Jesus Wept

Another sermon for my Parish Preaching course.  This time, the subject was a funeral, and I decided to get a little more creative with it (if such a crass term can be applied).  So the passing in question is that of a young parishioner in some sort of fatal accident.  The idea originally came to me while trying to think about how I would do a sermon in the wake of Sandy Hook.  But I couldn't make that happen, because it was too far removed by the time I got down to writing it.

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Reading: John 11:35

Over two millennia ago, in a small town called Bethlehem, a baby boy was born, named Jesus.  He wasn’t given the honor of a decent birth, just a feeding trough filled with hay and the company of a rather bizarre band composed of an unwed couple, a handful of dirty shepherds, and some noisy animals.  Only alive a short while, Jesus wept.

Not too long after this, strange men came bearing bizarre gifts that were probably none too exciting for a newborn visit the parents.  The bearded strangers bent down close to the boy, one-by-one, and the presence of unfamiliar faces alarm him.  Jesus wept.

The strange men warned his parents that danger was on the horizon, and so they left the comforts of the only home he knew.  He found it hard to understand, and harder to cope.  It was hot and stuffy and sandy and, quite frankly, dangerous territory for a new mother and a baby boy, even with Daddy there to watch out for them.  Jesus wept.

Jesus grew up, like all children do.  He made friends, but children can be very cruel.  Whether it was his hair or his eyes or the way he walked, Mary suddenly found Jesus running into her arms, and through the tears he told her everything they’d said.  She tried to tell him that everything would be alright, but it’s hard to reason with a small child.  Jesus wept.

A few more years have passed.  The boy Jesus and his parents have made their usual trip to the Temple in Jerusalem.  Jesus got lost in the crowd and his parents went looking for him in a mad rush.  This is not the last time it happened, but it will be a few years before he is found in His Father’s House with the teachers.  For now, he’s still quite young.  He was lost and alone.  Jesus wept.

A young man, Jesus thought back on his life before he went off into the world to do his works among the people.  It was a time full of many stories and important moments.  They were private things, and he would not be who he was without them.  He felt joy well up in him.  Jesus wept.

Jesus was baptized by John, in the River Jordan, when a glorious sign appeared in the form of a dove.  He heard his Father’s voice for what may very well have been the first time, loud and clear.  He couldn’t believe it was really happening.  His purpose was recognized in the most humbling way possible.  Jesus wept.

Jesus ministered for some time when the news came.  A close friend of his had died.  Lazarus, practically his own brother, gone.  Mary showed him the place, and he lost it, if only for a second.  Jesus wept.

Jesus raged at the money-changers in the Temple.  He flipped tables and whipped at them with a rope.  His energy spent, he collapsed on the steps outside the Temple and cradled his head in his hands.  What was the point?  Was he doing anything?  Jesus wept.

During the start of that last week, Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a humble animal.  He knew what was to come, and to see the people cheering him on only caused him more pain.  If only they could see it, he thought, they would be somewhere else, looking up at the sky, deep in thought.  He bore the ironic sadness alone.  Jesus wept.

On Gethsemane, our Lord and Savior made one last desperate plea with the Almighty.  He begged for his life, pleaded, feeling he had no business with this cup.  And when he needed them most, his friends fell asleep on the job.  It is just too much to take, everyone deserting him when he needed them most – even God.  Jesus wept.

Even during his final moments, Jesus experienced doubt.  It is the hardest, most painful thing he has ever had to endure, and he can’t fathom why it had to go this way.  He cried out to God, unable to bear the emotional weight of it, “Why have you forsaken me?”  Jesus wept.

Mary went to the tomb, only to find it very much empty.  She mistakes the very man she is there to see for a gardener.  He called her by name, and she replied in kind.  He visited others, mistaken and doubted, but unable to deny the eventual effect he had on them.  He could finally see the seeds that he’d planted beginning to grow.  He gave charges and commands to his followers, and watched as they went about their work.  Jesus wept.

We gathered here today to say goodbye to someone who had no right to leave so early.  Jonathan Wright was young, far too young, and far too promising.  I knew him as well as I knew anyone else in this church.  But after today, the picture is so much clearer.  That’s part of the point, I suppose.  When someone leaves, we don’t want to merely meet and think deep thoughts about the meaning of life.  We want to tell stories.  That is what we do, at the end of the day.  For all our philosophy and theology and psychology and sociology, we are ultimately story-tellers.  It is the oldest art of all, and the dearest to our hearts.

That is why the Bible can be so important to us at times like this.  It tells us as much about ourselves as it does about God – and this is perfectly ingrained in the stories of Jesus.  Some of the stories I just told are found nowhere in its pages, and others were embellished.  But they fit, because Jesus was a man, and yet he was God.

There are many images out there of different “kinds” of Jesus.  My old pastor used to have this painting of a Jesus laughing brightly, as though he had just thought of something so beautifully wonderful he couldn’t help but laugh.  Every culture has some interpretation of Jesus to help them better relate to our Savior – African Jesus, Korean Jesus, Young Jesus, “Hip” Jesus.  Today, we greet another image into our midst, the Jesus who weeps.

It is at times like these that we wonder where God was.  It is a constant refrain, and one that does not necessarily have an easy answer.  I wish I could say otherwise.  In my seven years of higher education, I was involved in the mourning of at least ten people, almost all of them just as hard as this one, just as… stupid.  Where was God, we would ask.  Why couldn’t he stop that drunk, or that bus, or that icy road patch, or that bullet?

But I want us to look at things a bit differently.  It’s not even that we’re asking the wrong question.  It’s absolutely okay to wonder where God was.  It’s even right to look for a miracle.  We’ve been doing it since Genesis.

And there was a miracle!  John also tells us “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”  God became us.  And opened up the possibility to experience everything life had to offer.  And as we all know, life hit God hard.  In and through Jesus, God experienced all the heartache, loss, and pain, that each and every one of us knows firsthand.

That is what can be so powerful about the image of Jesus weeping.  Because that’s God weeping too.  That is the miracle – the solidarity of the Creator.  The knowledge that the same one who formed you once underwent to the ultimate sacrifice to understand the Creation.

There will be days of sorrow to come.  There will also be days of joy.  Days of nothing at all and days of far too much.  Treasure them all equally.  Treasure the laughter, and also the tears.  You have each other, and you have your stories.  Treasure them too.  But most of all, treasure the knowledge that you are not alone.  There is nothing new under the sun, not even for God.  Because even Jesus wept.

Hungry

First sermon for my Intro to Preaching course.  This one was based on a system of "four pages" where we had to move through segments of trouble in the Bible and the world, then grace in the Bible and the world.  Therefore, it might feel a bit formulaic compared to my others.  That being said, the process of constriction apparently gave me a decent burst of inventiveness, so I hope this works as well.

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Reading: Luke 4:1-13

I’m starting off on the wrong foot here.  I’ve actually never participated in a fast before.  I’ve never done 30-Hour Famine or given up much for Lent besides the occasional soda.  And let’s face it, we live in America, one of the wealthiest countries in the world.  I generally don’t want for much.

So can someone tell me why I still feel hungry?  I am full and empty at the same time.  I like to think John Wesley would be proud, but this probably isn’t quite what he meant.  There is something missing, some days, a drought of meaning rather than food, and that is just as dangerous.

As always, Jesus has something to say about that.

Forty days.  Forty days without food.  One can hardly imagine the strain on Jesus’ body by the end.  Science can give us some clue, certainly.  It is not a superhuman feat to go without food for so long.  With enough food in the system, a person can last weeks on end without a single thing to eat.  But it is not a pleasant experience.  It would have taken only the span of a day for the hunger pangs to set in.  Less than 24 hours, probably, before his stomach began to grumble and growl.  His body cried out for food – divinity or no, the stomach wants what it wants. 

Another two or three days later, I would not be surprised if our Lord and Savior was down on hands and knees, crawling along through the Wilderness, barely able to maintain a cogent thought as the hunger reached a crescendo – a screaming void in the center of his belly that cared little for Immaculate Conceptions or Nunc Dimittises.  John the Baptist was not the only voice crying in the wilderness.  Jesus’ own stomach cried out too, not with a high and lofty “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!” but with an exhausted whisper –  “Feed me…”  He was hungry. 

It is likely an urban legend that hunger eventually goes away after too long without food.  But for those with the fortitude, it can be pushed to the back of the mind.  Perhaps a week in, Jesus might have actually found something else to think about besides food.  He sees himself trailing just behind the long train of the people of Israel.  Like him, they are hungry, and they beg and plead for food.  The Lord heard them, and soon they were blessed with manna and quail.

Well… so much for not thinking about food…

Eventually it occurs to him – I’m the Son of God!  His eyes catch sight of some stones, and just behind them, a figure.  Starved and exhausted, Jesus doesn’t know what to make of it.  Man?  Woman?  Human?  Bestial?  Comforting?  Terrifying?  All of the above, or perhaps, none of the above.  The silver tongue starts wagging, and it all seems so simple.  A little divine mojo and, boom, some bread to silence the grumbling stomach.

What’s a Son of God to do?

What are we to do?

After all, it’s Lent, when we as a Church remember Jesus’ 40 days in the Wilderness with 40 days in our own Wilderness.  And we are hungry, too. 

Not literally, though.  Of course, some people do take the season quite seriously, and abstain from something in an attempt to understand better what it was like for Jesus to be on his own journey of denial.  It is a common practice among Christians across the world, and indeed in many other religious traditions.  Over time, it has taken many an interpretation, and these days we ascetically abstain from meat, candy, coffee, soda, television, Facebook, and pretty much everything in-between that might keep us from God.

But here’s the problem: we’re already starved, and it actually serves to separate us from God.

You ever walk into your kitchen and go wandering from cupboard to fridge, knowing you want something, but unable to put your finger on what?  Or maybe you fire up Netflix and hunt around for 10 minutes before sighing with resignation and decide to just put on another episode of How I Met Your Mother because you don’t know what you want to actually watch?

I think perhaps we’re experiencing a similar problem with God.  I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m going to go after a low-hanging fruit here.  We need only look to the spiritual-but-not-religious, the “Nones” that we can’t seem to go a week without hearing about, in the news or the latest Pew Forum poll.  I actually completely get it.  And I get the impression it’s not just me, and it’s not just the “Nones”.  People are leaving religion.  Whether it is the hypocrisy or the judgment or just boredom, they no longer find the communal religious life fulfilling.  And who can blame them?

But here’s the interesting thing.  As near as I can tell, it is not a matter of faith, it is a matter of starvation.  The whole point of the “Nones” is that they still consider themselves spiritual in one way or another.  They understand there is a greater mystery to the universe they can’t grasp.  Unfortunately, we have gotten in the way of that investigation.  The Body of Christ isn’t getting what it needs, and now it’s starting to eat itself from the inside-out.

What are we to do?

What’s a Son of God to do?

After all, he’s starved and probably going insane.  It’s the middle of the Wilderness, and he’s got this… thing reminding him that all he has to do is snap his fingers and he’s got food for days.  And he’s hungry.

But then he sees them again, the Hebrew people, marching along the horizon.  And he thinks about the manna that fed them – food from heaven.  And he understands.

Jesus gathers up what reserves of strength he has and makes his stand against the Tempter.  What pops into his mind is not a mere witty retort, or a snide comment.  He remembers the Scriptures he learned so well as a child.  And one from Deuteronomy comes to him, as if from nowhere, as if it were food from heaven.  “It is written,” he says, “‘Man shall not live on bread alone.’” 

Boom, ding goes the bell!  Round 1 goes to Jesus!  The crowd cheers!! 

Unfortunately, it’s not over.  There’s still two more temptations to go, and even then we see at the end of our story that this is not the last time that these two will run into one another.

But y’know what?  It’s a start.  And it sets the tone for the rest of Jesus’ temptations in the Wilderness.  Scripture is enough to keep him from doing something foolish.  Scripture has warded off temptation.  Scripture has fed him.

That’s what a Son of God does.

And are we not Children of God ourselves?

There is no singular solution to our hunger.  Anyone who claims to know exactly what we need to do to bring ourselves back from the brink of spiritual starvation is either overly-confident or lying.  But it seems to me that we have a pretty good starting point right here.

The way I see it, there is a feast prepared for us in the Word.  And we have been some rather ungracious guests to the table spread before us.  We cherry-pick what we like, taking a verse here and a verse there, and ignore the rest.  We gorge ourselves on the sweet stuff and grow sick of it before too long.  We take a small taste of the bitter food and decide that it is not for us.  And yes, I think it is even possible that some of us feast too much on the bread and the wine, filled up before the courses even start to arrive.  There is nothing quite so poignantly sad as the sensation of a full stomach in the presence of so much delicious variety.  Suddenly you’re experiencing a whole new kind of hunger.

This is the starvation I fear we have, the aesthetic sin of ignoring the feast before us.

Our spiritual lives begin to atrophy when we stick too much to the familiar.  Every course in the Word is of vital importance to our health.  There will still be the familiar taste of Gospel and Epistle, yes, but we must open ourselves to the rest:  the sweetness of Song of Songs, the complexity of the wisdom literature, the Psalms of alternating bitterness and umami, the sourness of the prophets, and so much more! 

It would be easy, in light of today’s story, to say that you should read your Bible in order to prepare yourself for spiritual warfare.  But that kind of talk always worries me a bit.  Instead, I would invite you to come to the feast.  There’s plenty of food to go around, and you’ll be sure to find whatever you’re in the mood for.

But more importantly, remember that this is an open invitation.  A feast doesn’t exactly do much good if there aren’t friends around to enjoy it together, right?  I’m not saying you have to go out and find a “None” and chuck a Bible at them.  But there’s a whole world of flavors available to us, and it would be a shame if we kept it all to ourselves. 

So the next time you reach for a Bible, don’t be afraid to go somewhere new.  Flip to a book you’ve never read before.  Sit with it a while, meditate on it, let it fill you with something you didn’t even know you were craving.  And, for once, be truly full.  We weren’t meant to live on bread alone.

Fear and Loving in Virginia

What follows is a completely fabricated sermon for a hypothetical same-sex wedding.  Of course I could have written a regular old wedding sermon for my class, but I figured, what the hell?  Apologies for the slight cliche and schmaltz of the opening, but I was essentially making a bunch of stuff up, and the point wasn't to create a compelling narrative.

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Readings:  Ruth 1:16-18, 1 John 4:16-21

I was pretty thrown when Amelia and Katherine first came to me asking me to marry them.  Not because I did not agree with their decision, but because I could have sworn they were already married!  They had been members of my church, an affirming congregation in the heart of southern Virginia, for only a short while, and by all appearances they could have passed quite convincingly (if you’ll forgive the careless wording).  They have a house, a car, a beautiful son; they have laughing conversations and the occasional spat; they volunteer at church – Katie leads Sunday school classes, Amy sings in the choir – you get the picture.  But the evidence was right there in front of me the entire time.  As my father loves to say, “if it was a snake, it would’ve bitten you!” 

No rings.  Let it never be said I am an overly-observant man.

So today we come to rectify that.  Frankly, my job is embarrassingly simple.  I am here make legal and public what God has been doing for years – to join these two women together in Holy Matrimony, a most sacred pleasure on my part.  It is a formality, a ceremony not so much of beginnings but of awareness.

It was nearly ten years ago that the two met, and to hear them tell the tale is a bit like watching a carefully crafted dance – passing the baton back and forth to ensure you get every angle of the story possible.  The theatrical nerd in me is unsurprised to know that everything began with a performance of Annie Get Your Gun, with Amelia as the titular lead and Katherine the stage manager.  Anyone with a modicum of stage-familiarity knows that this should have been a formula for disaster, but they made it work.  How else but by God’s guiding hand could an actress and a techie find love?

I will leave it to them to tell the rest of their story, given that they’ve crafted it, naturally, to an art form.  Instead, let us turn our eyes to two other love stories.  They may threaten to overshadow today’s ceremony, but I believe the happy couple will understand.

First is the story of Ruth and Naomi, a beautifully queer tale if ever there was one.  There has been much speculation how to read this tale of female-bonding, and I leave it to theologians more intrepid than I to tackle the ins and outs of what is left unsaid.  But there are some things we do know.  Ruth and Orpah are Moabites who have married into Naomi’s Jewish family.  They are outsiders.  Things only become more confused as, one-by-one, the women all lose their husbands.  They are left alone, with no reason to remain together.  Naomi has plans to go back to Bethlehem, and urges her daughters-in-law to go back to their own families in Moab.  They are young; they still have time to find themselves proper husbands.  Both remain steadfast in their desire to stay with her, though Orpah eventually loses her nerve and does as Naomi requests.  But not Ruth.  Ruth “clings” to Naomi – she knows all too well that there are some things more important than state-recognized legalisms.  Naomi is family, and has been for ten years.  What good would it do to leave her after ten years of love?    And so they go together to Bethlehem, because the Lord is there, delivering bread to his people as they die of starvation.

In spite of all the fear, Ruth makes her declaration of unity.  It is one read at hundreds if not thousands of weddings, but it seems particularly prescient today.  Again, no speculation, just the facts, ma’am.  Ruth knew it, Naomi knew it, Amelia knows it, Katherine knows it, I know it, all of you know it – “what God has joined together, let no one separate”.  Ruth refuses to let even the cold hand of death be a deterrent to her destined love.  In light of this passage, I don’t think I could ever include “til death do us part” in wedding vows ever again.

I hope you will forgive me for getting political here, but there is a lived reality we must recognize.  This wedding is, in many ways, an act of bravery.  When all is said and done, Amy and Katie, and many of us gathered here, will return back to the wilds of southern Virginia, to a state that refuses to recognize the love we now celebrate.  Much like Ruth and Naomi, their shared bond has no legal significance.  They will be two women who are very close, and that’s about it.  The house and car?  Those are Amy’s.  The boy with the unbreakable grin carrying the rings?  He’s Katie’s.  In another state, they would be shared in the eyes of the law, but back home, they are merely roommates.  But they must return to Bethlehem, because that is where there is hope, that is where there is salvation from the famine spreading across the land.

Because Virginia is home.  They may not have family there, but they will nonetheless be surrounded by loved ones.  Their siblings in Christ will surround them with what they need most.  Because in spite of everything I just told you, there is Good News.  There is always Good News.  We in the Church are, at the end of the day, in the business of Good News, of Gospel.

And if you think the story of Ruth and Naomi is a queer one, then I have something even better.  Amy and Katie have a man in their lives.  So do I, and I’m willing to bet some of you do too.  And, spoiler alert, it’s the same guy.  He’s old, but God Almighty does he know what love looks like, and you can’t help but want to be like him, a little more every day.  Who is this polyamorous stud to whom I refer?  Come on, folks, it’s not like I have to spell it out.  I know it’s not Sunday, but really.  I’m talking about none other than the one, the only, Jesus Christ.  The story of Bethlehem didn’t end with Ruth and Naomi, after all.  That baby boy born in a manger under a star grew up to be the very pinnacle of love.  Just like our Old Testament couple, even death couldn’t hold him down.  May the same be said of all of us, most especially those we are here to celebrate today.

Love is a powerful thing indeed.  It makes the world go ‘round.  It topples empires and builds up the brokenhearted.  And when you feel like the whole world is against you, it’s the one thing you can depend on.  Your love for one another, and for God, will see you through.

As we heard from First John, love is what will sustain you even when fear runs rampant.  Perfect love drives out fear.  And there’s a lot of fear back home.  There are those who will question the love you have.  They will use fear and hatred to convince you that what you are is wrong.    Politicians will debate around you, pastors will preach against you, pious and righteous people will condemn you.  And they will be wrong.

Because fear and love are not opposite sides of the same coin.  They are opposing forces of unequal power.  They are not in balance, nor should they be.  Fear comes from a place of weakness, of darkness, producing hatred and misery.  But love, real love, true love, the kind of love I see when you smile at one another?  That comes from a place of strength, of beauty, of perfection.  That spark of love may feel small, but it is more powerful than the collective fear of every law, every misused biblical quotation, every hateful word that comes against you.

And better yet, you are not alone.  And I don’t just mean the community that will surround you, and hold you, and care for you – though we will.  When you love, you emulate God.  In the act of loving one another, you become love, perfect love.  By doing so, you abide in God, and drive out the fear that seeks to silence you and those like you.

Don’t get me wrong, it won’t be easy.  I’m not going to pretend that things aren’t still quite difficult for the LGBTQ community.  It wasn’t that long ago that the United Methodist General Conference voted to maintain its stance on homosexuality in its Book of Discipline.  Some rather unkind words were said, to put it mildly.  We could not even agree to agree that we disagree.  Not long after, North Carolina, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from where we live and worship, decided by popular vote to include a ban on same-sex marriage in the state constitution. 

Sometimes it is those closest to us that cause us the most pain.  Perfect love may cast out fear, but it is not a battle easily won.  Sometimes fear wears the guise of love, and good intentions pave that most dangerous road.  When the Bible is used against a group of people, it is simpler by far to follow the path of the “love the sinner, hate the sin” mentality that refuses to recognize the person as a whole.  To love is to live in God, and so love must never be compartmentalized.

Still, hope springs eternal.  In 2010, Dan Savage began the “It Gets Better” project, which encourages LGBTQ teens across the globe with a positive message of wholehearted acceptance and love through YouTube confessional videos.  On election day 2012, Maine, Maryland, and Washington approved same-sex marriage, also by popular vote, and Minnesota kept a ban out of their constitution.  Our own president even voiced his belief in the freedom of all people to be married to the one they love.

Brothers, sisters, and those in-between, love is winning.  Day by day, love is driving out fear.  And this beautiful, glorious day is another notch, a signpost for the world pointing the way towards Perfect Love.  But Katherine and Amelia shouldn’t be congratulated simply for their marriage.  Ultimately, it is their love we must applaud.  It’s hard to love, and easier by far to be afraid.  That is why love is the stronger contestant.  It takes guts to be that bold, no matter who you are.  And that bold, courageous love is what will change the world for the better.

Singing Ezekiel

So, I wrote a hymn!  Because why not!

The text is Ezekiel's Valley of Dry Bones, and you sing it to WOUNDROUS LOVE (http://www.hymnary.org/media/fetch/99166).

Heeeeeeere goes....

Our bones are tired and worn, we’re cut off, we’re cut off

Our bones are tired and worn, we’re cut off

Our bones are tired and worn

Hope gone and spirits torn

What can we do but mourn in our state, in our state?

What can we do but mourn in our state?

Can these bones live again, oh my Lord, oh my Lord?

Can these bones live again, oh my Lord?

Can these bones live again?

If so, just say “Amen”

Make known to us your ken – what will be, what will be?

Make known to us your ken – what will be?

Your Word brings life to bone – flesh and breath, flesh and breath

Your Word brings life to bone – flesh and breath

Your Word brings life to bone

Pray, make your Spirit known

E’en Death is overthrown in your Name, in your Name!

E’en Death is overthrown in your Name!

And home is where we’ll be, Great I AM, Great I AM

And home is where we’ll be, Great I AM

And home is where we’ll be

At peace and fin’lly free

To sing your victory, allelu, allelu,

To sing your victory, allelu