freedom from, in hopes that once we can recognize it, we can be called out from under it. If you need help thinking about that, in your bulletin you have a green sheet that outlines different sorts of health and wholeness that we as followers of Christ strive for, including some suggestions for how you might address those types of healings if you find you are not where you’d like to be in any particular area. I hope that you will take the time to pray over that, and really consider how, concretely, you might seek healing during this Lenten season.

But for now, we’re going to enter into this through prayer and liturgical action. When you came in, you should have received a strip of cloth. I imagine these cloths as reminiscent of Lazarus’ bindings, what kept him dead and in the tomb – the very thing about which Jesus said, “Get rid of that and let him go!” Today, let these strips be symbolic of whatever it is that binds you, whatever keeps you in the tomb, living in dis-ease, whatever keeps you from living a whole and healthy life with God. In a moment, I’ll lead us through a prayer, and as you pray, bind yourself in your strip – wrap it around your arm, or your hand, and feel it constrict you.

And then, we will enter into a time of healing prayer. During that time, you are invited to come forward to the cross, and pin your cloth – and with it, whatever binds you and keeps you in dis-ease – pin it to the cross. Leave it here for Jesus. Pray that he would take it from it.

The healing time will be several minutes. If you’re not pinning what binds you to the cross, then enter into some other types of healing prayer. You can meditate on scripture [or images] or pray on your own, or you can talk with someone else. Or, I will be available for healing prayer and anointing, which is an ancient healing practice of the church. I can pray with you for personal healing, however vague or specific, and I can anoint you or not – your choice.

However you use this time, let it be an entry point into a season in which lament and grief are okay. Let it be a time to talk to God about where and how your life could be more abundant, and ask God to guide you in that direction. We’ll play some music during this time – when you hear our hymn of the day being played on the piano, that will signal the time to come back together.

And now, I invite you to take your strip of cloth, and let us pray… Lord God, we are bound. We are bound by our sins, things done and left undone. We are bound by our fears. We are bound by our insecurities. Unbind us, we pray. Help us to see what sort of healing you desire for us, and then help us to pursue it. Unbind us, so that we could walk out of our tombs, and into the newness of life that you promise. Unbind us, so that we might have life, and have it abundantly. Through Christ our Lord we pray, Amen.

Ash Wednesday Sermon: At the doorstep

Ash Wednesday

February 14, 2018

John 10:1-18

INTRODUCTION

            Normally when we hear today’s passage, it is divorced from its context, that is, from the sign that appears just before this that precipitates Jesus discourse. But this time around, we are hearing it in relative sequence – the context was this past Sunday’s reading. Anyone remember the story we heard on Sunday? It was about the man who was born blind, whom Jesus healed and no one could make any sense of it. The formerly blind man’s friends don’t even recognize him now that he can see. The Pharisees are put out by Jesus having healed on the Sabbath, saying he is a sinner. The formerly blind man insists that Jesus can’t be a sinner if he can heal like that, and the Jewish authorities kick the man out of the synagogue. It’s a story of being in, and being out, a story of what it means to be blind, or to see, and a story of how resistant we can be to someone offering something different from what we have always known to be true.

So now, what we’re about to hear is the discourse that follows that sign and the people’s reaction to it. Jesus will offer us some familiar images, calling himself the Door (which is translated here as Gate, to fit better with the pastoral imagery) and then the Good Shepherd, but let us remember as we hear them the context to which he offers them: a man has received his sight, but been thrown out of his community, the bystanders aren’t sure what to make of someone completely shifting their worldview, and the Pharisees have just been told that although they think they can see, they in fact still live in sin (which for John mean, they lack an abiding relationship with Jesus). Now, let’s hear what Jesus has to say about that. Please rise for the Gospel acclamation.

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            Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            A friend of mine from high school spent a year studying aboard in Brazil. My mom had been sort of a mentor to him, and so to thank her for helping him see some of his potential, he brought her a gift from Brazil. It was a photograph he had taken of a door. It wasn’t especially beautiful or ornate, but it was stunning in its color, its ruggedness, and in the fact that it did not seal very well so you could see the light shining around it. As I’m imagining it, I remember it maybe even being slightly ajar. When I picture the image of that door in my mind’s eye, the word that comes to mind is: possibility.

            Perhaps that image is responsible for my intrigue with doors. Beautiful or plain, large or small, rugged or ornate, they all carry that same potential – when you walk through them, you walk into something different. For better or worse, what you find on the other side of the door is different from where you currently are. Inside to outside, narthex to sanctuary, hallway to classroom, cold to warm, dark to light… I often stand outside my kids’ bedroom door (they share a room), and listen to them talking together in their toddler gibberish, realizing that on the other side of that closed door they are in their own world, where they play games and have conversations to which only they are privy… and then I walk through the door and they greet me with their beautiful grins and welcome me into their world.

Walking through a door always brings with it that potential of walking into something new and amazing.

            In today’s Gospel reading, we might be focused on the known and loved good shepherd image. But before Jesus calls himself the good shepherd, he calls himself the door, or the gate. He calls himself that thing by which one enter into a new possibility, a new reality. “I am the door,” he says. “Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” And then he goes on to explain what it means to be saved: “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”

            It’s what we’ve been hearing from Jesus since he turned that water into wine even before his ministry began. When Jesus is involved, there is abundance. There is life. There is the possibility of walking through a door, and entering something new, abundant, and life-giving.

            There is a particular church in the South Bronx – in a neighborhood that is high crime, and high poverty, a “bad” neighborhood. The church is located below street level. They never finished construction on the church building; they just roofed over the basement, and all that appears on the street is: a door. To some, perhaps that is all that it is – just a door – but to others, it is a very special door. For when you enter that door, you leave the peril of the street life, and you enter into a different realm: a realm in which people have identities, where they are called by name, where there is compassion and mutual support. You leave the high-tension street environment, and go into a reality of love. That door is much more than a door. It is an entry-point into a different life.

Jesus said, “I am the door.” There it is.

            I find this door image to be an incredibly powerful one for us as we begin this Lenten season. A moment ago you came forward and heard those words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” as an ashen cross was traced over the oil cross you received at baptism. That’s pretty profound. I mean think about it, you willingly came up here and let me say to your face, “You are dirt,” and then smudge that reality across your forehead. Your willingness to do that tells me that in your soul you know something very important: that the only way you can ever have abundant and eternal life, is Jesus. That the only hope you have is to step through The Door that is our Lord. That if you truly want to live life abundantly, you must walk through that Door, again and again.

            Today, on Ash Wednesday, we stand on the doorstep. We have gotten this far. This season of Lent is a time when we focus on what it will take to step on through the doorway. The mood and practices of the Lenten season make space to do that: It is a time when we lament and grieve where we have fallen short of our calling as disciples of Christ. It is a time when we repent of these shortcomings, and return to God who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. It is a time when we keep our focus on the cross. All of these things help us know how to take that step through the Door.

            As I mentioned before, this whole exchange about Jesus being the door happens by way of explanation of his healing the man blind from birth. How perfect that we are beginning our Lenten journey this year with a healing story, since our focus this year is on healing and wholeness. When we hear Jesus say, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly,” we must think about that formerly blind man. For him, the healing he craved that would offer him abundant life was to be able to see. It compels us to think for ourselves: what sort of healing do I crave? What sort of healing would help me to live into the abundant life that Jesus came to give? Or said another way, what brokenness is keeping me from walking through that door? What brokenness keeps me from having as full and abiding relationship with God as I could? In the coming days and weeks, I hope you will join me in reflecting on these questions for yourself, and seeking during these 40 days how you might find healing in whatever brokenness you experience, whether it is of body, mind or spirit. Could it be healing in an important relationship? Could it be deepening your prayer life? Could the healing you seek be in the form of more gratitude or generosity in your life? Or in seeking forgiveness for yourself or someone who has hurt you?

            Christ came that we would have life and have it abundantly. Let us walk through the Door this Lenten season, following in the way of our Good Shepherd, so that we might also walk into the newness of the whole, healthy, and abundant life that God promises us in love.

            Let us pray… Christ, our Door, we stand at your doorstep, eager to step into the abundant life you offer. Be with us in this Lenten season, showing us the way toward health and wholeness. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Wiping mud from our eyes (Feb. 11, 2018)

Transfiguration (NL4)

February 11, 2018

John 9:1-41

INTRODUCTION:

            Today is the day in the church year when we celebrate the Transfiguration. Normally, we hear a story that can be found in Matthew, Mark and Luke, in which Jesus goes with three of his disciples up a mountain, and he is transfigured before them, becoming bright white, and Moses and Elijah appear with him. The disciples are terrified by this glory of God being revealed, and Peter says, “It is good for us to be here!” and says he wants to build a dwelling for everyone, so they can stay forever. But then everything returns to normal, and they all troops back down the mountain and, we come to find out, start heading toward the cross. It is the hinge that brings us from Epiphany, the season of light, into Lent, the season in which we prepare for Christ’s passion and resurrection.

            Well today is Transfiguration, but we’re reading through the Gospel of John, and that story doesn’t appear in John. Why not? Perhaps it is because John’s entire Gospel is about God’s glory and light being revealed through Jesus’ signs. That blinding light already appeared, in the manger at Christmas, and has appeared several times since, including, we will see today, when Jesus heals a man who has been blind since birth. So far, the presence of that light on earth has not caused too much trouble – today, all of that changes, as we see the impact that change and healing really can have on us. This reading is 41 verses long, really longer if you count the discourse that follows (which we will hear on Ash Wednesday), but the healing itself only takes seven verses. The remaining verses are dedicated to the aftermath, to people trying to place blame, assign logic, and understand what exactly happened and what it means. Of course, Jesus told them outright: it means that he is the “light of the world,” sent to scatter darkness and bring healing and wholeness in ways that transcend logic, and might even transcend what we are comfortable with. Let’s see what happens… [READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            There was a woman who lived in Charlottesville, VA for many years named “Anna.” She told people that she was in fact Anastasia Romanov, the daughter of the last Czar of Russian. Many people believed this – it was such a compelling story! After she died, researchers acquired remains of her DNA from a Charlottesville hospital. They compared her DNA with that of members of the Romanov family in North America and in Europe. And guess what? She was an imposter, not Anastasia, and not a member of the Romanov family. She was a Polish factory worker with a history of mental illness. One of her neighbors, however, didn’t want to give up the story. He believed that she was who she said she was, and so when he was told of the DNA results, he immediately responded, “I don’t believe it,” and proceeded to list reasons why the DNA test must be inaccurate.

            It’s called cognitive dissonance: when reality does not confirm expectations, and so people continue believing what they believed previously, even against evidence to the contrary. This is not an unfamiliar concept to us. We see it in politics, in our families, in our neighbors, and if we’re honest, we see it in ourselves. No one likes to admit that something that they ardently believe could be wrong! We don’t like to have our worldview challenged, much less debunked. So we choose to interpret the evidence in such a way that it fits with what we believe in our heart to be true.

            That cognitive dissonance is what makes up the bulk of today’s Gospel reading. The disciples start us off by indicating their worldview: if this man was born blind, he or his parents must have done something to deserve it. They must have sinned, because that’s the only way such a tragedy makes any sense. And so when Jesus not only says, “Nope, that’s not true,” but also heals the man (and on the Sabbath, no less!), their reality is shattered. They scramble to explain: maybe this isn’t the man? Maybe he wasn’t really blind? Maybe Jesus is a sinner. Surely, there is a way to fit this into how we know the world works! They couldn’t accept the possibility that, not only was this man transformed from blind to seeing, but their very understanding of how life works was also transformed.

            What an interesting commentary on human nature this is. The new worldview that Jesus offers is a life-giving one: one in which light wins over darkness, in which sin does not get the final word, in which healing is possible. It is one not bogged down by keeping the letter of the law, but rather, lifted up by the promise of eternal relationship with God. These are good things! But with the exception of the man who was formerly blind, everyone, even his own parents, refuse the transformation.

            And this may very well be the case with us, too. We do not like things to be different from what we already know so well, even if what we know is not really all that good. And so we might look at ourselves in the mirror and see ourselves not for our potential, but for everything that has ever been wrong with us. We are held back by our failures, our setbacks, our disappointments. Or, we look at others this way, only seeing them for who they were, how they failed, mistakes they’ve made or people like them have made, rather than for what they could contribute to the world or even to our lives. Isn’t it interesting that when the man suddenly can see, his own friends don’t even recognize him! They knew him only as the man who was born blind. How could he possible be anything else?

            How does that feel, to be placed in a box like that? How does it feel to be labeled, and for people to assume that this is all there is to you? How does it feel to do that to yourself? I’ll tell you how it doesn’t feel: it doesn’t feel like life. It doesn’t feel like hope. It doesn’t feel like wholeness.

            This week begins the season of Lent. Our theme for Lent this year is Healing and Wholeness. I spent this week writing several reflections on this topic for our Lenten devotional. One was on the story toward the beginning of John, where Jesus comes upon a man sitting by a pool, who has been ill for 38 years. Jesus asks him what he is doing; he says he is hoping to be healed. Jesus asks him, “Do you want to be made well?” I was so captivated by this question! It’s so obvious: yes, of course I want to be made well! Why do you think I’m sitting here? Why would I want to continue in this way of dis-ease? And yet, how often do we look at our lives, see the areas in need of healing – in our bodies, yes, but also in our hearts, our minds, our work satisfaction, our relationships, our finances, our perspectives on life – we see where we need healing, and yet do nothing about it? Do you want to be made well? Well yes, but only if I don’t have to change. Only if I don’t have to face the fear of something different from what I’ve known for so long. Only if it doesn’t mess with the worldview to which I’ve grown accustomed. Only then do I really want to be made well.

            Sound familiar? It is to me! Quick example: After holidays and the cold weather preventing me from getting out and moving as much as I’d like, I decided I could stand to lose about 5 pounds. Easy, right? And so every day, I get up, do exactly what I’ve been doing, eat the same food, and dutifully check the scale. And it’s the funniest thing – that number hasn’t changed yet! Go figure, right?

            But if there is one thing we have seen again and again as we’ve read through John’s Gospel, it is that when Jesus shows up… things have to change. Lack turns into abundance when water is turned to wine. Former ways of worshiping are literally turned on their sides when Jesus enters the Temple. Centuries-long divisions between Jews and Samaritans are broken down. The despised become the beloved. Eyes and hearts are opened, indeed, they are transformed. When one encounters Jesus, things change, and life becomes abundant.

            It sounds good… until we realize how very disruptive even a positive change can be. It is much less disruptive just to keep on keeping on in the same patterns we’ve always had, damaging, stifling, or unhealthy as they may be, rather than risk even the new life Jesus offers.  

            After worship today, we will hold our annual meeting. We will discuss several topics that have stemmed from a need for change. For instance, how we structure our ministry here, our council and committees. What we’ve done has worked for many years… but does it continue to bring life to this congregation? What does “life” even look like in terms of a congregation’s ministry structure? To me, it looks like joyful service and listening to the Spirit’s movement, and stepping out in faith. Does our current structure do that? What could? Another topic is the role of the pastor in a shared ministry. Bethlehem has had many fruitful years with a pastor serving solely at Bethlehem. The Spirit led Bethlehem into a covenant relationship with another congregation, which brought new life – but also necessarily changed the role of the pastor. So we will be talking today about how that looks. Part of it looks like the possible need for an earlier worship time, which we have been trying out for several months already. This, too, is a change that maybe some have been resistant to. But is it a change that could bring new life?

            Not all change is good. Sometimes God’s voice is heard in our resistance to it. But whatever it is we face that is challenging our old worldview, or the way we see ourselves or other people, Jesus calls us to examine: where can life be found most abundantly? Where can the light of the world most brightly shine?

            I hope that during our meeting today, and in this upcoming Lenten season, that you will take some time to reflect on these questions, for us as a congregation, and also for yourself. Next week I’ll be inviting you to make some healing goals for yourself to focus on and pray about during Lent. Where is Jesus smearing mud on your eyes and telling you to wash, so that you may see? What aspect of your life needs healing? What worldview are you clinging to, that may be keeping you from being able to enter new, abundant life?

            Let us pray… Life-giving God, open our eyes to see where you might be working to transform our worldview. Give us the courage to step into a new life, into a deeper relationship with you. Help us to say, with the man born blind, “Lord, I believe.” In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.