Tag Archives: death

Sermon – Luke 20.27-38, P27, YC, November 9, 2025

12 Wednesday Nov 2025

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When my oldest was about three years old, a parishioner of mine died.  At the time we were still recovering from Hurricane Sandy.  Though many of us finally had our power back, an early snow storm delivered just enough snow to knock out power in some of the local schools and mucked up roads that were already struggling to be freed from fallen trees.  My daughter’s school was cancelled, and I had anticipated just trying to stay warm at home for the day.  But when I got the call that my church member had died – I was dumbfounded.  There was no doubt in my mind that I would go join the family for prayers, but I had no idea how to incorporate my daughter into the visit.  With the weather conditions such as they were, there was no way she could stay anywhere else.  And so began a ten-minute drive during which I frantically tried to explain to my three-year old daughter what death meant, what heaven is, and what God’s role in all of this is.  Of course, I totally forgot to factor into my explanation the fact that the parishioner’s body would still be present, and how her body figured into my three-year-old-appropriate explanation of heaven.  Needless to say, that day was not one of my finest parenting or priestly moments, and I ended up fielding questions about death, heaven, and God for months.

Truthfully, I think adults have just as many questions about death, heaven, and God as young children do.  When we hear the complicated question of the Sadducees to Jesus about the woman with seven husbands, we find ourselves morbidly curious too.  What does happen to this woman in the afterlife?  Would she have wanted to be with one over another in heaven?  Her scenario makes us think of all the stories of loved ones we know – or maybe even of ourselves.  What happens to the widow who remarries in the resurrection?  What about the couple who divorces and later remarries?  Surely they will not have to be reunited with their exes!  Or what about that abusive father, that mean uncle, or that estranged sister?  Do we face them in the afterlife?  Since we do not really have anyone to give us an insider’s perspective, these are the questions that we really wonder about.  And if we have ever held the hand of a loved one approaching death, we may have asked these questions to God, to our priest, or to a friend.  So, when the Sadducees ask this question of Jesus, we perk up, hoping for some real clarity from Jesus, and secretly praying for the answer that we think is best.

The trouble with this text though is the Sadducees are not really asking Jesus a practical question about what happens in the resurrection.  In fact, the Sadducees do not even believe in the resurrection.  The Sadducees are the group of people who believe the Torah – those first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures – to be the only authorized scripture.  None of the other books that we know from scripture – the prophetic writings or the Psalms – are considered valid scripture by the Sadducees.  Because there is neither a doctrine of resurrection of the dead nor a belief in angels in the written Torah, the Sadducees refuse to believe that there is life after this earthly life.  The Pharisees, along with Jesus and his disciples, on the other hand, believe in ongoing interpretation of Torah handed down by word of mouth, and so, they have no problem with the ideas of resurrection presented in other Hebrew scriptures.[i]

This question by the Sadducees about the resurrection, therefore, is not really a question for which the Sadducees are looking for answers.  Instead, this is a question meant to both ridicule Jesus,[ii] and to trap Jesus in an impossible question.  Though we may feel some sense of camaraderie in shared curiosity, the Sadducees are not simply a curious bunch with a heartfelt question.  They are trying to manipulate Jesus and embarrass him in front of the crowd.  Luckily for us, Jesus offers an answer anyway.  The answer is not as specific as we might like, but the answer does offer hope and mercy in a roundabout way.

What Jesus basically tells the Sadducees and those gathered around him is that the resurrection is not like life here on earth.  Life after earthly life is not “Earthly Life, Part II,” where everything is the same, but better.  In the resurrection life, rules of this life – and in particular, rules that applied to Levirate marriage, like a brother taking on a widowed sister-in-law – are not the same as the rules in the afterlife.  Jesus does not explain exactly what this looks like or how this plays out, and Jesus does not fully satiate our curiosity.  But Jesus does give an answer that is full of mercy and love.  Jesus basically tells those gathered that the beauty of the resurrection is that the strictures and limitations of this life are lifted in the life to come.  Things like women being treated as property to be managed, infertility, and grief are erased in the afterlife.  Things like disappointment in marriage, pressure to be married, and even death itself are no longer present in the afterlife.  Things that define us here, limit or frustrate us, or pain us here in this life are absent in the afterlife.  Jesus will never concede to the Sadducees that resurrection life does not exist.  But Jesus does try to kindly invite the Sadducees into seeing that resurrection life is so much more than they can imagine, and so much fuller of true life than this earthly life they know.  Jesus does not answer their question fully, but Jesus does say that the Creator God of Torah is still revealing truth, and that the truth is full of mercy, grace, and love.

I am reminded of the scene from the movie The Matrix where the main character, Neo, goes to visit a woman called the Oracle to find out if he is “the one,” a messiah-like figure to save the world.  Neo goes to the Oracle with a clear-cut question, “Am I the One?”  The conversation that ensues is complex and layered with meaning.  She seems to be telling Neo he is not the one, but we later learn in the movie that she was actually telling him that he is not the one if he will not claim his status as the One.  The scene is as complicated as my rudimentary attempts to explain the scene.  But what the scene reminds me of is our conversations with God about ultimate things.  We often come to God with basic questions and concerns that are rarely answered directly.  But that does not mean we do not get an answer.  In the end, the answer is loving, full of compassion, and ultimately full of truth when we are ready to understand and interpret that truth.

This is all that Jesus can offer us today.  Jesus is not offering an exclusive interview to a top news source to tell us everything we want to know about resurrection life.  We will not be able to watch with bated breath as Jesus answers every question we want answered.  Instead, Jesus offers us a promise to take home.  His promise is that we have resurrection life beyond this earthly life.  His promise is that resurrection life is not some two-dimensional repeat of this life, with the limited happiness we can find here, but instead is a three-dimensional life beyond our knowing because of our limited earthly experience.  His promise is that God is ever revealing truth to us, showing us the most important truth:  that God loves us, shows us exquisite mercy, and offers us unfailing grace.  Jesus’ words today may not be the 60-Minute special we were hoping for, but Jesus’ words today give us something to hold on to in the midst of this crazy, chaotic world that is our earthly home.  Hold fast to the Lord who loves you, shows you exquisite mercy, and offers you unfailing grace.  Amen.

[i] Vernon K. Robbins, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 285.

[ii] Eberhard Busch, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 286

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, April 20, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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I grew up in a small town in rural North Carolina with a lot of evangelicals.  I learned quickly that if I wanted to get along, I had to get really comfortable with my response to the question, “Have you been saved?”  If you have been around the Episcopal Church for long, you will realize that we do not really use that kind of language to describe our faith experience.  But as a teenager, where the prominent local church had “Jesus Saves” blazed in red neon on the side of the church, I got used to that kind of faith language – the desire for certainty, clarity, and conviction.  Now, I am not sure my evangelical friends really believed me when I said, “Yes!” to their question about whether I was saved or not, but “Yes!” was the answer for which they were searching.

The funny thing is, on Easter Sunday, Episcopalians seem to be pretty steeped in certainty, clarity, and conviction too.  Just listen to our songs:  Jesus Christ is Risen Today and Christ is Alive – both pretty declarative titles.  And, after the sermon, go back and count how many times in our liturgy we will say, “Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed.”  After almost two thousand years have passed, we are pretty clear on what Easter means:  the Easter empty tomb is the answer to the cross of Good Friday.  All that has been forsaken is redeemed.  Jesus is alive.  The cross does not have the final say.

For a faith community, across all kinds of denominational differences, who seems so very certain, clear, and convicted about Easter, nothing about our gospel story we heard this morning from Luke has that same certainty, clarity, and conviction.  The women who come to the tomb early Easter morning don’t come in their celebration finery, with bells to ring alleluias.  They come bearing spices to finish the final burial rituals of what they know to be a dead Jesus.  When they find the empty tomb, they are entirely perplexed, even though, as the men in dazzling clothes remind them, Jesus had told them that he would rise again.  And when the women finally start to put the pieces together, and Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and the other women go to tell the apostles, these guys don’t believe them.  Even Peter, who goes to double check, just in case the women aren’t totally crazy, doesn’t go out proclaiming Jesus’ victory.  One scholar tells us, “There is an alternate translation of verse 12 – a reading where Peter does not simply ‘go home,’ but wonders ‘to himself’ or ‘with himself’ at what he has seen.”[i]  I am not sure any of the actors in today’s gospel would be able to confidently say in our liturgy today, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

As ambiguous as our text feels, I kind of love the ambiguity today.  This Lenten season and Holy Week have been rough.  The world outside these walls feels like complete chaos, with structures, lives, and systems being totally upended.  And while that may feel like a necessary action by some, the experience of that action has been destabilizing and debilitating.  In truth, I had no problem this past week walking the path to Jerusalem, hearing of my sinfulness and the corporate sinfulness of world, because the stories of betrayal, abandonment, jockeying for power, shameful dehumanization, the degradation of human life feel very contemporary – not a set of stories from millennia ago, but stories with modern parallels to today. 

The harder parallel for me has been turning to Easter joy – to confidently saying, “The Lord is risen indeed!” when resurrection life feels less real than crucifixion life.  So, I have no problem imagining coming to Church this Sunday with my burial spices, because we’ve been doing a lot of burials lately.  I have no problem imagining the faithful forgetting good news because I have a hard time clinging to the Good News these days.  And I have no problem imagining men not believing women (although don’t get me started because that is probably a whole different sermon!) – I have no problem imagining those apostles not believing the witnesses because when all you hear is bad news, sometimes we lose the ability to hear and receive good news.

The good news is, the Church makes room for all of us today.  The church makes room for those of us so caught up in our grief that we cannot see life in the midst of death.  The Church makes room for those of us so focused on the present moment that we cannot remember Christ’s promises for us.  The Church makes room for those so convinced of their own wisdom that we cannot hear wisdom from those unlike us.  And the Church makes room for those who still have certainty, clarity, and conviction that Jesus saves and there is light in the darkness.  The Church makes room for all of us because we need each other – we need those who are questioning and those who are certain; we need those who see the complicated nature of life and those who have real clarity; we need those who are unsure and those who are convicted.  We need each other because we hold each other accountable.  We are not an either-or kind of Church:  we are a both-and Church.  We hold in tension the reality that Christ is alive with the reality that sometimes we feel like Christ is not alive.  We hold in tension the conviction that Jesus Christ is risen today with the conviction that we sure would like the world to stop feeling like Christ isn’t risen. 

By honoring the both-and, we honor the real Easter experience of Luke’s gospel.  We honor the fullness of our humanity that is probably a little too human to fully understand the divine, sacred thing that happens on this day.  And we honor our longing for some Easter joy in what has felt like a long, dark winter.  Together, we get there a little more honestly, a little more boldly, and with a little more joy that we might on our own.  Christ is risen – we sure hope the Lord is risen indeed!  Amen.

[i] Jerusha Matsen Neal, “Commentary on Luke 24:1-12,” April 20, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/resurrection-of-our-lord-3/commentary-on-luke-241-12-10 on April 18, 2025.

Sermon – John 18.1-19.43, GF, YC, April 18, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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There is something about Good Friday and the passion narrative from John’s gospel that is gruelingly convicting.  On most days we do a pretty good job of convincing others and ourselves that we are fine – that we are working hard, trying to love and serve others, and be a faithful follower of Christ.  But if we are honest, part of what is so hard about facing Good Friday is that facing Good Friday means facing ourselves – facing our failures, our sinfulness, our lack of ability or even willingness to actually follow Jesus. 

I confess that the last four months, one of my coping mechanisms for facing the state of our country has been to read, listen to, and watch less news.  I was finding that my mental health was getting diminished the more time I spent reading, listening, and watching the news, so I just stopped.  I filled the void with music, or people, or movement, but not with knowledge.  That has been my method of coping, to shut out the ugly, painful, and evil, because the alternative has felt overwhelming – so overwhelming that I can scarcely put together words around my devastation about who and how we have become, especially as people of faith.

But coming here, listening to John’s words, engaging in the Good Friday liturgy feels like the exact opposite.  Listening to that passion narrative feels like standing in an ocean of sinfulness, failures, and all that is not of God, and having waves of devastation hit us over and over and over again.  If we are really listening and really being honest with ourselves, all of the bad of this story is not bad that others do – but bad that we have all done at some point in our lives.  We grieve over Judas because we too at times have thought we knew better than Jesus and took matters into our own betraying hands.  We grieve over Peter because we too have prioritized our survival instinct over faithfulness.  We grieve over Caiaphas because we too have argued our way through the ethics of choosing the lesser of two evils instead of not choosing an evil at all.  We grieve over Pilate, seeing how hard he tried to do the right thing, because we too have caved under peer pressure and fear.  We grieve over the chief priests who are caught up in anger and the desire to remove a thorn from their sides because we too have often wished that someone difficult would just go away.  We grieve over soldiers who follow orders even when they know they are doing wrong, because we too have towed the company line.[i]   

Coming to church on Good Friday is our way of turning the news back on, sitting in the ashes, being fully and honestly ourselves in ways that we rarely do because doing so is painful, vulnerable, and scary.  But doing so also opens us up.  When we allow ourselves to face the fullness of human depravity – the fullness of our own depravity that we try so desperately to hide – we open up a path in the darkness to the light.  We agree to this exercise of turning on the news because we trust that the Church can empower us into another way – can help us find light and life in the ocean of darkness and death. 

When I was training to become a priest, I spent a summer serving as a chaplain in a hospital.  The days were long, and you never knew what situations would be thrown at you – from folks making their way through routine surgeries, to people in the ICU unable to communicate what landed them there, to people holding vigil with a beloved (or dreaded) family member.  I remember one day in particular getting paged up to a floor for someone approaching death.  When I arrived, the nurses told me the family had left for the day, but the patient of the family would likely die in the next hour.  The family lived further than an hour away, and had asked that someone sit with her in their stead.  The nurses had decided I was that someone.  And so, I sat, with someone whose story I did not know, whose faith and piety was unknown to me, and, at that point, with no knowledge of what the moment of death actually looked like.  And so I sat, uncomfortably called to a task I felt completely ill-equipped for, and yet, by my identity as Christian, was called to perform.

In that horrible ocean of Good Friday, there is light in our darkness.  Despite all those faithful people who failed Jesus so horrifically and fully, four people hold vigil.  They show up.  They stay.  And, eventually, by doing exactly what you are doing today – sitting in the inconceivable darkness of Good Friday – they see a glimpse of light.  Three Mary’s (Mary, Jesus’ mother, Mary wife of Clopas and sister of Mary, and Mary Magdalene) and the beloved disciple stand near the cross.  They do not protest, they do not fight, they do scheme.  They hold vigil by Jesus, facing the evil of the crucifixion of the Messiah, and they stay.  They do not run away, they do not cover their ears or eyes, the do not try to mask the ugly in something pretty.  They bear witness together, gathering at the foot of Jesus’ cross, staying fully open to the awfulness of the cross.

In that moment of gathering – of not really doing something other than being present – something transformative happens.  Jesus says some of the words we label as the Last Words of Jesus.  Jesus says to his mom, “Woman, here is your son.”  And then he says to the beloved disciple, “Here is your mother.”  What commentators say about these words is that Jesus created the new family unit with these words.  Now, I get a little skittish when we call church communities families because families are so incredibly complicated and the term “family” can be so loaded – often with negative connotations.  Instead, I might say that, in his abandonment and death on the cross, Jesus creates a path of light – a way to find companionship, community, and Christ – through relationships with Jesus at the center.  Peter Gomes describes the moment beautifully.  He says, “…what we find…is Jesus redefining the concept of family:  What it is, who belongs, and what it does.  It should not surprise us that here on the cross…he now reorganizes human affections.  He redefines human relationships, creates a new family, and in the center of it is to be the remembrance of him.  This is a family that is made not by blood, not by the old way, but by love and care:  that is the new way.”[ii]

On the one hand, this new definition of our relationships is beautiful in and of itself, and perhaps that beauty can sooth all the grief we talked about surrounding this scene.  And, on the other hand, there is a charge in this gift, in this path of light.  For months I have been trying to figure out what the call to us as Christians is at this time – especially for the “family” or “community” here at Hickory Neck that is so diverse in its political expression.  What unites us, that community that we have formed for centuries gathering around the common table is found in this moment in Good Friday.  In the turmoil and divisiveness of this time, Jesus reminds us that we are obligated to one another.  We are parents and children.  We are lovers and loved.  Even, and especially, with those people with whom we have no blood connection to – we are bound to one another in Christ.  And it matters when members of our gifted community are being persecuted, are being made afraid, are being made “other” – are essentially being booted out of our community of love.  In this turbulent time, we cannot run off, we cannot avoid, we cannot seek the lesser of evils.  We can gather at the cross and bear witness – bear witness to the encompassing love of Christ and the community to whom we are now obligated to love too.  In a world where we may feel like there is no way, Jesus breathes words of love and life into every one of us – words that cannot be contained in our own lungs and hearts and souls.

I do not know where this path of light in the darkness will take us.  I do not know how Jesus is calling you to be mother or father or son or daughter.  I do know that even in the darkest of days, Jesus sees light in you.  Jesus sees goodness in you.  Jesus see possibility in you.  And if we have nothing left to celebrate, we can walk out of here today commissioned in love and light.  Amen.

[i] Jim Green Somerville, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 300, 302.

[ii] Peter J. Gomes, The Preaching of the Passion:  The Seven Last Words from the Cross (Cincinnati:  Forward Movement Publications, 2002), 32

On the Joy of It Not Being about You…

28 Wednesday Aug 2024

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Photo credit: https://wexnermedical.osu.edu/blog/visit-someone-in-hospital

One of the privileges of the work I do are visitations.  On countless occasions I have visited someone approaching death, someone in the throes of dementia, or someone just bone-weary with illness, and the immediate response when I walk in the door is a huge smile and the lightening of their countenance. 

I am very clear what that reaction is not.  It is not about me:  I have come to understand that the reaction is much more about the collar I wear and associations that collar has with a beloved church community.  It is also not about me bringing God to the room:  God is already there – my presence just sometimes helps people remember that fact.  And the reaction is definitely not about what I bring:  my visit will not physically change the pending death, the continued dementia, or the ongoing suffering – my work is much more about helping the individual find peace and a sense of connection to God in what can feel like a desert.

Despite all the things those smiles and lighter countenances are not, there is still a shared joy in them.  As the parishioner is reminded of God’s grace and love, so am I.  I too take joy in how being a part of a community can make me feel whole.  I too marvel at God’s presence that has gone before me.  I too can receive the peace of Christ in those desert places.  The gift of the visitation is not just for the visited.  The gift is also to the visitor.

I wonder what ways God is inviting you to be that smile and lightened countenance for others.  As schools restart, I see overwhelmed, weary parents, children, and teachers trying to adjust.  As individuals struggle financially, I see the defeated feelings that manifest themselves in hunched body postures and the diminished capacity for hope.  As a caretaker sits through another appointment or misses another engagement, I see a fatigue unlike any other.  To whom is God inviting you, in your daily journey, to be the light of Christ – to be the reminder that God is already there, that a community awaits, and that glimpses of peace can be found?  It is not about you, to be sure.  But you will be blessed as you do the work of blessing too. 

Sermon – Mark 6.14-29, P10, YB, July 14, 2024

17 Wednesday Jul 2024

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Today’s gospel lesson contains one of those iconic stories that is so vivid the story is seared in our minds.  In short, John the Baptist is decapitated by Herod Antipas who serves John’s head on a platter.  On the one hand, the brutal scene, depicted in art for centuries, is one we prefer to acknowledge and move on.  Certainly, this is a cautionary tale for the prophetic life.  John is now dead, and Jesus takes the reins.  But there is so much more to this story.  There is John’s faithfulness to making a way for the inbreaking of the kingdom – including the criticism of Herod Antipas’ marriage to his brother’s wife.  There is the king’s imprisonment of John mingled with his fascination with John, leaving him sitting at John’s feet enthralled by John’s teachings.  There is the vengeance of Herodias, the criticized wife of Antipas, who manipulates her daughter into asking for John’s head.  There is the proud Herod Antipas who makes ridiculous promises to his daughter and spinelessly agrees to kill John despite his knowing better – just to save face in front of his friends.  This is a story so woven in political and ethical intrigue that we do not like to look too closely for fear of seeing modern-day parallels.

But what is perhaps more intriguing about trying to avert our eyes from this brutal, shameful scene is that John’s beheading is not the first time scripture hands us a story like this.   “The story looks like a reprise of 2 Kings 16-21, the story of Queen Jezebel, the enemy of Elijah.  Just as Jezebel manipulated her husband, King Ahab, so Herodias manipulates Antipas.  Just as Elijah indicts Ahab and Jezebel, so John the Baptizer indicts Antipas and Herodias.”[i]  Furthermore, there are parallels to Esther’s story, whose husband also promises her anything she wants, up to half of his kingdom.  Esther uses her promise for good, able to thwart the villain Haman’s plan to kill off her fellow Jewish brothers and sisters.  Reflecting on the canon of scripture, we cannot avoid the ugly truth that scholar Amy-Jill Levine uncovers:  that “Death at the hands of corrupt authorities is the fate of John, and Jesus, and of countless others who have done the right thing, at the cost of their own lives.”[ii]

So, what do we do with this tale of terror laid at our feet today – a tale told time and time again in scripture?  I am intrigued by scholar Matt Skinner’s instruction look at the disciples.[iii]  In the very last line of our text today, Mark says, “When his disciples heard about [John the Baptizer’s murder], they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.”[iv]  If you remember, in the text last week, Jesus was shut down in his hometown and unable to perform miracles, instead sending out the twelve in pairs to cast out demons and to heal the sick.  For Jesus and his disciples, they got back to work.  And if we kept reading Mark’s gospel, in the verses that follow today’s story, we will hear how Jesus and disciples go on about their work, with Jesus miraculously feeding five thousand people.  John’s death is horrific, brought about by evil and sinfulness.  And yet, his disciples boldly come forward and bury his body.  Jesus sees John’s death and must know a similar fate awaits him.  And yet, he and his disciples get back to work, doing the good news of God in Christ.

Stories like John’s beheading are indeed graphic, sobering stories of what awaits those who live in the light of God.  And yet, time and again, Elijah, Esther, John the Baptizer, Jesus, and Jesus’ disciples keep going.  They keep doing the next good thing.  There is part of that model that feels unjust – surely, we should be fighting for justice, standing up to those who abuse power, who manipulate authority, whose self-centeredness and pride promote evil.  We revere plenty of saints who did just that kind of work.  And yet today, in the face of brutality, hopelessness, and injustice, the disciples of John and the disciples of Jesus just keep going.  They keep doing the work of the kingdom.

We are in an unprecedented time of political turmoil.  And in the coming weeks and months, given our diverse political backgrounds in this community, we will likely disagree about what our country can and should be doing.  But what brings us to this common table every week is a commitment to the life and ministry of Christ – the bringing about of a kingdom that is not of this world.  We will need each other – sometimes to figure out what the next best thing is, sometimes for the encouragement to do the next best thing, and always as a reminder that we disciples of Jesus need each other to do the next best thing.  We know from John, Jesus, Elijah, and others that doing the next best thing may end in personal suffering.  But we also know that continuing to do that next best thing helps bring us just a little bit closer to that kingdom here on earth.  We go together.  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine, The Gospel of Mark:  A Beginner’s Guide to the Good News (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 2023), 38-39.

[ii] Levine, 42.

[iii] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Mark 6:14-29,” July 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-15-2/commentary-on-mark-614-29-6 on July 12, 2024.

[iv] Mark 6.29.

On the Busyness of Holy Week…

27 Wednesday Mar 2024

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Photo credit: https://www.redletterchristians.org/why-we-want-to-skip-holy-week/

Holy Week is a funny time for liturgical churches.  Growing up in the United Methodist Church, I remember one Sunday (Palm Sunday), we put nails in the cross, and the next Sunday (Easter Sunday), we would put flowers in the same holes where those nails had been.  But services between the two Sundays were rare, if not nonexistent.  Once I became an Episcopalian, a whole world of liturgical wonders opened up.  Each church did Holy Week a little differently, but invariably, there was some kind of worship every night of Holy Week.  There were the traditional Triduum services:  Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil.  But then there were a whole variety of others things:  Taizé worship, Compline, Evensong, Healing Services, Tenebrae, Lessons and Carols, Vespers, and even special concerts. 

Among ecumenical clergy, I often get looks of skepticism, as if they wonder why we do that to ourselves (i.e. work so many nights in a row).  They are not wrong (it is certainly taxing), and I also do not promote the kind of martyred attitude many clergy assume while doing it.  For most of us though, there is something deeper happening.  Fellow clergyman Tim Schneck said it best in a recent post, “When you hear clergy strongly encouraging you to attend the services of Holy Week, especially the Great Three Days (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, the Easter Vigil), it’s not just because they like to see more people in the pews, or it’s good for their egos, or they want parishioners to see how much effort goes into these liturgies.  It’s because they believe in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ and the transforming power of the Christian faith.  It’s because they love you and want nothing more than for you to have such a moving encounter with our Lord, that it will change your life.  It’s an invitation rooted in profound love, and a recognition that there is literally nothing more important in the entire world than to participate fully as we collectively journey from the Upper Room to Calvary to the Empty Tomb.” 

I know life is full and stressful.  I know in my area, many families are rapidly approaching Spring Break and have a load of things to do to prepare.  But as a pastor – maybe your pastor – I want to gift you this most sacred week for your spiritual journey.  Whether you tune in online or join us in person at my church, let yourself be stirred by liturgies you do not often see, by actions you rarely do, and by music your rarely hear.  In what can easily feel like just another week, make a point to find yourself a church that can stir your curiosity about faith or your longing for meaningful connection or a sense of belonging.  But mostly, know that whatever you can do – even if it’s just Easter, know that there is a place where everyday this week, you can be reminded that you are loved – deeply, profoundly, and unconditionally.  And if you want to hear, taste, smell, see, and touch that love, the Church is waiting for you. 

Sermon – Mt. 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YB, February 14, 2024

21 Wednesday Feb 2024

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This morning, I got a fun text from a friend.  “Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!” she exclaimed.  I have seen all sorts of humor about the confluence of Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday this year.  From questions about whether the clergy might be making the sign of a heart instead of the sign of a cross with our ashes tonight (sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping that wasn’t just a rumor); to a meme from the National Church that says  “You can’t have VaLENTines with the LENT”; to actual candy conversation hearts that say “U R Dust,” “Ashes 2 Ashes,” or “Repent” instead of the traditional “Be Mine,” “True Love,” or “Kiss Me.”  Even my own daughter petulantly asked me, “Do we always have to celebrate Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day??”

Though the humor has been fun, what lurks under the surface is a discomfort with talking about death – especially on a day meant to be for celebrating the happiness of love.  But part of my job as a priest is to bring a certain sobriety about death to the world – no matter the day.  That is not to say that I am a party pooper or that I don’t like a good box of chocolates myself, but my role as a priest is to name the truth about what happens in death – earthly death and reunion with our Lord in eternal life.  In fact, the Church is one of the few places left in the world that openly and regularly talks about death.  In a world that encourages anti-aging treatments, who has desensitized us to death as we have moved away from an agrarian lifestyle, and whose medical advances have extended life much longer than before, we learn that death can be conquered and should be fought at all costs.

Pushing against this secular understanding of death, the Church gives us Ash Wednesday – even on Valentine’s Day.  The Church looks at our flailing efforts to preserve life and as we humbly come to the altar rail, rubs gritty ash on our heads and says, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  There is no, “Don’t worry about death; you’ll be fine!”  Instead, those grave words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” echo in our heads, haunting our thoughts.  Every year the Church reminds us of the finite amount of time we have on this earth – even on a day seems like we should be talking about love and life.

This is why I love Lent so much.  The Church dedicates forty days to a time where we cut to the chase and honestly assess our relationship with God.  We take a sobering look at our lives, a sobering look that could be reserved only for the time of death, and we discern what manifestation of sinfulness has pulled us away from God.  Our Prayer Book defines sin as “the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.”[i]  Lent is the season when we focus on repentance from our sin – not just a feeling guilty about our sinfulness, but eagerly seeking ways to amend those relationships and turn back toward resurrection living.  What most people get only at the time of death, we are given every year at the time of Lent:  a time of sobering realignment. 

This is why we get Matthew’s gospel lesson on Ash Wednesday.  As we begin our sobering Lenten journey, the gospel lesson names disciplines and practices that can help us along the way.  Jesus names those ancient practices that have brought people back to God for ages – giving alms, praying, and fasting.  Each one of these practices has ways of bringing us closer to God by shaking up our normal routines.  Of course, any Lenten practice can have the same effect.  Giving up caffeine, reading a daily devotional, or reconnecting with nature are equally valid ways to shake up our routines enough to notice the ways in which we have become more self-centered than God-centered.  Although Jesus names the disciplines of alms giving, prayer, and fasting, the actual discipline itself is not the issue for Jesus.  The issue is our intentions in our practice. 

This is why we hear Jesus labeling so many people as hypocrites in our gospel lesson today.  Jesus is less concerned about what disciplines we assume and is more concerned about the authenticity behind those disciplines.  Jesus is not arguing that private acts are authentic and public ones are inauthentic by nature.  What matters is the desire and motivation behind these practices.  We have all seen this in action.  One of my favorite comediennes jokes about this very behavior in one of her shows.  She talks about how people sometimes use prayer requests as a means of gossip.  In one of her jokes, she has the gossiper of the church inviting people into a prayer circle so that they can pray for someone in the church who just got pregnant, even though the news was supposed to be private.  We all know the kind of hypocritical behavior Jesus is addressing.  This kind of behavior will never get us to the sobriety we need to right our relationship with God and others.

Of course, any kind of practice we take up this Lent can be corrupted.  The giving up of a particular kind of food can be more for weight loss than a connection to God.  The taking up of a volunteer activity can be to fulfill a requirement for something else.  Whatever we do this Lent, that deprivation or incorporation is meant to help us restore our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  So, when we give up a food, instead of glorying in the fact that we lost a few pounds, we can see how that food has become an emotional crutch that keeps us from leaning on God and others.  When we take on a new prayer routine, we slowly begin to see how little time we give to God in our daily lives.  Whatever our practice, Jesus is concerned that authenticity be at the heart, so that we can more readily prepare for Good Friday and Easter.[ii] 

And so, in order to shake us out of our self-centered, sinful, distant ways, especially on a day for love, Ash Wednesday gives us death.  Ash Wednesday grittily, messily, publicly reminds us of our death, and then leaves us marked so that we can humbly enter a Lenten reconnection with God.  Ash Wednesday throws death in our faces so that we can wake up in a world that would have us keep striving for longevity of earthly life or superficial happiness instead of striving for intimacy with God here and now.  This Ash Wednesday, our ashes are the outward reminder of the sobering journey we now begin, because only when we consider our own death can we begin to see the resurrection glory that awaits us at Easter.  My prayer is that our journey this Lent is not one of painful guilt or loveless deprivation, but instead one of glorious reconnection with our creator, redeemer, and sustainer.  Amen.      

[i] BCP, 848.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 24.

On Ashes, Valentines, and Ultimate Things…

14 Wednesday Feb 2024

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“Happy Ash Valentine’s Day!” my friend wrote this morning.  At first the greeting made me chuckle, especially given the number of grimaces and eye rolls I have received this year about how the Church has to celebrate Ash Wednesday on a day that is supposed to be about love.  Truth be told, I am not even sure how many faithful will even come to church tonight instead of going out to dinner or staying in for a cozy night with loved ones. 

But what I loved about that greeting today was how it married the two notions:  that you can celebrate love and death all at the same time.  In the same way that the Church soberly says, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the secular world, despite the obvious consumerism of the day, uses this day to soberly say, “No really.  I love you:  I love you my friend, I love you my co-worker, I love you my classmate, and I love you, my beloved.”  These two days, at their root, are meant to talk about ultimate things:  love and death.  And as a priest, when I walk individuals and families toward death, there is nothing but love hovering around.

I wonder if the confluence of Ash Valentine’s Day might be an invitation for us this Lent.  How might you use these next forty day to meditate and act on those things of ultimate significance?  How are tending your relationship with God in a way that acknowledges that relationship’s ultimate significance?  How are you loving your neighbor in a way that honors the ultimate significance of their dignity?  How are you caring for yourself in a way that shows the ultimate significance of your identity as a child of God?  I don’t know if you need some silly candy conversation hearts that remind you that you are dust – or if you need ones that remind you that you are truly loved.  Either way, I hope this Ash Valentine’s Day is a day you can enter into Lent with significance, remembering you are loved. 

On Celebrating Life, Death, and Movies…

04 Wednesday Oct 2023

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Photo credit: https://www.cnn.com/2023/09/28/tech/netflix-dvd-rental-movies-ending/index.html

Well, it finally happened.  Netflix’s DVD business closed last Friday.  Now I recognize that acknowledging I still received DVDs from Netflix may make me seem old-fashioned.  Even a contemporary exclaimed recently, “Do people even have the equipment to play DVDs anymore?!?”  I took a good ribbing, but the truth is I love movies, and Netflix’s DVD business allowed me to watch movies that were not available via streaming services.  I was constantly finding new gems, and still had over 100 movies in my queue that I hoped to watch some day.

For those of us old-timers still watching DVDs, the closing of Netflix’s DVD branch has been tinged with nostalgia and a tiny bit of grief.  Over the course of 18 years, I watched 667 films, each story sparking my imagination, eliciting pleasure, sorrow, excitement, indignation, laughter, and hope.  Obviously there will be other ways for me to revel in the artistry of filmmaking, but there is a certain finality to the closing of this chapter. 

Despite my wistfulness, I commend Netflix for the way they have handled this change.  Instead of wallowing in grief, or attempting to apologize for market changes beyond their control, instead, they have handled this “death” with grace and joy.  Knowing the closing was coming, this year they used their iconic mailing envelopes to feature celebratory artwork honoring how a whole generation has been shaped by their service.  On the week of their closure, the sent a “gift” to every member – a summary of the highlights of our membership – what movies we had watched each year, milestones in our membership, and even the list of movies in our queue in case we want to find another way to see them.  Instead of a death, it has felt like a celebration of life.

In a lot of ways, it has reminded me of the ways the Episcopal Church approaches death.  When someone we love passes, we use the burial office to celebrate life – certainly the life of the one who has died, but especially the promise of eternal life promised in Jesus Christ.  But I’ve been thinking about it over this last week, and the Church honors “mini-deaths” all the time:  the ending of a ministry that is no longer needed or effectively utilized, the retirement of a ministry leader after a successful tenure, or the blessing of a parishioner or staff member who moves away from the community.  All those transitions can be hard because they make us remember fondly the ways ministry blessed us in the past.  But those transitions are also often the source of new life:  a new ministry we could never have imagined five years ago, a new leader whose fresh ideas opens up new opportunities, and new members who shape and mold us into a new community.

I wonder what things feel like they are dying in your life right now – what things you thought would always be there are undergoing change.  Where might the Holy Spirit be inviting you to see new shoots of growth in the midst of something withering on the vine?  How might those “mini-deaths,” be tremendous gifts to you or your community?  How might we take a cue from Netflix, and find ways to celebrate those endings with dignity and joy?  I am grateful for the ways a secular business is helping me see the sacred in our own life cycles.  Let’s celebrate together!

On Loss and Light…

20 Wednesday Sep 2023

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There’s an old adage, at least among clergy, that deaths often come in threes.  As clergy, we are accustomed to walking a community through the death of a loved one.  In death, time sort of stands still, as being present with the grieving, and preparing for funerals takes precedence over all other work that was formerly deemed urgent.  If a second death happens, clergy get a little skittish because of that old adage about threes.  So, death can not only upend a week or two, it can last for weeks on end. 

But recently, I have begun to wonder if subscribing to that adage about threes clouds our vision about what else is happening.  I have had the experience of sitting with someone in the hospital who was approaching death, only to hear over the hospital PA system the tinkling sound that marks the birth of a new baby.  I have had the experience of within twenty-four hours receiving four texts:  one about the death of a friend’s mom, followed by one about a clean bill of health after cancer treatment; another one about a death in the parish, followed by one about the birth of a grandchild.  When we only see deaths in threes, we seem to lose sight of the incidents of life all around us. 

I do not mean to minimize the experience of death – each one is unique and needs time to go through the full cycle of grief.  But I have been wondering if in those darkest moments – whether in death, divorce, or the loss of a job – there isn’t lightness breaking in too.  That tinkling sound announcing a birth did not negate the end of life walk of my parishioner.  But as we made eye contact, that tinkling did help us remember all the moments of life that parishioner had experienced before those last days. 

I do not know what you are going through today:  what losses you may be grieving or what deaths are hanging over you like a cloud.  But as a people of resurrection, I suspect there is life surrounding you too – maybe as quietly as a tinkling, or maybe as loud as a toddler who has found her words.  My prayer for you today is that whatever pain you are experiencing in death today, you might be gifted with eyes to see the blessing of God’s light and life.