FOURTH SUNDAY OF EASTER

Acts 2:42-47
Psalm 23
1 Peter 2:19-25
John 10:1-10

Prayer of the Day: O God our shepherd, you know your sheep by name and lead us to safety through the valleys of death. Guide us by your voice, that we may walk in certainty and security to the joyous feast prepared in your house, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

A late friend and former parishioner, upon learning that he had been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, told me “nothing has changed. I’ve always known there were plenty of trains out there and one of them was bound to hit me sooner or later. Now I just know the number of the one with my name on it.” My friend’s words, spoken long before the coronavirus was a twinkle in anyone’s eye, have a contemporary ring to them. In a very real sense, nothing has changed for us. Even in the midst of life, we are in death. Covid-19 has simply brought that stark reality into sharper focus.

The words of the Twenty-Third Psalm also have a contemporary ring. Safety and danger, peace and conflict, light and darkness, life and death are all juxtaposed, contrasted and reconciled within this short piece of poetry. The shepherd leads the sheep to “green pastures” and “still waters.” Yet the “paths of righteousness” along which the sheep are led pass through “the valley of the shadow of death.” The shepherd “prepares a table for the sheep,” but that table is set “in the presence” of their “enemies.” To be sure, the psalm offers the assurance of God’s comforting presence. But that presence comes to us in the midst of a dicey existence.

There is one more thing to keep in mind. In the Bible, sheep are not adorable little pets. They are commodities. At some point, they will be sent to slaughter. David, the putative author of the Twenty-Third Psalm, knew that and so did Jesus when he referred to himself as the “good shepherd.” Just as the shepherd lays down his life for the sheep, so the sheep must lay down their lives for their shepherd:

“If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own. Because you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world—therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I said to you, ‘Servants are not greater than their master.’ If they persecuted me, they will persecute you; if they kept my word, they will keep yours also. But they will do all these things to you on account of my name, because they do not know him who sent me.” John 15;18-21.

Of course, not all of Jesus’ disciples died as martyrs. It is probably safe to say that most of us will not perish under the sword of persecution. But perish we surely will. There is a train out there with our name on it, whether it be covid-19 or another number. Now that our mortality is placed for us in such sharp relief, what are we to make of it?

I believe the last episode in John’s gospel can help us with that. There Peter is told that he will be imprisoned and die for Jesus’ sake-a good word for him. Recall that Peter had promised to undergo that very fate just days before-and lost his nerve when the opportunity came. So Jesus was, in effect, giving Peter another chance to make good on his promise, an opportunity to redeem himself. But then Peter goes on to inquire about another of Jesus’ disciples identified only as “the one Jesus loved.” “What about him?” Peter asks. Jesus politely replies that it is none of Peter’s damned business. Peter is to follow Jesus and leave off with speculating about the destiny of others. John 21:18-23.

What I find particularly interesting is John’s commentary on the rationale for Jesus’ informing Peter about his ultimate destiny. “[Jesus] said this to indicate the kind of death by which [Peter] would glorify God.” John 21:19. Even what Paul calls “the final enemy,” is transformed by Jesus into a gift. Death constitutes the one last opportunity we have to glorify God, to bear witness to the hope that is within us and offer encouragement and inspiration to others. Viewing death as an opportunity is nearly impossible for a death denying culture like ours. There is no place for it in the way we live our lives. We plan our careers, we plan our retirements and we plan for the distribution of our wealth after we have died. But who plans for death? We go out of our way not to use the “D” word, employing flowery euphemisms, like “expired,” “passed on,” “entered eternal rest” and the like. We typically hide the dying process from the rest of life in hospital rooms and the hospice section of nursing homes. We need living wills and health proxies to make sure medical practitioners do not employ extreme measures to keep our hearts beating and our lungs pumping long after nearly all brain function has ceased and the prospect of recovery is nil. Our medicine is adept at prolonging life, but inept at dealing with the end of it. In medical terms, a dead patient amounts to failure.

It was not always so. During medieval times, death was at the very center of life. According to church teaching, the whole purpose of life was to prepare for death. Participation in worship and the sacraments was understood as a process of formation, readying one for a “good death.” Time was measured in saint’s days marking the death of biblical and post biblical heroes of faith. The landscape was dominated by parish churches and towering cathedrals which were the sites of local graveyards. The faithful were challenged to so live that in death their hope and confidence in the resurrection and eternal life might glorify God. Death was surrounded by familiar communal rituals and symbols of comfort and hope. It was sad, to be sure, but not terrifying and hopeless.

I am not suggesting there is any merit in morbid preoccupation with death (and yes, the church of the middle ages did go a bit overboard with that). But I do believe that our persistent denial of death robs us of much joy, comfort and hope that comes with recognizing and accepting it for what it is: the end of a mysterious and wonderful gift that we have been given, namely, life. Part of what makes life precious is the knowledge that it is finite. Much of what makes life meaningful is the recognition that it is brief and what we choose to do with each minute of it matters. It will matter in the end how compassionately we have treated one another, especially those among us regarded as “the least.” Eternal life does not begin after death, but long before it. Eternal life, it turns out, is life lived in communion with Jesus and his devotion to the gentle reign of God. So the question is, how much of the life you have lived today is “eternal”? How much of it matters from the standpoint of God’s reign? Would your death today witness to a life that has been lived eternally?

Here is a poem by George Herbert inviting us to think differently about death.

Death

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder groans:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

For we considered thee as at some six
Or ten years hence,
After the loss of life and sense,
Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks.

We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;
Where we did find
The shells of fledge souls left behind,
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But since our Savior’s death did put some blood
Into thy face,
Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
Much in request, much sought for as a good.

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
As at Doomsday;
When souls shall wear their new array,
And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
Half that we have
Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.

Source: This poem is in the public domain. George Herbert (1593 –1633) was a Welsh-born poet, orator, and priest of the Church of England. He was born into a wealthy family and raised in England. He was admitted to Trinity College, Cambridge where he went with the intention of becoming a priest. Instead, he became the University’s Public Orator. His skill attracted the attention of King James I through whose patronage he entered the Parliament of England. There he served for about a year. Following the death of King James I, Herbert gave up his secular ambitions and took holy orders in the Church of England. He spent the rest of his life as the rector of a small parish in Salisbury. You can read more about George Herbert and sample more of his poems at the Poetry Foundation website.

Kierkegaard’s Ghost

(News that’s fake, but credible)

The White House announced today that President Trump is invoking the Defense Production Act for the mass production of tanning salons to treat corona virus infection. Presidential press secretary Kayleigh McEnany told reporters today that the president is becoming increasingly impatient with the slow pace of progress toward developing treatments and vaccines for covid-19.  “The president believes we can substantially cure covid-19 patients if we simply expose them to high levels of ultraviolet radiation” said McEnany. She went on to explain that the administration has determined that far too much taxpayer money has been wasted on equipment such as respiratory ventilators, masks and field hospitals. “If we hit the body with a tremendous, whether it’s ultraviolet or just very powerful light, we can kill the virus without drugs, hospital beds, oxygen or any of the other expensive gadgets these state governors keep asking for. All we need is tanning salons.” McEnany pointed out that Florida has already put this strategy into practice merely by opening its beaches. “All they have to do now is take all the sunblock off the shelves.”

Earlier today in one of his many press briefings relative to the coronavirus pandemic, President Donald Trump advocated the use of ultraviolet light as well as common cleaning agents for the treatment of covid-19 patients. “Look,” he told reporters, “this isn’t rocket science. We know bleach kills the virus on contact. So all we need to do is get the bleach inside whoever is infected. We have the cure right under the kitchen sink. So why are we paying all these clowns in white coats?”

The president’s remarks were met with skepticism by most Democrats and outright criticism by medical experts throughout the country. Though the Ghost has reached out to acting Homeland Security Secretary Chad Wolf for comment, no reply has been received to date. We also attempted to interview NIAID Director Anthony Fauci. Our reporters pursued the doctor into the men’s lavatory of the press room but could not locate him. Our investigators reported, however, that some violent head banking was heard from within one of the stalls along with words to the effect of “I hate my f@#$ing job!”

Meanwhile, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) has reported a steep increase in cases of domestic poisoning over the last twenty-four hours that appears to have been caused by ingestion of household cleaning products. “We are monitoring the situation closely and trying to get a handle on the demographics involved,” said CDC Director Robert Ray Redfield Jr. “At this time, it appears to be primarily a “red state” phenomenon.”

Note: The CDC wishes to emphasize that it is an extremely bad idea to ingest soap, bleach and other household cleaning materials.

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FAKE NEWS ALERT: The above article is satirical. The events it describes didn’t happen.  “There are people who will say that this whole account is a lie, but a thing isn’t necessarily a lie even if it didn’t necessarily happen.” John Steinbeck

THIRD SUNDAY OF EASTER

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19
1 Peter 1:17-23
Luke 24:13-35

Prayer of the Day: O God, your Son makes himself known to all his disciples in the breaking of bread. Open the eyes of our faith, that we may see him in his redeeming work, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

“But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” Luke 24:21.

“But we had hoped….” There are so many tragic endings to this sentence. We had hoped this treatment would finally arrest Mom’s cancer. We had hoped that this time the pregnancy would take. We had hoped that rehab would finally put our son on the path to recovery from addiction. Our gospel places us in the company of two people whose hopes for Jesus, for Israel and for the future of creation have been dashed. Though the scriptures do not tell us why these two disciples were going to Emmaus, I strongly suspect that they were on their way back home. In any event, it is obvious from their remarks that they had given up on Jesus. They were done with the reign of God Jesus proclaimed and ready to put the whole sad affair behind them.

I strongly suspect that, for Lutheran preachers anyway, the emphasis on our gospel reading will fall upon verse 35 wherein the two disciples, returning from their walk to Emmaus, tell those remaining in Jerusalem how Jesus revealed himself to them in the “breaking of the bread.” We Lutherans are pretty emphatic about the “real” presence of Christ in the elements of bread and wine. And that for good reason. For Martin Luther, the true presence of Jesus in Holy Communion was an inescapable corollary of justification by faith. The availability in the sacrament of forgiveness for sin and the promise of eternal life depends not on the worthiness, faith or understanding of the recipient, but on God’s promise to be present in a redemptive way. Faith is not a requirement for the efficacy of the sacrament. To the contrary, the sacrament generates and sustains faith.

These days, however, we are not breaking bread together as a gathered community. Our posture is more that of the disciples on the road with their dashed hopes than the disciples at the table recognizing Jesus in the breaking of the bread. That isn’t a comfortable place for Lutheran believers like me. This discomfort has led many of my colleagues to seek ways of celebrating Holy Communion “virtually” on line, live or by way of prerecorded liturgies. I don’t want to engage in arguments over the legitimacy of these efforts. But I have to wonder whether they do not reflect, at least in part, a diminished understanding of the real presence of Jesus. Jesus was no less present to the disciples on the road where they failed to recognize him than he was at the table where they did. The sacrament is not a commodity we need to get our hands on in order for Jesus to be present for us. It is rather a gift through which that saving presence is mediated in a way that nourishes and strengthens the community of believers.

“While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” Luke 24:15.

It is not my intent to minimize or discount the importance of the sacraments for the life of the church. But I think we need to be reminded that, even as we are prevented at this time from seeking Jesus through these means of grace, Jesus never stops seeking us. He meets us on the road, even when we are separated from the rest of the community, even when we have given up and are moving away from him. Jesus seeks us even when we are not looking from him. Can we recognize this time of separation from our sanctuaries as an opportunity to encounter Jesus on the road? Can we see this time of “fasting” from Holy Communion as an opportunity to sharpen our awareness of Jesus’ presence in our day to day lives? Is this a time for discovering holiness in places where it has always been, but our eyes have been kept from recognizing it? It may be that Jesus is walking with us even now-and we just haven’t seen him yet.

Here is a poem by Elizabeth Bajjalieh who met God “on the road.”

I Met God on a Train Last Week

Bumbling along
As the night sky rose like fire
And the iron angels
Stuck staccato like twigs on the ground
Propped up, reaching out to the masses

And I was on the train
With a man I’d never met
And his brother, wailing to the side

My heart was a rock
Falling through my chest
And they spoke to me
With malt liquor
Singing from their tongues

We spoke
Of God
Of writing
Of Love
And of loss

And he spoke of Hope
And he told me
To hold on
As bittersweet pills
Dissolve in the pit of my gut

He told me
To hold on

These were not the words
I was ready to hear
From slurred strangers on the train

But to speak of God
With a man
Who preached from a pulpit
Of worn plastic CTA seats
Is the closest
I have ever been
To a revelation
Amongst rocks
Amongst sand
Amongst water
Amongst twigs
And iron angels

Source: Friends journal, January 27, 2020. (c. 2020 by Elizabeth Bajjalieh) Elizabeth Bajjaleih is the Interim Advocacy Coordinator for the American Friends Service Committee. She is a graduate of Loyola University in Chicago and has a long history of social service, including advocacy for LJBTQ rights and promotion of peaceful and just resolutions to conflicts in the middle east. She currently lives in Palatine, Illinois.

Recently, our Dear Leader admonished us that “we cannot let the cure [for the Covid-19 pandemic] become worse than the disease,” meaning that we can’t allow trivial concerns about human life jam the wheels of American commerce. Texas Republican lieutenant governor, Dan Patrick, has suggested that he and other grandparents should be willing to risk their health and even lives in order for the United States to “get back to work” amid the pandemic. Indiana congressman, Trey Hollingsworth, told a radio-show host that it’s Congress’s job to sit Americans down and explain to them that dying in a pandemic isn’t as bad as the havoc said pandemic is wreaking on the economy. “We are going to have to look Americans in the eye and say, ‘We are making the best decisions for the most Americans possible…And the answer to that is unequivocally to get Americans back to work, to get Americans back to their businesses.” Meanwhile, in several cities throughout the country people are flooding the streets in outright violation of social distancing orders to demonstrate that no government and no risk to anyone else’s life is going to interfere with their doing whatever the hell they want to do-all with the encouragement of your beloved Dear Leader.

Hey, you all might be right. For my own part, I’m OK with giving my life for the greater good of the nation. If you tell me it’s my patriotic duty to fall on my sword for the future economic well-being of my grandchildren, who am I to flee from this solemn duty? It’s not as though I have an excuse for shirking my civic obligations like, you know, bone spurs. What’s more, I’ve had a good life these last sixty-four years with few regrets. Sure, I’d like to live a bit longer, but who doesn’t? Everybody’s life ends sometime, and I have to admit that dying in a pandemic is no worse and a good deal better than a lot of other ways I can imagine. Being retired, I’m not contributing much to the economy anymore so it’s obviously in the public interest that I expire before becoming eligible for Medicare and Social Security.

But I think if you are going to “look Americans in the eye,” and ask us to make the ultimate sacrifice, you should be honest enough to tell us the whole truth about the size of that sacrifice and how the sacrificial burden will be distributed. You should tell the American people that “opening America up for business again”  while this pandemic is peaking isn’t just a matter of vacating nursing home beds and ridding the country of usless old codgers like me. You should tell the public that you are also putting at risk 2.25 million people with Type I diabetes, like my thirty year old daughter. You will be putting at risk 1.8 million cancer patients whose immune systems are compromised by the treatments they are receiving. Not that it should matter, but sixteen thousand of those patients are children. You should be clear that you are also offering up the safety of 1.5 million Americans with some form of lupus whose medications suppress their immune system and make them more vulnerable to infection and less likely to recover. You should also make clear that you are offering up the 380,000 pre-mature infants born each year in the United States whose underdeveloped immune systems make them especially vulnerable to infection. The cost of prematurely “opening America up for business” will also place 6 million pregnant women at risk for injury, complications at birth including spontanious abortion and miscarriage . Not that you care one wit for these women, but I was under the impression Republicans were hell bent on making sure the unborn get born. I guess dispensing with unborn life is OK as long as it greases the wheels of commerce. Nice to know you have your priorities straight. Not that Black lives have ever mattered to you, but Black Americans, who are being infected and killed at a disproportionate rate across the country from covid-19, will be shouldering a disproportionate share of this noble sacrifice you are asking us to make.

You know full well this isn’t just a matter of finishing off those of us who are “on their last legs anyway,” to use words of a distinguished member of the Fox News brain trust. If you are calling upon the American people to sacrifice big for the economy, you should be telling them that they are not merely being asked to offer up their aged grandparents. Americans must be prepared to give up their siblings, their children, their unborn and their own health and safety.

Your call for us to sacrifice ourselves for the padding of your wallet is a big ask. Still, I am sure the American people will heed that call from their Dear Leader-except those whose grandparents mean more to them than a little more money in the bank; those who have cancer, lupus, are pregnant, have a premature child in the NICU, people of color;or  anyone who is related to anyone who has cancer, lupus, is pregnant, has a premature child in the NICU or is a person of color; or anyone who loves and cares for anyone who has cancer, lupus, is pregnant, has a premature child in the NICU or is a person of color; or anyone who thinks that they might one day have cancer, lupus, be pregnant, have a premature child in the NICU…in other words, anyone with an ounce of human decency.

With apologies to Jesus and the Evangelists, “the economy was created for human beings, not human beings for the economy.” There is a reason why “life” comes before “liberty” and the “pursuit of happiness” in the Declaration of Independence. Without it, the other two aren’t worth a rat’s petunia.  So yes, you can gladly have my life. But the lives of children, my grandchildren, all of the wonderful people in my life for whom infection with Covid 19 would likley result in serious injury or death? Let me put this in terms even a Republican can understand: You can have those lives for your money when you can pry them from my cold, dead fingers.

SECOND SUNDAY OF EASTER

Acts 2:14, 22-32
Psalm 16
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 20:19-31

Prayer of the Day: Almighty and eternal God, the strength of those who believe and the hope of those who doubt, may we, who have not seen, have faith in you and receive the fullness of Christ’s blessing, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

“When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews,[1] Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’” John 20:19.

This Easter has seemed more like Passover to me. Rather than celebrating in a sanctuary surrounded by believers, we had our Easter celebration at home as a family. While the angel of death breathed its threats of sickness and death over all manner of media and the death statistics climbed throughout the world, we ate our meal with the hope and expectation of salvation-a life both here and in the days to come that is more than mere survival. Though alone in our home, we knew that we were recalling and reliving the same narrative shared by millions of households like our own. So though very much alone, we were far from lonely. This night was for us unlike all other nights.

Perhaps that was something like what the disciples were experiencing on that first Easter Sunday spent sheltering in place behind locked doors. Their fear was justified. Rome had few compunctions when it came to dealing with persons it considered a threat to its dominance. Jesus’ crucifixion made that quite clear. People known to have been closely associated with Jesus were wise to keep a “safe social distance” from everyone else on the street. Yet into the heart of this den of fear, Jesus appears with a massage: “Peace be with you.” Peace in the midst of mortal danger.

Peace is the antithesis of fear. Peace is the posture of a heart that rejects fear in favor of faith. And let us be clear, faith is not to be confused with foolhardy recklessness. Religious leaders who encourage their congregations to meet for worship, notwithstanding the danger of increasing the risk of infection for themselves and others, are not demonstrating faith. To the contrary, they have fallen prey to the devil’s timeless invitation to “prove their faith” by throwing themselves from the pinnacle of the temple into the hands of God’s protecting angels. Jesus rebuked that temptation and so should we.

At the same time, however, faith does not shy away from taking risks for the sake of one’s neighbor. That is why we have grocers, garbage collectors, lab technicians, nurses, doctors, police officers, firefighters, soldiers and ambulance drivers who are exposing themselves daily to infection by coronavirus in order to maximize safety for the rest of us. That is why several small businesses in my community are taking out loans to continue the salaries and benefits of their workers during the current shut down. Disciples of Jesus understand that caring for their neighbors, especially those considered “the least” among us, puts them at risk-and they are at peace with that.

This is indeed an age when, as poet Wendell Berry tells us, “it seems too difficult to think of the life of a man grown whole in the world, at peace and in place.” Yet that is precisely who Jesus was and is. For Jesus, his heavenly Father’s determination to redeem the world was more real than the powers intent on ruining it. He understood that eternal life, that is, living out concretely the love binding the Trinity as one and that spills like healing balm into all of creation far surpases the mere prospect of survival. Knowing Jesus is to leave behind the craven fear that sets us at each other’s throats and diminishes our common humanity. It is to be at peace.

To Think of the Life of a Man

In a time that breaks
in cutting pieces all around,
when men, voiceless
against the thing-ridden men,
set themselves on fire, it seems
too difficult and rare
to think of the life of a man
grown whole in the world,
at peace and in place.
But having thought of it
I am beyond the time
I might have sold my hands
or sold my voice and mind
to the arguments of power
that go blind against
what they would destroy.
I leave that behind.

Source: Poetry, June 1967, p. 130. Wendell Berry (b. 1934) is a poet, novelist, farmer and environmental activist. He is an elected member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers, a recipient of The National Humanities Medal and the Jefferson Lecturer for 2012. He is also a 2013 Fellow of The American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Berry was named the recipient of the 2013 Richard C. Holbrooke Distinguished Achievement Award. On January 28, 2015, he became the first living writer to be inducted into the Kentucky Writers Hall of Fame. You can read more about Wendell Berry and sample more of his works at the Poetry Foundation website.

[1] The term “Jews” here is better understood as the “religious leaders of Judea.” Other than Pontius Pilate and possibly the “royal official” in Chapter 3, everyone in John’s narrative is a Jew.

RESURRECTION OF OUR LORD

Acts 10:34-43
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
Colossians 3:1-4
Matthew 28:1-10

This year Easter Sunday will fall at the apex of a pandemic the likes of which few of us have seen in our lifetimes. As we rise to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, the death count from Covid-19 will likely be at its peak. The Sunday on which we usually anticipate packed sanctuaries, our churches will be empty and we will be shut up in our homes. This is a national calamity like no other. On the evening of the 9/11 attacks, we flocked to the church where we found comfort in worship, prayer and the warmth of human embraces. This national crisis compels us to stay far away from each other, avoiding human contact. The coronavirus appears to have rendered ineffective the church’s most powerful agents of healing: the Word calling us into assembly, the sacrament of our shared holy meal, the consolation of the community, the redemptive power of congregational singing and the corporate witness of the gathered people of God in a singular time and place pointing to the larger communion of saints we confess.[1]

Then again, perhaps this Easter is a lot closer to conditions on the first Easter morning. There was no church that day. The disciples were all missing in action and Matthew doesn’t tell us whether they were all together or whether they were scattered across Judea when they hid in the shadows. Unlike Mark and Luke, Matthew says nothing about why the two women were going to the tomb. There is no mention of bringing spices to embalm Jesus’ body. Were they going simply to weep at the graveside? Or is it possible they had an inkling the story of Jesus had not yet come to a close? Is it possible the women came to the tomb not in despair, but in hope? Is it possible they did not come that first Easter morning expecting to find a dead body? I don’t have answers to these questions. But over the years I have learned that the gospels seem more intent on evoking the right questions than giving us the right answers.

These times demand of us a faith that looks for hope in the graveyard. This year Easter comes to us, not as the triumphant conclusion to Holy Week, but as a longing for sunrise in in the middle of a Lenten nighttime that seems to have no end. For many in our midst, Easter will be the promise to which they cling as the darkness of death overtakes them. For many, Easter will be the strength required to stand at the window of an isolated ICU wing and bid a last farewell. The glib phrase that I hear again and again over numerous media, namely, “We’ll all get through this together,” rings false. No, we will not all get through this together. Some will be separated from us and we will have to find a way of going on without them.

This adds a note of urgency to the importance of preaching the promise of Easter. I am not sure we always do that as boldly as we should. Many preachers of my generation have been greatly concerned that preoccupation with eternal life will somehow divert us from addressing evils and injustices in the here and now. If we get our pie in the sweet by and by, why concern ourselves with the trials of this passing world? So the argument goes. The late Marcus Borg, a teacher and theologian I greatly respect, argued in one of his last books that Christianity is losing members and influence because its preaching and teaching are mired in antiquated language and a world view that no longer makes sense to Twenty-First Century people. “Heaven” is one of the concepts he finds unintelligible to modern thought. Borg declares that he has no need for the promise of personal resurrection from death and that “We die into God…that is all I need to know.” Speaking Christian, Borg, Marcus, (HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., c. 2011), p. 201.

Is that really enough? For my own part, it might be. I have lived for sixty-four happy years. That’s not particularly old by my demographic. Of course I would like to live a bit longer. But who doesn’t? I have had a long and happy marriage. I have seen my children grow up into mature, kind and productive adults. I have had two fascinating careers that have been challenging, exciting and deeply rewarding. Whatever regrets I have pale in comparison with life’s many rewards. So, yes I suppose I could simply “die into God” and be content. But what about my grandson, Parker, who lived for only a day in a PICU incubator? What about the millions of children who live for only a few years knowing little more than sickness, abuse and an aching hunger? What about all the Black Americans who knew only slavery and never got to see the inauguration of Barack Obama? For those whose last breath is a prayer of thanksgiving, dying into God might be sufficient. But for those whose final word is a cry of lament, not so much.

An episode in John Updike’s first novel, The Poorhouse Fair, raises this very question. Updike’s story takes place in a state run home for the destitute elderly overseen by prefect Stephen Conner. Conner is a product of the New Deal. He believes in the inevitability of human progress through social evolution and the perfection of governmental institutions. Conner becomes engaged in a conversation among the residents about the afterlife. He shares his vision of “heaven on earth” formed in a future society where illness is overcome by advanced medicine; pollution eliminated through harnessing atomic power; and oppression defeated through the spread of democracy. Mrs. Mortis, one of the residents, asks him whether this heaven on earth will come soon enough for her to see it. Conner responds: “Not personally perhaps. But for your children, your grandchildren.”

“But not for ourselves?”

“No.” The word hung huge in the living room, the “o” a hole that let in the cold of the void.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Mortis spryly said, “to hell with it.”

Updike, John, The Poor House Fair, (c. 1958 by John Updike, pub. by Random House).

I share Mrs. Mortis’ sentiments. If we cannot say confidently to a bereaved parent that what God began in the birth of their Child God will complete and weave into the fabric of a new creation, then we don’t have much of anything worthwhile to say. If the unsatisfied longings of billions for justice, peace, freedom and life never find fulfillment in God’s future, then for too many that future will have been a cruel hoax. A robust Easter faith is not a flight from reality. There was nothing more real than the tomb to which the two Marys were drawn on that morning of our Lord’s resurrection. But I think the women sensed what the gospel goes on to tell us: the tomb is not the only reality and it’s not the last word.

The Easter proclamation is a reminder that the threat of death is finally as empty as was Jesus’ tomb. That doesn’t make dying easy or erase pain of grief. St. Paul does not tell us that death isn’t real, but he does tell us that it has lost its fatal sting. We are not told that we shouldn’t grieve. Rather, we are told not to grieve as those who have no hope. I can endure the pain of separation I am bound to feel at home on Easter Sunday because I have the joyful expectation of being together again at some point in the not too distant future with my siblings in Christ. I can endure losing the ones I love because I believe they are not lost to the God who raised Jesus from death. I can endure the end of my own life because I believe that I will remain within the communion of saints who anticipate the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. I take infinite comfort and joy from the above image of Jesus breaking death’s gates and leading Adam, Eve and all their descendants into the sunshine of a new creation. Easter is different this year. But it is still Easter. The Lord is risen. Alleluia!

Here is a poem by Sister Maris Stella that preaches the resurrection with greater power than many a sermon I have heard on the topic!

Resurrection

from the deep sea wrack
from the green light under the sea
from the coral caves men will come back

on mountain tops where
dropped from the air
or hurled
against the world
their bones grow cold
among the old
rock-frost above the tree-line
they will rise up with the divine
breath breathed into them again
as on the first of men
Adam, newly conceived of clay
on the sixth day
God breathed even somewhere Adam will rise
opening again his eyes
on the world to find
nothing much changed but of a mind
that he was blind before
Abel, first-slain
having lain
longer in the earth than any other man
and Eve with the look of the new Eve
upon her but still Eve
they will rise up having
the terrible trumpets blown
would cry: this is doom

this is doom

who will record the innumerable horde

in hope to see
what publican will mount into a tree

what wind what weather what bird
will shout unheard
against the sound

of whole tribes and families growing up out of the ground

what earth does ever spring
is only a hindt of the thing. 

Source: Poetry, April, 1943, pp. 24-25. Sister Maris Stella (1899-1987) was born Alice Gustava Smith in Alton, Iowa. She graduated from Derham Hall High School in 1918. Two years later she entered the novitiate of the Sisters of St. Joseph and took the name Sister Maris Stella. Smith received her undergraduate degree from the College of St. Catherine with majors in English and music. Shortly after receiving her degree, she became a faculty member of the college. She earned her master’s degree in English at the University of Oxford. After returning from Europe she resumed her teaching role in the English Department at St. Catherine’s. She became a popular creative writing teacher as well as a poet-in-residence.

[1] Yes, of course we have Facebook streaming, U Tube and Zoom. But without wading into the morass of argument over the appropriate use of such tools for worship, let me just say that, for me, a computer screen is a lame substitute for a gathering of people who give you a face to face smile, punch your arm and slap you on the back.

PALM/PASSION SUNDAY

Matthew 21:1-11
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66

Prayer of the Day: Everlasting God, in your endless love for the human race you sent our Lord Jesus Christ to take on our nature and to suffer death on the cross. In your mercy enable us to share in his obedience to your will and in the glorious victory of his resurrection, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

There are no heroes in the Passion narrative. Judas betrays Jesus. Peter denies Jesus. All the disciples desert Jesus at his arrest, leaving him to be summarily tried and executed. Pilate, the agent of Roman justice abandons Jesus to the whims of a lawless mob and, in typical all American presidential fashion, denies all responsibility for the travesty of justice over which he presides. The crowd, which days ago was welcoming Jesus with shouts of praise, now cries out for his lynching. This is a story in which the worst human instincts play out-on the part of government, the church and the people. No heroes. Just traitors, cowards, deserters, corrupt political leaders and out of control mob violence.

The remarkable thing is that every year we congregate to tell these unflattering stories on ourselves. We do that because the good news of Jesus Christ is that we worship a God who loves the world at its worst. If the crucifixion of God’s only beloved Son cannot provoke God to give up on us, spurn us and retaliate against us, what will? Nothing, says St. Paul. “For I am convinced,” says Paul, “that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:38-39.

The cross is good news, but it presents us with a challenge. I recently completed my reading of a document published by the Lutheran World Federation entitled Resisting Exclusion: Global Theological Responses to Populism. This nearly 300 page book is a collection of essays written by Christian theologians from all over the world reflecting on the rise of populist movements and their influence on government. As a whole, the document paints a bleak picture of nations drifting toward control by leaders and parties espousing nationalistic, racist, patriarchal and culturally exclusive ideologies. As the adoring crowd that welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with shouts of “Hosanna!” was so easily persuaded to cry out just days later for his crucifixion, it seems large numbers of people world wide are being seduced into accepting the simplistic world view of an “us against them” universe where it takes a strong and autocratic leader to make things right. Sadly, we in the United States are not alone with our mob of sheep-like citizens frightened by a changing world they don’t understand and eager to yield their allegiance to “the only one” who can “make America great again.” The world so desperately wants a savior to believe in! So desperate, in fact, that it will overlook obvious character flaws, deny plain facts and swallow the wackiest of conspiracy theories to keep its faith alive. The old alliances and global institutions which, with all their faults, managed to maintain a semblance of world order, are now losing support from the nations that built them and falling apart just when we they are most needed.

In the face of all this, I’m sorely tempted simply to give up. I am tempted to retreat into the safety of my retirement just as the disciples retreated into the shadows after Jesus’ arrest. I am tempted to betray the call to take up the cross. I am tempted to sit on the sidelines of the mob since I am not the one being lynched and there is probably nothing I can do to stop the spectacle anyway. I am tempted to hide from my grandchildren the truth about the world they are about to inherit from me and, like the poet’s chirping realtor, rush them past all its defects insisting all the while that, for all its faults, it’s got “good bones.”

But I can’t do that because I worship a God who refuses to give up-and refuses to let me give up. “God so loved the world…” says John the Evangelist. John 3:16. God still loves the world-even after it took the best God had to give it and threw it back in God’s face. So who am I to say things are hopeless? Who am I, who have suffered, sacrificed and given so little, to give up on the world for which God poured out God’s very life blood? Giving up, giving in and running away are not options. Disciples of Jesus are called upon to face the truth about themselves and the world in which they live-in all of its frequently ugly particulars. But they are challenged to do so through the lens of the cross by which all things are transformed.

As hard as it is to hear, the Passion Narrative is one of hope. Hope, it must be understood, is not optimism. We are in the midst of a pandemic. The medical experts are giving us little cause to be optimistic. For many of us, the sun will not come out tomorrow. We will not all get through this together. Many of our hospitals are on the brink of collapse. The doctors, nurses and medical specialists we need to run them are exhausted and getting sick. Meanwhile, our leaders contemplate sacrificing the most vulnerable members of our society, the aged, the sick and the poor on the altar of the economy. Our government is failing us. Our civic values are failing us. The church is failing us. From where I sit, there doesn’t appear to be much reason for optimism. But I continue to hope because we have a God who has not given up on us, because I know that our worst day is already behind us, because I know that as long as we reject Jesus, God will keep raising him up, offering him back to us and chipping away at our stubborn resistance. Though I live in a world that speaks a resounding “no” to God’s gentle reign of justice and peace, I have been claimed by a God who won’t take “no” for an answer.

So I continue to pray that God’s kingdom will come and God’s will be done on earth as in heaven. I continue to watch out for the welfare of my neighbors, work to ensure that the most vulnerable in my neck of the woods are protected, sheltered and fed. I encourage my grandchildren to look forward to the future because I know that the future belongs to the One who raised Jesus from death. That’s not much. Nevertheless, as story of the Loaves and Fishes illustrates, God doesn’t need much to accomplish great things. The world is God’s project and it ends with God being “all in all.” That will probably take some time. But the God we worship has all eternity to work with.

Here is the poem by Maggie Smith to which I alluded above. It reflects a soulful assessment of a world too broken for optimism, but which cries out for hope.

Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

Source: Waxwing magazine (Issue IX, Summer 2016) (c. 2016 by Maggie Smith) Maggie Smith (b. 1977) is an American poet, freelance writer, and editor who lives in Bexley, Ohio. She was born in Columbus, Ohio and received her Bachelor of Arts from Ohio Wesleyan University in 1999, and then went on to receive her Master of Fine Arts from The Ohio State University in 2003. Smith served as the Emerging Writer Lecturer for Gettysburg College from 2003 to 2004 and went on to take a position as an assistant editor with a children’s trade book publisher where she became an associate editor. She left her position, however, to do freelance work. You can find out more about Maggie Smith and sample more of her poetry at the Poetry Foundation website.

Thus far, we have been informed by at least two world leaders, many more lesser politicians, several prominent newscasters and a host of other talking heads that “we are at war” with the coronavirus. I have often questioned the aptness of this “war” metaphor we employ so liberally. In my own life time, I have seen war declared on poverty, drugs, crime, terror and a host of other abstract nouns. To be sure, the coronavirus is anything but abstract. Nonetheless, characterizing the virus, which bears us no malice and seeks no more than what we seek, namely, to live and thrive, seems a little off. The virus is no more our enemy than earthquakes, tornados and tsunamis. All of these phenomena are highly inconvenient for human civilization, but they are not out to destroy us. So I think we need to reconsider our use of “war” terminology if we are going to think clearly about what is happening to us and why.

From a purely homocentric point of view, the covid-19 pandemic represents a huge disruption in our lives and a threat to our wellbeing. But the homocentric point of view is not the only one. The BBC reports that, as a result of reduced travel and industrial activity following pandemic induced restrictions, New York City is experiencing a notable decrease in carbon dioxide, methane, and carbon monoxide emissions and air pollution generally. These reductions in carbon emissions and improvements in air quality mirror similar changes occurring in China, which largely shut down during its own coronavirus outbreak. For the non-human inhabitants of planet earth, the covid-19 pandemic looks more like liberation than invasion. So if we are going to continue using the war metaphor, I think we need to ask ourselves whether we are fighting on the right side.

I am not suggesting for one minute that we should halt our efforts to stop the spread of covid-19 or end our search for vaccines and treatments so that “nature can take its course.” What I am saying is that we need to take a broader view of what is happening to us. Many scientists are doing just that. A number of researchers today think that it is actually humanity’s destruction of biodiversity that creates the conditions for new viruses and diseases such as Covid-19. See “‘Tip of the iceberg’: is our destruction of nature responsible for Covid-19?” The Guardian, March 18, 2020. “We invade tropical forests and other wild landscapes, which harbour so many species of animals and plants – and within those creatures, so many unknown viruses,” David Quammen, author of Spillover: Animal Infections and the Next Pandemic, recently wrote in the New York Times. “We cut the trees; we kill the animals or cage them and send them to markets. We disrupt ecosystems, and we shake viruses loose from their natural hosts. When that happens, they need a new host. Often, we are it.” Ibid. In the immortal words of the comic figure Pogo, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” That being the case, the “war” metaphor is not particularly helpful.

Our best hope of protecting human health lies not solely in stemming this particular pandemic. Nor does the solution lie with ensuring that, next time around, we have enough hospital beds, ventilators and masks. The quality of human health and wellbeing finally depend on our learning to live sustainably in a way that promotes overall planetary health. Preventing pandemics, as well as reducing other threats to human health and wellbeing, cannot be divorced from consideration of global warming, deforestation, water pollution and soil contamination. Neither can we intelligently address the threat of global pandemics without addressing the poverty, inequality and injustice keeping so many of us living in conditions that breed illness and disease.

The scriptures have a word for all this: Shalom. Our English Bibles translate this Hebrew word as “peace,” but it carriers a lot more freight than that. Shalom peace is not simply the absence of conflict. It connotes a state of wellbeing, harmony and working relationships of interdependence. Shalom is reflected in God’s declaration that the created cosmos is “good.” In the first biblical creation narrative, human beings are commanded to “fill the earth and subdue it.” Genesis 1:28. This verse has given rise to a good deal of mischief. For that reason, we need to recall that the Hebrew word “CABASH” translated in Genesis 1:28 as “subdue,” is the same word employed in God’s command for Israel to subdue the land of Canaan. Numbers 32:22; Numbers 32:29; Joshua 18:1. The subjugation of the land meant more than merely driving out Israel’s enemies. Very specific commands were given to Israel directing the people to care for the land and its non-human inhabitants. For example, trees were to be spared from the ravages of war. Deuteronomy 20:19-20. Egg producing birds were to be spared from slaughter. Deuteronomy 22:6-7. The sabbath rest mandated for all human beings, from king to servant, extended also to animals. Exodus 23:12. Moreover, the land itself was to be given a year’s sabbath rest from cultivation every seven years. Exodus 23:10-11. God was worshiped not only as the provider for human beings, but for all living creatures. Psalm 104:10-23.

In Genesis’ second creation narrative, the human creature is placed in the Garden of Eden with a simple mandate: till and keep the Garden. Genesis 2:15. This helps to put everything in perspective. It’s not all about us human beings. It’s about the earth. We don’t own the place. We’re just the grounds keepers. As such, we are responsible to see to it that the garden flourishes and to that end we are given plenty of discretion. Still, our authority to act is not unlimited. If I had enough disposable income to hire a gardener, I would give her a free reign to make decisions, such as what to plant where, how often things need watering and how often the grass is cut. But if I came home one day to find her brother-in-law’s car up on blocks in my front yard, or if I saw her building a jungle gym for her children in the back, I think I would need to have a pointed discussion about the scope of her exercise of control over my property. So, too, centuries of ruthless exploitation of our planet, that in contemplation of capitalism is nothing more than a ball of resources to be exploited for profit, cries out for judgment. This is not how gardeners attend to their proper task.

Can we say that the pandemic is God’s judgment upon us? Not in the sense that God deliberately designed this virus to punish us for our failings. We do not worship a vindictive God. Nevertheless, the scriptures teach us that God created a cosmos with hundreds of interactive elements and interdependent life forms designed to live in the harmony of shalom. When shalom is disrupted, all of life is threatened. Moses solemnly warned the people of Israel that, should they defile the land of Canaan they were about to inherit, “the land will vomit you out for defiling it.” Leviticus 18:28. By any standard imaginable, our earth has been defiled by its human inhabitants. Right now, our planet is struggling to right the terrible imbalance we have inflicted upon it. The covid19 epidemic is only our world’s latest convulsion as it writhes in its sickbed. We can choose to war against the earth and pound it back into submission, or we can take this opportunity to release our death grip on its throat, allow it to breath again and begin attending to its wounds-because that is the only way to find healing for our own.

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT

Ezekiel 37:1-14
Psalm 130
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45

Prayer of the Day: Almighty God, your Son came into the world to free us all from sin and death. Breathe upon us the power of your Spirit, that we may be raised to new life in Christ and serve you in righteousness all our days, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

“Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’” John 11:21-22.

“But even now…” Those are perhaps the three most profound words in our gospel reading. It seems clear to me that Martha is deeply disappointed in Jesus. I don’t know whether she knew that Jesus deliberately delayed two days before answering hers and Mary’s call for him to come, knowing full well about Lazarus’ critical illness. But she is convinced that Jesus could have saved Lazarus if only he had been present. Now, of course, he is present- but too late.

Martha’s expression of disappointment with Jesus might not comport with our protestant traditions of piety, but it is quite consistent with the prayer traditions of Israel as we find them in the Psalms. “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?” Psalm 13:1-2. “O Lord, why do you cast me off? Why do you hide your face from me? Wretched and close to death from my youth up, I suffer your terrors; I am desperate.” Psalm 88:14-15. Sometimes the psalmists were near ready to be done with God altogether, pleading “turn your gaze away from me, that I may smile again, before I depart and am no more.” Psalm 39:13. Though the psalmists frequently acknowledged Israel’s failures under its covenant with its Lord, they were not shy about letting God know in no uncertain terms when they felt God was being less than faithful to that covenant.

Remarkably, the psalmists-and Martha-continue to persevere in their covenant faith, even when it seems to them that God has failed to hold up God’s end of it. Even the psalms most critical of God’s lack of responsiveness testify to robust faith simply by virtue of the fact that they are addressed to this seemingly unresponsive God! However fierce the argument, God and God’s people are still on speaking terms. “But even now,” says Martha, “I know that God will give you whatever you ask.” What did Martha mean by that? Obviously, she had no expectation that Jesus would revive Lazarus. When Jesus told her that her brother would rise again, she probably took it as a comforting platitude, the kind we often hear at the funeral of a loved one. A well meaning friend says to you, “She’s in a better place-” that sort of thing. But although Jesus had arrived long after he might have prevented Lazarus from dying and although Martha cannot imagine how Jesus can make a difference at this juncture, she can’t help but remain open to the possibility that Jesus might have in store something beyond her ability to imagine. That is the shape of Martha’s faith.

That is finally the shape all genuine faith takes in the end. It is hard to imagine myself being “inwardly renewed,” to use St. Paul’s term, when my “outer nature is wasting away,” a fact about which I am reminded every time my mind suggests a good long jog in the crisp winter air and my body informs me that I will be doing no such thing. II Corinthians 4:16. How can one possibly imagine life beyond the grave, that ultimate dead end for us all? Paul knew full well the limits of our imaginative capacities. That is why he reminds us that we “walk by faith and not by sight.” II Corinthians 5:7. It is the only way to walk through troubling and uncertain times where there is no sign of God’s salvation on the horizon and, in any event, the hurt already done seems beyond even God’s ability to heal.

Here is a poem by Amy Gerstler with a lyric description of the dark landscapes we often seem to inhabit. Yet can you sense in the poet’s “once in a blue moon” scent of “the future’s purgatorial breath” the shadow of Martha’s faith?

Doomsday

The dark that’s gathering strength
these days is submissive,
kinky, silken, willing;
stretched taut as a trampoline.
World events rattle by like circus
trains we wave at occasionally,
as striped, homed and spotted
heads poke out their windows.
Feels like I’m wearing a corset,
though I haven’t a stitch on.
Burn the place setting I ate from,
OK? and destroy the easy chair
I languished in. Let birds
unravel my lingerie
for nesting materials.
Fingers poised on the piano keys,
I can’t think what to play.
A dirge, a fugue?
What, exactly, are crimes
against nature? How many
calories are consumed while
lolling in this dimness,
mentally lamenting the lack
of anything to indicate
some faint mirage of right-
mindedness has been sighted
on the horizon? The world
is full of morbid thinkers,
miserable workers and compulsive
doodlers. Darling, my mother
used to croon, you were a happy
accident, like the discovery
of penicillin. When I sense
the zillions of cells in my body
laboring together, such grand
fatigue sweeps over me.
Once in a blue moon I smell
the future’s breath,
that purgatorial whiff
shot through with the scent
of burnt hair, like when sailors
have been drifting at sea
for a long time and suddenly
they see gulls circling
and the ripe composty odor
of land unfurls in the air,
but they’ve no idea whether
an oasis of breadfruit
and pineapple awaits them
or an enclave of cannibals.

Source: Nerve Storm, Gerstler, Amy (c. 1993 by Amy Gerstler, pub. by Penguin Books). Amy Gerstler (b. 1956) is a graduate of Pitzer College. She holds an M.F.A. from Bennington College and is currently a professor of writing at the University of California, Irvine. Previously, she taught in the Bennington Writing Seminars program, at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California and the University of Southern California’s Master of Professional Writing Program. Gerstler has authored over a dozen poetry collections and two works of fiction. She has also produced numerous articles, reviews, and collaborations with visual artists. You can read more about Amy Gerstler and sample more of her poetry at the Poetry Foundation website.