Sermon: Peace in our wounds (April 23, 2017)

Easter 2A

April 23, 2017

John 20:19-31

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

            On Good Friday, we heard the story of Jesus’ death: his pain, his wounds, his disciples’ betrayal, denial, and desertion. We heard about the brokenness of the story of Jesus. Then on Easter we heard the story of his resurrection! Jesus rises from the dead, and we gave thanks that God has defeated the power of death. Then always, on this second Sunday of Easter, we return to wounds: when Thomas misses Jesus’ appearance to the disciples, he insists that he wants to touch Jesus’ wounds, before he can really be sure that Jesus is, indeed, alive.

            From brokenness to new life and back to brokenness: It’s a resurrection sandwich on wound bread.

            Though this particular sandwich is not one available at the Wegmans deli, it is one that we often encounter in our lives. Always, the meat of life (or perhaps the grilled veggies, if you are not meat-inclined) is God’s promise of resurrection and new life, but it so often comes to us when pain and woundedness are close beside.

            That’s not meant to be dismal – after all, what’s the point of the resurrection promise if it is not spoken into a world of pain? Why would we need it if

Hand of Christ/Palm of Peace
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55740

everything was roses and rainbows all the time? Still, perhaps we’d rather hear a different gospel today – one that erases Christ’s wounds and, while we’re at it, the wounds of the world, rather than one in which Christ’s wounds remain as a stark reminder that ours remain as well. But, it is not so: wounds and scars and brokenness are all still very much a part of our reality.

            What I love about having this story today, and this particular reminder of Christ’s lasting wounds, is that it draws attention to the lastingness of our own wounds – that is, those things we can’t seem to shake or let go of, the things that hang onto our hearts, whether or not we are consciously aware of them. In a word: our baggage. Even in the face of new life, this story draws our attention here, giving us an opportunity to face those things that would hold us back from living into that new life.

            One of the ways baggage and past woundedness can hold us back from fully embracing new life is the way it can taint how we proceed through the world, viewing others with skepticism and lack of trust, assuming the worst of people, and perhaps most painful of all, taking things personally. Our wounds cause us to view the world with a furrowed brow, and always on the defensive. While it may seem like a safer approach to life – always on guard for someone to attack or let you down – this is also perhaps the best way to avoid living into the new life Christ promises.

            In her recent book, Brene Brown recalls an encounter with a woman who has no regard for rules, and indeed laughs at those who do. Brene is so infuriated by the encounter, she talks to her therapist about it, who suggests that really, people, even this woman, are doing the best they can. This infuriates Brene even more! How ridiculous, she thinks! She storms off to the bank, where she watches the woman in front of her in line yelling at the bank teller, a young African American man, saying, “I didn’t make these withdrawals! I want to see a manager!” When he points to his manager, another black man, the woman says, “No! I want a different manager!” Brene immediately chalks the woman’s behavior up to racism. So when it is her turn to talk to the teller, she asks him, point blank, “Do you think people are doing the best they can?” He smiles and asks if she saw what just happened. Brene says yes, and that it was obviously racism. The man shrugs and says, “She’s scared about her money.” He goes on to say he does think people do the best they can, but the best they can might not be very good at any

given moment. He says, “The thing is, you never know about people. That lady could have a kid on drugs stealing money from her account, or a husband with Alzheimer’s who’s taking money and not even remembering. You just never know. People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all they can do.”

            Hm. It makes me think about those disciples on that Easter night, when they were locked in the upper room for fear of the Jews. It makes me think of Thomas, who didn’t have the benefit of seeing Jesus and receiving his breath of peace, who is perhaps still very scared. It makes me think of all the disciples who, just a few days earlier, had deserted their friend because they were scared of what was happening to him, what might happen to them. “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all the can do.”

            We’ve all been there! And don’t those mistakes – those times when “all we can do” ended up hurting someone or getting ourselves hurt – don’t they just hang onto our hearts? Don’t they just get packed tightly away into our emotional baggage, threatening always to make an appearance when we least expect or desire it? “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared” – and oh, how that reality can come back to bite us again and again!

            And yet, even though we’ve been there, how quick we are to label the disciples as doubters, deniers, betrayers, deserters. How quick we are to label one another as liars, careless, thoughtless, incompetent, mean. Even though we know: people aren’t themselves when they’re scared, and they are probably just doing the best they can.

            Brene Brown continues to grapple with the question or whether or not people are doing the best they can, until she finally asks her husband. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, he says, “I don’t know if they do or not, I really don’t. All I know is that my life is better when I assume people are doing their best. It keeps me out of judgment and lets me focus on what is, and not what should or could be.”

            Ah, to me, this possibility – that simply assuming people are doing the best can actually make our lives better (shout out to the 8^th commandment!) – this feels like Jesus’ breath of peace. Did you notice, Jesus says, “Peace be with you,” not once, not twice, but three times in this text? Peace be with you – peace be with you in your fear, in your disappointment, in your anxiety, in your uncertainty. Peace be with you when you are just about to judge someone else for their failure or shortcoming. Peace be with you when your wounds or scars try to thwart or taint Christ’s invitation to you to join him in new, resurrected life, into a life where death and fear do not have the final word, but rather, God’s own love and grace do. Peace be with you.

            And to prove the point, Christ invites Thomas – and so also us – to touch his own wounds. It becomes a reminder that wounds can exist, whether still open and aching or long ago scarred over, at the same time as peace. Our wounds and our scars and our pain and brokenness do not have to have power over us, because even into those wounds, Christ breathes his peace.

            Maybe, especially into these wounds, Christ breathes his peace. “Peace be with you” is not a word of grace to those who are already whole. It is grace to those who still seek healing, who still experience brokenness, who still have pain. It is grace to those who long for new life. It is grace to all who carry with them the baggage of past mistakes – either our own or those others have made that have hurt us.

            It is grace and gift… and it is also a call – to bring that peace to the world and its brokenness. It is a call to seek forgiveness and healing in relationships, to search for and embrace that which will bring peace to all the places in our life and the world that need that peace of Christ which surpasses all understanding.  It is a call to bring into a wounded world in need of healing the promise of the resurrected Christ.

            Peace be with you, sisters and brothers in Christ.

Let us pray… God of peace, when we are scared and wounded and unable to be the people we’d like to be, you breathe your peace into our hearts. Be in our every breath, O God, as we go about the work of seeking healing and wholeness in this hurting world, so that all might know the joy of your resurrected life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Easter Sermon: Seeing the Lord in the your darkest place

Easter Sunday A

April 16, 2017

John 20

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            No one can show raw emotion quite like a toddler who wants her blankie.

            So I learned this week while I was walking with my 19-month-old daughter, Grace, to daycare. We walk the quarter mile together each day, and Grace gets to explore a little, check out all the sticks and the tree roots and the grass. Grace has also learned that enjoying the outdoors also means a tumble now and then… which is what happened on Wednesday. Usually when she falls, she cries a little, I wipe off her knees, give her a kiss, and we’re on our way. Not this time. This particular fall, Grace decided she could only be consoled by her blankie, which she calls “lady.” As I picked up my crying daughter, her cries turned to screams and pleading, as she reached toward our house, now half a block away, crying, “Lady!!” Tears mixed with snot streamed down her dear little face, and gut-wrenching sobs echoed through the neighborhood, as she plopped down on the sidewalk, unwilling to go one step further. No amount of soothing talk, or promises that there were blankets and baby dolls galore just around the corner at daycare, would calm her down. She wanted her “lady.” She whimpered as I carried her the rest of the way, mumbling “lady” the whole time.

            After I dropped her off, leaving her safely in the lap of one of the caretakers with a couple of her favorite daycare blankies, I couldn’t help but think of Mary Magdalene at the tomb on that Easter morning. I think over the years of hearing this story, we have tamed her response somewhat. When it says she “stood weeping outside the tomb,” I have imagined her quietly sobbing, a sniff here and there. (Don’t we adults usually try to tame and filter our emotion?) But after watching the raw emotion of my toddler, who desperately wanted comfort from something she could not have, I started to wonder if Mary’s weeping was more raw than I have previously imagined.

            For Mary, you see, the empty tomb was not good news. Already, three days before, she had witnessed her dear friend and teacher killed. She had stood by watching this horrible thing occur. Saturday had been a dark day for her – a day with no Jesus. Jesus – who had already saved her in many ways, who had brought her out of the pain of her former life, who had loved her when no one else thought anything but the worst of her. And now, he was gone. All that could possibly touch and perhaps ease the grief in her heart was to go to the tomb that morning while it was still dark – darkness that would echo the darkness of her grief – and spend some time with her lord, dead though he may be. But upon arriving, the worst possible has happened: as if losing him on Friday was not enough, now it seemed someone had stolen his body. It was loss upon loss, grief upon grief.

            No, Mary’s first response to that empty tomb was not rejoicing, nor was it fear or amazement. It was not belief. Mary’s response to the empty tomb on that dark morning was weeping – the sort of weeping that kept her from noticing that the grave clothes had turned into angels, and that the “gardener” was actually her dear friend. Raw, unfiltered emotion, gut-wrenching sobs, snot mixed with tears streaming down her dear face.

            To me, this image is helpful, even on this Easter morning when we are supposed to be happy and joyful. Because I suspect that not all of us are happy and joyful this morning. You could be struggling with any number of personal problems – poor health, conflict in your family, lack of direction or focus in life, grief over the loss of a friend, family member, or life situation. Or you could be distressed over the state of the world, with its relentless bombings, shootings, attacks, and heartbreak. The bad news brings fear and sadness to our hearts – sometimes, even on Easter, we find we resonate more with Mary’s tears and grief than with the Alelluias that ring out in abundance on this day.

Mary in the Garden with Jesus
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54843

            And yet, as Mary sits in that cold, dark, empty tomb, weeping her unfiltered grief… Jesus comes to her. He does not judge her for feeling genuine emotion. He does not say, “There, there, stop crying.” He does not say, “It’s okay.” He does not say, “Hey, there’s no need to cry – look, I’m alive!” No, he comes and sits with her in her grief, asking her, “Why are you crying?” He sees that she is distressed, and he joins her there, reaching out with compassion, with empathy, to his friend in need.

And, he calls her by name: “Mary.” And in that moment, weeping Mary realizes that she is truly known, truly seen, that this man whom she thought was the gardener but now is revealed to her as Jesus Christ himself loves her and cares for her deeply. “Mary.” He knows her. He has come into her darkest, saddest place, and seen her truest heart, and he calls her by name. “Mary.”

The resurrection is good news, to be sure. But to those who still find themselves in that dark place, before the dawn, in a cold, lonely, empty tomb, this moment of compassion may be even better. That God would not only care about us in that place, but come to be with us in it! That God would reach out to our wounded hearts, recognize our pain, and call us by name, showing that we are truly seen, and truly known – that, in itself, is a way toward resurrection and new life!

This is the place where John starts the story of the resurrection – for how can we see and believe the hope of the resurrection, if we have not first felt the hopelessness of death? How can you appreciate Easter without Good Friday? Why do we need the resurrection if we are already living in wholeness and light? The resurrection is good news to those who seek to be known, loved, and healed. The resurrection is the final chapter of the story that began, as we heard on Christmas, with, “A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”

No, I take that back. It is not the final chapter. Mary takes that Christ-light that shown into her darkness, into her grief and sadness, and she goes, with her eyes still red and swollen from her weeping, to tell the others, “I have seen the Lord!” It is the first Easter sermon, and the beginning of the next chapter of Christ’s life with us. “I have seen the Lord!” she says. When I was in my darkest place, the Lord came to me. I have seen him!

And in her simple sermon, she invites us to preach the same – to look around whatever dark, empty tomb we find ourselves in, to notice how the grave clothes have turned to angels, to see how the gardener, the tiller of new life, reaches out to us with a knowing, loving hand, to hear the sound of his voice calling our name… and, to bring that story to the world. “I have seen the Lord!” becomes our own Easter sermon. By Christ’s love, by Christ’s compassion, we turn to the world, shining his light into the darkness of tombs, of weeping, of loss, and bringing into them the hope of new life.

Let us pray… Resurrected Christ, when we find ourselves in the dark, empty tombs of our lives, you come to us there, recognize our pain, reach out with compassion, and call us by name. By the light you bring, grant us the courage to proclaim, “I have seen the Lord” to all who need the promise of your life spoken into their own darkness. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Maundy Thursday 2017 Sermon: The challenge of loving one another

Maundy Thursday 2017

April 13, 2017

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

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

            The texts we hear on this Maundy Thursday are the same ones each year. Whenever there is a day like this, on which we hear the same texts every year, the preacher’s challenge becomes: What angle can we take this year to preach the good news in a new way? But this year, my mind didn’t go to all the possible angles; rather, it was drawn again and again to Jesus’ new commandment: “love one another as I have loved you.”

Whenever we are drawn so relentlessly to a certain phrase of scripture like this, we can understand that as the Holy Spirit trying to speak that particular word to our particular place in life. In our case, I look around and see that division seems to be the new norm, and this past couple weeks in particular, every couple of days there is more devastating or disheartening news – a bombing here, a beating there, chemical weapons and military backlash, dozens killed unjustly, people living in fear for their lives as they know them. Into this context, these words, “love one another,” so simple, suddenly seem so much more important, even as they feel so much more elusive.

And yet it is for this world – this broken, hurting, divided, angry, reactive world – that Jesus died. It is this world that we carry with us into these Three Days during which we remember Christ’s horrible death. It is for this world that we hope, as we look forward to the resurrection. It is this world, this very one, that needs as much as it ever has to know that Jesus Christ loves us and died for us.

When I refer to “the world,” maybe you are imagining the global scene. Or perhaps right now your world is smaller, as you imagine the particular strife facing your family or dear friends right now. Or maybe the world that occupies your attention is your church, your workplace, your school, your town, or your country. Whatever division and brokenness you carry with you today, join me in bringing it to this question: what does it look like to “love one another” as Jesus loves us? What does it mean to “love one another” in the particular brokenness you are feeling tonight?

I do hope you will reflect on that question throughout these three days and

David Paynter, Jesus washing disciples' feet
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54318

into the Easter season, but tonight, I will offer you a few of my own reflections.

So, looking at the story of the foot-washing that we just heard, and bringing that story to this broken world, what does it look like to “love one another”?

First, it looks like humility. It is a willingness to kneel at someone’s feet, to become the lesser, to put someone else ahead of you. It is the teacher becoming the servant.

How might this translate into our particular pains and world-weariness? I find when I am in pain, and maybe this is your experience as well, I want to make sure my needs are known. It’s basic human instinct, right? When we hurt, we seek to have our needs, whether physical or emotional, met! But loving someone with humility might mean listening to someone else’s needs and story before sharing your own. It might mean making an effort even to “try on” someone else’s opinion or viewpoint for a while, to really consider it, before putting your own on the table.

Michael and I have been watching the new show, Designated Survivor. In the first episode, a massive explosion takes out the entire US government during the State of the Union Address, leaving the “designated survivor” – the one person kept off premises just in case such a thing should happen – as the president. The show, then, is about how the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, a

Kiefer Sutherland as President Kirkman

really good guy who had no interest in being president, rebuilds the government and tries to win the trust and respect of a country who would never have voted for him. In a recent episode, “President Kirkman” holds a town hall to address questions about his new agenda. In his preparations for that, it becomes clear he is not a natural in this format: his staff tells him he is too professorial, aloof and impersonal. They urge him, in an effort to build trust and rapport with the people, that “This is about them, not you. Connect with them.” So when a former factory worker stands up and expresses his concern about losing his job at age 55, the president first responds, “My dad and grandpa were factory workers…” But then he pauses, chuckles, and turns to the man, saying, “But this time isn’t about me. It’s about you.” And he goes on to acknowledge the real and deep fears this man is feeling. It is a moving moment where we can see this shift, where he actually connects with not only this man, but the America people who also live in fear. In that moment, he becomes their president, and healing can begin.

It was beautifully portrayed on the screen, but – oh, is this sort of connection ever difficult! When we have conversations, we want to relate! We want to connect to our own life. It takes a lot of energy to dwell completely in the needs of another, without adding your own two cents. This sort of connection takes a lot of humility, but this humble connection that Jesus demonstrates is what heals our divisions and our pain, wherever in our life they occur.

Even as “love one another” looks like the effort to humbly see another, it also looks like vulnerability – a willingness to be truly seen. It 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. Spoken about our particular world weariness, that might mean admitting to someone that you are wrong, or at least that someone else is right. It might mean doing the hard work of looking at a conflict and considering your own role in that conflict – whether your role was active or merely complicit (did you or could you do anything to stop the pain from occurring?). 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 grain when we are feeling hurt – once again, our instinct is to protect our hearts, not to bare them! We may seek that protection by hiding, or by lashing out, but 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.

Finally, “love one another” looks like selflessness – that is, a willingness to put aside your pain, and still care deeply about another, even the one who caused your pain. One of the most remarkable things about this text is actually in the missing verses, in which Judas betrays Jesus, and the ones directly following, in which Jesus foretells Peter’s denial. And yet, even though he knew both of these things would happen, Jesus still washes Judas’ and Peter’s feet. He still breaks bread with them. He still dies for them, and for all those who would in the future betray or deny someone they love, who loves them.

Maybe the magnitude of this is lost on us, because this is Jesus and all. But think of this: Jesus looks out at this group of disciples, knows that one is about to turn him over to have him killed, another is going to deny – three times! – that he even knows him, and the rest will desert him in his hour of need. If you knew someone was about to do those things to you, what would you do?  How would you treat them? Would you kneel down to serve them in the most intimate way imaginable? Would you sit down to a meal with them and tell them how much you love them? Would you throw yourself in harm’s way to save their life? I think most of us, in this situation, would have a hard time even looking that person in the eye. Initiating a conversation with them to find some understanding might even seem impossible – let alone any of these things Jesus does for Peter, Judas, and all the rest. Indeed, what Jesus does for us. Yet this is the sort of love Jesus calls us to: “love one another as I have loved you.”

Loving one another with humility, vulnerability, and selflessness – these are tall orders, each one. Loving and serving friends or even strangers is one thing, but on this night, Jesus calls us into loving relationship, even with those who have hurt, betrayed, denied and deserted us, those who have acted as we wish they hadn’t, those who make us angry.

This is the task and the call of the Church. And nowhere is this love more profoundly experienced than in the Lord’s Supper, in which we remember Jesus’ self-giving on our behalf. We see that bread that is his body, broken before our eyes, and remember that Christ knows and understands our own brokenness, and loves us still. We come forward, hands outstretched, to receive this humble, vulnerable, selfless love of Christ, indeed to receive concretely the grace and forgiveness of God. We come forward, carrying with us all of our brokenness, all of our pain, and that of our world, and receive that morsel with those words, “given for you.” For you, Jesus says, I have loved the world. For you, I have shown that love. For you, I have died, so that you might find in me life eternal.

And as we receive Jesus’ brokenness for our own wholeness, we remember how Jesus calls us, too, into this sort of love, even as we are empowered to follow that command: to love one another as Christ loved us. May we find in this sacrament both command and empowerment to live out this command in our families, our churches, and our world.

Let us pray… Lord Christ, on the night in which you were betrayed, you showed us the profound way you call us to love one another: with humility, vulnerability, and selflessness. As we receive the sacrament tonight, and as we walk with you through these Three Days and into eternal life, make us willing servants, equipped and empowered to follow your command in our world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Weeping for comfort, and a promise of assurance

"Do not hold onto me," Jesus tells Mary Magdalene.

This never meant so much to me as it does now that I have a toddler. Young children, as you likely know, gravitate toward comfort items. As you also likely know, toddlers have no filter for expressing emotions, little to no emotional intelligence to process them, and very little language to articulate them.

So when Grace is clinging to her blankie (her "lady," as she calls it), and it is time for us to leave and I try to take it from her... screaming ensues.

A small part of Grace's "Lady" collection.
There's also one in every proverbial port.

I wonder if that is how Mary Magdalene felt at the tomb? Her dear friend and teacher, Jesus, had been taken from her, and she was weeping. Weeping so hard that first the angels ask her why, and then Jesus himself: "Woman, why are you weeping?"

"They have taken my Lord, and I don't know where they have laid him," she answers, between sobs.

Here I picture Grace, with snot and tears streaming down her face in equal measure, crying, "Lady!!"

It's true that toddler tantrums can be hilarious, and even though you know you're not supposed to laugh, it can be hard not to. Today, though, her tantrum broke my heart. We were walking to daycare, and she tripped and fell. Usually no big deal, just a little kiss to where it hurts, brush off her knees, and we're on our way. Today, she would not be consoled. She pointed back toward our house. "Lady?" "No, Grace," I told her. "We're already halfway to daycare. There are blankets there for you."

No.

"Lady!!" she cried, desperately reaching back toward our house. How dearly she wanted to hold that beloved item. What a difference it would make for her aching heart and hands if she could cuddle with her comfort item. I tried picking her up - no. I tried taking her hand - no. Her various toddler contortions left her with her arm out of her coat, her shirt pulled up to her neck, and sitting, weeping on the sidewalk, even as Isaac decided he wanted in on the action and started to cry as well. I reminded her of all her friends at daycare, and all the baby dolls there who needed her to come care for them. She cried harder.

Only Lady would make it better.

Is this how Mary felt that dark Sabbath? Is this how she felt as she found her way in the dark to that tomb? Did tears and snot stream down her face as she saw the abandoned grave clothes, and she wondered where on earth her Lord was?

I don't mean to diminish the magnitude of the resurrection by comparing Jesus to my child's comfort item. Jesus is decidedly more than a comfort item. But upon this year's reading of the resurrection story, I am pulled in by the raw emotion of Mary, by her tears, her weeping. Having watched my own flesh and blood want desperately to cling to what she loves when she is in pain, seen her own raw, unfiltered emotion... it brought Mary's aching heart to life.

Maybe I'm a mean mom, but I did not go back to get Lady. I picked up my screaming child (even as she wiped her snotty face on Isaac's tuft of hair) and carried her to daycare. Miss Toni and I gave her various blankets to calm her down, until finally she found one she liked. When I left, she was, if not happily, at least quietly sitting in Miss Toni's lap, holding two "ladies" and one baby doll.

"Do not hold onto me," Jesus said. I hear it first as a denial of something desperately wanted. But perhaps that is not so much a denial as it is an assurance: we need not cling to the person of Jesus, because indeed Christ clings to us - holds us in his lap, as it were, comforting us, and promising that we are safe and secure, that indeed now, not even death is cause for fear or distress.

I know my child. I wouldn't doubt that within minutes of this traumatic event, she was back up and walking around the place like a boss, taking care of business, helping out, and telling everyone all about it. Or maybe she just serenely rocked and sang to her baby doll. Maybe the song she sang was a song of love, courage, and assurance.

Whatever she did, I am certain that she did it with the knowledge that she is held, and she is loved.

Lady, or not.