March 2020
"Three Conversations"
Based on Matthew 4:1-11 (reading at the end of the sermon)
March 1, 2020
During Lent, St. Mark’s has offered Wednesday evening services in the dining room at Churches United for the Homeless for several years. We started doing that after selling our building.
Being a homeless congregation, it seemed appropriate to bring worship to the homeless. If you’ve ever been there, you know it’s often chaotic and noisy, messy and unpredictable.
At times, I wonder if anyone is listening. Everyone seems busy eating and coming and going.
This week was no different. Except maybe there were more children than we had seen for a while.
It was Ash Wednesday, so the order of worship was a little more complicated. A confession of sins. A psalm of repentance. The imposition of ashes. Songs and hymns. Holy communion.
As a pastor, I hoped to engage the people in what we were doing. I prayed that might happen even to a small extent. Needless to say, my expectations were low.
And that’s when the Spirit clobbered me over the head with three amazing signs. She likes to do that when we aren’t paying attention. Three unexpected moments of grace.
The first encounter happened just before the service. As I was standing near the meal line, a man named “Dave” greeted me.
With excitement Dave told me had just bought a new Bible. He pulled it out of his backpack. A big King James Version with a leather cover and zipper. And lots of annotations in the columns.
I asked Dave where he got it. “At Melberg’s in Moorhead,” he said. “Have ever read the Bible?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said, “but now I want to—every day instead of watching TV.” A surprising testimony.
Next, a Native American man in a wheelchair rolled up to me. “Bill” asked me to pray for him. Right there in the meal line.
When I said “sure,” Bill pulled himself out of the wheelchair and kneeled on the floor—even though one of his legs was amputated at the knee. I put my hands on his shoulder and asked God to bless him. Bill started crying.
During the service, Bill came up two more times. To receive ashes on his forehead. To receive communion.
Both times he got of the wheelchair and kneeled on the floor. A simple display of humble worship.
My final sign from the Spirit was delightful. Later in the service, I asked if anyone had a hymn request. Suddenly a little girl raised her hand. She jumped up, ran up to me and said she wanted to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”
My heart melted. When I asked if she wanted to sing it with me, she gave me a shy smile and nodded.
So, I held the microphone as she led the singing. Singing about how much Jesus loves you and me. A truly touching moment.
Three people who showed me they really were listening and praying and worshiping with us. Three surprising grace-filled conversations.
In the wilderness of a homeless shelter. A moving start to our Lenten journey.
Today’s lesson from Matthew also tells the story of three unexpected encounters.
The story begins with a tired and hungry Jesus who has spent 40 days in the desert—homeless by intent. Now he faces a mocking devil, a clever tempter. Who confronts Jesus with three conversations.
In their first discussion, the devil offers what sounds like a harmless request for bread. But, in reality, this first conversation is about love.
Right before this passage in Matthew, Jesus is baptized by John. Where Jesus hears God’s voice say, “This is my beloved son. With him, I am well pleased.” We heard God say the very same words during the transfiguration story last week.
Now, the tempter challenges Jesus by saying, “If you are the Son of God….”
“If” is a word that raises doubts in our minds. “If” is the tempter’s manipulating attempt to make Jesus question if he is truly worthy of God’s love.
The tempter does the same to us. “Prove it,” the tempter whispers in our ear. “Show me where it says in Scripture that God loves you.”
Here in this first challenge, the tempter asks Jesus to “prove it” by turning dusty stones to bread. Just like God’s favorite prophet Moses, who fed the starving Jewish people with manna in the desert. But Jesus doesn’t need that kind of sign.
The second conversation is about life. The tempter transports Jesus to the top of the Temple mount in Jerusalem. The most sacred building for Jesus and his Jewish community.
Here, the tempter challenges Jesus to see if the holy God of Israel will save him from a suicidal leap. To make Jesus a superhero who can never die. Again, Jesus refuses.
The third and final conversation is about power. The tempter takes Jesus to a mountain, just like God led Moses to Mt. Sinai.
From that peak, Jesus sees what it’s like to be king of the world. Cruel Caesars and evil pharaohs and proud presidents who consider themselves divine. The tempter offers to make Jesus CEO of the world. But Jesus seeks another kingdom.
Three unexpected offers that are hard to resist. Three contradictions to the good news Jesus is preaching.
Three questions that raise doubts about the promises of God. Three conversations with a tempter who still speaks in our world today.
Those of us who are queer have heard that voice before. Conversations with preachers and politicians and Christians who tell us we are not children of God.
They say that our transgender siblings can’t serve in the military, or use bathrooms where they feel comfortable. They want to take away our rights and protections—even our medical care.
And like the great tempter, they use Scripture as clobber passages to make us doubt ourselves and God’s love.
Recently I started reading a book called Unclobber (which our Query book club is reading this month). It’s the story of Colby Martin, a heterosexual man who once was pastor of an evangelical megachurch.
But Colby was forced to leave when he started questioning the rationale for excluding LGBTQ individuals from their congregation. Colby writes:
“[After] I studied the Clobber Passages, and discovered that we had been misusing the Bible… to the relief of my soul, my head and heart at last found alignment…. The call of God on my life was to find wholeness, to live on the outside what I believed on the inside…. [Although] it was a painful process…. through the grace of God, I kept going. When the world says ‘give up,’ hope whispers ‘try one more time.’” 1
Later in his book, Coby proclaims what is also my message for you today: “No matter you are, or what journey you are on, know this: you are a loved and fully accepted child of God.”
Colby’s struggles mirror the temptations Jesus faced in our Gospel story. Three conversations at the end of a spiritual journey. Where Jesus ultimately decides to fully live out his humanity and intentionally love his fellow humans.
A struggle we face in our lives, as well. The temptation to not live authentically in relationship to ourselves, to others, to God, and to the Gospel.
Today, Jesus is calling us to resist the tempters of our world.
To be a voice that speaks not words of condemnation, hate and exclusion. But conversations filled with words of kindness and welcome.
That’s where we encounter Jesus as we walk together as pilgrims through this world’s wilderness.
Jesus, the bread that feeds the hungry. Jesus, the sanctuary of the homeless and migrant.
Jesus, the strength of the weary. Jesus, the hope of the rejected. Jesus, the lover of the despised.
Jesus, the fountain that quenches our thirsty souls.
Jesus, the path of our Lenten pilgrimage. A path that can surprise us with unexpected grace along the way.
For Christ comes with us. To walk and talk with us.
To bring moments of joy. No matter where we go. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL READING: Matthew 4:1-11
Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’”
Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ ” Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”
Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; and he said to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away with you, Satan! for it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only [God].’” Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.
Being a homeless congregation, it seemed appropriate to bring worship to the homeless. If you’ve ever been there, you know it’s often chaotic and noisy, messy and unpredictable.
At times, I wonder if anyone is listening. Everyone seems busy eating and coming and going.
This week was no different. Except maybe there were more children than we had seen for a while.
It was Ash Wednesday, so the order of worship was a little more complicated. A confession of sins. A psalm of repentance. The imposition of ashes. Songs and hymns. Holy communion.
As a pastor, I hoped to engage the people in what we were doing. I prayed that might happen even to a small extent. Needless to say, my expectations were low.
And that’s when the Spirit clobbered me over the head with three amazing signs. She likes to do that when we aren’t paying attention. Three unexpected moments of grace.
The first encounter happened just before the service. As I was standing near the meal line, a man named “Dave” greeted me.
With excitement Dave told me had just bought a new Bible. He pulled it out of his backpack. A big King James Version with a leather cover and zipper. And lots of annotations in the columns.
I asked Dave where he got it. “At Melberg’s in Moorhead,” he said. “Have ever read the Bible?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said, “but now I want to—every day instead of watching TV.” A surprising testimony.
Next, a Native American man in a wheelchair rolled up to me. “Bill” asked me to pray for him. Right there in the meal line.
When I said “sure,” Bill pulled himself out of the wheelchair and kneeled on the floor—even though one of his legs was amputated at the knee. I put my hands on his shoulder and asked God to bless him. Bill started crying.
During the service, Bill came up two more times. To receive ashes on his forehead. To receive communion.
Both times he got of the wheelchair and kneeled on the floor. A simple display of humble worship.
My final sign from the Spirit was delightful. Later in the service, I asked if anyone had a hymn request. Suddenly a little girl raised her hand. She jumped up, ran up to me and said she wanted to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”
My heart melted. When I asked if she wanted to sing it with me, she gave me a shy smile and nodded.
So, I held the microphone as she led the singing. Singing about how much Jesus loves you and me. A truly touching moment.
Three people who showed me they really were listening and praying and worshiping with us. Three surprising grace-filled conversations.
In the wilderness of a homeless shelter. A moving start to our Lenten journey.
Today’s lesson from Matthew also tells the story of three unexpected encounters.
The story begins with a tired and hungry Jesus who has spent 40 days in the desert—homeless by intent. Now he faces a mocking devil, a clever tempter. Who confronts Jesus with three conversations.
In their first discussion, the devil offers what sounds like a harmless request for bread. But, in reality, this first conversation is about love.
Right before this passage in Matthew, Jesus is baptized by John. Where Jesus hears God’s voice say, “This is my beloved son. With him, I am well pleased.” We heard God say the very same words during the transfiguration story last week.
Now, the tempter challenges Jesus by saying, “If you are the Son of God….”
“If” is a word that raises doubts in our minds. “If” is the tempter’s manipulating attempt to make Jesus question if he is truly worthy of God’s love.
The tempter does the same to us. “Prove it,” the tempter whispers in our ear. “Show me where it says in Scripture that God loves you.”
Here in this first challenge, the tempter asks Jesus to “prove it” by turning dusty stones to bread. Just like God’s favorite prophet Moses, who fed the starving Jewish people with manna in the desert. But Jesus doesn’t need that kind of sign.
The second conversation is about life. The tempter transports Jesus to the top of the Temple mount in Jerusalem. The most sacred building for Jesus and his Jewish community.
Here, the tempter challenges Jesus to see if the holy God of Israel will save him from a suicidal leap. To make Jesus a superhero who can never die. Again, Jesus refuses.
The third and final conversation is about power. The tempter takes Jesus to a mountain, just like God led Moses to Mt. Sinai.
From that peak, Jesus sees what it’s like to be king of the world. Cruel Caesars and evil pharaohs and proud presidents who consider themselves divine. The tempter offers to make Jesus CEO of the world. But Jesus seeks another kingdom.
Three unexpected offers that are hard to resist. Three contradictions to the good news Jesus is preaching.
Three questions that raise doubts about the promises of God. Three conversations with a tempter who still speaks in our world today.
Those of us who are queer have heard that voice before. Conversations with preachers and politicians and Christians who tell us we are not children of God.
They say that our transgender siblings can’t serve in the military, or use bathrooms where they feel comfortable. They want to take away our rights and protections—even our medical care.
And like the great tempter, they use Scripture as clobber passages to make us doubt ourselves and God’s love.
Recently I started reading a book called Unclobber (which our Query book club is reading this month). It’s the story of Colby Martin, a heterosexual man who once was pastor of an evangelical megachurch.
But Colby was forced to leave when he started questioning the rationale for excluding LGBTQ individuals from their congregation. Colby writes:
“[After] I studied the Clobber Passages, and discovered that we had been misusing the Bible… to the relief of my soul, my head and heart at last found alignment…. The call of God on my life was to find wholeness, to live on the outside what I believed on the inside…. [Although] it was a painful process…. through the grace of God, I kept going. When the world says ‘give up,’ hope whispers ‘try one more time.’” 1
Later in his book, Coby proclaims what is also my message for you today: “No matter you are, or what journey you are on, know this: you are a loved and fully accepted child of God.”
Colby’s struggles mirror the temptations Jesus faced in our Gospel story. Three conversations at the end of a spiritual journey. Where Jesus ultimately decides to fully live out his humanity and intentionally love his fellow humans.
A struggle we face in our lives, as well. The temptation to not live authentically in relationship to ourselves, to others, to God, and to the Gospel.
Today, Jesus is calling us to resist the tempters of our world.
To be a voice that speaks not words of condemnation, hate and exclusion. But conversations filled with words of kindness and welcome.
That’s where we encounter Jesus as we walk together as pilgrims through this world’s wilderness.
Jesus, the bread that feeds the hungry. Jesus, the sanctuary of the homeless and migrant.
Jesus, the strength of the weary. Jesus, the hope of the rejected. Jesus, the lover of the despised.
Jesus, the fountain that quenches our thirsty souls.
Jesus, the path of our Lenten pilgrimage. A path that can surprise us with unexpected grace along the way.
For Christ comes with us. To walk and talk with us.
To bring moments of joy. No matter where we go. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL READING: Matthew 4:1-11
Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’”
Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ ” Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”
Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; and he said to him, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away with you, Satan! for it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only [God].’” Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.
"Do Not Fear"
Isaiah 41:8-10 and John 9:1-9 (reading at the end of the sermon)
March 22, 2020
When I was in college, I took a class piano course. I’d never studied piano as a kid and wanted to learn the basics.
There were about 20 students in my class. Each of us was assigned an electronic keyboard with headphones, so only you would hear the notes and mistakes you were playing.
Of course, the instructor could hear them, too. Occasionally, his voice would speak to you—out of nowhere—telling you what to do next.
Dr. Baumgartner was an accomplished musician. But he was also impatient and high-strung. I don’t think he enjoyed teaching class piano.
As we plunked away Dr. Baumgartner would walk up and down the aisles.
More than once, he suddenly stopped at my side, grabbed my forearm and shouted, “Relax! Relax your arms! You’re too tense!” Which, of course, had the exact opposite effect. It just made me more nervous.
I was reminded of that experience, when I was reflecting on the first lesson from Isaiah. Where God says to the people of Israel during the Babylonian exile, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God.”
The words “do not fear” are used more than 100 times in the Bible. But we all know that just telling someone not to be afraid doesn’t usually work.
Especially when you have a good reason for feeling scared.
I would guess that almost every one of you listening to me today has felt at least a little—if not a lot of—fear during the past couple weeks.
I know I have. I have to admit that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of getting the coronavirus. I’m afraid that people I know are going to get sick. I’m afraid that someone I love might die.
I’m afraid of how long the COVID-19 pandemic might last. I’m afraid for church members and friends who will lose their jobs.
I’m afraid of the long-term effects that sheltering in place and social isolation will have on our mental health and society.
Our Gospel lesson is the first part of long story about a man who regains his sight, who was born with a devastating condition.
At the time of Jesus, there were no surgeries to remove cataracts or even antibiotics to heal eye infections. Being blind since birth, the man in our story had no hope of a normal life. Forced to beg to survive.
Many people at that time thought his blindness was due to sin. People saw disease or disabilities as being caused either by God or demons.
Today, those beliefs seem antiquated. Yet we still like to blame someone when things go wrong. Even our own president blames the current pandemic on people from China.
Back in the early years of the AIDS epidemic, a lot of people made a distinction between the HIV+ homosexuals or drug addicts, and the “innocent victims”—like babies born to at-risk mothers or hemophiliacs infected by contaminated blood products.
It took years of education and advocacy and protests by groups like ACT UP to overcome the stigma and condemnation attached to those who had “done something” to deserve that deadly disease.
Even now, there are Christians who still say that AIDS is God’s punishment for those who practice sinful lifestyles.
For those of us who lived through the AIDS crisis, this week brings back a lot of memories.
For me this week in March is one I can never forget. On Tuesday, March 16, 1988 my boyfriend Steve went into the hospital with pneumonia. Steve tested HIV+ a couple years before then, but had never been seriously ill.
In the hospital, his condition grew worse. On Wednesday Steve’s doctor diagnosed him with pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. An opportunistic infection with a diagnosis of AIDS.
And that’s when my fear shifted into overdrive.
Steve seemed better on Friday, but then his breathing got worse, so he was put on a ventilator Saturday night.
The next evening, on March 20, Steve passed away. Surrounded by his family. As I held his hand. Thirty-two years ago this week.
Steve died in the first decade of the AIDS pandemic. When tens of thousands of Americans lost their lives.
Back then, there were no Congressional bills promising them paid sick leave or help with medical cost. They were kicked out of apartments, fired from jobs, and isolated because of stigma and discrimination.
I believe that the COVID-19 pandemic has the potential to let fear paralyze our world in a similar way.
Today, the media doesn’t talk about HIV/AIDS. Even though, right now, 39 million people worldwide and 1.2 million Americans are HIV+. Even though, there will be 37,000 new infections and 6,000 deaths in our country this year.
One thing I learned from Steve’s death is that love and compassion can overcome fear. For after the thing I most feared actually happened, I had to find the grace to go on.
My grief slowly healed when I shared it with others who had also lost loved ones. My loss led me to find ways to help others in need. My experience gave me the courage to live my life fully and love again.
My faith showed me that when the Bible says, “do not fear,” it doesn’t mean we should never feel scared.
Yet as faithful people, we do what we need to do, despite our fear. Because no matter what, we are the church, one to another.
Today, I wish that we, like Jesus, could heal all those who are sick. To rub a little mud in their eyes. To make them healthy and whole.
To provide a pool of healing waters, where everyone could be washed clean. Fully sanitized from illness and pain.
To lead us out of this dark pandemic into God’s perpetual light. Which heals our sickness and sin, and shines on each of our dearly departed.
Today I pray for that light to shine among us. In our homes and offices and empty sanctuaries. To bring us hope and comfort and peace. To give relief from our fears and sorrows.
That God in Christ may grant us the grace we need. For today, tomorrow and always. Amen.
+ + +
First Reading: Isaiah 41:8-10
But you, Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, the offspring of Abraham, my friend; you whom I took from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest corners, saying to you, “You are my servant, I have chosen you and not cast you off. Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.”
Gospel Reading: John 9:1-9
As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Some were saying, “It is he.” Others were saying, “No, but it is someone like him.” He kept saying, “I am the man.”
There were about 20 students in my class. Each of us was assigned an electronic keyboard with headphones, so only you would hear the notes and mistakes you were playing.
Of course, the instructor could hear them, too. Occasionally, his voice would speak to you—out of nowhere—telling you what to do next.
Dr. Baumgartner was an accomplished musician. But he was also impatient and high-strung. I don’t think he enjoyed teaching class piano.
As we plunked away Dr. Baumgartner would walk up and down the aisles.
More than once, he suddenly stopped at my side, grabbed my forearm and shouted, “Relax! Relax your arms! You’re too tense!” Which, of course, had the exact opposite effect. It just made me more nervous.
I was reminded of that experience, when I was reflecting on the first lesson from Isaiah. Where God says to the people of Israel during the Babylonian exile, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God.”
The words “do not fear” are used more than 100 times in the Bible. But we all know that just telling someone not to be afraid doesn’t usually work.
Especially when you have a good reason for feeling scared.
I would guess that almost every one of you listening to me today has felt at least a little—if not a lot of—fear during the past couple weeks.
I know I have. I have to admit that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of getting the coronavirus. I’m afraid that people I know are going to get sick. I’m afraid that someone I love might die.
I’m afraid of how long the COVID-19 pandemic might last. I’m afraid for church members and friends who will lose their jobs.
I’m afraid of the long-term effects that sheltering in place and social isolation will have on our mental health and society.
Our Gospel lesson is the first part of long story about a man who regains his sight, who was born with a devastating condition.
At the time of Jesus, there were no surgeries to remove cataracts or even antibiotics to heal eye infections. Being blind since birth, the man in our story had no hope of a normal life. Forced to beg to survive.
Many people at that time thought his blindness was due to sin. People saw disease or disabilities as being caused either by God or demons.
Today, those beliefs seem antiquated. Yet we still like to blame someone when things go wrong. Even our own president blames the current pandemic on people from China.
Back in the early years of the AIDS epidemic, a lot of people made a distinction between the HIV+ homosexuals or drug addicts, and the “innocent victims”—like babies born to at-risk mothers or hemophiliacs infected by contaminated blood products.
It took years of education and advocacy and protests by groups like ACT UP to overcome the stigma and condemnation attached to those who had “done something” to deserve that deadly disease.
Even now, there are Christians who still say that AIDS is God’s punishment for those who practice sinful lifestyles.
For those of us who lived through the AIDS crisis, this week brings back a lot of memories.
For me this week in March is one I can never forget. On Tuesday, March 16, 1988 my boyfriend Steve went into the hospital with pneumonia. Steve tested HIV+ a couple years before then, but had never been seriously ill.
In the hospital, his condition grew worse. On Wednesday Steve’s doctor diagnosed him with pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. An opportunistic infection with a diagnosis of AIDS.
And that’s when my fear shifted into overdrive.
Steve seemed better on Friday, but then his breathing got worse, so he was put on a ventilator Saturday night.
The next evening, on March 20, Steve passed away. Surrounded by his family. As I held his hand. Thirty-two years ago this week.
Steve died in the first decade of the AIDS pandemic. When tens of thousands of Americans lost their lives.
Back then, there were no Congressional bills promising them paid sick leave or help with medical cost. They were kicked out of apartments, fired from jobs, and isolated because of stigma and discrimination.
I believe that the COVID-19 pandemic has the potential to let fear paralyze our world in a similar way.
Today, the media doesn’t talk about HIV/AIDS. Even though, right now, 39 million people worldwide and 1.2 million Americans are HIV+. Even though, there will be 37,000 new infections and 6,000 deaths in our country this year.
One thing I learned from Steve’s death is that love and compassion can overcome fear. For after the thing I most feared actually happened, I had to find the grace to go on.
My grief slowly healed when I shared it with others who had also lost loved ones. My loss led me to find ways to help others in need. My experience gave me the courage to live my life fully and love again.
My faith showed me that when the Bible says, “do not fear,” it doesn’t mean we should never feel scared.
Yet as faithful people, we do what we need to do, despite our fear. Because no matter what, we are the church, one to another.
Today, I wish that we, like Jesus, could heal all those who are sick. To rub a little mud in their eyes. To make them healthy and whole.
To provide a pool of healing waters, where everyone could be washed clean. Fully sanitized from illness and pain.
To lead us out of this dark pandemic into God’s perpetual light. Which heals our sickness and sin, and shines on each of our dearly departed.
Today I pray for that light to shine among us. In our homes and offices and empty sanctuaries. To bring us hope and comfort and peace. To give relief from our fears and sorrows.
That God in Christ may grant us the grace we need. For today, tomorrow and always. Amen.
+ + +
First Reading: Isaiah 41:8-10
But you, Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, the offspring of Abraham, my friend; you whom I took from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest corners, saying to you, “You are my servant, I have chosen you and not cast you off. Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.”
Gospel Reading: John 9:1-9
As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Some were saying, “It is he.” Others were saying, “No, but it is someone like him.” He kept saying, “I am the man.”
"What If?"
Selections from John 11
March 29, 2020
A reading from the Gospel of John, the 11th chapter:
Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair. Her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill”…. When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days…. Many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother.
This story brings back a memory for me. November 5, 2003. The day before my birthday. The day of my mother’s funeral. At Gethsemane Lutheran in my hometown. During the service, I read the eulogy I wrote in her memory. Not an easy thing to do. But cathartic and healing.
Afterwards, the fellowship hall is full of people. A traditional funeral reception. With dinner-bun sandwiches and pickles, cake and coffee. Served by the Mary and Martha Circle of church ladies. Many who knew me a child. Some who had not seen me since my seminary days.
They ask, “So, what are you doing now?” I tell them I’m the director of a social service agency. But leave out the part about working with people living with HIV/AIDS.
Then Joanne comes up to me. She was the soloist at the funeral. Joanne sang at a lot of funerals when I was young. Her voice is a more warbly now.
Joanne Benson expresses her condolences. She smiles and quietly says, “You know, my son Scott, has struggled with some of the same issues as you. And we’re so proud of him.”
Right away, I understand what Joanne means. Two years before, her son Scott, who was younger than me, had been elected to the Minneapolis City Council as an openly gay man. It was Joanne’s way of saying she knew I was gay. And that she was OK with it. A word of grace that made a difficult day a little less painful.
A reading from the Gospel of John:
When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died….” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life…. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God.”
On Wednesday, Gov. Tim Walz issued an executive order asking Minnesotans to stay in their homes. Such measures have been effective at curbing the COVID-19 epidemic in China. Effective yesterday, those of us who live in Minnesota are supposed to shelter in place. When I read this part of the Gospel story today, it sounds like Mary and Martha are social distancing. Martha goes out to meet Jesus, but Mary stays at home.
If this story was happening today, we’d all assume that their brother died of coronavirus. It’s difficult to think about, but many of us might be facing the death of a family member, or relative, loved one or friend, church member or coworker in the coming weeks and months.
With social distancing, we’re not going to be able to do all the rituals we normally do when someone dies. Funerals and memorial services will be postponed, or held with only a handful of family members. Visitations beforehand won’t take place. Family members might not even be able to be with their loved ones in the hospital.
This pandemic is changing everything related to how our church and culture deals with death and grief. Thankfully, we have technology to keep us connected. We can call one another. We can email. We can send cards. We can post messages on Facebook.
As your pastor I’m looking for things we can do as a faith community to support one another. That’s why we’re live streaming this service. That’s why we’re using Zoom for the Lenten book study on Wednesday evening, and fellowship hour today.
That’s why I’m looking for people willing to be a “faith buddy”—someone who would reach out each week to one or more members of our St. Mark’s community. Nothing fancy. Just a phone call or email or text.
In the early years of the AIDS epidemic, “buddies” were volunteers assigned to connect with a specific person living with HIV. Back then, I was a buddy with the Minnesota AIDS Project. And I know it made a tremendous difference for those isolated by that disease. We can do the same today.
A reading from the Gospel of John:
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”
Guilt is a feeling common to those who grieve. When someone you love dies, you think of the “what-if’s”, like: What if I could have done to prevent her from dying? What if we had gone to the hospital sooner? What if I hadn’t driven home that way? What if I could have said goodbye?
In this story from John’s Gospel, people ask what-if questions. Both Mary and Martha tell Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died”— meaning: “What if Jesus had just come sooner?”
In this current pandemic, we will be faced with similar “what-if” questions. It’s a very human reaction to a loss or tragedy. Behind each question are feelings of regret and remorse and love. Of wanting to do whatever we can do to comfort and save our loved ones.
As people of faith, we need to acknowledge those feelings, but also not let them overwhelm us with guilt and anger over things we can’t control. To forgive medical staff and others who make mistakes. To forgive ourselves. It’s also a reminder that we need to cherish each day as if it might be our last.
There’s an old legend about Martin Luther, the founder of our Lutheran faith, claiming that he once said, “If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree today!"
And even though Luther probably never said that, it’s still a good reminder for you and for me. A reminder to not let the current pandemic stop us from doing good deeds for others and ourselves.
To take time to call a friend. To turn off the TV and spend quality time with each other. To donate food and medical supplies. To read a book to a child. To tell your family that you love them.
If Rabbi Janeen from Temple Beth El were here, she might tell us that her Jewish community calls those acts of kindness “mitzvah,” a Hebrew word linked to the word for “connection.” For doing mitzvah keeps all of us connected.
A final reading from John’s Gospel:
Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone….” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Today, we need a Lazarus moment. We need Jesus to roll away the stones of worry and anxiety and dread that separate us from one another.
We need Jesus to free us from the dark tomb of social isolation. To help us find new ways from within our home offices and man caves to unbind our hearts from fear.
Like Lazarus we, who lie in the midst of death, are still be surrounded by a beloved community. Like the dead bones of Ezekiel’s vision, God can bring together the separated parts of the Body of Christ and create new life.
Like those of us who have lived through past pandemics, unexpected losses and personal tragedies, we can discover renewed strength and faith in our shared experiences of living and dying.
Like a seed planted in the cold soil, a green blade can rise as a symbol of the hope we share in Jesus. Who is our resurrection and our life. Amen.
Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair. Her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill”…. When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days…. Many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother.
This story brings back a memory for me. November 5, 2003. The day before my birthday. The day of my mother’s funeral. At Gethsemane Lutheran in my hometown. During the service, I read the eulogy I wrote in her memory. Not an easy thing to do. But cathartic and healing.
Afterwards, the fellowship hall is full of people. A traditional funeral reception. With dinner-bun sandwiches and pickles, cake and coffee. Served by the Mary and Martha Circle of church ladies. Many who knew me a child. Some who had not seen me since my seminary days.
They ask, “So, what are you doing now?” I tell them I’m the director of a social service agency. But leave out the part about working with people living with HIV/AIDS.
Then Joanne comes up to me. She was the soloist at the funeral. Joanne sang at a lot of funerals when I was young. Her voice is a more warbly now.
Joanne Benson expresses her condolences. She smiles and quietly says, “You know, my son Scott, has struggled with some of the same issues as you. And we’re so proud of him.”
Right away, I understand what Joanne means. Two years before, her son Scott, who was younger than me, had been elected to the Minneapolis City Council as an openly gay man. It was Joanne’s way of saying she knew I was gay. And that she was OK with it. A word of grace that made a difficult day a little less painful.
A reading from the Gospel of John:
When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died….” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life…. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God.”
On Wednesday, Gov. Tim Walz issued an executive order asking Minnesotans to stay in their homes. Such measures have been effective at curbing the COVID-19 epidemic in China. Effective yesterday, those of us who live in Minnesota are supposed to shelter in place. When I read this part of the Gospel story today, it sounds like Mary and Martha are social distancing. Martha goes out to meet Jesus, but Mary stays at home.
If this story was happening today, we’d all assume that their brother died of coronavirus. It’s difficult to think about, but many of us might be facing the death of a family member, or relative, loved one or friend, church member or coworker in the coming weeks and months.
With social distancing, we’re not going to be able to do all the rituals we normally do when someone dies. Funerals and memorial services will be postponed, or held with only a handful of family members. Visitations beforehand won’t take place. Family members might not even be able to be with their loved ones in the hospital.
This pandemic is changing everything related to how our church and culture deals with death and grief. Thankfully, we have technology to keep us connected. We can call one another. We can email. We can send cards. We can post messages on Facebook.
As your pastor I’m looking for things we can do as a faith community to support one another. That’s why we’re live streaming this service. That’s why we’re using Zoom for the Lenten book study on Wednesday evening, and fellowship hour today.
That’s why I’m looking for people willing to be a “faith buddy”—someone who would reach out each week to one or more members of our St. Mark’s community. Nothing fancy. Just a phone call or email or text.
In the early years of the AIDS epidemic, “buddies” were volunteers assigned to connect with a specific person living with HIV. Back then, I was a buddy with the Minnesota AIDS Project. And I know it made a tremendous difference for those isolated by that disease. We can do the same today.
A reading from the Gospel of John:
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”
Guilt is a feeling common to those who grieve. When someone you love dies, you think of the “what-if’s”, like: What if I could have done to prevent her from dying? What if we had gone to the hospital sooner? What if I hadn’t driven home that way? What if I could have said goodbye?
In this story from John’s Gospel, people ask what-if questions. Both Mary and Martha tell Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died”— meaning: “What if Jesus had just come sooner?”
In this current pandemic, we will be faced with similar “what-if” questions. It’s a very human reaction to a loss or tragedy. Behind each question are feelings of regret and remorse and love. Of wanting to do whatever we can do to comfort and save our loved ones.
As people of faith, we need to acknowledge those feelings, but also not let them overwhelm us with guilt and anger over things we can’t control. To forgive medical staff and others who make mistakes. To forgive ourselves. It’s also a reminder that we need to cherish each day as if it might be our last.
There’s an old legend about Martin Luther, the founder of our Lutheran faith, claiming that he once said, “If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree today!"
And even though Luther probably never said that, it’s still a good reminder for you and for me. A reminder to not let the current pandemic stop us from doing good deeds for others and ourselves.
To take time to call a friend. To turn off the TV and spend quality time with each other. To donate food and medical supplies. To read a book to a child. To tell your family that you love them.
If Rabbi Janeen from Temple Beth El were here, she might tell us that her Jewish community calls those acts of kindness “mitzvah,” a Hebrew word linked to the word for “connection.” For doing mitzvah keeps all of us connected.
A final reading from John’s Gospel:
Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone….” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Today, we need a Lazarus moment. We need Jesus to roll away the stones of worry and anxiety and dread that separate us from one another.
We need Jesus to free us from the dark tomb of social isolation. To help us find new ways from within our home offices and man caves to unbind our hearts from fear.
Like Lazarus we, who lie in the midst of death, are still be surrounded by a beloved community. Like the dead bones of Ezekiel’s vision, God can bring together the separated parts of the Body of Christ and create new life.
Like those of us who have lived through past pandemics, unexpected losses and personal tragedies, we can discover renewed strength and faith in our shared experiences of living and dying.
Like a seed planted in the cold soil, a green blade can rise as a symbol of the hope we share in Jesus. Who is our resurrection and our life. Amen.