May 2020
"With"
Based on Psalm 23 (reading follows the sermon)
May 3, 2020
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.”
When I was a young child, I was afraid of the dark. I was also afraid that some horrible monster hid under my bed—waiting to grab my foot if I had to get up in the middle of the night. Sometimes that monster moved to the closet. Ready to get me the minute I fell asleep.
I’m sure some of you—or maybe your children—have had similar fears. Movies like “Poltergeist” and “Monsters, Inc.” have made millions with stories based on those childhood phobias.
Some fears are based on our personal experiences. You get bit by a dog as a kid, and from that day forward you dread any barking dog.
Other fears are more irrational. Fear of darkness, also called “nyctophobia,” fits that category. In reality, darkness by itself isn’t frightening. It’s the fear of what the darkness symbolizes.
Subconsciously, the dark makes us vulnerable. Throughout human history, darkness has meant danger. And fear of danger causes people to take steps to stay safe. To keep from being exposed.
Psychologist Thomas Ollendick, director of the Child Study Center at Virginia Tech, says that childhood fears of the dark come from a fear of the unexpected: “Kids believe everything imaginable,” he writes. “That in the dark, robbers might come or they could get kidnapped, or someone might come and take their toys away.” 1
I don’t know about you, but during the past month, my brain seems to focus on things like that when I’m trying to fall asleep. It’s like the darkness opens your mind to the frightening side of unlimited possibilities.
And in case you need help thinking of things to be afraid of, just turn on the cable news or read the paper. So far, we’ve lost more Americans to COVID-19 than to the entire Vietnam War.
Our economy is at a standstill. Businesses closed. The percentage of unemployed workers now exceeds the rate of the Great Depression. It makes you want to turn off social media and forget any of this is happening.
Today, fear is a universal and daily emotion. Psychologists have found that children and adults with severe phobias can reduce their fear if they gradually learn to face it. The author of Psalm 23 seems to have learned the secret to facing fear. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the psalmist writes, “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.”
Here’s an interesting bit of Bible trivia. In the original Hebrew, the words “for you are with me,” fall exactly in the middle of this psalm—26 words before and 26 words after. Perhaps intentionally. After all, poets and artists can create beautiful order and incredible meaning out of chaos and despair. Perhaps the poet was boldly declaring that trusting God is with us is the center of faith.
90 years ago, Paul Tillich was a Lutheran philosopher. While serving as Professor of Theology at the University of Frankfurt, Tillich gave lectures throughout Germany that brought him into conflict with the Nazi movement. When Adolf Hitler became Chancellor in 1933, Tillich was dismissed from his position. That year, he fled in refuge to the United States.
Despite the threats he faced and the death he witnessed all around him, Tillich went on to become a world-renowned theologian who talked about faith as “ultimate concern” and God as the “Ground of Being.”
Tillich suggests that sometimes faith and God’s grace become most real in the midst of doubt and anxiety. He writes: “Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness. It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life…. It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection of life does not appear,… when despair destroys all joy and courage. Sometimes at that moment, a wave of light breaks into our darkness,… as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted.’” 2
Today, I believe Jesus is that voice. The good shepherd calls to us fearful sheep—sheep who in our herd mentality would rather huddle together in close proximity (and no social distancing), than listen to the voice of a wise leader.
For the valley is dark. It’s hard to see what lies ahead. It’s easy to let our anxiety take over. To forget the one who is the gate, the door, to safe pastures and flowing waters.
But, like sheep, we also recognize the shepherd’s voice. The one who gives us strength when we face danger. Faith when everything is in doubt. Hope when you feel weary and want to give up. Courage when fear is overwhelming. Grace when you feel most unloved. No matter what we may face, Jesus promises to always walk beside us.
Of course, none of that means that God is going to magically take away all disease or recessions, unemployment or death.
But it does mean that God is with us through it all. For that is the core message of the Gospel. Summed up in the Hebrew word “Immanuel, which means, “God with us.” And just like Psalm 23, the middle word “with” is the most important.
For God is “with” us to shelter you and me. To stay with you in your fears and in your joys. To walk with us from birth to the end of life.
As the Psalmist says, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.” Amen.
+ + +
------------------------------1 https://www.thecut.com/2016/10/why-are-people-afraid-of-the-dark.html2 Tillich, Paul, The Shaking of the Foundations; Wipf and Stock, Eugene, OR, 2012.
+ + +
FIRST LESSON: Psalm 23The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want. The LORD makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. You restore my soul, O LORD, and guide me along right pathways for your name’s sake. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
GOSPEL LESSON: John 10:1-10[Jesus said:] “Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them. So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
When I was a young child, I was afraid of the dark. I was also afraid that some horrible monster hid under my bed—waiting to grab my foot if I had to get up in the middle of the night. Sometimes that monster moved to the closet. Ready to get me the minute I fell asleep.
I’m sure some of you—or maybe your children—have had similar fears. Movies like “Poltergeist” and “Monsters, Inc.” have made millions with stories based on those childhood phobias.
Some fears are based on our personal experiences. You get bit by a dog as a kid, and from that day forward you dread any barking dog.
Other fears are more irrational. Fear of darkness, also called “nyctophobia,” fits that category. In reality, darkness by itself isn’t frightening. It’s the fear of what the darkness symbolizes.
Subconsciously, the dark makes us vulnerable. Throughout human history, darkness has meant danger. And fear of danger causes people to take steps to stay safe. To keep from being exposed.
Psychologist Thomas Ollendick, director of the Child Study Center at Virginia Tech, says that childhood fears of the dark come from a fear of the unexpected: “Kids believe everything imaginable,” he writes. “That in the dark, robbers might come or they could get kidnapped, or someone might come and take their toys away.” 1
I don’t know about you, but during the past month, my brain seems to focus on things like that when I’m trying to fall asleep. It’s like the darkness opens your mind to the frightening side of unlimited possibilities.
And in case you need help thinking of things to be afraid of, just turn on the cable news or read the paper. So far, we’ve lost more Americans to COVID-19 than to the entire Vietnam War.
Our economy is at a standstill. Businesses closed. The percentage of unemployed workers now exceeds the rate of the Great Depression. It makes you want to turn off social media and forget any of this is happening.
Today, fear is a universal and daily emotion. Psychologists have found that children and adults with severe phobias can reduce their fear if they gradually learn to face it. The author of Psalm 23 seems to have learned the secret to facing fear. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the psalmist writes, “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.”
Here’s an interesting bit of Bible trivia. In the original Hebrew, the words “for you are with me,” fall exactly in the middle of this psalm—26 words before and 26 words after. Perhaps intentionally. After all, poets and artists can create beautiful order and incredible meaning out of chaos and despair. Perhaps the poet was boldly declaring that trusting God is with us is the center of faith.
90 years ago, Paul Tillich was a Lutheran philosopher. While serving as Professor of Theology at the University of Frankfurt, Tillich gave lectures throughout Germany that brought him into conflict with the Nazi movement. When Adolf Hitler became Chancellor in 1933, Tillich was dismissed from his position. That year, he fled in refuge to the United States.
Despite the threats he faced and the death he witnessed all around him, Tillich went on to become a world-renowned theologian who talked about faith as “ultimate concern” and God as the “Ground of Being.”
Tillich suggests that sometimes faith and God’s grace become most real in the midst of doubt and anxiety. He writes: “Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness. It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life…. It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection of life does not appear,… when despair destroys all joy and courage. Sometimes at that moment, a wave of light breaks into our darkness,… as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted.’” 2
Today, I believe Jesus is that voice. The good shepherd calls to us fearful sheep—sheep who in our herd mentality would rather huddle together in close proximity (and no social distancing), than listen to the voice of a wise leader.
For the valley is dark. It’s hard to see what lies ahead. It’s easy to let our anxiety take over. To forget the one who is the gate, the door, to safe pastures and flowing waters.
But, like sheep, we also recognize the shepherd’s voice. The one who gives us strength when we face danger. Faith when everything is in doubt. Hope when you feel weary and want to give up. Courage when fear is overwhelming. Grace when you feel most unloved. No matter what we may face, Jesus promises to always walk beside us.
Of course, none of that means that God is going to magically take away all disease or recessions, unemployment or death.
But it does mean that God is with us through it all. For that is the core message of the Gospel. Summed up in the Hebrew word “Immanuel, which means, “God with us.” And just like Psalm 23, the middle word “with” is the most important.
For God is “with” us to shelter you and me. To stay with you in your fears and in your joys. To walk with us from birth to the end of life.
As the Psalmist says, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.” Amen.
+ + +
------------------------------1 https://www.thecut.com/2016/10/why-are-people-afraid-of-the-dark.html2 Tillich, Paul, The Shaking of the Foundations; Wipf and Stock, Eugene, OR, 2012.
+ + +
FIRST LESSON: Psalm 23The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want. The LORD makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. You restore my soul, O LORD, and guide me along right pathways for your name’s sake. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
GOSPEL LESSON: John 10:1-10[Jesus said:] “Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them. So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
"A Place for You"
Based on John 14:1-7 (reading follows the sermon)
May 10, 2020
After I graduated from seminary, I spent 18 months on a Lutheran Youth Encounter team. We called ourselves “Kindred,” and in Spanish “Familia de Dios” (which means “Family of God.”
I was the team leader, and along with the other four, we shared the Good News of Jesus in hundreds of churches, prisons, schools, homes and streets.
Our team spent seven months in Mexico and four in Brazil. Before and after those missions, we visited congregations in the US and Canada.
In Mexico and Brazil, we relied on buses and trains, and the cars of Lutheran pastors and missionaries. In the U.S., our mode of transportation was an old Chevy station wagon that kept breaking down. With rusty holes in the floor of the back seat.
Each week led us to one or two new destinations. During our travels, we rarely stayed in a hotel. Every night during those 18 months, we were placed in the homes of church members. In Canada, they use the word “billet” for that.
Over time, we walked through the whole spectrum of human housing. From mansions in the wealthy suburbs of LA and Mexico City. To the cardboard shacks of Tijuana’s barrios and the shantytown favelas of São Paulo, Brazil.
I slept on every possible type of bedding. Water beds and fold-out couches, sleeping bags and hammocks, church pews and thin mattresses on concrete floors.
One setting stands out in my memory. In a remote mountain area near Puebla, Mexico. A Lutheran missionary took us to a tiny village.
With descendants of the original Aztec people. Women in beautifully embroidered dresses. Men with straw hats. And barefoot children. All speaking in their native language.
In fact, the worship service was in Nahuatl. I still remember a song we learned, which went like this:
“Nikpia sea amigo nechta soxta,
nechta soxta, nechta soxta.
Nikpia sea amigo nechta soxta,
y tokaitzin Jesús.”
In English that would be: “I have a friend who loves me, who loves me, who loves me. I have a friend who loves me. And his name is Jesus.”
That night, everyone slept in the same place. But it wasn’t a house with bedrooms. Just a single-room building. We put straw mats on the dirt floor, and slept side by side with all the men, women and children. No social distancing back then.
The thing that most impressed me during time of that ministry—with over 500 nights of needing a place to sleep and live and eat—is that we never lacked a place to stay.
Even when we had no idea where we might end up, or what the housing might be like, or who we might stay with, the hospitality of our hosts was unforgettable.
The same kind of hospitality Jesus talks about in our Gospel reading.
Jesus says, “Don’t let your hearts be troubled…. In my Father’s house, there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”
This reading is often used at funerals. Most of us link these words of Jesus to God’s promise of a place in heaven. A promise we all cherish. Especially when death surrounds us.
The Greek word for “room” in this passage is μονή (moné). It refers to any kind of place you might stay: a boarding room, an abode, a lodging. Jesus uses the verb form of μονή in the next chapter of John when he says, “Abide in me,” which could also mean, “Stay with me.”
In ancient times, there weren’t a lot hotels for travelers. A “hospitia” was a boarding house made up of rented rooms in a private home. The name comes from the principle of “hospitality” owed by a host to a guest.
However, when a stranger traveled through deserts or rural areas, they depended on someone to provide shelter for the night.
The Bible has examples of that. In the infamous story of Sodom and Gomorrah—when the two angels of God enter Sodom—Lot, the nephew of Abraham, greets them at the city gate and invites the strangers to stay in his home.
When Jesus sends out his disciples to spread the Good News throughout Galilee, he instructs them to stay with someone in the towns where they preach. Jesus does the same during his own itinerant ministry.
This cultural practice was based on Hebrew scripture’s model for hospitality. You were expected to let travelers and foreigners stay with you.
Jesus uses this tradition as a metaphor for grace. And for our relationship with God. For the promise of God’s grace is that there’s plenty of room for everybody.
In our Gospel reading, Jesus says, “I am the way and the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father except through me.”
A lot of people use this verse to exclude non-Christians. They argue that to be saved, you must believe that Jesus is the only way to God.
But what if we turn that around? What if we read what Jesus says here not as exclusionary, but “inclusionary.” An example of the radical hospitality that Jesus taught and practiced throughout the Gospels.
This passage in John takes place during what we call the Last Supper. Jesus has gathered his disciples around a table for a final conversation.
The evening before his lonely execution on the cross. Within hours, Judas will betray Jesus. Peter, the team leader, will deny Jesus three times.
Yet, even with death knocking at the door, Jesus is the gracious host. Jesus talks about preparing a place for them. That in God’s house, there’s a guest room waiting. With the door wide open. Where the risen Christ waits with welcoming arms.
A room that’s also there for us. Whether we need it today as a temporary respite during these dark nights of sheltering in place. Or on the day we journey beyond this life, and need a place to stay forever.
In God’s house, there’s a room for me and for you. Whoever you are. Wherever you come from. Whomever you love.
There’s always a place for you here in Gods’ love. And there’s always a place for you here at St. Mark’s. Even when we can’t be together in the same room. Because God’s house is not an actual place.
It’s a relationship we experience with Jesus. A shelter we find under God’s holy wings. A community we form with one another. A grace we share in bread and wine.
Even when we’re apart. There’s always a place for you. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: John 14:1-7
[Jesus said to the disciples:] 1“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. 2In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 3And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. 4And you know the way to the place where I am going.” 5Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” 6Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 7If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.”
I was the team leader, and along with the other four, we shared the Good News of Jesus in hundreds of churches, prisons, schools, homes and streets.
Our team spent seven months in Mexico and four in Brazil. Before and after those missions, we visited congregations in the US and Canada.
In Mexico and Brazil, we relied on buses and trains, and the cars of Lutheran pastors and missionaries. In the U.S., our mode of transportation was an old Chevy station wagon that kept breaking down. With rusty holes in the floor of the back seat.
Each week led us to one or two new destinations. During our travels, we rarely stayed in a hotel. Every night during those 18 months, we were placed in the homes of church members. In Canada, they use the word “billet” for that.
Over time, we walked through the whole spectrum of human housing. From mansions in the wealthy suburbs of LA and Mexico City. To the cardboard shacks of Tijuana’s barrios and the shantytown favelas of São Paulo, Brazil.
I slept on every possible type of bedding. Water beds and fold-out couches, sleeping bags and hammocks, church pews and thin mattresses on concrete floors.
One setting stands out in my memory. In a remote mountain area near Puebla, Mexico. A Lutheran missionary took us to a tiny village.
With descendants of the original Aztec people. Women in beautifully embroidered dresses. Men with straw hats. And barefoot children. All speaking in their native language.
In fact, the worship service was in Nahuatl. I still remember a song we learned, which went like this:
“Nikpia sea amigo nechta soxta,
nechta soxta, nechta soxta.
Nikpia sea amigo nechta soxta,
y tokaitzin Jesús.”
In English that would be: “I have a friend who loves me, who loves me, who loves me. I have a friend who loves me. And his name is Jesus.”
That night, everyone slept in the same place. But it wasn’t a house with bedrooms. Just a single-room building. We put straw mats on the dirt floor, and slept side by side with all the men, women and children. No social distancing back then.
The thing that most impressed me during time of that ministry—with over 500 nights of needing a place to sleep and live and eat—is that we never lacked a place to stay.
Even when we had no idea where we might end up, or what the housing might be like, or who we might stay with, the hospitality of our hosts was unforgettable.
The same kind of hospitality Jesus talks about in our Gospel reading.
Jesus says, “Don’t let your hearts be troubled…. In my Father’s house, there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”
This reading is often used at funerals. Most of us link these words of Jesus to God’s promise of a place in heaven. A promise we all cherish. Especially when death surrounds us.
The Greek word for “room” in this passage is μονή (moné). It refers to any kind of place you might stay: a boarding room, an abode, a lodging. Jesus uses the verb form of μονή in the next chapter of John when he says, “Abide in me,” which could also mean, “Stay with me.”
In ancient times, there weren’t a lot hotels for travelers. A “hospitia” was a boarding house made up of rented rooms in a private home. The name comes from the principle of “hospitality” owed by a host to a guest.
However, when a stranger traveled through deserts or rural areas, they depended on someone to provide shelter for the night.
The Bible has examples of that. In the infamous story of Sodom and Gomorrah—when the two angels of God enter Sodom—Lot, the nephew of Abraham, greets them at the city gate and invites the strangers to stay in his home.
When Jesus sends out his disciples to spread the Good News throughout Galilee, he instructs them to stay with someone in the towns where they preach. Jesus does the same during his own itinerant ministry.
This cultural practice was based on Hebrew scripture’s model for hospitality. You were expected to let travelers and foreigners stay with you.
Jesus uses this tradition as a metaphor for grace. And for our relationship with God. For the promise of God’s grace is that there’s plenty of room for everybody.
In our Gospel reading, Jesus says, “I am the way and the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father except through me.”
A lot of people use this verse to exclude non-Christians. They argue that to be saved, you must believe that Jesus is the only way to God.
But what if we turn that around? What if we read what Jesus says here not as exclusionary, but “inclusionary.” An example of the radical hospitality that Jesus taught and practiced throughout the Gospels.
This passage in John takes place during what we call the Last Supper. Jesus has gathered his disciples around a table for a final conversation.
The evening before his lonely execution on the cross. Within hours, Judas will betray Jesus. Peter, the team leader, will deny Jesus three times.
Yet, even with death knocking at the door, Jesus is the gracious host. Jesus talks about preparing a place for them. That in God’s house, there’s a guest room waiting. With the door wide open. Where the risen Christ waits with welcoming arms.
A room that’s also there for us. Whether we need it today as a temporary respite during these dark nights of sheltering in place. Or on the day we journey beyond this life, and need a place to stay forever.
In God’s house, there’s a room for me and for you. Whoever you are. Wherever you come from. Whomever you love.
There’s always a place for you here in Gods’ love. And there’s always a place for you here at St. Mark’s. Even when we can’t be together in the same room. Because God’s house is not an actual place.
It’s a relationship we experience with Jesus. A shelter we find under God’s holy wings. A community we form with one another. A grace we share in bread and wine.
Even when we’re apart. There’s always a place for you. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: John 14:1-7
[Jesus said to the disciples:] 1“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. 2In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 3And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. 4And you know the way to the place where I am going.” 5Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” 6Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 7If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.”
"Paraclete"
Based on John 14:15-21 and 15:12-13 (readings follow the sermon)
May 17, 2020
During the past three Thursday mornings, I’ve attended a Zoom workshop sponsored by our Synod’s Hunger and Justice Committee, called a “Virtual Immersion Experience.” Pastor Larry Thiele from Dacotah O'yate Lutheran Church in Sheyenne, North Dakota, has been presenting on a variety of topics related to Native Americans.
Last week, Pastor Larry spoke about historical events related to the Dacotah tribes in this area. Events that affected their people at all levels of human experience—in their culture, society, economics, religion and as individuals.
At a previous session, Larry shared an early childhood memory. As a toddler, he remembers being in a hospital. Standing in a crib with metal railings. With his newborn baby brother lying next to him.
Larry didn’t know it at the time, but his mother had decided to give up custody of her children. She was a single mother, who felt unable to care for them.
The next thing Larry remembers is a strange woman who enters the room, leans into the crib, and carries away his brother. Not long after that, Larry’s grandmother arrives and takes Larry home with her.
His brother was adopted by an unknown white family. Raised apart from his tribe. Larry often wondered what happened to his baby brother.
Even though, as Larry shared with us, legally a tribal council should be consulted and give approval for any child placed into foster care or adopted out of their community. But the racist policies of that time (and even today) have led to the separation of Native American children from their parents and tribes and culture.
Larry’s grandmother used to tell him she wished that she had gotten to the hospital in time to save his brother. Something that likely caused her a lot of guilt and regret. After that, the grandmother raised Larry as her son. In fact, Larry thought she was his biological mother until she told him the truth when he was eight years old.
For Larry, losing his brother was a childhood trauma. Where he was helpless to keep it from happening. For Larry, his grandmother was his parent and guardian and advocate.
In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus speaks about sending an advocate to guide and protect his disciples after his crucifixion and death. Jesus says, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and God will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees [her] nor knows [her].”
The word for "advocate" in Greek is παράκλητος (paráklētos) or Paraclete—a word that appears four times in John, but nowhere else in the Gospels. A word spoken only by Jesus. Paraclete derives from two Greek words: pará, meaning “from close by,” and kaléō,” which means “to call upon.”
A number of English words begin with “para.” A paralegal is someone who works alongside a lawyer. A paraprofessional is a teacher’s assistant, which is what my husband Charlie does.
So, a paraclete is one who works closely with someone, who often knows the truth about their situation. An advocate who speaks for those who have no voice.
Like Larry’s grandmother, who knew the true story about his mother and baby brother. Who advocated for raising Larry in her home and with his tribe.
The Paraclete is what we call the Holy Spirit—who, I think, has always been the most mysterious and least understood person of the Holy Trinity.
After all, God the Father is easy for most people to relate to, at least for those of us who have biological or adoptive parents. And most Christians really “get” who Jesus is. The Word Incarnate. Who shared our joys and sorrows.
But the Spirit is kind of “woo-woo”—out there. Hovering like a breeze over the waters of creation. Blowing through the deserts of our human wanderings. Filling our souls with grace at baptism.
The Holy Sophia of the Divine Trio. I think of her as a feisty mother bear, or protective grandmother.
You probably noticed that I changed the gender pronouns to feminine in today’s Gospel reading. I know, for some Christians, that sounds radical.
But to me, it rings true. After all, Jesus calls the Paraclete the “Spirit of truth”—kind of like a maternal counselor who opens our eyes to see ourselves as we truly are. And knows exactly what we are going through. Especially now.
Even when we can’t fully face the truth. Which of course is to be expected. For we’re living through a period of change unlike anything most of us have ever seen.
The COVID-19 pandemic has led to a series of losses—from our sense of safety, to social connections, from financial security, to our faith communities. This new disease is a world health crisis, yet it’s also psychological.
Like me, I would guess that you’re feeling a lot of anxiety, fear and sadness over what’s happening. But it’s also a time of communal trauma.
Dr. Sherry Cormier, a psychologist who specializes in grief, speaks these wise words: “It’s important that we start recognizing that we’re in the middle of this collective grief. We are all losing something now.” *
Many people have already lost loved ones and coworkers, friends and members of their faith communities. Millions have been laid off jobs. Others have suffered long-term health effects. But even those of us who can’t point to a specific loss are still affected.
For some of us, dealing with collective loss and shared grief is an unfamiliar experience. But many marginalized communities have spoken of this kind of trauma before. Their voices speak to us today.
The voices of African Americans speak to us. Of the centuries-old trauma of slavery and racism that is still very real. Like the murder of Ahmaud Arbery—a black man jogging through a small community in Georgia, who was shot and killed by a white man and his son. Yet it’s taken over two months for the shooters to be arrested and charged with murder.
The voices of Latinos and immigrants speak to us. Of the rising hatred against anyone from another country. Like the thousands of men, women and children forgotten in our detention centers.
The voices of LGBTQ individuals speak to us. Of homophobia and the lack of protections for queer people. Like the killings of our transgender siblings of color. Like the early years of the AIDS epidemic, when one out of six gay men in my generation died because of stigma and silence. The kind of trauma where I’ve personally struggled with what’s called “survivors guilt.”
The voices of Native Americans, like Pastor Larry, speak to us. Of the historical oppression of the Dacotah people. Like the loss of lands and hundreds of years of traditional practices. Like the boarding schools that separated youth from their histories, tribes and language.
Today, I believe we need to hear all those voices. To say, “I hear you. I see you.” To better understand communal trauma. And to learn from them how to deal with its grief.
Other communities have found strength in surviving and transcending that kind of trauma by speaking about it. By naming it and claiming it. By re-telling it. And we can do the same today. By letting the Spirit of truth speak to us. Most of us have lived through some type of personal loss before.
Today, it’s important to remember. To remember what happened. To remember what gave you strength. To know what you can do, and what you can’t. To remember how you found God in the midst of hopelessness, depression and pain.
To remember and to speak that truth. To write it down, maybe in a personal journal. To speak it aloud with friends and loved ones.
To share it with people in this community—even while we are physically apart—through phone calls and emails, social media, and Zoom meetings.
To love one another during this time, as Jesus tells us to do, in whatever way we can. For in that love, we find the Spirit of Truth.
And hear the Spirit’s voice speaking to us now. Saying to you and to me: “You are a beloved child of God. And I am your Paraclete, your advocate. I will always walk beside you. To help you bear your burdens. And never leave you orphaned. I am coming to take you home. For I am in you, and you in me. No matter what you may face.”
Amen.
-------------------------------------
* Weir, Kirsten Weir, “Grief and COVID-19: Mourning our bygone lives,” April 1, 2020; American Psychological Association, https://www.apa.org/news/apa/2020/04/grief-covid-19.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: John 14:15-21 & 15:12-13
Jesus said to the disciples: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees [her] nor knows him. You know [her], because [she] abides with you, and [she] will be in you. I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me. But you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me. And those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them…. This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
Last week, Pastor Larry spoke about historical events related to the Dacotah tribes in this area. Events that affected their people at all levels of human experience—in their culture, society, economics, religion and as individuals.
At a previous session, Larry shared an early childhood memory. As a toddler, he remembers being in a hospital. Standing in a crib with metal railings. With his newborn baby brother lying next to him.
Larry didn’t know it at the time, but his mother had decided to give up custody of her children. She was a single mother, who felt unable to care for them.
The next thing Larry remembers is a strange woman who enters the room, leans into the crib, and carries away his brother. Not long after that, Larry’s grandmother arrives and takes Larry home with her.
His brother was adopted by an unknown white family. Raised apart from his tribe. Larry often wondered what happened to his baby brother.
Even though, as Larry shared with us, legally a tribal council should be consulted and give approval for any child placed into foster care or adopted out of their community. But the racist policies of that time (and even today) have led to the separation of Native American children from their parents and tribes and culture.
Larry’s grandmother used to tell him she wished that she had gotten to the hospital in time to save his brother. Something that likely caused her a lot of guilt and regret. After that, the grandmother raised Larry as her son. In fact, Larry thought she was his biological mother until she told him the truth when he was eight years old.
For Larry, losing his brother was a childhood trauma. Where he was helpless to keep it from happening. For Larry, his grandmother was his parent and guardian and advocate.
In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus speaks about sending an advocate to guide and protect his disciples after his crucifixion and death. Jesus says, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and God will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees [her] nor knows [her].”
The word for "advocate" in Greek is παράκλητος (paráklētos) or Paraclete—a word that appears four times in John, but nowhere else in the Gospels. A word spoken only by Jesus. Paraclete derives from two Greek words: pará, meaning “from close by,” and kaléō,” which means “to call upon.”
A number of English words begin with “para.” A paralegal is someone who works alongside a lawyer. A paraprofessional is a teacher’s assistant, which is what my husband Charlie does.
So, a paraclete is one who works closely with someone, who often knows the truth about their situation. An advocate who speaks for those who have no voice.
Like Larry’s grandmother, who knew the true story about his mother and baby brother. Who advocated for raising Larry in her home and with his tribe.
The Paraclete is what we call the Holy Spirit—who, I think, has always been the most mysterious and least understood person of the Holy Trinity.
After all, God the Father is easy for most people to relate to, at least for those of us who have biological or adoptive parents. And most Christians really “get” who Jesus is. The Word Incarnate. Who shared our joys and sorrows.
But the Spirit is kind of “woo-woo”—out there. Hovering like a breeze over the waters of creation. Blowing through the deserts of our human wanderings. Filling our souls with grace at baptism.
The Holy Sophia of the Divine Trio. I think of her as a feisty mother bear, or protective grandmother.
You probably noticed that I changed the gender pronouns to feminine in today’s Gospel reading. I know, for some Christians, that sounds radical.
But to me, it rings true. After all, Jesus calls the Paraclete the “Spirit of truth”—kind of like a maternal counselor who opens our eyes to see ourselves as we truly are. And knows exactly what we are going through. Especially now.
Even when we can’t fully face the truth. Which of course is to be expected. For we’re living through a period of change unlike anything most of us have ever seen.
The COVID-19 pandemic has led to a series of losses—from our sense of safety, to social connections, from financial security, to our faith communities. This new disease is a world health crisis, yet it’s also psychological.
Like me, I would guess that you’re feeling a lot of anxiety, fear and sadness over what’s happening. But it’s also a time of communal trauma.
Dr. Sherry Cormier, a psychologist who specializes in grief, speaks these wise words: “It’s important that we start recognizing that we’re in the middle of this collective grief. We are all losing something now.” *
Many people have already lost loved ones and coworkers, friends and members of their faith communities. Millions have been laid off jobs. Others have suffered long-term health effects. But even those of us who can’t point to a specific loss are still affected.
For some of us, dealing with collective loss and shared grief is an unfamiliar experience. But many marginalized communities have spoken of this kind of trauma before. Their voices speak to us today.
The voices of African Americans speak to us. Of the centuries-old trauma of slavery and racism that is still very real. Like the murder of Ahmaud Arbery—a black man jogging through a small community in Georgia, who was shot and killed by a white man and his son. Yet it’s taken over two months for the shooters to be arrested and charged with murder.
The voices of Latinos and immigrants speak to us. Of the rising hatred against anyone from another country. Like the thousands of men, women and children forgotten in our detention centers.
The voices of LGBTQ individuals speak to us. Of homophobia and the lack of protections for queer people. Like the killings of our transgender siblings of color. Like the early years of the AIDS epidemic, when one out of six gay men in my generation died because of stigma and silence. The kind of trauma where I’ve personally struggled with what’s called “survivors guilt.”
The voices of Native Americans, like Pastor Larry, speak to us. Of the historical oppression of the Dacotah people. Like the loss of lands and hundreds of years of traditional practices. Like the boarding schools that separated youth from their histories, tribes and language.
Today, I believe we need to hear all those voices. To say, “I hear you. I see you.” To better understand communal trauma. And to learn from them how to deal with its grief.
Other communities have found strength in surviving and transcending that kind of trauma by speaking about it. By naming it and claiming it. By re-telling it. And we can do the same today. By letting the Spirit of truth speak to us. Most of us have lived through some type of personal loss before.
Today, it’s important to remember. To remember what happened. To remember what gave you strength. To know what you can do, and what you can’t. To remember how you found God in the midst of hopelessness, depression and pain.
To remember and to speak that truth. To write it down, maybe in a personal journal. To speak it aloud with friends and loved ones.
To share it with people in this community—even while we are physically apart—through phone calls and emails, social media, and Zoom meetings.
To love one another during this time, as Jesus tells us to do, in whatever way we can. For in that love, we find the Spirit of Truth.
And hear the Spirit’s voice speaking to us now. Saying to you and to me: “You are a beloved child of God. And I am your Paraclete, your advocate. I will always walk beside you. To help you bear your burdens. And never leave you orphaned. I am coming to take you home. For I am in you, and you in me. No matter what you may face.”
Amen.
-------------------------------------
* Weir, Kirsten Weir, “Grief and COVID-19: Mourning our bygone lives,” April 1, 2020; American Psychological Association, https://www.apa.org/news/apa/2020/04/grief-covid-19.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: John 14:15-21 & 15:12-13
Jesus said to the disciples: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees [her] nor knows him. You know [her], because [she] abides with you, and [she] will be in you. I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me. But you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me. And those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them…. This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
"The Question of Suffering"
Based on 1 Peter 4:12-14 and 5:6-11 (readings follow the sermon)
May 24, 2020
My sermon today is based on our first reading, from the 4thChapter of First Peter. This book is ascribed to St. Peter, though was probably written by someone else. Possibly during a time of great social upheaval.
Nevertheless, its words speak to us today. Words of suffering and grief and endurance.
Listen to verse four: “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.”
In 1945, a few months after being freed from a concentration camp in Nazi Germany, a Jewish psychiatrist named Viktor Frankl started writing a book, which he finished in nine days. Entitled Man’s Search for Meaning, it’s the story of Frankl’s imprisonment and suffering at Auschwitz and other detention centers.
As the title suggests, Frankl seeks to find meaning in the midst of hopelessness and death.
I first read his book in college—not as part of a course, but as my own leisure reading one summer. Which gives you a hint of my mindset back then!
Today, I believe Frankl’s words speak with renewed insight in the context of our collective trauma and grief during the current COVID-19 pandemic.
Along with horrible stories of what he endured, Frankl reflects on how we humans seek meaning even when faced with overwhelming tragedy. Frankl lost his parents, his wife and a brother during the Holocaust, which killed 6 million Jews.
The word “Holocaust” comes from two Greek words—“holos” and “kostos”—which mean “totally burnt.” Originally it referred to an animal sacrificed and incinerated on an altar to appease a god.
In Hebrew, Jewish people call it the Shoah. Used a dozen times in the Bible, “shoah” signifies complete destruction. An apt word for the crematoriums of the camps. A symbol of the sufferings endured.
In his book, Dr. Frankl asserts that suffering is a universal human experience. He writes: “If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering…. Without suffering and death, human life cannot be complete.” *
As believers, we can’t explain why suffering happens—though many Christians try really hard to do exactly that.
By claiming that a tragic death is God’s will, or that a terminal illness is part a divine plan for your life, or that a pandemic was created by a specific country, we seek to explain what caused this suffering. And (as some pastors preach) if we just believe hard enough that God is “in control,” then we will be protected from any kind of threat to ourselves and our loved ones.
But asking “why” is not where we find authentic meaning. Frankl suggests that meaning doesn’t come from the “why” question, but from the “how.” How we react to our own personal misfortune.
He writes: “The way in which a [person] accepts [one’s] fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which [one] takes up [the] cross, gives [that person] ample opportunity—even under the most difficult circumstances—to add a deeper meaning to [one’s] life.”
I believe a major part of that “how” includes lament.
Of crying out to God in sorrow and despair. Of shouting in anger and frustration. Of longing for the way things used to be. Of howling at the sky—like some people do now each evening.
Laments make up some of the oldest forms of writing. Laments appear in every culture and religion. The Bible is full of them. Many psalms are poetic laments. Jesus asks God to take away his cup of suffering. St. Paul complains of the persecutions and pain he endured during his ministry.
While attending this week’s online Festival of Homiletics, I heard a sermon of lament by Lenny Duncan, a queer pastor from a Lutheran Church in Vancouver, WA.
Who cried out about what’s happening to his African American community, who are dying of COVID-19 at three times the rate of whites. Who are forced to work at low-paid essential jobs—putting their loved ones at greater risk of disease and death. Who lack the financial resources to feed their families and survive this national crisis.
“The months ahead,” Pastor Lenny says, “will challenge us in ways many of us did not sign up for. I just want to take a moment to lament that with you."
Our reading from First Peter talks about living through that kind of suffering: “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.”
The author of this reading uses the verb “suffer” twelve times—out of the 42 times it’s used in the New Testament. twelve times. It’s obvious the writer wants to recognize the magnitude of his community’s suffering.
As a pastor, I know that suffering can’t be avoided, no matter how much we’d prefer to do so. And while pain can sometimes create barriers between us, yet it can also unite us with one another and with our humanity.
In his book, Dr. Frankl comes to the conclusion that each of us must answer the question of suffering for you and for me. Each of us must find its deeper meaning, based on our own situation and relationships, our personal faith and life experiences.
Frankl observed that certain prisoners who survived their sufferings in the concentration camps often had something they cared about that kept them going. Something or someone that helped them live through and transcend unbelievable pain.
For some, it was a child sent away to another land, who waited for their future reunion. For others, it was a partner or loved one. For others, it was the dream of a special project or creating something only they could do.
The same is true for us today. During this time of great suffering and loss in our world, much of which still lies ahead, we as Christians, as humans, need to find meaning.
Some of us will find meaning in how we serve those directly affected by this pandemic. Some of us will find meaning in the deep love we have for our family and friends.
Some of us will find meaning in creatively expressing our collective fear and lament through poetry or painting or music. Some of us will find meaning in the faith and community we share in Christ Jesus.
Some of us will find meaning in the promise that God is with us even when we feel most afraid, as the last verse of our first reading states: “And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to eternal glory in Christ, will restore, support, strengthen, and establish you.”
Beloved, may you find meaning in that promise, whatever suffering you may face. Amen.
-----------------------------------------------------------
* Frankl, Victor E, Man’s Search for Meaning; 1975, New York, NY, Pocket Books/Simon & Schuster; p. 88.
+ + +
FIRST READING: 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
12Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. 13But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed. 14If you are reviled for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the spirit of glory, which is the Spirit of God, is resting on you.
:6Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. 7Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you. 8Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. 9Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering. 10And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you. 11To him be the power forever and ever. Amen.
Nevertheless, its words speak to us today. Words of suffering and grief and endurance.
Listen to verse four: “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.”
In 1945, a few months after being freed from a concentration camp in Nazi Germany, a Jewish psychiatrist named Viktor Frankl started writing a book, which he finished in nine days. Entitled Man’s Search for Meaning, it’s the story of Frankl’s imprisonment and suffering at Auschwitz and other detention centers.
As the title suggests, Frankl seeks to find meaning in the midst of hopelessness and death.
I first read his book in college—not as part of a course, but as my own leisure reading one summer. Which gives you a hint of my mindset back then!
Today, I believe Frankl’s words speak with renewed insight in the context of our collective trauma and grief during the current COVID-19 pandemic.
Along with horrible stories of what he endured, Frankl reflects on how we humans seek meaning even when faced with overwhelming tragedy. Frankl lost his parents, his wife and a brother during the Holocaust, which killed 6 million Jews.
The word “Holocaust” comes from two Greek words—“holos” and “kostos”—which mean “totally burnt.” Originally it referred to an animal sacrificed and incinerated on an altar to appease a god.
In Hebrew, Jewish people call it the Shoah. Used a dozen times in the Bible, “shoah” signifies complete destruction. An apt word for the crematoriums of the camps. A symbol of the sufferings endured.
In his book, Dr. Frankl asserts that suffering is a universal human experience. He writes: “If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering…. Without suffering and death, human life cannot be complete.” *
As believers, we can’t explain why suffering happens—though many Christians try really hard to do exactly that.
By claiming that a tragic death is God’s will, or that a terminal illness is part a divine plan for your life, or that a pandemic was created by a specific country, we seek to explain what caused this suffering. And (as some pastors preach) if we just believe hard enough that God is “in control,” then we will be protected from any kind of threat to ourselves and our loved ones.
But asking “why” is not where we find authentic meaning. Frankl suggests that meaning doesn’t come from the “why” question, but from the “how.” How we react to our own personal misfortune.
He writes: “The way in which a [person] accepts [one’s] fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which [one] takes up [the] cross, gives [that person] ample opportunity—even under the most difficult circumstances—to add a deeper meaning to [one’s] life.”
I believe a major part of that “how” includes lament.
Of crying out to God in sorrow and despair. Of shouting in anger and frustration. Of longing for the way things used to be. Of howling at the sky—like some people do now each evening.
Laments make up some of the oldest forms of writing. Laments appear in every culture and religion. The Bible is full of them. Many psalms are poetic laments. Jesus asks God to take away his cup of suffering. St. Paul complains of the persecutions and pain he endured during his ministry.
While attending this week’s online Festival of Homiletics, I heard a sermon of lament by Lenny Duncan, a queer pastor from a Lutheran Church in Vancouver, WA.
Who cried out about what’s happening to his African American community, who are dying of COVID-19 at three times the rate of whites. Who are forced to work at low-paid essential jobs—putting their loved ones at greater risk of disease and death. Who lack the financial resources to feed their families and survive this national crisis.
“The months ahead,” Pastor Lenny says, “will challenge us in ways many of us did not sign up for. I just want to take a moment to lament that with you."
Our reading from First Peter talks about living through that kind of suffering: “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.”
The author of this reading uses the verb “suffer” twelve times—out of the 42 times it’s used in the New Testament. twelve times. It’s obvious the writer wants to recognize the magnitude of his community’s suffering.
As a pastor, I know that suffering can’t be avoided, no matter how much we’d prefer to do so. And while pain can sometimes create barriers between us, yet it can also unite us with one another and with our humanity.
In his book, Dr. Frankl comes to the conclusion that each of us must answer the question of suffering for you and for me. Each of us must find its deeper meaning, based on our own situation and relationships, our personal faith and life experiences.
Frankl observed that certain prisoners who survived their sufferings in the concentration camps often had something they cared about that kept them going. Something or someone that helped them live through and transcend unbelievable pain.
For some, it was a child sent away to another land, who waited for their future reunion. For others, it was a partner or loved one. For others, it was the dream of a special project or creating something only they could do.
The same is true for us today. During this time of great suffering and loss in our world, much of which still lies ahead, we as Christians, as humans, need to find meaning.
Some of us will find meaning in how we serve those directly affected by this pandemic. Some of us will find meaning in the deep love we have for our family and friends.
Some of us will find meaning in creatively expressing our collective fear and lament through poetry or painting or music. Some of us will find meaning in the faith and community we share in Christ Jesus.
Some of us will find meaning in the promise that God is with us even when we feel most afraid, as the last verse of our first reading states: “And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to eternal glory in Christ, will restore, support, strengthen, and establish you.”
Beloved, may you find meaning in that promise, whatever suffering you may face. Amen.
-----------------------------------------------------------
* Frankl, Victor E, Man’s Search for Meaning; 1975, New York, NY, Pocket Books/Simon & Schuster; p. 88.
+ + +
FIRST READING: 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
12Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. 13But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed. 14If you are reviled for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the spirit of glory, which is the Spirit of God, is resting on you.
:6Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. 7Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you. 8Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. 9Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering. 10And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you. 11To him be the power forever and ever. Amen.
"Shalom"
Based on John 20:19-23 (readings follow the sermon)
May 31, 2020
Before I was called as pastor of St. Mark’s four years ago, I served as executive director of The Aliveness Project for 14 years. Aliveness is a community center formed by a group of HIV+ individuals in the early years of the AIDS epidemic, long before COVID-19.
When I started at Aliveness in 2001, it was still in its original building in South Minneapolis. A building that had once been the headquarters of the Minnesota DFL. Legend had it that some famous political figures walked through its doors—including Hubert H. Humphrey and John F. Kennedy.
Aliveness bought the building for a song. It was in rough shape back then, with a leaky roof and drafty windows. The neighborhood was down and out, with problems of drug dealing and prostitution.
Our volunteers and staff made lots of changes and improvements. But from the day I started, people told me that we needed a bigger building. During my time, the number of program participants doubled and staff tripled. We were bursting at the seams.
So, we began searching for a new space. Eventually Aliveness purchased an abandoned warehouse ten blocks to the west. We raised two million dollars for its renovation and moved in the fall of 2013. A new and wonderful space.
But it was sad to leave our old building. With three decades of memories. And the spirits of those who had died of AIDS.
Well, you can imagine my surprise this week when I saw our old building on the national news. Just a half block from where George Floyd, a black man, was arrested and murdered by Minneapolis police.
The images from the video are horrific. With George begging the officer to get off his neck. Repeating over and over again, “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe….” Until he could breathe no more.
On Saturday, some of us joined thousands of people who marched peacefully through downtown Fargo to protest George’s death. A man who should still be alive and breathing.
Today’s Gospel lesson is also about breathing. But it’s a very different kind of story. Our reading from John shows Jesus who has come back from the dead to speak to the disciples. And to breathe on them.
The resurrected Jesus appears out of nowhere in a locked room. The disciples have isolated themselves—not out of fear of a deadly pandemic, but of oppressive authorities who executed their leader and friend.
The first thing Jesus does is to show them his wounded hands and feet—evidence of his violent death.
Then Jesus says to the shocked and world-weary disciples, “Peace be with you.” In Hebrew, it was probably similar to the phrase, “Shalom aleichem” (שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶ), which means “Shalom be upon all of you.” A greeting still used by Jews today.
Then Jesus breathes on them and says, “Shalom. Receive the Holy Spirit. Breathe in the breath of God.”
Jesus breathes on them in the midst of their fear. Just as Jesus breathed on George Floyd, a beloved child of God, during his last desperate moments.
Just as Jesus breathes on those who need a ventilator because of COVID-19.
Just as Jesus breathes on our black and brown siblings as they shout and scream with hearts full of pain and anger for justice long denied.
Just as Jesus breathes on us as we witness the ugly and evil results of our racist society, an unjust legal system, and a centuries-long legacy of white supremacy.
Jesus breathes on all of us. And in his breath is the Spirit of the Most High God. The Spirit of peace. The Spirit of truth. The Spirit of Shalom.
The word “shalom” has rich meaning in Hebrew. And while “peace” is a common translation. Shalom implies more than the lack of conflict. Or the absence of war. Or the end of violence.
Shalom is used 237 times in the Bible. Shalom comes from a Hebrew word that means “wholeness”—the joining together of diverse parts.
Jewish people say “shalom” when they greet friends, and when they say goodbye. In different situations—in coming and going, it’s the same word, “shalom.”
Shalom happens when opposing parties come together to try to understand one another. Shalom happens when the oppressor hears the voice of the oppressed.
Shalom happens when queer people are welcomed as equal members in churches that previously condemned them. Shalom happens when white people demand justice for people of color.
Shalom happens when people who disagree sit together and listen deeply to the “other” side. Something that’s desperately needed today.
Shalom is not left wing or right wing. It’s two wings joined together—just as a bird needs two wings to fly.
Shalom is dialogue: angry dialogue, heart-wrenching dialogue, gentle dialogue. But always dialogue—that goes back and forth—with each side constantly challenging, disagreeing, grieving and listening to one another.
Shalom is when chaos is re-organized into something new and unexpected. Shalom is hearing something you never understood.
Shalom is comprehending something you previously ignored out of ignorance or privilege or fear. Shalom is becoming who you were created to be.
Shalom is waking from a deep sleep. Shalom is healing from a serious illness. Shalom is kissing your loved one good night. Shalom is satisfaction from a hard day's work.
Shalom is creating art that speaks to today’s reality. Shalom is dancing to the rhythm of God's voice.
Shalom is the peace that passes all understanding. Shalom is the end of a faithful life for all God’s children.
Shalom is the power of words, like this poem, written by a teenage author named Kawa Kerami for a 2011 United Nations Poetry for Peace Conference.
A poem that could have been written today. It’s called, “The Power of Shalom” and reads as follows:
“The power that ends violence,
erodes injustice,
silences social disruption,
melts hostility, greed, and vice,
stirs solidarity,
resonates love and harmony,
and advocates a free, plural world
is the power of Salam.”
Shalom is Jesus breathing a new Spirit into you
and into me. A Spirit calling us to justice and love.
Saying, “Peace be with you. Shalom.” Amen.
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GOSPEL LESSON: John 20:19-23
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear…. Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”
When I started at Aliveness in 2001, it was still in its original building in South Minneapolis. A building that had once been the headquarters of the Minnesota DFL. Legend had it that some famous political figures walked through its doors—including Hubert H. Humphrey and John F. Kennedy.
Aliveness bought the building for a song. It was in rough shape back then, with a leaky roof and drafty windows. The neighborhood was down and out, with problems of drug dealing and prostitution.
Our volunteers and staff made lots of changes and improvements. But from the day I started, people told me that we needed a bigger building. During my time, the number of program participants doubled and staff tripled. We were bursting at the seams.
So, we began searching for a new space. Eventually Aliveness purchased an abandoned warehouse ten blocks to the west. We raised two million dollars for its renovation and moved in the fall of 2013. A new and wonderful space.
But it was sad to leave our old building. With three decades of memories. And the spirits of those who had died of AIDS.
Well, you can imagine my surprise this week when I saw our old building on the national news. Just a half block from where George Floyd, a black man, was arrested and murdered by Minneapolis police.
The images from the video are horrific. With George begging the officer to get off his neck. Repeating over and over again, “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe….” Until he could breathe no more.
On Saturday, some of us joined thousands of people who marched peacefully through downtown Fargo to protest George’s death. A man who should still be alive and breathing.
Today’s Gospel lesson is also about breathing. But it’s a very different kind of story. Our reading from John shows Jesus who has come back from the dead to speak to the disciples. And to breathe on them.
The resurrected Jesus appears out of nowhere in a locked room. The disciples have isolated themselves—not out of fear of a deadly pandemic, but of oppressive authorities who executed their leader and friend.
The first thing Jesus does is to show them his wounded hands and feet—evidence of his violent death.
Then Jesus says to the shocked and world-weary disciples, “Peace be with you.” In Hebrew, it was probably similar to the phrase, “Shalom aleichem” (שָׁלוֹם עֲלֵיכֶ), which means “Shalom be upon all of you.” A greeting still used by Jews today.
Then Jesus breathes on them and says, “Shalom. Receive the Holy Spirit. Breathe in the breath of God.”
Jesus breathes on them in the midst of their fear. Just as Jesus breathed on George Floyd, a beloved child of God, during his last desperate moments.
Just as Jesus breathes on those who need a ventilator because of COVID-19.
Just as Jesus breathes on our black and brown siblings as they shout and scream with hearts full of pain and anger for justice long denied.
Just as Jesus breathes on us as we witness the ugly and evil results of our racist society, an unjust legal system, and a centuries-long legacy of white supremacy.
Jesus breathes on all of us. And in his breath is the Spirit of the Most High God. The Spirit of peace. The Spirit of truth. The Spirit of Shalom.
The word “shalom” has rich meaning in Hebrew. And while “peace” is a common translation. Shalom implies more than the lack of conflict. Or the absence of war. Or the end of violence.
Shalom is used 237 times in the Bible. Shalom comes from a Hebrew word that means “wholeness”—the joining together of diverse parts.
Jewish people say “shalom” when they greet friends, and when they say goodbye. In different situations—in coming and going, it’s the same word, “shalom.”
Shalom happens when opposing parties come together to try to understand one another. Shalom happens when the oppressor hears the voice of the oppressed.
Shalom happens when queer people are welcomed as equal members in churches that previously condemned them. Shalom happens when white people demand justice for people of color.
Shalom happens when people who disagree sit together and listen deeply to the “other” side. Something that’s desperately needed today.
Shalom is not left wing or right wing. It’s two wings joined together—just as a bird needs two wings to fly.
Shalom is dialogue: angry dialogue, heart-wrenching dialogue, gentle dialogue. But always dialogue—that goes back and forth—with each side constantly challenging, disagreeing, grieving and listening to one another.
Shalom is when chaos is re-organized into something new and unexpected. Shalom is hearing something you never understood.
Shalom is comprehending something you previously ignored out of ignorance or privilege or fear. Shalom is becoming who you were created to be.
Shalom is waking from a deep sleep. Shalom is healing from a serious illness. Shalom is kissing your loved one good night. Shalom is satisfaction from a hard day's work.
Shalom is creating art that speaks to today’s reality. Shalom is dancing to the rhythm of God's voice.
Shalom is the peace that passes all understanding. Shalom is the end of a faithful life for all God’s children.
Shalom is the power of words, like this poem, written by a teenage author named Kawa Kerami for a 2011 United Nations Poetry for Peace Conference.
A poem that could have been written today. It’s called, “The Power of Shalom” and reads as follows:
“The power that ends violence,
erodes injustice,
silences social disruption,
melts hostility, greed, and vice,
stirs solidarity,
resonates love and harmony,
and advocates a free, plural world
is the power of Salam.”
Shalom is Jesus breathing a new Spirit into you
and into me. A Spirit calling us to justice and love.
Saying, “Peace be with you. Shalom.” Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: John 20:19-23
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear…. Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”