Unexpected Savior

Below is the sermon I preached for the Easter Vigil service. Text was John 20:1-18.

Earlier this year, one of the musicians took it upon himself to teach me to project my voice. I don’t remember why this conversation came about, what prompted it. What I remember is standing in the entryway of the church with the musician, and him directing me to shout something. I shouted the first thing which came to mind, which was, oddly enough, “Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!” Then he stepped back, and instructed me to shout again. And again I shouted, “Christ is risen indeed, alleluia!” He kept walking backwards across the entryway, and I kept yelling. It was a Sunday morning in like November, right after the 10:45 service. Some of you may well have been there that day, may have heard me yelling. I felt more than a little ridiculous.

Our Gospel reading for this Easter evening starts not with shouting, but with darkness. This has been a theme throughout our Lenten journey, this movement from darkness into light. From Nicodemus coming to Jesus in darkness to the woman at the well at noon, from granting sight to the blind man to calling Lazarus from the darkness of the tomb, we have been moving from the darkness of not-knowing to the light of the knowledge of Jesus Christ. Yet here it is, Easter vigil, and we are in the dark again.

Mary came to the tomb in the inky blackness of the pre-dawn morning, the darkest part of the night. She came alone, like Nicodemus had come, but with very different intentions. Nicodemus came to talk, to question, to debate. Mary came to grieve. Then to her surprise, the stone was rolled away! She rushed to get Peter and John, and from here the story reads almost like a Scooby Doo cartoon. John the Beloved and Peter the ringleader, take off running to the tomb. John is faster, he gets there first, but Peter is more curious I suppose, or braver, he is the first to actually enter the tomb. They look around for a minute, access the situation, yep, the tomb is open, the body is gone, and then they leave. Just like that, they go home.

But Mary stays. Why isn’t clear. She’s weeping, she cannot yet see the good news, cannot yet see that He who once was dead, has risen indeed. The sun has not yet risen, she is still in the dark. But she stays. Angels appear, clothed in white, one at where Jesus’ head should have been, and one where his feet should have been. But so deep is the darkness of Mary’s grief that even the appearance of angels cannot shed light on the situation. Even with angels, Mary still cannot see.

And then comes the best part of the story. Mary hears or feels something behind her and turns around to see Jesus standing beside her. Only she doesn’t know it is Jesus, she thinks it is the gardener. This is a fitting mix-up I suppose, for our unexpected savior. The one who came first as a baby in a manager, then a barefoot prophet in backwoods Galilee. Who rode into Jerusalem not on warhorse, but on a humble donkey. The Messiah of inglorious origin, the king who died on a cross, finally comes in power and glory, risen from the dead and accompanied by angels, and is mistaken for the gardener. In the pre-dawn darkness, Mary still could not see clearly enough to recognize her Lord and Savior.

Then Jesus says her name, “Mary.” Just her name. And suddenly, her eyes are opened, the dawn light rushes into the darkness of the tomb, and she can see Jesus.

Where he was least expected, Jesus showed up. In the darkness of the night, in the sadness of the tomb, mistaken for the gardener, Jesus showed up. When the journey felt like it was over, and Mary could see no other ending, Jesus showed up to say that the journey was only beginning. What had looked like the end was not the end, what had looked like death was in fact new life.

In Florida there is a little fern that grows along the side of trees. It’s an air plant, which means it attaches itself to other plants and gets its nutrients from the air and water along the bark of its host tree. Living in the air as it does, it has no resources outside of what is immediately available to it. It cannot store its needs in soil or within itself like a succulent. During droughts, when water is not collected on its host plant, it curls up upon itself and dies.

Or at least, it appears dead. Because as soon as the plant gets water again a surprising thing occurs. The tiny little plant, twig-thin and no longer than my finger, uncurls itself. Like magic, deep green leaves appear along the sides. This tiny little plant can go months without water; it has even traveled on the space shuttle to be “resurrected” in space. The smallest amount of water rushes shoots of green in the midst of a dry forest, new life where there once was death.

Tonight we celebrated the baptisms of four members of our congregation. We celebrate the miracle that is Christ’s presence in this simple element of water poured over their heads. It’s just water in this font, water that came from the faucet in the sacristy, through a garden hose, to reach this barrel here. It’s just Syracuse city water, the same water we drink, wash dishes with, wash clothes with. But the miracle of baptism is that it is in something as simple as this water that Jesus Christ shows up. The one who came as an infant in a manger, came and died like a criminal on a cross, came and was mistaken for the gardener, comes in the simplicity of this water.

As we celebrate their baptism, we also remember tonight our own baptisms. We remember that as we come under these waters we die with Christ. We are buried with Christ so that we may come out of these waters alive in Christ. Resurrected into God’s family and free to live again as sisters and brothers of Christ. We remember that we have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. In the simplicity of water and Word, the risen Christ meets us and calls us his own. Baptism is not the end of our journey into God’s family, baptism is only the beginning. The future brings incredible highs and unspeakable lows. We will witness Christ’s glorious ascension; we will suffer in a jail cell with Paul. There will be days filled with laughter and joy, and periods where it is a struggle to even get out of bed in the morning. But the promise we have is that our unexpected Savior shows up in all those places. In the highs and in the lows, Jesus shows up. In nurseries and hospice nurses, the resurrected Christ shows up. In the waters of baptism and the prayers of commendation at the graveside, the resurrected Christ shows up. In promotions and pink slips, in hotels and hospitals, in churches and schools and street corners, the resurrected Christ shows up. Shows up where we least expect him, where it seems the least likely he would be, calls our name, and promises the journey is not yet over, in fact the journey is only beginning.

We have been journeying together throughout these forty days of Lent. Journeying together to the cross. Last night we reached what seemed like the end of our journey, last night we reached the tomb. We extinguished all the candles; we left in darkness and silence. But in the pre-dawn darkness of this night we too discover the miracle, the journey has not ended, it has in fact only just begun. The unexpected Jesus shows up tonight in our lives. Shows up in the simple elements of water and word, in bread and wine. Shows up when things are at their darkest, maybe looking a bit like the gardener, but shows up and points the way forward into the future.

In the darkness of death, the morning light rushes in to reveal an empty tomb. He who once was dead has been raised again! Go now and spread the good news! Alleluia, Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed, alleluia! Amen.

Leaving Well

Last week I wrote about registration day, and the odd tension of having one foot in this place and the other foot firmly re-planting itself in Chicago. I wrote about it knowing I was living with this tension, but assuming my congregation had not yet become aware of the looming reality. I was wrong.

On Sunday amid the joyful chaos of palm processions, the children’s pageant, and the questions about Holy Week schedules, I also fielded one very unexpected question. “When do you head back to Chicago?” The question was honest, well-meaning, asked with a tinge of sadness even. It sent me reeling.

“I’m here through the summer,” I stumbled blankly. “I don’t leave until August, lots of time yet.”

The truth is while I was dealing with the tension I blogged about last week, I was relying on their lack of knowledge to buy me some time. To allow me to ignore a little bit longer the harsh reality that I need to start thinking about leaving this place. But May is just around the corner. And after May comes summer, and Confirmation Camp and Vacation Church School and cook-outs, and before I know it, it will be August and I will be packing my car. If I intend to leave well, it's time to start thinking about what that means. Internship is about learning, and the last great lesson is how to say good-bye.

Registration Day

I register for classes tonight. Well, technically I register tomorrow (1 am), but as I won’t go to bed between then and now, it’s basically tonight.

Registering for classes seems like such a foreign concept right now, a thousand miles from campus and in the middle of Lent. Tomorrow morning I’ll hit the snooze too many times on my alarm, just like every other morning in Syracuse. A little groggier from being up late registering, but otherwise the same. I will stumble into the living room, turn up the heat on the thermostat, and turn on the coffee pot. I will get dressed; pour myself a cup of coffee and head to church.

Tomorrow’s a Wednesday, which are always busy days. I will be on my feet from the time I get in the door. We have two worship services on Wednesdays, I preach and lead both of them. We’re reconfiguring the sanctuary for Palm Sunday tomorrow also. And there’s the midday luncheon with the seniors, adult bible class, and some prep work for Holy Week bulletins if I can fit it in. It will be a busy day, but a fun day of ministry. Filled with all of my favorite parts of the job.

But tonight I register. So tomorrow, as I’m going through this busy day of worship and ministry, a computer in Chicago will know the truth. I don’t really belong here. Despite having been here seven months, having fallen in love with this place and these people, this is not my home. I am a student at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago. I am here only temporarily, to learn, to be a student. This is the odd tension of internship. Even as I immerse myself in the life of a pastor, there is this lingering reality that I don’t belong in this role, not yet anyway. Tonight I make the first steps out of this place and back to Chicago. It is a strange feeling.

Called out of the Tomb

This is the sermon I preached today for the fifth Sunday in Lent. The text was John 11:1-45.

A Sunday school teacher sat in her classroom, surrounded by her students. She had just finished sharing the story of how Jesus raised Lazarus from the tomb, when one of the boy’s hands shot up in the air.

“Can he come to class,” the boy asked excitedly. “I want to meet him, hear was Jesus was like!” The teacher looked at him confused. “Meet who?” she asked. “Lazarus,” the boy responded, “Lazarus, can we invite him to come to our class.”

“Honey, this story happed a long time ago,” the teacher replied, “Lazarus is long dead by now.” The boy’s face fell, “you mean Jesus’ miracle didn’t last.”

That is the strange tension in this story. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, from a tomb no less, a tomb just like where Jesus himself would soon be raised. The resurrection of Lazarus functions as a foreshadowing of Jesus’ eventual resurrection. But Lazarus’s resurrection is only partial. After all, as the Sunday school student pointed out, Jesus’ miraculous raising of Lazarus was only temporary. Lazarus eventually does die. We don’t know the situation surrounding Lazarus’ second death. Whether he lived to a ripe old age and died peacefully in his sleep, or if he contracted another illness, not uncommon in ancient times, and died young, if he died in battle, or was arrested and killed by the Romans for being a follower of Jesus. We don’t know, the scriptures don’t tell us. All we know for certain is he is not alive today, so at some point, Lazarus died.

Another story about someone hearing this text. A hospice chaplain related an experience of sharing this story with one of his patients. The man, once strong and healthy, lay frail in his bed, as disease wracked his body. Hearing how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, the man shuttered. “Hope that doesn’t happen to me,” he muttered. Seeing the chaplain’s confused face, the man went on, “dying is exhausting, I would hate to have to go through all this again.”

The stories this Lent have all been about healing, about shining light into dark places, and in some way about raising people from the dead. Nicodemus comes to understand what it means to be born again, and is raised to new life as a follower of Christ. Jesus crosses the Samaritan/Jewish boundary that kept the woman at the well “dead” to the good news of Christ and offered her living water. The man born blind, unable to work to support himself and forced to beg, was in some ways dead to the economic life in his community, and by healing him, Jesus brought him back into the fold. All of these people experienced little resurrections, ways in which they were “dead” and were raised to new life.

As you may have guessed from the fact that I have it memorized, this is one of my favorite Bible stories. This story was given to me almost as a gift at a time when I was in the middle of a metaphorical death. The end of a serious relationship, a family health crisis that reminded me of the fragility of our lives, and the uncertainty of what my future held, had left me reeling. Things had calmed down, but I still couldn’t find my way out of the hurt these events had left me with. In the middle of this darkness, a friend offered me this story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the tomb. “Imagine what it must have been like to be Lazarus,” she said. “Waking up in a dark, cold, tomb, your face wrapped in a cloth, your hands and feet bound. Jesus doesn’t tell the people to unbind him until after he gets out of the tomb, Lazarus may have been raised, but he had to stumble out of that tomb on his own.” There is some historical evidence that the tomb may have even been sort of s-shaped, requiring Lazarus to pull himself up a ledge and crawl on his hands and knees through a narrow opening. How frightening to wake up and find yourself literally buried alive. But through the fear and the darkness, Lazarus can hear the voice of his Lord calling him to safety, calling him to the light. Even in the darkness, the voice of Jesus Christ promises Lazarus that he is not alone.

We face a million little deaths in our lives. Deaths of relationships, deaths of financial security, deaths of abilities we once had, deaths of the idea that we are invincible, deaths of the idea that our parents will live forever. We die over and over and over again. And like the hospice patient expressed, dying is exhausting. If you have ever been with someone who was dying, you know. Even these little deaths drain our energy, our focus. But the resounding theme throughout these Lenten texts is that Jesus raises us to new life. As many ways as we can find to die, Jesus can find to raise us. And sometimes yes, in the midst of these resurrections it can feel an awful lot like we are stumbling around in a tomb with our hands and feet bound, but Jesus is still there calling us out of our tombs. Calling us to healing, calling us to new life, calling us to the promise that there is life after death.

We die and are raised to new life a million times over the course of our lifetime. While these miracles may not be as obvious as returning sight to the blind or raising the dead, they are no less miraculous in our own lives.

The resurrection of Lazarus in John’s Gospel is foreshadowing another resurrection, the resurrection of Jesus himself. With the raising of Lazarus, we have reached the end of our Lenten journey. Next week is Palm Sunday. Next week we will hear the long story of the Passion, of Jesus’ last days. We will hear of his triumphant arrival in Jerusalem, the last supper with his disciples, the betrayal by Judas in the garden, and finally his death on a cross. It is an old, old story, we have heard it a hundred times, it is imprinted on our hearts. Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, the King of the Jews, the Savior of the nations, dies on a cross. And like Lazarus, he is raised again. But unlike Lazarus, his resurrection is not a temporary one. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven, and is there now preparing a place for us.

John’s Gospel, and especially this Lazarus story, finds us in this uneasy tension of already and not yet. Already the miracle has occurred; we are joined to Christ through his death and resurrection. We don’t have to wait to live our lives with Christ, we don’t have to wait for Christ to call us to new life, that promise has already taken place. Like Lazarus called out of the tomb, we are called out of our tombs of sin and death, called to live free as children of God. Like Lazarus we are alive in Christ.

But there is also this element of not yet. The world is still broken; our pain is still real. These little resurrections that we experience throughout our lives are foretastes of the resurrection on the last day that Martha alludes too, when scriptures tell us that “sorrow and weeping will be no more.” We go through the painful experience of dying over and over again in this life, with the promise that death is not the final goal. Life is. Through the waters of baptism we die with Christ so that we might be raised with Christ in this life and in the life to come, forever. In the end, in the cosmic battle between good and evil, good wins, love wins, life wins. Jesus calls us out of our tombs and raises us to new life. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Grey's Anatomy and the Problem of Suffering

My favorite thing about last week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy was how the cast suddenly realized they were actually characters in a soap opera. First there was Alex Karev’s reflection on dating:

“She works here at Seattle Grace Mercy Death, so I'm sure she’s pretty much gonna go crazy or get cancer or shot by a gunman or hit by a truck, so don’t get your hopes up for Karev’s big happily-ever-after.” A good observation, especially since that is only the tragedies that have happened to women Alex Karev dated. Other members of the cast have been bludgeoned by an icicle, blown up by a homemade explosive, drug under a bus, killed in an attempt to jump to the top of the donor list (only to reappear for an extended run as a ghost/hallucination) or drown.

Karev’s comment is flippant, but Meredith Grey gets to the heart of the matter:

“The universe says, ‘Screw you, Meredith,’ and gives Callie a kid... and then puts Callie through a windshield. I mean, what the hell is going on? What’s the point? I mean, is there a reason for this? Because if you can think of a reason—any reason at all—why the universe is so screwed up and random and mean, now would be an amazingly good time to tell me because I really need some answers.”

Meredith’s elevator lament was possibly the most profound line of television I have heard. That is the ultimate question, why do bad things happen? In the real world, people get cancer, shot by gunmen, hit by trucks. Being bludgeoned by an icicle is less common, but I suppose that can happen too. The point is, bad things happen, and they don’t make any sense.

There are no answers for Meredith (except that Shonda Rimes says so), and there are even less answers for us as we are not characters in a TV drama. But as we journey through this fourth week of Lent we can cling to the fact that ours is a God who understands pain, fear, and the seeming randomness of life. A God who weeps at his friend’s death, and then raises that friend to life. Sometimes resurrection is tangible, like Lazarus in the tomb. And sometimes it is just a feeling of peace in the midst of crisis. Grace isn’t always an answer, but it is a promise. Thanks be to God.