Walking

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

April 26, 2020

3 Easter A

          Don’s father celebrated his 88th birthday back in February so Don decided this was the year to throw a bit of a surprise party for him. Don’s dad is Fred, or Papa to his grandchildren. Fred knew that Don’s brother and sister-in-law would be in town that weekend and that we would all have dinner together for his birthday on Sunday evening. What Fred did not know was that our two sons and their families would be there along with a group of very close friends who have celebrated Fred’s birthday with us for the last 12 or so years.

          Fred showed up at the restaurant expecting a small family gathering. What he found was a room full of people who love him, shared stories, Happy Birthday sung in glorious harmony, a chance to hold his great-granddaughter, lots of wonderful food, and an evening for the memory book. The rest of us experienced all of that plus the opportunity to connect with dear friends we rarely get to see but with whom we have a deep and rich shared story.

          The Road to Emmaus story in Luke’s gospel always reminds me of the way I experience the Risen Christ in the midst of community gathered around a meal and shared story.  From the time I was a child and could not put into words what I experienced, gathering people together around a table has been a sacred event. Whether at a dining room table, a restaurant, tables in the Parish Hall, a meal at a homeless shelter, or around the altar, those gatherings are places where I experience the love of God. On the road to Emmaus, Jesus appeared to the two weary and shaken disciples. Jesus walked along with them, talked and taught with them, explained a shared story, and yet the disciples were unaware of who was in their midst.  But when Jesus broke bread with them at supper time, the disciples’ eyes were opened and they recognized the risen Christ in their midst at the dinner table.

          I suspect that many of us are missing our gatherings around tables these days, whether this table, the tables in the parish hall, our own dining room tables, or any table for that matter. This reading from Luke’s gospel, which I have always loved, makes me a bit melancholy this year. Add to that the admonition in the reading from Acts to repent and be baptized, something else we cannot do at the moment-at least not the baptism part-, and the call of the psalm to lift up the cup of salvation, and today’s scripture passages seem, quite frankly, to be taunting us.  We would love to take, bless, break, and give bread together as Jesus did with the disciples, and lift the cup of salvation. We have two babies just waiting to be baptized. We long for the time when we can do those things together again.

          However, current circumstances force me to look at the gospel reading a little more closely and through a new lens. Because table fellowship is so important to me in so many ways, I have always focused on the scene at the end of the passage where Jesus’ identity is revealed to the disciples in the breaking of the bread. But the reality is that my favorite part of the passage is just a couple of lines. For most of the story, Jesus is walking with the two disciples, who do not know who he is. Jesus chats with them and gets them to explain the reasons they are so sad. Jesus listens to their hopes and dreams which are now dashed. They tell Jesus about the women who found the tomb empty.  And Jesus teaches them all that Moses and the prophets taught about the coming Messiah.

          Only after walking with the disciples for who knows how long and how many miles, and only after being offered hospitality, does Jesus break bread with the weary disciples. Then they recognize Jesus and he vanishes from their midst. In hindsight, they realize that their hearts had burned within them when Jesus was talking with them as they walked along.

          Most of this story is about Jesus walking along with us when we are sad, weary, when life is not going the way we thought it would, when we are disappointed, and hopes have been dashed. Most of this story is a reminder that we don’t always recognize Jesus when he is in our midst.  Most of this story is about hindsight and realizing Jesus was with us all along.

          Today, the Road to Emmaus story reminds me that we gather around this altar to break bread together not to get Jesus to walk with us, but because Jesus walks with us. We lift the cup of salvation, not to get God to do something for us, but in gratitude for all that God has done for us.  We baptize not to get Jesus to be part of the life of the person being baptized, but because Jesus is part of that life. We will break bread, raise the cup, and baptize again, but right now, as the writer of I Peter puts it, we are in exile. We are in exile from each other and from our comforting ways of worship. But I Peter also reminds us that will we learn to trust more deeply in God through this experience, and learn more than ever what it means to believe that Jesus walks with us in difficult times, even when we are unaware of his identity.  Throughout scripture, times of exile call God’s people to claim the presence of God with them-whether 40 years in the wilderness, decades in exile in Babylon, 40 days in the wilderness tempted by the devil, times of exile and persecution in the church of I Peter, or an exile of undetermined length caused by a virus.  When we can claim God’s presence with us in those times, claiming God’s presence with us in the breaking of the bread, the raising of the cup, and the water of baptism will be even more sweet when that time finally comes.

                                                                   Amen.

The Scratchy Easter Dress

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

April 12, 2020

Easter

          When my sister and I were little girls, Easter meant a scratchy new dress, uncomfortable white shoes, and what I considered to be utterly ridiculous white gloves.  And chocolate.  I imagine that we went to church, although we were not a church going family.  I do remember that we had to stay dressed up through Easter lunch, and then we could change clothes and get back to normal.

          As I grew older, Easter came to involve singing in the church choir, being an acolyte on Easter morning, gratitude that scratchy white dresses were a distant memory, and family Easter traditions that involved things like dinner from McDonalds and sailing on the lake not far from our house.  We were in Arkansas, where it did not snow on April 10!  Easter was a festive day even in our own mostly non-church going family. 

          As an adult, Easter has come to involve incredible arrangements of flowers announcing new life, music that blows the rock away from the tomb, a packed church that sings the Alleluia hymns loudly enough to raise the dead to life, a shared sacred meal, and the sheer joy of Easter that brings people together to give thanks to God. 

          This year, I am thinking a bit more about that scratchy dress and those uncomfortable white shoes.  Easter doesn’t seem to fit this year, and our celebration, I will admit, is a bit uncomfortable.  We will sing, but not together.  We are blessed with Mario on the organ and Jake on the trumpet, but we are missing our choirs.  We do have glorious flowers and raised Alleluias, but I never thought I would preach to an empty church on Easter morning!  Easter this year feels a bit scratchy and uncomfortable.

          We have two choices for the gospel reading this Easter.  One is the beloved reading from John’s gospel in which Mary Magdalene finds the tomb empty, mistakes the risen Jesus for the gardener, and only recognizes Jesus when he calls her by name.  John gives us a wonderful story about tears of grief and the joy of being called by the risen Christ.

          But this morning, we heard from Matthew’s gospel, where a great earthquake occurs on Easter morning and an angel rolls the stone away from the tomb.  Rather than finding the risen Jesus at the tomb, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary hear these words from the angel: “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’”  The risen Jesus meets the women as they flee the tomb to find the disciples, and Jesus repeats those last words. 

          These are the words I know I need to hear this morning.   Mary and Mary Magdalene came to the tomb grieving a great loss, wondering what the future would hold and how they would move into a new normal when the angel says to them “Do not fear.”  As we face the unknown, grieve many kinds of losses, and wonder what the future will look like, as we wear masks to the grocery store and wash our hands until our fingers fall off, we, too, hear the angel say “Do not be afraid.”

          This year, as we come to church on Zoom or Facebook Live, expecting somehow to find Jesus here, the angel says to us, as the angel said to the women who had come looking for Jesus “He is not here for he has been raised.”  The women would have wondered what that meant as resurrection was a foreign concept to them.  We say “what do you mean, he is not here.  Today is Easter!”  And of course, in one sense, Jesus is very much here with us.  But in another sense, we, too, hear the angel say “Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee.  There you will meet him.”  Galilee is the place where the disciples first met Jesus-the place where they were fishermen and tax collectors-where their regular life happened.  This Easter is a powerful reminder of the promise that Jesus is out and about in the world, meeting us in our every day lives, pandemic or no pandemic.

          Resurrection is not a day or just an event.  Resurrection is Love and Love is a commitment. Resurrection is God’s love, God’s commitment, God’s promise to humankind that ultimately love triumphs over hate and life conquers death.  Easter is our love and our commitment to God that we will live as resurrection people in the face of whatever challenges life throws us.  Sometimes that commitment is loud and joyful and we sing and laugh and hug and kiss, and rejoice in the new life God has given us.  Other times that commitment feels a bit more like that scratchy Easter dress.  That commitment is uncomfortable, takes us places we would rather not go, and feels a lot like work.  I would say to you, however, that Christ Church has never backed off from the challenge of resurrection work.  Time and again, when the going got very hard here and there was no guarantee of success, resurrection people stepped up, rolled up their resurrection sleeves, and did hard resurrection work believing in the promise of new life.  Christ Church has been practicing the power of resurrection for a long time right here.  Drawing on that practice, now more than ever we are called to be resurrection people and take resurrection hope into the world where Jesus is waiting for us, even if that work must be online and physically distant for a while.

Resurrection is not magic.  Resurrection is Love.  This year, perhaps, that Love feels a bit awkward and celebration is a bit of a challenge.  The good news of Easter is that, despite any circumstances or evidence to the contrary, the tomb is empty.  Jesus is risen and will meet us wherever we find ourselves.  Love and life have conquered fear and death.  That is God’s resurrection commitment to us.  Our commitment to God is to live and love as resurrection people, in this time and always.

                                                                                      Amen.

Feet

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

April 9, 2020

Maundy Thursday

          In 2014 I was on sabbatical during Lent, Holy Week, and Easter.  For the first time since I was ordained in 1997, I had the opportunity to experience how other churches celebrate this season.  On Maundy Thursday that year, I was invited by a friend to help at Christ Church Cathedral in Cincinnati with their “Soak, Socks, and a Sandwich” ministry to people living on the streets of the city.  This was a Maundy Thursday footwashing, not in the liturgical sense, but in a very physical and most certainly spiritual sense.

          My job was to carry water back and forth, taking the dirty water away and bringing back clean water for those who were washing feet.  In between trips to get water, I was mostly an observer.  I remember being deeply touched by the care with which those washing feet removed the shoes, and socks if the person happened to have them, washed the dirty, smelly feet with warm water and soap, rinsed, dried, and lotioned them.   Once the feet were washed and dried, new clean socks were provided, along with a sandwich and a place to sit and eat.  All the while, the two people were chatting about life, kids, worries, hope and dreams and all the things that we hold in common as members of the human race.   Everything was done with such deep compassion and care, and no wrinkled nose at the smell or arched eyebrows at the dirt.  This footwashing was one human being serving the needs of another, just like Jesus did.  The connection was sacred.

          But then my attention shifted to those on the receiving end of the footwashing.  These folks had come into an unfamiliar place, staffed with people they did not know, and bared their tired, dirty feet to a complete stranger to be touched and washed.  They chatted with those washing their feet like old friends.  I was struck by their vulnerability as they allowed a stranger to hold their feet, trusting that person to care for them and treat them with compassion and dignity.  After having their feet washed, a few of the guests wanted to switch sides and wash the feet of the person who had washed their feet.  The people whose feet were washed that day showed me how to trust and be vulnerable with a transforming yet simple graciousness.  The connection was sacred.

          In John’s gospel, there is no bread and wine at Jesus’ last supper with his disciples.  Instead, we see Jesus take a towel and wash the feet of the disciples and tell the disciples that they should wash each other’s feet just as he has washed their feet.  I imagine this, too, was a dirty smelly business as feet were the main means of transportation, the footwear was sandals, and baths were rare.   Having one’s feet washed by Jesus would be a moment of deep tenderness and great vulnerability.

          That tenderness and vulnerability, along with the absurdity of a teacher washing his disciples’ feet, was just too much for Peter.  Peter says to Jesus “Lord, you will never wash my feet.” Jesus replies, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me."  

          “You have no share with me.”  What does that mean? 

          To have a share with Jesus is to participate fully in Jesus’ life-to be completely connected with him.  Only by making themselves vulnerable to the love of Jesus will Peter and the disciples be able to serve as Jesus has served, and love as Jesus has loved, which are the two commandments Jesus gives the disciples this night.  Being vulnerable to the love of Jesus is a deeply physical vulnerability as well as an emotional and spiritual one, actually allowing Jesus to hold their feet and wash them.  The connection was sacred.

          In the midst of a pandemic, when we who claim strength in numbers must be alone, when we who like to have a plan for our lives really have no clue what the future holds, and when we who like our routines have no idea what the new normal will be like, on this particular Maundy Thursday, we are called to let ourselves enter that vulnerability and allow Jesus to wash our feet, at least in our hearts.  In the midst of our vulnerability, Jesus wants us to connect with him so completely that we are able to draw strength from him. To be completely connected with Jesus is to share in Jesus’ vulnerability and to trust that just as Jesus’ vulnerability led to new life, so will ours.  Like the disciples, we will be better able to do as Jesus commands, serving others with the tenderness and compassion of Jesus.  We will be better able to love each other as Jesus has loved us-not from a position of power or privilege, but from the strength that comes from knowing the depth of our own vulnerability and the promise of new life.  On this night, as we worship together yet apart, we are called to claim our deep connection with Jesus.  Even and especially in the midst of a pandemic, that connection is sacred.

                                                                   Amen.

Expectations

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

April 5, 2020

Palm Sunday

          I have been thinking a lot lately about expectations-mostly expectations that have been dashed by the gravity of our COVID-19 situation.  Events we have been looking forward to for a long time-a lifetime perhaps-have been canceled or postponed.  Graduations, family events, weddings, athletic events, end of the school year celebrations, funerals, and so many other cherished events that we expected to go off as planned have been postponed or will not happen.  Our expectations for what life will bring us have been turned upside down as we adjust to the current situation and whatever the new normal will be.

          Palm Sunday is certainly a day of high expectation.  We hear in the gospel reading that a very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the ground.  The people sang and shouted, and perhaps even danced along the road as Jesus road into Jerusalem.  The excited happy throngs of people expected something amazing to happen.  They looked forward to what they thought Jesus would do.  They hailed him as a king as he came into the city, and recognized him as the Son of David, the mighty warrior king who had killed Goliath as just a young boy, conquered Jerusalem, and ruled successfully over the united kingdom of Israel.  But interestingly, when the people in the city asked “Who is this?” the reply was not “the Son of David.”  The crowd’s response was “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”  Prophets are unpredictable by nature, so I wonder if this was the crowds’ way of saying “This is Jesus and we really have no clue what he is about to do.” 

          As we know, whatever the crowd was expecting on Palm Sunday, crucifixion was not among those expectations.  Their expectations of deliverance, of the success the Psalm longs for, of the action of God in their midst-all of that crumbled in on them on Good Friday.  Jesus was a failure and the energy, hopes, and dreams the people had invested were an utter waste.  The God of Psalm 118 had seemingly abandoned them.

          Of course, we know that Good Friday is not the end of the story.  We know that Easter will come, the tomb will be empty, and we will hear the words “Jesus is not here.  He has been raised.”  We expected to come to a packed church, sing our joyful hymns, and experience the hope of resurrection on Easter morning.  We thought we knew what to expect from Easter and what the empty tomb would look like. 

          The disciples and the crowds had no idea what to expect.  They were living strictly in the moment, trying to figure out what was going on.  God’s action on Easter morning was a complete and utter surprise-nothing they could have ever dreamed or imagined.  They were taken by such surprise that some could not believe what their eyes saw and their ears heard because nothing, nothing like this had ever happened before.

          As we walk with Jesus through Holy Week this year, in the midst of confusion, isolation, annoyance, and fear, we are a lot like the people in the crowd on that first Palm Sunday.  We have high expectations for what God will do, but we really have no clue what form God’s actions will take.  What will the empty tomb look like this year?  The promise of Holy Week is not that everything will go according to our plan.  The promise of Holy Week is that God will act to turn our sorrow into joy, our fear into love, our death into life.  What amazing, mind boggling thing will God in do in our midst that we can neither ask or imagine?  We walk through Holy Week and wait, together yet apart, with open hearts and joyful expectation.

                                                                   Amen

SPAM

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

March 29, 2020

5 Lent A

          When my siblings and I cleaned out our father’s house after his death, one of the surprising things we found in his pantry was a supply of SPAM. If you have never heard of spam-the edible kind, not what winds up in our inboxes- you are lucky.  SPAM was invented during WWII as a way to make rationed meat stretch further. SPAM stood for Special Processed American Meat.  That’s pretty much what SPAM tastes like, too.  If you google SPAM today, you will find that the company that makes the product says the word stands for Sizzle Pork and Mmmmm.  I have my doubts.

          Why would this man, who enjoyed good whiskey and fine cuts of beef, have multiple cans of SPAM in his pantry?

          Dad was born in 1933, so he was raised during the Great Depression and WWII.  He had lots of stories about rationing, black outs, creative meals, and the fear of being bombed since they lived in Queens, a borough of New York City.  He also had stories about the normalcy of life during that time-being a cub scout, playing with his friends, tormenting his older brother, getting in trouble, and taking the train to the Worlds Fair in Queens in 1939 and 1940.  The stories were a combination of hardship and normalcy and included references to SPAM among other creative culinary concoctions.

          I have been thinking a lot about those stories this week as we have lived into our new, if temporary, reality and wondered what our new normal might be.  I think we reach back for stories we know and experiences people have had in generations past to ground us in the present and give us hope.  We look for the ways they survived those challenges, thinking that, if we do the same, things will turn out okay for us, too. 

          The Hebrew people were no different.  Over and over again, when the people found themselves in a disastrous situation, whether in exile in Babylon, or trying to rebuild in Jerusalem, or in countless other  horrendous situations in post-Biblical times, the people remembered all that God had done for them in the past.  Primarily and fundamentally, they remembered the way God led them out of Egypt, through the wilderness, and into the Promised Land.  In the psalm this morning, we hear the cry of despair “Out of the depths, have I called to you, O Lord; Lord hear my voice.”  The despair of the psalmist moves to hope as the psalmist remembers what God has done for the people: “O Israel, wait for the Lord, for with the Lord there is mercy.”  How does the psalmist know this?  Because the psalmist knows that God has shown great mercy in the past and trusts that God will do likewise in the present.

          I find myself doing the same thing this morning.  I hear the story of Ezekiel and the dry bones.  I see all of the metaphorical dry bones around us as we cope with a virus we can only control by staying home and I want God to come in a put us back together just the way God put the bones of Israel back together.  Right now.  I hear the story of Lazarus where Jesus says “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus, dead and in the tomb for four days, comes out!  Okay, Jesus, we are waiting.  Can you not do for us what you did for Lazarus?  I confess to no small measure of impatience here.

          One of my favorite passages of Scripture, which will no doubt show up in a daily reflection before long, is from Isaiah 43.  The chapter begins with another favorite passage of mine “Do not fear for I have redeemed you.  I have called you by name, you are mine.”  But later in the chapter, God says “Do not remember the former things or consider the things of old.  I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth.  Do you not perceive it?” 

          Why would God tell us not to remember the former things, when our faith is rooted in the stories of those former things, whether the escape of the Hebrew people, the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, or the centuries of stories in between?

          I think God is telling us not to hold onto those stories as if those are the only ways God acted and acts in human history.  God is always doing something new.  Stories about the ways God acted in the past, whether bringing back together the dry bones of Israel, or calling a dead Lazarus from the tomb, give us comfort because they promise us that God will act again.  The stories call us to watch for the amazing and sometimes mind blowing ways God is acting now and to tell those stories, so that future generations will have our stories along with the stories of scripture to bring them hope and comfort that God will act in their lives.  Those stories call us to allow God to act through us with God’s creativity and mercy so we can be part of the way God brings hope into the present.  The stories of Scripture do not call us to sit back and wait for God to do again what God did in the past, but to actively watch for the unique way God will act now.

          I think my dad kept SPAM in the pantry because that food reminded him of a hard time, a globally hard time, when people banded together and got through with a combination of grit, humor, and determination.  He was not a religious man, but in the lonely years after my mother died, perhaps those cans of SPAM connected him to a former challenging time that his family and the world eventually came through.  As people of faith, we have the stories of scripture and the stories of our own lives as God’s promise to us that God is acting in new ways to bring life abundant into this challenging and frightening time.

                                                                   Amen.

Light

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

March 22, 2020

4 Lent A

          All over social media as well as in other conversations, I hear the same sentiment expressed.  That sentiment is “I had not planned on giving up this much for Lent.”  I can certainly say that we never planned to give up corporate worship for Lent, although we are all learning new ways to find God in worship, which is an excellent, if hard, thing.  We never planned to give up jumping in our cars and going where we want to go to get whatever we need, even though thinking twice about where we go and what we buy is a good discipline.  We did not plan to take up praying intensely for our medical professionals, first responders, the protection of their families, and those sick and dying with a virus we had not even heard of a year ago, although we should probably do that all the time.  Our Lenten plans did not include an ever deepening concern for all who stand at the brink or have been pushed over the financial edge by the economic fallout from COVID-19, along with those who were struggling long before now, or watching us come together as a community-both local and global-to support them.  I certainly never dreamed I would spend the third week of Lent refashioning myself as a digital priest, learning how to take much of the way we gather online, although many colleagues were already doing that in order to reach folks who can’t come to church on Sundays.   This Lenten wilderness has taken on a life all its own for all of us as we all learn to navigate life in new and challenging ways, at least for the near future, and we learn to see what new things God is doing in our midst.

          The stories from 1 Samuel and from John’s gospel this morning are both about new things God is doing.  In I Samuel, Samuel is sent by God to find the king who will replace Saul.  God sends Samuel to Jesse the Bethlehemite to find a king among Jesse’s sons.  Samuel checks out seven of Jesse’s sons, looking for the one who seems most fit to be king.  But God tells Samuel not to look at appearance, or height, because “the Lord does not see as mortals see.”  Finally, after not finding a king for Israel from among Jesse’s 7 sons, Samuel asks Jesse if this is all of his sons.  Well, no, there is one more but he is the youngest and is out keeping the sheep.  Obviously, a young son who is tending sheep is not ready to be king.  But Samuel asks to see the boy, and, indeed, the young son David was the one God had chosen to be king.  God is doing what seems to be a new thing by choosing a king according to the heart, not his size or strength or age or experience.

          In the story of the man born blind, Jesus’ disciples want to know who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind.  Surely someone sinned for such a tragedy to occur.  When Jesus heals the man, a firestorm of controversy erupts and the now healed man is peppered with questions. Who did it? How did it happen?  What did he do?  How did he open your eyes?  The questions could lead one to believe that the formerly blind man was at fault for his own healing.  And yet, through this man’s blindness and his healing, the glory of God was revealed.  Some had eyes to see what God was doing and others did not, but nonetheless, God’s glory was a light shining in the dark.

          These two stories call us to open our eyes to the unexpected ways God is working in the world, even and especially in these days of COVID-19.  In the eyes of the disciples and the others in the gospel reading, the man's blindness must point to someone's sin.  In the eyes of God, the man's blindness was an opportunity for God's works to be revealed.   To see God’s glory, however, the people had to give up their belief that the man’s blindness had to be caused by someone’s sin.  Likewise, in the eyes of Jesse and his first seven sons, and perhaps even Samuel, an older, wiser, more experienced son would be the best choice for Israel's king.  But God’s choice was the youngest, least likely of the brothers because God was judging by David’s heart not his age or stature.  Throughout Scripture, God acts in unexpected ways from promising an elderly, barren couple that they would have descendants that number the stars in the sky, to calling Moses, a fugitive without leadership skills, and on and on until we get to Jesus who calls a bunch of fishermen and tax collectors to be his disciples, and to the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.

          The fourth Sunday of Lent is traditionally known as Laetare Sunday, which means “rejoice” as we take a mini-break from the solemnities of Lent before soon heading into Holy Week.  The reading from Ephesians calls us to “Live as children of light— for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true.”  Living in the light means watching for the new things God is doing in our midst, even now, looking for all that is good and right and true in the midst of all that seems dark and wrong.  God is pulling us closer even as we must be separated.  God is drawing us into new ways of worship, whether at home or online, helping us prioritize our lives in new ways, and showing us new ways of appreciating each other and all that God has given us.  God is showing us our connection with the whole human family and giving us ways to help each other where ever we might be on this fragile earth, our island home.  In the midst of the darkness, God is shining new light on all that is good and right and true and calling us to live in that light, and be that light for each other and the world.  In that new light, even in the midst of loss, sadness, confusion, and fear, we can rejoice.

                                                                             Amen.

Dark

Charlotte Collins Reed

Christ Church Episcopal

March 8, 2020

                                                       2 Lent A

When I was a teenager, I spent many wonderful weekends at Camp Mitchell, the Episcopal Church camp in the Diocese of Arkansas. The camp is on the side of a mountain, set on a cliff with a spectacular view of the valley below.  By day, we were self-confident teenagers, quite sure of our beliefs about God, our relationships with our peers, what we wanted to be when we grew up, our relationship with God, and our salvation.  But when night fell, somehow things changed.  Somehow in the dark of the night, the questions came to the surface.  Suddenly things didn't seem quite so clear.  Something about the dark made us more introspective, more willing to admit that we didn't have all the answers.  At night, the adult staff would position themselves around the camp, not just to keep an eye on us, but also to be available when we needed someone to talk to.  And, as a rule, they would be up most of the night as we questioned the meaning of life, the existence of God, or our futures.  There was something about the dark that brought forth an honesty we couldn't express by day.

Nicodemus came to Jesus by dark.  Nicodemus was a faithful Jew, a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews as a member of the Sanhedrin.  After Jesus' death, Nicodemus brought a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes for Jesus' burial.  He is a righteous man.  And he is curious about Jesus.  Nicodemus has seen Jesus turn water into wine, and many other signs, the gospel tells us, and Nicodemus knows that no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God.  So, full of questions that cannot be asked in the daylight, Nicodemus comes to Jesus under the cloak of night.

“Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

Jesus has a very odd response for Nicodemus.  He does not say "Thank you for coming," or "Yes, I am from God" nor does he invite Nicodemus to join the disciples and come on board.  Instead Jesus says "No one can see the Kingdom of God without being born from above."  What kind of response is that?  Nicodemus is equally confused.  Nicodemus says, to paraphrase, "Are you kidding me?  How can someone re-enter their mother's womb and be born again?"  And yet Jesus is insistent.  No one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit.  How bizarre!

Jesus is stretching Nicodemus, and us, to think of our relationship with Jesus as not based on what Jesus can do, but on who Jesus is.  Jesus points to an organic relationship with God, one in which the believer is born of water and the spirit, a birthed relationship, where the very being of the one being born comes from the one giving birth.  Our relationship with God is based not on what God can do for us or what we can do for God.  Our relationship with God is based on the fact that in baptism we are born of water and the Holy Spirit, on God's time, not ours.  And then the gospel lesson ends with what is probably the most beloved passage in the Christian Scripture: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but have everlasting life."  Jesus came, not to perform signs, but so that all might come into relationship with God, all might be born of water and the Spirit and participate in the Kingdom of God.  God sent Jesus so that we might have a relationship with God as children of God....connected to God in a way that can only be described using the language of childbirth.

During Lent, we can easily think that the disciplines we take on and the things we give up in some way earn us a better relationship with God. We can become absorbed in what we can do for God and what God will do for us.  The point of our Lenten disciplines, however, is the exact opposite.  Lent is like the mysterious dark of the night, where we recognize the faith we put in things and people rather than God and we realize that our relationship with God is not quite what it could be.  During Lent we take on new disciplines or give up pleasures, not to earn anything from God, but to let the light of Christ shine in our darkness and bring us into a deeper relationship with God, not based on what God can do for us, but on who we are as children of God, born of water and the Spirit.  Lent is a time to seek God's healing in our lives, so that the light of the risen Christ can shine in our hearts on Easter morning.

For God so loved the world, that God gave God's only son, so that the world might be saved through him.  In the darkness of the night, whatever that darkness might be, whether grief, or illness, or fear, or broken relationships, anxiety over the future, or any other darkness, Jesus told Nicodemus, and Jesus tells us, that, our relationship with God is not based on what God can do for us or we can do for God.  Our relationship with God is based on who God is as Lover of the World and who we are as God’s beloved children.  That relationship will sustain us through the darkest of nights.

                                                                    Amen.