Sermon: New life isn't easy (April 27, 2025)

Easter 2C
April 27, 2025
John 20:19-31

INTRODUCTION:

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed, Alleluia!

Most people know that Christmas is not just one day, but 12 days, but did you know that Easter is not one day, but seven weeks? Yay, Christ is risen indeed!

During this 7-week Easter season, the lectionary gives us readings from Acts rather than an Old Testament reading. This is so that we can see and hear how the Early Church dealt with the news of the resurrection, how the news shaped their faith and their church, and so also how it shapes ours. 

For the second reading we will be hearing this season from Revelation – a book that has a reputation of being sort of bizarre and troubling in its depiction of the end of the world. But really, it is a deeply symbolic book that paints a picture of hope in the midst of despair, famine, conflict, and war. The Book of Revelation shows us how God is present, not absent, how Christ is the self-giving Lamb, and how people are called repeatedly into a circle of praise and worship. All hopeful images, and all appropriate themes for the Easter season!

And finally, during these six remaining Sundays of Easter, we will hear from John’s Gospel. This 2nd Sunday of Easter, we always hear the story of Jesus appearing to his fearful disciples in the locked upper room on the evening of Easter. Since we read Luke’s resurrection story last week, not John’s let me refresh you on John’s version, which happened right before this. In John’s version of the resurrection, Mary Magdalene goes alone to the tomb, and finds Jesus is missing. She runs to tell the disciples, and Peter and the so-called “other disciple” run to check it out, and then leave the scene, puzzled. Mary stays, crying in the garden, and is approached by Jesus, whom she thinks is the gardener, until he calls her by name. Then she recognizes him, and runs to tell the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!” And that’s where today’s reading picks up, in the evening of that same day. You can imagine some of the emotions in that room!  

As you listen, listen as one who is still excited, mystified, and perhaps a little scared about this earth-shattering news of the resurrection. For this news is still all of these things, 2000 years later! Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

I mentioned several weeks ago that I had purchased a new coffee table. Well now we have added to the living room a new couch and matching chair. Woo! This was stressful, as it was both expensive, and required a complete rearrangement of our living room – and as soon as we have forked over the $3000-some dollars for couch and chair, I started having doubts and regrets. What if it doesn’t work in the space after all? What if it’s uncomfortable for cuddling with my kids? What if we hate the way it changes the

New couch and chair, new arrangement
(old coffee table!) - more pieces still in the works!

flow of how we move around our living space? We’ll have to change our patterns and habits. Agh! Everything will change! 

I’ve always been this way. I am a visionary, a dreamer, a wannabe risk-taker… but as soon as it looks like something might actually become of my dreams, I come up with all the reasons it probably won’t really work. This is often human nature: we are resistant to change, even as we may long for it – because we don’t want to change our daily routine, we are afraid of the unknown, we prefer to understand how things will work, and we definitely do not want to regret anything.

I imagine the disciples felt some of these things at their Easter evening gathering in the upper room. It’s not that they didn’t believe Mary, about Jesus having risen from the dead (though that may have been part of it). But more, they didn’t know what this would mean for their lives going forward. They were without their beloved teacher, the one they had left everything to follow. He had upset the authorities so much that he had been killed. And now they likely feared that, because they were his disciples, their lives were also in danger. They didn’t know what to do. Furthermore, I’m sure they felt some regret, wishing they had been bold enough to do something to prevent Jesus’ death – I imagine their conversations between Friday and Sunday were full of “if onlys” and “what ifs.” Well now, according to Mary Magdalene, they have gotten what they wanted – Jesus was back, he was alive! – but instead of joy they are filled with fear, such fear, that they have locked themselves away in the upper room. Fear, worry, regret – all feelings we are all too familiar with.

When Jesus then appears to them in that place of fear and regret, everything changes! But even as they rejoiced that Jesus was, indeed, alive, I suspect there was still some fear there. After all, one week later, they are still in that locked upper room! But now, of course, the cause of their fear has changed. Before Jesus appeared to them, their primary fear was death: Jesus had been killed, and as his disciples, they feared that something similar might happen to them. But then Jesus comes to them, and tells them, “As the Father sent me, so I send you.” And now? Now their fear is not only of death, but of this new life that they are being sent into by the Resurrected Christ.

We talk a lot about new life during this Eastertide: all the ways that God takes the old, dead things in our lives and turns them into new opportunities, new beginnings, new perspectives. It seems like pretty good news, right? New things often are. New clothes, new house, new couch, new vocation – all have positive connotations. 

But not all new things are good. In fact, new things can often be frustrating or even scary, because they are unfamiliar and full of the unknown. I mean, we really needed a new couch, but even though the prospect of a new couch excited me, I was also filled with dread that we would regret it, that it was costly, that things to which we’d grown accustomed would have to change, that the new wouldn’t live up the comfortable (if also stained and saggy) ways of the old.

If I can be that cautious and resistant about living room furniture, just imagine how the disciples felt, hearing their once-dead-now-living teacher tell them, “Hey guys. Peace. I’m alive. And, I’m here to tell you, that I’m sending you out to carry on my mission in the world – you know, the mission that got me hung on a cross this weekend. Cool, right? Ok, peace out!” Uh, yeah, I imagine if I were among the disciples, I would have stayed locked safely in that upper room a little longer, too. I would be doubting my own abilities, not to mention my own courage, to carry out this mission Jesus was giving us, doubting whether Jesus really meant to put us in such danger, doubting whether I really wanted to keep doing this, or just get back to my safe, familiar life from before, which might not have been perfect, but was at least known.

But that’s the catch about Easter, you see – after the resurrection, there is no going back to your safe, familiar life. With the resurrection, everything changes – and not just the furniture! Life can no longer be the same. Death and fear are defeated, and life becomes new. 

Okay, so what does that new life look like? Jesus says to the disciples gathered there, “As the Father sent me, so I send you.” In other words, that new life looks like living the way Jesus commanded and demonstrated throughout his ministry: like, humbly washing the feet of one another – even those who would betray, deny, or abandon you. Like, reaching out to and standing up for those on the margins, like listening to women, and reaching out to the outsider, and feeding the hungry, and freeing the prisoner, and liberating the oppressed. New life looks like forgiveness, and like self-sacrifice. It looks like striving to be in relationship with one another even when it is difficult, and bringing light into the darkness, and proclaiming life into the places where stinky death tries to win. 

It’s a tall order, even an impossible one. Or it would be, if it not for the other gifts Jesus offers to the disciples locked in the upper room. First of all, Jesus offers peace. Three times in this passage we hear this from Jesus: “peace be with you.” What comforting words for those of us who find the prospect of new life to be terrifying – especially a self-sacrificing, world-order-turning, risky, humble life of service. Perhaps as the disciples consider what this new life will mean, they are thinking, like I did about my new couch, “Wait, are we sure about this? What if it doesn’t work? What it is too big a task for us? What if it’s uncomfortable? What if we hate the way it changes the flow of how we live our lives? We’re going to have to change our patterns and habits. Do we really want to do this?” And to this fear of change and regret, Jesus offers, three times, “Peace be with you.”

And secondly, Jesus offers them the gift of the Holy Spirit. “He breathed on them,” John tells us, “and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” With this gift, Jesus offers to his disciples the very same gift that God offered humanity when he breathed into Adam’s nostrils and made life come about. God’s breath has this kind of power: the power to bring to life, to comfort, to support, to sustain, to encourage, to empower. Christ breathes on his disciples – and on us – and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” And suddenly we have the power to fulfill his mission, to do his work in the world, despite what fears and hesitations we may have. We have what we need. 

Peace be with you, siblings in Christ. As God the Father sent Christ into our world and our lives to show us what love and service look like, to show us that life will always overcome death, so Christ now sends us to continue bringing this message to the world, offering us peace in the midst of our fear, doubt and regret, sustaining us with his breath, and empowering us, always, with the Holy Spirit.

Let us pray… Risen Christ, breathe your empowering breath on us as we continue to walk into resurrected life. Come to us in our fears and our doubts and offer us your peace, and show us how to live out your gospel in all that we do. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Easter reflects real life (April 20, 2025)

Easter Sunday
April 20, 2025
Luke 24:1-12

by He Qi

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

My daughter recently asked me what my favorite holiday is. After thinking a moment, I said, “Easter. It’s pure joy. Beautiful flowers, great music, everyone comes to church in their nicest clothes. It’s just lovely.” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true – that is, I do love Easter, but it is not pure joy, as a careful reading of Luke or really any of the Gospels will tell you. In fact, in Luke’s telling of the resurrection, there isn’t really any joy at all!  Reading through Luke’s account, here is what I do see: the women are perplexed and terrified, and finally remembering and sharing; and from the 11, we get distrust and lack of belief, as they dismiss the women’s story as nonsense; and from Peter, willingness and amazement, but not joy. There’s not a joyful person in the whole lot of them!

Of course, I can’t say I blame them. Even though Jesus told them he would die and rise again, actually to see it happen is something else altogether! Plus, they don’t actually see it happen – Jesus makes no appearance on Easter morning; he won’t show up until later that evening. It’s hard to believe something so out of the ordinary with so little evidence to go on.

But all of this, and the fact that the first Easter isn’t pure joy, makes the day and this story all the more special to me – because the world we live in is never pure joy either. It’s full of grief, and anger, and mental illness, and addiction, and estranged family members, and conflict within and between both families and nations. All those feelings I mentioned above? Those are our real lives. We are perplexed that anyone could possibly say or think or do the things they do. We are terrified about the ramifications of actions and decisions of those we disagree with, especially when those people are in positions of power. We share things we know are important, only to be dismissed and told that our deeply held convictions are nonsense. We are distrustful of each other, and of authority, and the press, and refuse to believe anything that pushes against our values. And, sometimes, like Peter, we are amazed in what I think might be a good way – a way that opens our hearts to the possibility of hope, and something more than our jaded or grief-stricken world view had previously allowed. 

In short: the Easter story is not joyful, but it does reflect real life, in all its complexity and nuance. 

So then, how do we approach this story – a mind-blowing story from 2000 years ago that reflects our current human condition while at the same time being completely apart from anything we have ourselves witnessed? How do we approach it?

I offer you three words of caution, and three suggestions. 

First, resist trying to define or explain Easter. We love to know things, right, and we tend to trust facts and certainties and verifiable data. But the resurrection defies that effort. To define Easter is to miss the mystery and potential of what God is doing. Just like the twilight “early dawn” hour in which Luke places this story, which is still a little fuzzy but is yet full of what could be – we must approach the resurrection as the mystery that it is: full of potential and uncertainty. Come to it not with a fact-seeking mind, but with a wondering mind. And don’t approach it just once, but again and again. Which of the many emotions and experiences resonate with you today? Is it the sadness and sorrow? The fear? The perplexity? The disbelief? The amazement? Enter into the story through that emotion or experience, and let the good news speak to it: the good news that God is working a new thing, a mysterious thing that we cannot yet, in this twilight hour, fully understand, that we may never understand this side of heaven. Approach the resurrection like a mystery, not a news story. 

Second, do not assume that Easter is over once you leave the church building or turn off the TV or computer today. It is not finished once the last egg has been found and the ham has been packed up and put in the fridge. No, Easter is a call to action. We know all too well that the wounds and sorrows and loneliness we may or may not have left at the door when we came to church today still remain when we walk out that door again. They did for those first witnesses, too. Jesus was raised, but his wounds remained. The brutal and corrupt empire – the one they all thought Jesus would overthrow – was still in power. The disciples still lived with the guilt of having abandoned Jesus in his hour of need, and who knows what other pains they carried. Maybe some of the same ones we do. 

And yet now, they carry them with the knowledge that God is redeeming and restoring the world. They carry them with the knowledge that as heavy and thick as fear and death and grief and endings can feel when we are in the middle of enduring them, they are not the end of the story. And so, Easter is a call to action, a call which asks us, “And what role will you play in God’s story of redemption?” In what ways will you live to bring about healing and encouragement, justice and kindness, in this world that is still so troubled? Jesus didn’t die and rise to make all those things go away; Easter isn’t a magic cure-all for whatever ails us. No, the resurrection is a promise that enables us to persevere through death, just like Jesus, and keep bringing life into a world so riddled with death. And it is an invitation to be a part of that work. So, how will you participate in the Easter story? How will you work with God to bring about redemption?

And that brings me to the third thing that Easter is not: Easter is not an anomaly, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, never to be repeated. I mean, in one sense it is – that particular moment in time in which the incarnate God was raised from the dead will not be repeated. But Easter is better thought of as an icon of the work that God is doing, has been doing, and will continue to do, in and around us every day. There will always be pain and sadness – and God will always be there with us in it. There will always be fear and perplexity and distrust – and God will always be there saying, “But I am trustworthy.” There will always be death – and from it, God will always bring about some form of new life.  

And this is why today, when we celebrate Easter, it is a joy. Maybe not pure joy, for we are human after all, and experience all the diversity of emotion that goes with that. But Easter is joy nonetheless, because it assures us that whatever suffering we are enduring, it is not the end of the story. When we experience the betrayal of Judas on Maundy Thursday; when we feel guilty for having failed to stand our ground like Peter on Good Friday; when our friends abandon us in our hour of need; when we are mocked, or when we are the ones doing the mocking; even when life and light itself seems to be sealed up in a tomb – all of this is along the road to redemption, to resurrection, to new life. None of this is enough to defeat God, or keep God from victory. That is the iconic story that is told on every Easter, and on every day in between Easters: that death does not win. God does.

I don’t like having to live through Good Friday any more than the rest of you. It is all the emotions we have already mentioned and then some. We doubt, and cry, and exclaim in disbelief, and sometimes shout in anger and exasperation. We wonder – “when will this end?” and too often, it takes a lot longer than three days to get to the end. Yet I am encouraged by this iconic Easter story, which assures us again and again that after the night comes that twilight hour, when new life starts to come into view. We may not yet see it clearly or at all. We may still be perplexed and afraid of how the world has shifted beneath our feet. And when someone points it out, we may not even believe it at first. But eventually, our hearts become more willing to venture into the empty tomb. And they crack open enough to be amazed that once again, God has come through, and brought out of the worst of fear and death, the promise of a new and glorious life. 

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! 

Let us pray… Risen Christ, we come today with so many emotions in our hearts about so many things. Speak to us exactly where we are at, and bring our aching hearts into a place that is ready to receive the good news of new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.  

Sermon: Fill up on good things (Maundy Thursday)

 Maundy Thursday Sermon
April 17, 2025

The other day, I had a made a nice dinner for my family – a new recipe, one I was looking forward to sharing with them. It had enough familiar elements that the kids might actually eat it, but it also introduced them to some new, healthy food and flavors, and best of all, it was easy to make. I was hoping to add it to the rotation for easy weeknight meals. 

But Grace was complaining of a tummy ache, and couldn’t possibly eat another bite. I then found out that she had acquired and eaten almost an entire bag of jellybeans. Isaac, who was also not eating, had apparently eaten his weight in chips that afternoon. Both had filled their tummies up with delicious things that were not good for them, leaving no room for the things that would actually nourish their bodies. Needless to say, I was not impressed.

I recently read an essay that began, “My Lenten mantra this year is, ‘Fill up on good things.’” It made me think of that dinner (and so many others like it), but also about all the ways that we, and not only children, and not only with food, fill up on bad things, soul-sucking and joy-draining things. We fill up our time, our bodies, our consciousness, with things that we know aren’t good for us, or that negatively affect our mood or health, and yet we can’t seem to pull ourselves away. Sometimes we don’t do this on purpose – the bad things just come from places out of our control, sometimes in a deluge, and there seems to be no escape from them. Either way, once we are full of that negative stuff, there often isn’t any space left to fill up on the good things. 

In this essay, written by Holly Wolsey Soper in 2011, she reflects on a trip she took to the Holy Land. She tells this story:

In the West Bank, the Quaker Meeting House in Ramallah might be the one place you can imagine Palestinians and Israelis living together in peace. Around a lovely wooden table in a sun-drenched room, Christian author and activist Jean Zaru shared her rich experience and faith with us, along with cookies and fruit. She knew that by the midpoint of our trip we would have had our fill of bad things, from suicide bombers to disputed settlements. 

So, she broke open her heart and preached. “Hope,” she said, “is an act of resistance. There's nothing abstract about it. Hope is not real until you bring it into your life, test it, prove it… Some people may say I am less because I am a Palestinian and a woman. No, because God dwells in my soul, and I can see God in everyone, every brother and sister, Jew, Muslim, Christian. I do not worship a God who makes ‘good ones’ and ‘bad ones.’” 

She’s not naïve. In 1948, when the state of Israel was created, her village was overwhelmed with refugees. Then her only brother, exiled, was lost in the war in Lebanon. She’s seen her share of bad things, but she has spent her life filling up on good things. 

Now, with the peace process all but dead, she finds hope in her Muslim sisters in Gaza. As soon as the war ended, they began clearing the rubble. With half the schools destroyed, they salvaged books, put up tents, and began to teach.

In other words, they filled up on good things. They understood the pain, the cause for despair, the ruins all around them; no one could accuse them of being Pollyannas.  And yet, in the face of those ruins, they each picked up a stone - and began to rebuild.  

I love that – “they each picked up a stone and began to rebuild.” Rebuild goodness and hope even in the midst of so many bad things. 

And there are so many bad things out there to fill up on. I know I can think of some of the junk that fills the spaces in my heart that I would rather be filled up with hope, and joy, and love. But it can be so hard to make that shift when the bad things are so relentless. 

And so I am grateful, in the midst of all that badness, for Maundy Thursday, and this beautiful story about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. Consider their context here. Tensions have been rising for quite a while, but especially for the past few days, as Jesus knows the authorities are out to get him. Jesus knows that Judas is about to betray him – in fact, right after Jesus washes his feet, in those verses that are missing from our Gospel reading tonight, Judas will leave, at Jesus’ urging, to do exactly that, go betray him. As Judas leaves, John ominously tells the reader, “And it was night.” For John the evangelist, “night” equals the opposite of knowing, the opposite of God’s presence, the opposite of the light shining in the darkness, of the Light of the World.

It was night… but then, into that night, that very Light shining in the darkness turns to his disciples and says, “I give you a new commandment, to love one another.” Yes, it is in this dark, midnight moment, when Jesus is about to be betrayed, and denied, and abandoned, wrongfully convicted and then killed, when everyone is extremely anxious and concerned and tensions are high, into this that Jesus utters his famous “new commandment,” to love one another as he has loved us.

“Fill up on good things.” These are the good things Jesus is filling them up on in this moment – sharing a meal and fellowship, honesty with one another, service and humility toward one another, love of one another. Good things. These next three days will be the hardest of Jesus’ life, and of their lives, and they will need fuel for the journey. They might be inclined to wallow in grief and sadness, or to be filled with rage at Judas or at the Jewish authorities, or the Roman government. They might fill up on fear and shouting, and blame, and tearing one another down – and I wouldn’t blame them! It’s unfortunately a very human inclination whenever we feel threatened and afraid. But on his last night with them, Jesus instead urges them to fill up on good things: love for one another. Care for one another. Humility, and kindness, and mutuality. 

This sort of love is an act of resistance, my friends, resistance against a power that would oppress us. Such a power would fill us with fear, and try to push us into despair. But when we are driven by love, then we fill ourselves and those with whom we share it with good things, with things stronger than fear and despair. 

That love is our hope. It’s the sort of hope that allows us to sort through ruins and salvage books, and set up tents for teaching, and pick up stones and rebuild. It’s the sort of hope that fuels us to join with others and take a stand for what is right. It’s the sort of hope that brings light into darkness, and energizes us to get through the demoralizing and terrifying days ahead, the days that will, by God’s power, eventually end in resurrection and new life.

It was night. And Jesus said, “Love one another.” Judas betrayed Jesus. And Jesus said, “Love one another.” Later that night, in the garden, the disciples took up arms when Jesus was taken away. And Jesus said, “Put down the weapons, and love one another.” By this, everyone will know we are Jesus’ disciples: if we have love for one another.

And so, let us resist the bad things – resist by sharing meals together, resist by standing up for the vulnerable, resist by serving those in need. Resist the bad things by being peaceful but assertive, by taking action, by using our voices on behalf of those who have no voice. Resist the bad things, so that all God’s children might be filled up on good things.

Let us pray… Lord Jesus, on this night that was so full of fear, anxiety, and darkness, you commanded us to love one another. Show us what it means to love in the midst of our own nights, our own fears and anxieties. Let people see us and our love, and know that we are followers of you, the Light of the World. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Waste vs. costly love (April 6, 2025)

Lent 5C
April 6, 2025
John 12:1-8

INTRODUCTION

Things are really heating up in the Jesus story – you can practically hear suspenseful music telling us, “Something is afoot!” Right before today’s story, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. This event was so shocking that, according to John, it was the impetus for wanting to kill both Jesus and Lazarus. Lazarus is the brother of Mary and Martha, in whose house we find ourselves today. Just after this story, just as in our church year, John takes us to Palm Sunday, and Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and not long after that will be Maundy Thursday, when Jesus will be the one kneeling at the disciples’ feet, washing them and wiping them with the towel around his waist. Mary’s actions today, anointing Jesus’ feet, foreshadow this event – and just as Jesus’ act of foot-washing is an act of love for neighbor, Mary’s is an act of love for Jesus. Context is everything for this story!

The other readings are lovely, and I’ll just let them speak for themselves today. As you listen to all the readings, notice the ways they celebrate the abundant love and generosity God has shown to us, especially as we draw closer to Holy Week and the time when we remember the ultimate act of self-giving love. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Bad news: for the second week in a row, I find myself resonating more with the guy who appears to be the villain in the story than with the hero. Last week, it was the elder brother in the Prodigal Son parable – and his simmering resentment that his deadbeat little brother squandered his inheritance and then got a party anyway. This week, it is Judas who says aloud what I am thinking. In response to Mary’s tender, generous act of love and devotion toward Jesus, Judas scoffs, “That oil was worth a year’s wages! Shouldn’t it have been sold and the proceeds given to the poor?” Um… yeah, Jesus, shouldn’t it? I mean, isn’t that kind of what you’re all about? And honestly, Jesus’ response doesn’t make me feel much better: “The poor you will always have with you,” he says, “but you will not always have me.” What are we to make of that? Jesus couldn’t possibly care more about himself than the poor, right?

This line is one frequently taken out of context and misinterpreted. And yet at this time, when so many of the services that help and support the poor and vulnerable people of our country are seeing cuts in the name of government efficiency, it feels all the more important for us to understand what this statement means – what Jesus meant when he said it, and what it means for us in 2025. 

First, what it meant in Jesus’ context. Often, what Jesus says is not original to him. Remember, he is a rabbi, a teacher of the law, the Torah, and so often he is quoting the sacred scripture of his people. And so, to understand what he is getting at, we need to look at what text and context he is referencing. This is one such case. The idea that “the poor you will always have with you” comes from Deuteronomy 15. In this chapter, Moses is giving a speech to the Israelites as they prepare finally, after 40 years of wandering in the wilderness, to enter the Promised Land. Moses describes what life will be like in this place of abundance, and how a society formed by God’s word should function. One guideline for this society is that every so often, every seven years, there should be what is called a “sabbatical year,” in which all debts are forgiven and debt slaves are released. It was meant to be a way to sort of reset the economy and keep the wealth somewhat evenly distributed. Still, even with this, Moses explains, there will remain some people in need. So Israel should never cease being generous. Even if they are in year 5 or 6, nearing that seventh year of debt forgiveness, do not get stingy, he says. “Do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor.” 

Yet even with communal systems in place to safeguard against mass poverty, there will remain some who are needier than others. And so, Moses says, “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” 

That is the line and the context to which Jesus alludes in his rebuke to Judas. It is not that Judas or any of us should not care about the poor; we absolutely should. Generosity and care for our needy neighbor is a fundamental part of the practice of faith, and it always will be. That will never change.

Ok, so, what about this other bit, about how “you will not always have me”? Well, we know, even if they haven’t yet figured it out, that Jesus is a short timer. He’s got about a week left with them in his fleshly, incarnated form. So, he’s simply saying what is true: “If you want to help the poor – and you should – you will have every opportunity to do so. Take it. But in this case, Mary has chosen to show love and generosity to me, because she will not have that chance much longer.” He is about to die, and he lifts up Mary for her faithfulness, tenderness, generosity and devotion in this sacred hour nearing his death. He has pointed out her commitment to costly love.

And yet to Judas, and perhaps to us, Mary’s act of love seems wasteful. In fact, we might see any extravagant act of love that does not yield a tangible result as wasteful. How can we tell the difference between what is waste, and what is costly love?

This brings us to how this text speaks to us in 2025. Goodness knows, the concept of “waste” has been very much in our awareness these weeks, as the Department for Government Efficiency has been looking through our government spending to determine what they deem to be “wasteful,” and cutting it – including many programs that specifically serve lower-income Americans. But this encounter between Jesus and Mary calls into question what is considered waste, versus what is better described as costly love. John points out that even things that seem like prudent financial decisions (selling the perfume and giving the proceeds to the poor) can in fact have a sinister underbelly (the possibility of stealing from the common purse such that money intended for the poor goes into someone else’s pocket instead). So, in the end, what really is “waste,” and what is “costly love,” and how do we know the difference?

Given Jesus’ reference to Deuteronomy 15, not to mention countless other references throughout scripture, both Old and New Testaments, giving to the poor is never a waste – at least not when that money is, in fact, going to the poor and not into the purse of a thief like Judas! But this story of tender generosity and devotion also shows us that any act of love is not a waste, costly though it may be. Any time we love our neighbor as ourselves, it is not a waste. Any time we put aside our own self-interest, and focus on the need of another, or the greater good, it is not a waste. Indeed, it is what our faith calls us to.

So, how does costly love look today, then? 

It might look like giving a record-breaking 25-hour speech on the Senate floor, in which you tell real stories of real Americans in need, and quote scripture, and call upon your colleagues to rise to this moral moment and do the right thing.

It might look like joining millions of people around the country to show up to a public action even when you’d rather not go out in the rain, all to say, “We care about what happens to people who depend upon the government spending that is being decried as wasteful. We care about people’s rights and safety. We care about the poor and vulnerable, and it is not a waste to feed people, and provide them safe housing, and healthcare, and libraries.”

Costly love might be literally costly – a large donation, even one slightly beyond your usual level of comfort, to someone who needs it more than you do. As one stewardship expert says, “Don’t give until it hurts. Give until it feels good.”

But costly love could also look quieter and more private than that: It also might look like listening to your child or spouse or friend talk about something important to them, even though you are so tired you can hardly stand it. It might look like reading a book by or about a different life experience from your own, for the sole purpose of getting out of your comfort zone and seeing the world through the eyes of another. It might look like praying for your enemy, for Judas, or for whoever it is that is stealing from those in need or working against your best interest.

Of course, Jesus doesn’t ask more of us than what he himself is about to do. After this loving encounter with Mary, who gives everything she has to kneel at his feet and show him her love, Jesus will enter Jerusalem on a donkey to cries of Hosanna! He will kneel at his disciples’ feet, even Judas, and wash them, saying, “I give you a new commandment, to love one another as I have loved you.” He will willingly give himself up to the authorities, imploring Peter as he does not to respond with violence, because such behavior is of this world, not God’s kingdom. He will give himself up to die, on our behalf, and hang from a cross – still smelling of that perfume that Mary poured so generously on his feet to show her devotion. And then Jesus will rise again, to show us that nothing, not even death, will ever keep us from God’s love in Christ Jesus. This act is the costliest of love. And it is exactly what enables us to give our own costly love in service to our neighbor in need. How will we give generously, tenderly, to show our love to our neighbor, and to this world God loves so much?

Let us pray… Gracious God, we so often count the cost, not wanting to give more than is absolutely necessary. But you, Lord, gave it all. Give us hearts like Mary’s, ready to pour out whatever costly love will serve and heal the world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: You might be wrong. (March 30, 2025)

Lent 4C
March 30, 2025
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

INTRODUCTION

Today’s readings are about wandering and finding our way back home – and they leave us with a strong sense that seeking reconciliation, and God’s surprising grace, might play a significant role in that effort. 

Here’s some context. The reading from Joshua marks the end of 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness. Forty years was long enough to let the old generation die before starting fresh with a new generation in a new land, the Promised Land of Canaan. In today’s reading, for the first time, the Israelites will eat food from the land of Canaan, rather than eating the manna God has been providing for the past 40 years. It is a new and exciting moment in their life! 

In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he speaks to a new Christian community that has some serious infighting, and he tells them a bit about what it can look like to be reconciled – which is its own sort of homecoming. 

And we will also hear the famous parable of the so-called Prodigal Son, the tale of a son who literally wandered away from his home and his father, and his brother who stayed, but with a troubled spirit. This parable is the third in a series of “lost” parables, in which something is lost and then found: first the lost sheep, then the lost coin, and now the lost son (or you could argue, lost sons). In each one, the finder celebrates in an extravagant and frankly ridiculous way – the same way that God behaves when we sinners find our own way back to God’s loving embrace. 

These all have a sense of homecoming and reconciliation. As you listen, think about what it takes truly to be reconciled, and how it feels once you’ve made it to that point. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

https://johnaugustswanson.com/catalog/story-of-the-prodigal-son/

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

In the past couple of years, I have gotten into reading murder mysteries. The series that got me into this genre is Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache books. Inspector Gamache is wise, thoughtful, and patient, and he is on my list of literary characters with whom I would love to sit down and have a conversation. In the first book of the series, Still Life, he is teaching a young agent about this work of investigation, and investigating murders in particular. “There are four things that lead to wisdom,” he tells her. “Four sentences we learn to say, and mean: I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong.” 

I don’t know. I need help. I’m sorry. I was wrong. They are, each one, simple to say, but difficult to mean. And yet Gamache is right – they do lead to wisdom, if we take them seriously! I can think of important moments of personal growth that came from each one of these statements. But at this point in Lent, and in life, I am especially drawn to the fourth one: I was wrong. (Bonus wisdom on this from Inspector Gamache!)

Anyone here like admitting you were wrong? Yeah, me neither. I am more willing to say, “You were right,” because it still leaves some room for me to have been partially right, even if I was mostly wrong. Like, “Well, when I checked yesterday we had plenty of milk, so I didn’t buy any – someone must have drunk it in the meantime.” We do love to save face when we can, right? 

That’s a small example. Of course, in our important relationships, and especially in our volatile political climate, it feels all the more risky to admit when we are wrong. We’ve spent so long digging in our heels on something, investing our time, our energy and our resources, that to admit we were wrong feels like giving up a piece of who we are. It’s embarrassing. We would sooner ignore the facts, or tell them differently, or just go on the attack, than dare to face the truth that we put our eggs in the wrong basket.

On the other hand, we have much less trouble pointing out when someone else is wrong, right? When we are (or want to be) in the right, it is so easy to see others’ shortcomings! 

We see this play out so clearly in the character of the older brother in today’s parable. He sees himself as above reproach – he has stayed home and done his duty, never asked for anything in return, played the role of the Good Son, and played it well. But, he has a list of things his family members have done wrong:

• His deadbeat brother squandered his inheritance, and then came crawling back.

• His spineless father should never have welcomed him back, let alone celebrated him.

• His father is also unappreciative – he should have rewarded him, the elder son, for his years of loyalty and dedication to the family.

• Really, this whole situation isn’t fair. It isn’t right, or good. It is wrong.

So… he’s pretty good at noticing when others are wrong! (I’m pretty good at that too, if I do say so myself.) But let me ask you this: did the older brother do anything wrong? He sure doesn’t think so… but, do you? Was he wrong, in any way? 

How about… he was closed-hearted and unforgiving of his brother. He lacked grace and mercy. He made assumptions about both his brother and his father. He was judgmental of both his brother and his father. He squandered an opportunity for and an invitation into joy.

Now, I am sure he had really good reasons for all these thoughts and actions. (We usually do have justifications for what we think and do, and to spare!) But… did any of his good reasons lead to life? Did any of them bring him closer to God, or to his neighbor? Did any of them look like the life that God wants for us?

If you always do the by-the-book “right thing,” but it doesn’t lead to life or joy, or mend relationships…. Is it right? If it’s not right, does that make it wrong?

I’m sorry, but, I don’t know the answer – not for myself, and certainly not for all of you! But the asking does lead us into the next painful and important question: what are YOU wrong about? Or what have you been wrong about in the past? When did you say or do the wrong thing, fail to say or do the right thing, or even just get so caught up in pointing out what everyone else was doing wrong that you missed seeing your own mistakes or shortsightedness?

Lent is a time that calls us into this deep reflection, when we are repeatedly confronted with the reality that we are, in fact, wrong a fair amount of the time. We make mistakes, say the wrong thing, go down the wrong path and suffer the consequences. And we would do well to say so now and then, and, as Inspector Gamache instructs, also to mean it.

We’ve got a few weeks left of Lent, so I encourage you: try it. Try noticing, even just one time each day, even just one small thing, a time when you were wrong. Try saying it aloud: “I was wrong.” Try writing it down, or even telling a close friend. See how that practice changes you, how it changes your heart, how it changes your relationships. Perhaps this regular acknowledgment is enough to exercise your “I was wrong” muscles, strengthening them on some small things until you are ready to use them on the bigger things – the things that will allow for the longed-for reconciliation, for the restoration of an important relationship, for transformation of your heart – and maybe even the peace that we all crave so deeply. Eventually, our ability to admit when we are wrong will, I believe, bring us closer to healing ourselves, our relationships, and the world.

It's hard, and it can be really painful and discouraging. And so also, in the meantime, know this: that there is no amount of being wrong that will burn the bridge between God and God’s beloved children, no amount of wrong that will be too much for God’s mercy to reach you. There is no depth into which you can dig your heels that will keep you from God’s love. That’s the real message of this story. And more, God’s love and mercy do not even depend upon you first realizing you were wrong. God’s grace comes first. The Father goes running to his younger son to embrace him before the son has said anything. The Father invites his older son to the banquet while he is still mired in resentment and judgment. In God’s reality, grace comes first, and that grace is what softens our hearts, and leads to the possibility of transformation. 

So go ahead: admit you were wrong. It may hurt in the moment, or for a while after. It may bruise your ego a bit, or take you down a notch. But it will never, ever, keep our loving God from running with reckless abandon toward the horizon to meet us on the way, to embrace us, and to celebrate that we are not lost; we are home.

Let us pray… Merciful God, we love to be right, and we sure hate to be wrong. Grant us humble hearts that are ready and willing to see things with clarity, and grant us courage to admit when we are wrong. Finally, show us the way forward toward peace and reconciliation, with you and with our neighbor. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: This is urgent! Act now! (March 23, 2025)

Lent 3C
March 23, 2025
Luke 13:1-9

INTRODUCTION

“Repent or perish.” This is the heading you will see if you look up today’s Gospel reading in your Bible. It is not the most comfortable message for us to hear, yet here we are, halfway through Lent, and we are told today in no uncertain terms that it is an important one. Repent or perish.

If you don’t like that message, you might be drawn, as I am, to some of the more comforting images in the readings we’re about to hear. Isaiah offers an abundant feast, freely given by a gracious God. He is speaking to the Israelites who have been in exile for 70 years, and now are finally returning home. The Psalm reflects in beautiful poetry on finding sustenance and safety in the shadow of God’s wings – not unlike the mother hen image for God that we heard last week. Paul reminds us in Corinthians of all the times God has brought God’s people safely through danger, adding that “God is faithful!” Yes, these are all images I prefer!

And yet in each of these readings, we will also hear that same refrain: repent or perish. Turn away from that which does not give life, and turn toward that which does: that same faithful, comforting, sheltering, providing God. So as tempting as it may be to listen for just the most comforting images, I urge you as you listen today, to listen for that “repent or perish” theme, the words in Scripture that are urging us not to stay the way we are, but to change our ways so that we might have life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

There is certainly no shortage of devastating headlines in the news. This past Tuesday was, I read, the deadliest day yet in the war in Gaza – more than 400 people killed. In other news, according to internal USAID memos, recent cuts to these programs will result in millions of deaths every year due to lack of access to vaccinations and life-saving treatment, not to mention starvation. Already over 25,000 have died as a result of these cuts. So much tragedy.

So let me ask you this: do you think these people suffered and died because they were worse offenders than anyone else living in Gaza, or Africa, or the world?

I hope this question horrifies you, as it does me! It horrifies me when modern commentators use this logic to explain why a hurricane struck where it did, or why a mass shooting happened, or why a woman was assaulted. “They must have been worse sinners than the rest of us.” Neat and tidy, right? But also icky. I’m grateful Jesus swiftly shoots it down, when applying it to a couple of local tragedies in his own context. No, he tells us, people do not suffer and die as divine punishment for wrong-doing. 

But. 

Yes, Jesus had to include a “but,” so don’t get too comfortable just yet. “But, unless you repent, you will suffer as they did.” It seems to contradict what he just said, right? 

You know that feeling you get when you stretch a sore muscle and it just hurts so good? That is how I feel reading today’s Gospel reading. It is so convicting, and yet strangely comforting, because I know it is pushing us in a direction that feels stiff and painful, but we know is so good for us. Let’s break this down a little bit and see how we can make this stretch one that prevents, rather than causes, injury. 

First thing to know is that this passage comes at the end of a cascade of teachings about the urgency of the coming dawn of God’s kingdom. It’s a rhetorical tactic, like, "To what shall I compare the urgency of repentance as we look toward the dawn of a new era? It’s like this… and like this… and like this.” Each one of these illustrations, which begin early in the previous chapter, shows us a piece of the story, but are really meant to be taken as a whole, like a painting. His culminating image is to use these two recent tragedies as illustrations of the urgency of repentance, as if to say, “Life is short, and precious, and there is no time to waste. Repent now, change your ways, before it is too late.”

Second: it is easy, as I pointed out before, to hear Jesus’ “but” as a direct contradiction to what he said before, that is, that these people’s suffering was not divine punishment. But really, what he is saying here is, “The way you are living, the path you are walking, is not the path that leads to life. So don’t continue down that path. Repent, change direction, and do it now, or you will perish having never known the fullness of life with God.” You see, when we are living lives that are marked not by love and justice, but rather by greed and self-preservation and pride and any number of other sins, we are already suffering. That life is not true life. Instead, Jesus says, live a life that seeks the values of God’s kingdom, that bears fruits of love, justice, and compassion. 

Which brings us to this funny little parable about the fig tree. This tree, planted in a vineyard, is not bearing fruit, to the great discouragement of the landowner. The owner accuses it of being an inefficient use of soil and resources, a waste, and he suggests taking a chainsaw to the thing and cutting it down completely. But the gardener sees its potential. “No,” he urges, “I think this tree can do better. Let’s take a look at what it needs to improve, let’s give it the attention and nourishment it needs, and see if we can help it to bear fruit. Give it a little more time, and we’ll re-evaluate in a year.” 

There is grace in this plea. It is not too late for the tree. The tree still has time; it can yet bear fruit. But there is also urgency: it can do better, but there is not a moment to waste. As John the Baptist said back at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, “Even now, the ax is lying at the root of the trees; therefore every tree that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.” (Luke 3:9) 

You see, Luke has been clear from the beginning of the story that while God is gracious and merciful, and Jesus is the Savior of the world, this does not give us a pass on living fruitful lives, lives that serve the needy and vulnerable among us. When we live lives of greed, pride, complacency and indifference, not only do we suffer, but the world suffers. This is not a path that brings life. When we bear fruit, then we see God’s kingdom in action – not only in some afterlife, but here and now. Luke’s Gospel is especially insistent that God’s salvation is happening here and now, in this world and this life, and that we are a part of it.

So what does it mean, then, to bear fruit? How does that look in today’s world?

The fig tree can teach us about this. The first lesson the fig tree can teach us is to grow where we are planted. Did you notice that this fig tree is planted in a vineyard? So it is surrounded by plants very different from itself. And of course, a fig tree, which has a deep and complex root system, cannot easily be dug up and moved; it must grow in the spot where it finds itself. So we, too, must grow where we are planted. The fig tree teaches us, to look out at the world around us: what are the needs you see? Where in your proximity is in need of the fruit of the spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control? Look around, and see the need that is there.

The second lesson from the fig tree is: bear fruit according to who you are. The fig tree is surrounded by grapes, but it cannot grow grapes. It grows figs. What fruit are you uniquely able to grow? What gifts do you bring that can meet the needs you see in the world around you? I read this week that sometimes fig trees are planted in vineyards as protection from birds. The birds are drawn to the larger fruit of the figs, and they leave the more delicate grapes alone. Fig trees also sometimes can be used as a sort of trellis to support the grape vines, offering them literal support. In both cases, the fig tree is able to protect, keep safe, and support the more vulnerable. That is the fruit it bears. What fruit can you bear? What can that fruit offer to the needs of the world? If you aren’t sure, pray about it, and ask the people who know you best: “What are the particular gifts you see in me, that could serve the needs of the world around me? What fruit can I bear, in this time and place?” 

Now, deep down, I suspect you already know what fruit God uniquely created you to bear. But perhaps something has kept you from it. And this is the third lesson the fig tree can teach us. The tree was unable to bear fruit because it lacked the proper nourishment. The wise gardener knew that a tree that doesn’t bear fruit is lacking what it needs to thrive. It prompts the question: what is keeping you from bearing fruit? Are you feeling inadequately nourished in body or spirit? What do you need, in order to serve the world with your gifts? How can you get that? Will it come from time with God, in prayer or scripture study? Will it come from intentional, restorative rest? Will it come from turning your anxiety into action, shaking off your malaise by putting boots on the ground and making a concrete difference? I suggest starting with prayer, and discerning what it is that would keep you from bearing the fruit you know you are, with God’s help, capable of bearing. And then, go to the Divine Gardener to find what you need in order to be nourished for the work of the kingdom.

Whatever it is: do not delay! Now is the time to repent, to change our direction – away from apathy, or greed, or selfishness, or despair, and toward the way that bears the fruits of love, justice, and compassion. The situation is urgent, and while we are not yet out of time, “the ax is lying at the root of the tree,” and there is no time to waste. 

We were created to bear fruit, my friends: to take an active part in God’s redemption of our broken world; to turn off of the paths that lead to corrosion and death; to orient ourselves instead toward faithfulness, restoration, and life. Let’s do it now!

Let us pray… Divine Gardener, you have planted us with intention. Help us to bear the fruit you know we can, fruit that will serve those in need, that will help to redeem our aching world, all for your love’s sake. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Lament leads to hope (March 16, 2025)

Lent 2C
March 16, 2025
Luke 13:31-35

INTRODUCTION

On this second Sunday in Lent, we will hear a bit about lament. Lament is not a word we use terribly often these days, it’s kind of a churchy word, but it is a word I have come to love. How would you define it? … So, in our Genesis reading, we will encounter a longing and impatient Abram (later, Abraham), whom God has promised to make the father of a great nation, and yet his wife, Sarai (later, Sarah) remains barren. So when God comes to him to tell him once again, “I’m going to give you great things!” his response will be not gratitude, but lament: “But God, look at what I don’t have.” The Psalm will start off cheerfully enough, but after the first few verses, it too slips into that lamenting place, asking God for help. And in our Gospel lesson, we will hear about an encounter Jesus has while he is in route from Galilee to Jerusalem, to what he knows will be his death. This is one of the two times that Jesus will lament over the city of Jerusalem, expressing his sadness at how far Jerusalem has fallen. 

Lament is a powerful thing, so as you listen, try to do so with empathy, remembering a time when you, too, felt the need to lament – when you didn’t get what you felt you needed, when you longed for an awareness of God’s presence in the midst of trouble, when you needed a word of hope, when things had gone horribly awry and disappointed you greatly. Remember that time, and see if you can enter into the story with that feeling in your heart. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Mother who gave us birth, and our Lord and mother hen, Jesus Christ. Amen.

My husband and I have enjoyed watching the show, Parks and Rec – anyone watch that one? It’s hilarious and charming. Toward the end of the series, one of the characters gets pregnant, and she is miserable, and her partner, who is a busy-body and a health nut, wants so badly to make things better for her. So he cooks, and makes her special smoothies, and massages her feet, and does everything he can think of to ease her pain, but she only gets grumpier, telling people, “He totally doesn’t get it!” Finally someone talks to him, and says, “All you have to say is, ‘That stinks.’ You don’t need to fix it or make it better. Just let her know you care that she’s miserable.” The next time he is sitting on the couch with her and she grumbles about everything that is wrong, he starts to fix it, then stops himself and says, “That stinks.” She looks at him gratefully and says, “Yes! It does!” She goes on and tells him more, and he says, “That really stinks.” She smiles and nestles into his shoulder, happy as can be.

I always think of this scene when I think about lament. A lament might be a cry for help, for fixing, but it isn’t always. More than that, the purpose of a lament is simply to get it out there, to put into words, or cries, or sighs, or whatever, that your heart is heavy, that things are not as you wish they were. And yes, usually we eventually want those things fixed, we want the pain and its cause to go away, but the very first step toward healing is simply to voice our pain, and to know that someone hears it and cares.

Before we get any further, let’s spend some time thinking about what sorts of things we lament. Certainly loss is one of them – lament is a sort of grief, a sadness that we have lost something or someone we care about it. But I think if we distill it down to its real essence: we lament over things that do not turn out as we had hoped they would. One of Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances is along the road to Emmaus. The resurrected Jesus joins two men as they walk toward Emmaus, but they do not recognize him. When Jesus asks what they are so sad about, they describe the events of his crucifixion, adding, “We had hoped he would be the Messiah.” I have a dear friend who gave birth to a stillborn son. Following that tragic event, she and her husband resonated with those words of the disciples. They said, “’We had hoped’ are the three saddest words in all the Bible.” We had hoped…. They contain all the grief and loss and disappointment of dreams unrealized and hopes dashed. In other words, they contain a deep lament. We had hoped.

I hear that sort of lament in our readings today. Abram is told he will father a great nation, and he responds, “I had hoped I’d have an heir by now. Right now, it’s looking like a slave in my house is going to be the closest thing I have to an heir.” Dreams unrealized. As Jesus talks about Jerusalem, the city whose name means peace but who kills prophets, he says, “I had hoped for more from this city, home of God’s temple, the nexus where heaven meets earth. How I had desired to gather you under my wings like a hen gathers her chicks, and you were not willing. Oh, how I had hoped…” 

And I hear laments like this today. We lament division in our nation, and political unrest – both in the United States, and globally. As a society, we lament things like hunger, and racism, and violence in our communities. This is not how we had hoped the world would be, not how God hoped it would be. We lament tragic events – mass shootings, and natural disasters, and acts of unspeakable hatred. We lament each individual loss, but also the cycle in which hatred and violence begets more hatred and violence, and our seeming inability to break that cycle. With the Psalmist, we lift our prayers, asking, “How long, O Lord? Show us your face!”

And of course there are our individual laments as well. We lament when our kids whom we raised in faith grew up and never set foot in the church again; when the children or grandchildren we dreamed of never come; we lament when we discover that a hobby we had always loved is no longer in our capabilities; when someone we love turns toward drugs and we can’t seem to pull them back; we lament when we see how much cancer, addiction, or mental illness have taken from our lives. 

Yes, there is plenty in this life and this world to lament. And, this may come as a surprise, there is also value in doing so. When we lament, we voice a recognition that we need God’s help, that we can’t do this alone. We acknowledge our own brokenness, our insufficiency, and our utter reliance on God’s grace and providence. This is not a comfortable message for those of us who enjoy autonomy and the idea that we can do anything we put our mind to. But at the same time, it is also freeing, allowing us to put our problems into the hands of the One who really can do anything. As one Bible professor put it, lament makes our problems into God’s problems. We don’t give up responsibility and agency, but we also no longer have to hold them alone.

And so, lament becomes the first step out of that place of despair. Once we have voiced our pain, and acknowledged our need for God, we can start to have our needs met. Like the character I mentioned in Parks and Rec – she needed someone to hear her pain, but she did also need a foot massage and a healthy dinner. But help and solutions don’t always come readily or obviously. So, where might lament lead us?

In Abram’s case, his lament led him into prayer. That’s what I imagine that night waiting for God looked like. He has a conversation with God, in which he voices his concerns, and listens to God’s response – the very definition of prayer! And then he waits all night for God to show him how seriously God has taken his pleas. This, too, is a sort of prayer. We usually think of prayer as talking to God, but it is (or at least should be!) as much listening as it is talking! After vigilantly and actively listening for quite some time, God does, eventually, speak to Abraham, making what is now known as the Abrahamic covenant. 

Another example of lament leading us into prayer is in our Psalm. After the first few verses, the Psalmist turns from praising to pleading. And I love this line: “My heart speaks your message: seek my face. Your face, O Lord, I will seek.” It is easy to see God’s face in the times when things are going well. But lament shows us that God is all the more present in the muck. This is perhaps the most important prayer we can engage in – the simple effort to seek God’s face in our daily happenings, to see how God speaks to the desires or our heart, and to our deepest laments. 

As our lament draws us into prayer, it may very well lead from there to confession. The theme echoing through each Lenten season is, “create in me a clean heart,” and confession takes a step in that direction. This helps us see how God is using the recognition of our pain to point us toward a different way of being, seeing, or living. Not to say we are somehow the cause of our own pain (though I suppose sometimes we may have a role). But a lament may still draw out of us a recognition for how we can change our ways as far as how we love and serve one another, and seek peace and justice in the world – which, in the end, also helps us to better live into our baptismal promises and God’s mission for us.

And that is what Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem did: it was a step on the path for him fulfilling his mission, and what he was sent to do. It gave him resolve to keep moving forward, to keep heading toward Jerusalem, where he would be crucified on our behalf, and rise again from what should have been the ultimate lament, thus proving that God does, indeed, have final power over all sadness and brokenness.

And that, ultimately, is what Jesus’ continuing path toward Jerusalem means for us: it is what allows us also to be pulled out of our lamenting place. Our lament knocks us down a notch, so that we realize we cannot do this alone. It shows us our human limitations. It demands that we look beyond ourselves, to the power that can only be found in Christ. And Jesus’ fulfilling of his mission – to go to Jerusalem, to die and to rise again – that mission provides our ultimate hope: that God will triumph, over all our laments and woes and sadness, and bring us finally into eternal life.

Let us pray… Lamenting God, our hearts are heavy with all the sadness and unfulfilled hopes in our lives and in this world. Grant us the courage to voice our pain to you, so that you might carry it with us, and lead us from there into new life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.