Author: StAlbansChurch

I have this vision of John, the author of the gospel of John, finishing off his 20 chapters and then noticing some extra pages on the shelves. After checking them, John says – ‘oh right, there’s this story too, I should have put that in!’ In some ways that’s our chapter 21 today…last week the gospel ended with a summary “Now Jesus did may other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book…” – a nice ending for a gospel. But the appendix, or addition, which begins with our story this week; “Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias…” is a change – as if the editor started combining pieces of John’s gospel with Luke’s gospel…Last week Jesus and the apostles (including Thomas) were still in Jerusalem; with this story we’re back up north in Galilee, on the lake where so much of Jesus’ ministry had taken place. And there are a lot of pieces in this gospel passage that both connect and do not connect with earlier stories.

First – what are the disciples doing fishing back at home? Weren’t they supposed to be out changing the world? (a disconnect) Second, the abundance of fish, exactly 153 apparently, using the same language as the first miracle that Jesus performed – the changing of water into wine in Cana of Galilee about 11 miles away from the lake (a connection)… But at the heart of the story are two things: breakfast, and the ongoing commissioning by Jesus of the disciples.

This story of a meal with Jesus is an interesting counter to Luke’s Easter story of the walk to Emmaus, where the two disciples recognize Jesus “in the breaking of the bread” – here the disciples have already figured out who this was, “they knew it was the Lord.” It was Jesus who took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish.” So what is the point here? Is the focus on breakfast and eating together, sharing a meal and all that means? (perhaps) Or is it a way to prove that Jesus is really alive because he’s eating breakfast? (perhaps) Knowing John’s gospel though, this is also a story connected to the Eucharist and its many meanings – particularly union with Christ. The giving of bread is a pretty straightforward link, but the presence of fish, perhaps drawing on earlier Jewish ritual meals (pointing to the future fulfillment of the reign of God), as well as the abundance of fish symbolism in the early church may mean several things.

In Andrew McGowan’s wonderful book, Ascetic Eucharists, he traces the importance of fish in ritual meals, and particularly in the bread and fish of the feeding of the 5000 and other gospel meals. Not long after John’s gospel was written, fish became an important symbol of Christians, followers of Jesus. They were the little fish, born in the living waters of baptism. The church very early on also became identified as the big fish, still recognizable (2000 years later) on the back of some peoples’ cars with the fish shape sticker and the Greek acrostic ICHTHUS (fish, but also Jesus Christ Son of God Savior).

The heart of all the stories, however, is the conversation Jesus has with Peter after breakfast. Things left off pretty poorly with Peter before and after the crucifixion in all four gospels. On Palm Sunday we heard Luke’s version – “This man also was with him,” “Woman, I do not know him;” on Good Friday we heard John’s version: “you are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you,” Peter replied “I am not.” And the cock crowed… the three denials of Peter, predicted by Jesus and accompanied by the rooster’s confirmation. But here almost at the very end of John’s gospel, that horrible threefold denial is met with a threefold challenge to Peter from Jesus: do you love me? Peter answers that he does; and Jesus charges him to “feed my lambs;” a second time Peter is asked if he loves Jesus; he affirms that he does, and Jesus tells him to “tend my sheep,” and a third time Jesus asks Peter “do you love me,” Peter replies with sadness “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” And Jesus replies “feed my sheep.” Three times Peter denies Jesus; now three times Jesus asks him if he loves him and if so, what will need to happen next.

The return to fishing for a living, the return to being home with their families – with all that was familiar – is about to come to an end. Peter – and the other disciples – will now be sent out to preach the good news, to be Christ for the world. Love is not a warm fuzzy sentiment – it is love in action, caritas-charity: “if you love me, keep my commandments.” The editors of John’s gospel, tell us what that looked like for Peter: he would be tied up, led to a place “he did not wish to go.” It’s clear here, by the end of the gospel, that Peter has been murdered – he has been martyred…he redeemed his sins of denial with affirmations of love and following Christ – and did what Jesus asked him to do, even into death.

We sang a hymn to acclaim the gospel just a little while ago, “they cast their nets in Galilee.” I remember the first time I sang it I thought “what a silly, trite hymn” – “such happy simple fisherfolk..,” but, of course, one has to sing all the verses, through “the peace of God…breaking them in two,” John dying in Patmos, Peter, “who hauled the teeming net, head-down was crucified.”  And then it gets to us: “The peace of God, it is no peace…yet let us pray for but one thing – the marvelous peace of God.”

Jesus says to us – individually and as a community – every day, “do you love me?” then do that love, feed my lambs, tend my sheep, feed my sheep. In this life, the peace of God is not an invitation into safety, into calm isolated protection, into all sweetness and light – “the peace of God, it is no peace.” Only in hearing the call of Christ, responding by following Christ every day, and knowing Christ more day by day – do we begin to understand the power of this divine peace.

Do you love me, Jesus asks? Then go out and feed the sheep…

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not not believe.” The week after resurrection, the week of doubting Thomas. We have been here before and often, the balance of doubt versus belief. As I was going through this week’s readings I was drawn to Reverend Linda’s sermon from last Sunday and the many resonating messages she shared. If you did not have a chance to hear it, it is still as resounding in video – I know, I rewatched it. 

And I thought about how love wins and ways we can live out loud, big and proud. And about being Prisoners of Hope. Hope that recognizes the transgressions on earth, that believes despite that, not ignoring it. That we are free in our belief and hope. Yet sometimes, maybe more often than not, that hope can be shaken. Shaken through what may seem as doubt or fear. What if we are wrong, if this is all for naught? I will admit I do not like being wrong and it is a challenge. Yet, if we are not willing to challenge what we know, how do we grow? And maybe that is the fear, not knowing what changes we need in our own lives in order to fully live it according to God’s will. 

The day after Easter I was going through my emails, trying to clear out the multitude of messages from the weekend and I paused on the New York Times Morning edition from the day before. It’s the really short synopsis that I sometimes will look at, although more often than not these days just delete. The title of the Easter edition was “The Morning: America Wants a God.” I didn’t read it right away because so often over the past decades we hear of the trend away from religion and in theory then God. I did eventually go back to it and there was a short summary of  “Believing,” a yearlong project from The New York Times exploring how people experience religion and spirituality now. The highlights from the email, because I still have not found it in me to subscribe to the New York Times and engage with all the other news, however I am intrigued in part to understand this a little bit more. The highlights though, Americans believe. Based on the reporting – “Almost all Americans — 92 percent of adults — say they have a spiritual belief, in a god, human souls or spirits, an afterlife or something ‘beyond the natural world,’…”

Yet the article points out that, “Over the past few decades, around 40 million Americans left churches, and the number of people who say they have no religion grew to about 30 percent of the country.” Yet studies continued to show that those who practiced a religion tended to be happier, healthier, and connected, giving what “sociologists called the ‘three B’s’ — belief in something, belonging in a community and behaviors to guide their lives.”

Something is shifting though. Although most people may not be going back to religion, many do want spaces to discuss and explore their spirituality. The last piece of the summary highlighted that “Americans are looking to believe in something.” The conservatives have been better at using the infrastructure of evangelical Christians to bring more people in. And there doesn’t seem to be other alternatives, with many liberals ignoring this American quest for spirituality.   

So then what do we do? We have recognized fear and chosen Hope by coming together here physically or virtually to continue to nourish our souls. To share in a common belief and belonging that takes us through the weeks, months and years. How do we translate that to others? Maybe by changing how we look at it.

Mondays through Thursdays I listen to motivational talks through the fitness community I joined last year. This past Thursday the speaker was talking about new lenses – physical glasses with a new prescription that was literally giving him a new way of looking at things. For anyone who has needed glasses, you may recall and for those of you blessed with excellent vision – let me tell you a new set of glasses can be disorienting. The world you look at is different and at first you may not be convinced you answered correctly to the lens fitting while your eyes adjust to seeing the world a little sharper than before. That initial adjustment time frame can be challenging and if the strain on your eyes is too much can even have you thinking of going back to your old glasses. However, if you’re willing to acknowledge that bit of discomfort and give yourself time, you literally see the world better. 

And much like physical glasses, we switch around how we look at the world all day long, based on how we feel, our perceptions, our fears, and sometimes our own self doubt. When things don’t always go our way, we can easily begin to doubt ourselves, our way of life, and sometimes God’s love. And that doubt or fear that maybe we aren’t good enough for the things that may come our way. However we are given guides and a community where we can bring together our doubts, our sadness, and woes, yet continue to strengthen our hope and how we live it. And it is a continual challenge to live God’s will and care for all of God’s creatures. 

Pope Francis, even in his last requests, continued to challenge human authority, the authorities themselves that gave him his position as the head of the Catholic church. For all the many structural, ideological or political reasons that Pope Francis was selected, he continued to live his life the way he always had, as a Jesuit. Pope Francis challenged the Catholic church – he was an advocate for not only the people of this earth but the earth itself and all its living things. He bent the strict orders and gave a little more room for love to win. “‘Build bridges, not walls’ was an exhortation he repeated many times,” Cardinal Giovanni Battista Re said of the late pontiff, who often pushed against the tides of geopolitics. – That was a tagline from one of the headlines from NBC News Now of the funeral coverage for Pope Francis. 

Pope Francis was one of the examples we witnessed in our lifetime of the first lesson from Acts. “We must obey God rather than any human authority.” In our weekly gatherings that is what we come together to do. To receive the Holy Spirit together so that we can carry the light brightly when apart. I don’t necessarily go out and regularly try to recruit people to the church – although that is something I need to work on. However I believe it’s in the ways we live our lives with purpose, belief, hope and the knowledge that everlasting life and love is ours that we can begin to give a new lens to those who may seek to question spirituality and find a higher truth. Despite or in spite of the challenges of those who are in authority, be willing to continue to live a life where love wins. Where we care for our neighbors and embrace all those willing to come to God’s fold. Our lens that Hope is real, that there can be light and doubt and our everlasting belief that love will win, is a way of viewing the world that is worth sharing. A lens that maybe others who view our actions are yearning to also get a glimpse of, to move past the initial discomfort of seeing something new so that life is a little clearer. 

We have just participated in the recitation of the most tragic story imaginable. In fact, this drama of the Passion of Jesus Christ is beyond any human tragedy. In a stage play, the tragic figure may be heroic and self-sacrificing and noble, but also has a blind spot, a “tragic flaw” — often the exaggeration of a virtue.

But the person of Christ Jesus does not display any such tragic flaw. Instead, we have just reenacted the telling of a story of a person totally innocent, who never denied his deepest truth, & was executed for living out that truth. As the church enters into the most solemn week of the sacred year, Holy Week, this is the mystery we ponder — the innocent dying to free the guilty.

Over many centuries Christians have thought deeply about this central mystery, and this reflection can be summarized under the one word, “Atonement.” You have probably heard different explanations about “Christ dying for us.” Some of these explanations depend too much on human courtroom imagery, or a medieval sense of a feudal lord offended by some servant or vassal.

That’s a legalistic view that imagines God the Father as outraged by human sin; but as God, is unable to receive justice from a finite creature, a human being because the offended party (God the Father) is infinite. Therefore an infinite Being, God the Son, makes restitution by his death, satisfying God’s justice.

Maybe there was a time when such a theology could really help people make sense out of this most tragic story imaginable: the death of Christ Jesus on a cross. In that view God shows no love. Some theologians call it “divine child abuse.” And the church has never endorsed just one explanation of the Atonement. The universal church is open to other understandings of the atonement.

One that makes much more sense to me, and to many people I speak to, is to view Christ Jesus in the role of the hero, unafraid in confronting worldly evil. Jesus knew what would happen if he spoke out and confronted evildoers — that not all of them would repent. Some would try to eliminate him for good.

And for too long the church has entertained a dubious speculation about who was more to blame — the Jewish leaders or the Roman rulers. Jews or Romans, old world or new world — none of that really matters. The tragedy is that we all participate in human evil. Some of the things we’ve done, and some of the things we still do, add to the evil that infects this world. Whether they are sins of commission or sins of omission, we’re caught in sin’s tangle.

We’re often suspicious about the kind of love which other people offer us, wondering when their self-giving will end, and when the payback time will start. And part of us just can’t believe that God would really love us without limit. We have some idea of how bad we can be — so how can God put up with us?

We have all rejected God’s love in the past, preferring to trust our own ways; trusting in our intellects, or our hard work, or any number of finite human works. We have all known that blazing embarrassment of realizing that God loves us even as we are imagining something devious, something that will bring us shame.

Rather than accept God’s love, sometimes we choose the path of rejection, keeping divine love at some imaginary distance (since we really can’t lock God out).

What is our  hope, caught as we are between our high ideals and our weaknesses? I suggest we keep our attention, this Holy Week, not on our ups and downs, but on the unfolding of the story of God made human, Jesus Christ’s story.

And our church dares us to do this, not with our heads bowed down like a reed, but with joy! Joy that we can share in the new life of Christ Jesus who died for us. Take to heart the bold words at the beginning of the first liturgy of Holy Week, today:

Assist us mercifully with your help, O Lord God of our salvation,

that we may enter with joy upon the contemplation of those mighty acts,

whereby you have given us life and immortality; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

On this last Sunday in Lent, we are setting aside Luke’s Gospel and reading from John.  You will be pleased, though, that I’m not going to give into my obsession with the Fourth Gospel.  I’m not going to mention the fact that a pound of nard is the equivalent of 17 gallons of perfume and that, today, it would cost over a hundred thousand dollars.  

And we won’t discuss that, at the time of Jesus, slaves were the ones who washed a guest’s feet – and that a woman would never let down her hair in any public situation.

I also won’t go on about how in John’s Gospel, unlike the synoptic Gospels, this story is not about an anonymous woman anointing Jesus’ feet before dinner, but rather about Mary – the sister of Lazarus whom Jesus had raised from the dead – preparing Jesus for burial.  John underlines this point by calling Judas a “thief,” the same word used to describe the person who takes the life of the Good Shepherd in chapter 14.

Now you may conclude that, in John’s Gospel, Jesus’ death on the cross is the primary point and that this crucifixion is actually God’s exaltation of Jesus and the gift to us today of God’s extravagant generosity and abundant life.  But all that would be your business.

Early Christian Writing

No, today, I’m going to talk for just a few minutes about our second lesson from Philippians. 

Why Philippians?

Philippians isn’t Paul’s earliest letter, but it is among the earliest Christian texts we have, perhaps 54 to 58 AD, less than a generation after Jesus’ death and resurrection and a full generation before John’s Gospel.  It’s striking that the earliest documents we have are not about what Jesus said or did, but rather discussions about the impact of this person who was killed a few decades earlier.

This letter is also important because Philippi is the first city in Europe where the Gospel is preached, the starting point of Christianity in Western Civilization.

And, as elsewhere in Paul’s letters, we see that women play leadership roles.  In fact, Lydia and Paul were co-founders of the congregation there.  As the conclusion of the letter states, Paul prays for two women who are key leaders in the congregation.

Even Earlier Text: the Christ Hymn

Philippians is perhaps best known because it includes an even more ancient piece of Christian writing: the so-called Christ hymn in chapter 2 [verses 5-11]:

“Have this mind among you that was in Christ Jesus, 

who, though he was in the form of God, 

did not regard equality with God 

as something to be exploited, 

but emptied himself, 

taking the form of a slave, 

being born in human likeness. 

And being found in human form, 

he humbled himself 

and became obedient to the point of death— 

even death on a cross. 

Therefore God also highly exalted him 

and gave him the name 

that is above every name, 

so that at the name of Jesus 

every knee should bend, 

in heaven and on earth and under the earth, 

and every tongue should confess 

that Jesus Christ is Lord, 

to the glory of God the Father.”

This hymn shows that the incarnation was part of the earliest understandings of Jesus, not a later post-Apostolic invention.  And, in expressing this concept of incarnation, the hymn writer uses language from Second Isaiah and the Suffering Servant poems, which we read in our First Lesson.  Philippians is evidence that, for the first Christians, Isaiah played a pivotal role in making sense of who Jesus is.

Letters to Each Other

As we come to the end of Lent and see Easter on the horizon, we should note that Philippians is a letter, a reminder that we have our faith because someone else has written – and is writing to us.  In a lesson we read a while ago from 2 Corinthians, Paul stated, “you are my letters…”  In effect, when we gather together, we are writing letters to each other.

You and I are the beneficiaries of letters from our senior warden, Laurie, and we all depend on the weekly newsletter put together so ably by Amy, our parish administrator.  In a real sense, the weekly worship folder prepared by Becky is a letter that informs and inspires us.  And, for me, Jesse and other musicians send us beautiful letters that fill our hearts and minds.

At the memorial service for the noted church historian Martin Marty last Saturday, Marty was called the Thomas Jefferson of Church History because of the thousands of letters he wrote.  Many people, myself included, were recipients of Marty’s letters and notes.  His brother and sister traded letters every week.

The Mind of Christ – A New Goal and a New Guide

Marty wrote those letters because, like us, he had been given the “Mind of Christ,” which changes how we regard everything.  

In this mind of Christ, the past – while significant – isn’t what defines or determines us.  Rather, our mind has been changed because we have a new goal – what lies before us – and, most importantly, a new guide.  

This guide has suffered for us, humbled himself to the point of death on the cross.  And, in our baptism, we have been pulled down with him into that death so that, with him, we too are raised to new life.  In this future, the heavenly seat next to the father is actually a very big bench – with room for all of us.

This heavenly seat – where Jesus is Lord and where we sit with him as part of his new family – isn’t some geographical location that we get to far in the future.  No, it is how the Scriptures picture being next to God, sharing in God’s grace and glory.

Setting Aside the Past for What’s Ahead: Easter

In our lesson today, Paul suggests that what keeps us from enjoying this “new placement” – on the bench with the Risen Christ – is our attachment to the past.  To be sure, some of us are proud of our past accomplishments or hold on tight to our record of trying to love our neighbors.  

Perhaps, more prevalent and pernicious, is our struggle to let go of our younger, healthier, more active selves.  We feel we’ve lost so much vitality, mobility, and opportunity.

But the good news is that because Christ humbled himself to death, we have been given his mindset.  The mindset that trusts the future that God has set before us, that delights in sitting on the Christ bench – as we write letters to each and as we sing with and hope.

The words that open Paul’s letter to the Philippians are worth hearing as we finish our Lenten journey and prepare for what’s ahead:

“I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the very first day until now.  I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.  It is right for me to think this way about all of you because you hold me in your heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me.” [Philippians 1:3-7b] May it be so.

It is Lent.  And so it seems right to me that I recently finished a great nineteenth century Russian novel – The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.  There was a movie of this book when I was a young teen.  It starred Yul Brynner.  You may even remember him!  In any event, this is Dostoyevsky’s last book, and I think it competes with War and Peace for the prize of the great Russian novel.

The Brothers K, as people call it, is all about a murder.  It’s actually a murder mystery and a courtroom drama.  It has twists and turns and surprises.  It is so brutal at times, so harsh, and so full of heart and love at other times.

And it was a good book for Lent because, in the midst of all the turmoil, it is a book about God.  Dostoyevsky struggles passionately with the questions about who God is, how he relates to us, and what is required of us.  But there’s even more.  At the same time as he writes about God, he writes about people in our world — some beautiful and touching stories and in one case the most lovely description of a dog.

If I sit down to think about a book like The Brothers K, there are two people at the table with the book between us.  There’s me and there’s Dostoyevsky.  What does the book say on its own, how did Dostoyevsky’s own personal experiences penetrate the story-telling, and what do I bring to the story and take home from it.

We do the same thing when we sit down to think about the Scriptures and, in this year particularly, the Gospel of Luke.  But this time, there are three people at the table with the book between us.  There’s me and there’s Luke.  And then there is God.  The questions now are: What is God saying to us, how does Luke’s own beautiful voice penetrate how God says it, what do our life experiences bring to this Gospel?  Another way to ask these questions is how does Luke do the talking while God is whispering in our ear.

Scholars, I’m sure, know a lot about Dostoyevsky’s life, but we don’t know really anything about Luke’s.  We know he loved Jesus and carefully put together his Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles.  We know that he worked some with Saint Paul because Luke says so and puts himself into Acts.  (For example, Acts 16:10-17).  And tradition has it that he was a medical doctor and an artist who painted pictures of Jesus’ mother.

But what happens in his Gospel tells us more about him, I think.  We can be confident in saying that he was a nice man.  He was loving and observant.  He loved his fellow men and women, he observed them carefully, and he was aware of the details and nuances of their lives.

Here are a couple of examples that I think are clues to what Luke was like.  Luke surely loved Zacchaeus, the tax collector who was so short that he climbed a tree in order to get a good look at Jesus.  (Luke 19:1-10)  Luke, and Jesus too, loved Zacchaeus’s enthusiasm even though he was definitely an outsider, a tax collector, and popularly regarded as a sinner.  And he was paid attention to even though he had lots of money.  In another story, the Parable of the Good Samaritan, the Samaritan man, another outsider, simply cannot make himself go by the man who was rolled and beaten on a notoriously bad stretch of road between Jerusalem and Jericho.  Like Zacchaeus, he had money to spare, witness how he pays the innkeeper in advance for the crime victim’s care and pledges to pay any excess.  (Luke 10:25-37)  There’s even a really homely parable about a woman who lost one of her ten coins and turns the house upside-down to find it.  Having found it, she and her neighbors rejoice totally.  (Luke 15:8-10)

Luke sitting at that table with us and God – remember? – can’t help but tell stories and parables that resonate with us.  It’s in his nature.  He makes us vibrate like a bell.  Haven’t we simply loved the antics of our children and grandchildren?  Luke puts that into the story of Zacchaeus.  Haven’t we sometimes passed a beggar on Solano Avenue and then turned back to give him or her a dollar or cup of coffee.  Luke puts that into The Good Samaritan.  Haven’t we all been terribly anxious at leaving a credit card behind at a store and then rejoiced to get it back?  Luke puts that into the parable of the woman and the lost coin.

So, what resonates between Luke and us in today’s Gospel reading – the famous Parable of the Prodigal Son?

This story begins and ends with sorrow.  It has a happy middle for some people.  The story starts with the grief of separation.  A younger son, untried and confident and probably selfish and ruthless and arrogant, collects his inheritance early.  And then he goes away.  My guess is that he was within his rights to ask for his share.  Or maybe the father trusts him and hopes dearly that his son, when away from him, would be as good as he had been brought up to be.  Parents are so hopeful.  We all know our children cannot remain children.  Often, they grow up by leaving home; and we too give them money.  The grief of separation has a million faces.  Most recently, in this country it might be a husband going off for a tour in Iraq.  In other countries, it might be a Palestinian immigrant leaving her mother behind.  It might be the death of a brother or sister.  Perhaps, this separation by death gives the parable great strength.  Why?  Because the Prodigal just disappeared.  In today’s parlance, he’s ghosted his father.  And I’m sure his elder brother is angry.

Well, things do not work out for the younger son.  He squanders what his father gave him.  He is reduced to dirt and dirty clothes, calloused feet and pigs for company.  He stinks.  In these depths, he suffers regret.  He realizes his fault.  He is like the tax collector who prays in the Temple near the Pharisee, and can only say, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.”  (Luke 18:9-14)  All the Prodigal can do is accuse himself in humility, knowing that he’s made many wrong decisions.  (Luke 18:9-14)  But this disruption of one’s spirit seems to offer the choice of power.  We can go down to the Jordan again to check in with John the Baptist.  If we have these second thoughts and regrets, they can set us on a new road that might be painful and might be years long.  But it takes us back to our rich father who suffered the grief of separation.

Well, we all know about being happy that someone has come home.  Sometimes, I’ve seen young adults who were kids in Saint Alban’s come back to visit – not that they’re Prodigals: don’t get me wrong!  You may not see your grandchildren for a week or even two or more.  And when you see them, you are hugging and kissing.  And if you’re a dog, you might not see your human “Mommy” for five minutes, and then you are kissing and jumping on her or him.  Anyway, like us, the rich father is delighted to see his son.  And that’s enough.  Except – We should note again that the Prodigal has first admitted his foolishness and wrongdoing directly to his father face-to-face.  He has confessed.  The prelude to the father’s delight — and I’m sure the Prodigal was also happy – is the Prodigal’s acknowledgement of his, let’s call it, sin.

But we need to look at the sorrow that ends this parable.  We have to pay attention to the elder son.  To start with, as we know, the road that brothers take can be very rocky.  And this obedient, reliable homebody is jealous and resentful and angry.  And I think we can understand him.  He has to give place to someone whose selfishness seems to get rewarded.  More is given him beyond his share of the inheritance, of his father’s substance.  This elder son, however, does not know what the younger has gone through.  Perhaps someday, if they work together on the father’s property, the two will make peace.  This is the beginning of a long story that may end in reconciliation.  It will be a rocky road, as we know, because the elder brother has essentially said to his father, “You don’t love me.”  I will only say briefly:  This story has played out in our lives in some way, shape, or form.  It requires endurance and courage.  This parable actually does not really have an end.  It ends with a question for the father and us:  How does he, or do we, treat the older son with as much love as he, or we, treat the younger?

Well, remember the table we are sitting at.  I said that God is sitting at that table too.  How might his purpose in these stories and parables resonate with us?  Of course, it is a given that the story of the Prodigal Son is about God’s forgiveness of even the most wayward, dirty, and smelly sheep.  But what else through Luke’s voice does he whisper in our ear?

I think the message is in this idea that I have tried to describe.  The idea is that when you walk down the street, or cook, or complain or rejoice, and you cry and you laugh and so on and on, you actually dwell in the stories that Luke tells.  What happens to you many times every day happens also in the Gospel of Luke and vice versa.  You are sitting at the table with Luke and God and learning what Luke says in his beautiful voice and what God whispers in your ear.  And you notice that the table has gone silent, and that Luke and God are looking at you.  And you come to realize something surprising and amazing.  These stories are about you.  Amen

There’s a well-known Zen Buddhist proverb: “before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

My typical process in planning for a reflection is to review all the readings for the day from the lectionary, and then try to find any insights I can tease out of them.

But given what’s going on in our country and in the world, I decided to go in a different direction today; instead, I’d like to reflect on large, medium and small but heroic or beautiful deeds and gestures that I know about, on what I’m seeing folks do here in our church, and out in the world to help keep Jesus’ directives moving forward. I’d like to share some of the things I’ve found helpful, and later on, I’d like to invite everyone here to share things that they’ve found helpful or inspiring. 

So, I’ll start by saying that things are really, really bad out there; it’s demoralizing. We’ve seen congregants afraid to come to church. My friend Lidia is now a US citizen, but most of the siblings that she rescued from an orphanage and from the streets of Guatemala after her mother died just have a green card; they work, they pay taxes, their kids were born here – but they are all in danger of illegal deportation every day; they carry copies of their documents with them everywhere. My family has it pretty easy; however, the government funding that pays for our kid’s PhD in cellular biology is in jeopardy – Columbia, Johns Hopkins, Penn – who knows what’s next. My husband’s decades of science work at the Berkeley Lab is paid almost completely by grants from the Department of Energy – no idea what will happen there. His grad students and postdoctoral fellows come from all over the world – many of them from Asia…. And who knows what will become of our social security payments and 403(b) investments….

But every Sunday when I come to church, you, my Friends in Christ, our visiting clergy and our musicians bring us such hopeful and inspiring messages and actions to strengthen us. It really helps!

Among the messages which have helped me are those about a light shining in the darkness, and the darkness not overcoming it – or not comprehending it, in the King James version – there’s a mindblowing choice of words! And all of the empowering and comforting messages about trusting in God’s goodness and mercy really help. And the themes of some of our common hymns have given me insights I’ve never noticed before; have you ever thought about how often the words “rock,” or “foundation” come up in hymns? “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, is laid for your faith in his excellent word!” goes one. “The Church’s one foundation is Jesus Christ her Lord; she is his new creation by water and the word” goes another. I never gave it much thought before, but these times have really gotten me thinking about what a foundation does; it not only gives us a structure to rest upon, it gives us a structure to build upon. Every Sunday we come together not just to remind ourselves of God’s love, and to recommit to the work of loving our neighbors as ourselves, but to actually build the work together.

There was the Sunday when Don brought Archbishop Budde’s mailing address so that we could send her thank you cards for speaking up for mercy. And Steve bought us letter samples and addresses to write in support of food aid. Of course there’s Beth’s work with Albany Thrives Together, and all the folks from our church who make sandwiches for our unhoused neighbors. There are the many simple acts of fellowship and caring we do for each other – not to mention actually planning all of the worship services and managing the physical structure of this church! All of these things are building on the foundations of our church.

Nevertheless, these times are so unnerving, and cruel, and we often feel powerless, and don’t know what to do to stop the evil that is spreading before our eyes. So I’d like to reflect a bit more on acts of kindness and of bravery that I have seen or that I know of.

So: first, something more about Lidia, who I mentioned earlier; Lidia has never forgotten how hard it was to struggle to feed her family, to find housing, to find work. Every Thanksgiving for many years now, she buys or is given over a dozen turkeys, and piles of vegetables, rice and rolls. She uses her church kitchen, and for days in advance of Thanksgiving, works with friends and family – including the two granddaughters she’s now raising on her own, since her youngest son died unexpectedly at the age of thirty – and cooks it all up, and makes huge dispensers of coffee. They load up their minivans and go to homeless encampments and the places where day workers congregate, and pass out food until it’s all gone.

I’m going to dig into my family’s past a bit to share a few things that I find inspiring. My mother and her family are from Germany; her father was born Jewish and converted to Christianity as a boy at his stepfather’s suggestion. My grandfather became a doctor; he met my grandmother, who was a nurse, at the hospital where they were both working; they married and had three children, and he took a job as a public health official. When the Nazis came into power, they took his job away. The family moved to a small town outside of Heidelberg to be closer to his mother and stepsister. The noose kept tightening. The minister at their local church told my grandfather he was no longer welcome there. But the minister of a bigger church in Heidelberg welcomed them. Heroic act #1. Then the Nazis put my grandfather in a work camp; somehow, my grandmother was able to get him out, and the family used every bit of money they had to get him out of the country; a Congregational minister in western Massachusetts sponsored him at a home for refugees and helped him get on his feet again; Heroic act #2. 

My grandmother and the three girls were stuck in Germany for the duration of the war – eight more years – and the rules on how “mixed” children were treated became increasingly harsh; at 14, you were no longer allowed to attend school. At 16, you had to go to work far from home, or you’d be sent to a work camp; my eldest aunt went off to become a nanny far from home to avoid the camp. A teacher in Heidelberg, Leni Pretorius, took in girls who were no longer welcome in school. She taught my mother and her little sister up until the war ended. Heroic act #3.

There’s a photograph in the family album of my mother and her sisters, wreathed in smiles, eating roast goose one Christmas during the war. The goose, a black market luxury item in wartime, had magically appeared on their front steps one morning. The family always assumed that it had been misdelivered – just luck! – that’s the story my mother told me. But years later, it occurred to me: might it not be that it was delivered on purpose? Yes, the family was ostracized and starving – but maybe some folks secretly empathized? Heroic act #4.

Now: onto small but beautiful things I’ve seen or felt or done in recent months; I’ll list a few – then, please, Friends – you share yours!

Total strangers have been saying hello to me on the street, wishing me a blessed day! Other strangers have told me how much they love my coat, or my glasses, or my outfit. Last week I was in Grocery Outlet singing along with “I’m going to Kansas City,” when a man started singing along with me – so fun! And then he tracked me down to tell me that my voice “isn’t bad.” Being able to plan Richard Cushman’s memorial concert, and the new organ scholarship program in his honor have really helped, as has working on Calliope concerts. Our hummingbird nest – is that not a direct proof of God’s love? My beloved cats, of course. And all the beautiful cats and dogs I meet on my walks. Flowers. Heather Cox Richardson’s daily newsletter, Letters from an American, keeps me informed and my panic at a minimum. Thank goodness for Faithful America calling out false prophets.

 “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

Now, friends – what have you seen, done, or experienced that you are finding helpful in keeping focused on not just surviving this flood, but helping to build the work?

This year, the soul-searching of Lent has felt especially welcome. With all that has been happening since the first of the year, and the anxiety over what these changes will bring, I’ve cherished the focus of making the Lenten Journey, with Christ as our north star. Lent is also a time when we try to stay close to the Holy Spirit, and let our responses and actions come from that spiritual center in each of us.

Additionally, Lent is a time for lament as well as spiritual nurture. To lament means that we find ways to express the sorrow or grief we may feel, rather than holding it in or denying it altogether. Lament opens the door for healing, the strength to endure and, in some cases, for reconciliation. As a spiritual practice, lament can deepen our relationship with God.

Our readings this morning contain different kinds of lament. However, they all share a heart-rendering honesty of how the speaker understands the situation and how it ideally might be different. The speaker also invites God into the lament, so that the way forward becomes a shared journey, with God providing strength, endurance, and hope. Each lament offers a different lesson for the spiritual life.

God makes an initial promise to Abram, but Abram laments over having no heirs, which keeps him from trusting in God’s promise. After hearing Abram’s lament, God responds with specificity, promising him progeny and descendants. Lesson: If we express our lament to God, God listens…and will respond in due time—not, perhaps, fulfilling our exact wish, but guiding us to make something good out of a difficult or painful situation.

This morning’s psalmist trusts God to provide strength, based on God’s help during past hardships. If we were to listen to the rest of this psalm, we would hear a lament and plea for God’s continued guidance through the current adversity that the psalmist faces. The psalm ends with faith that God again will answer the lament with mercy and salvation. Lesson: God will give us the strength needed to endure–again and again—in part because our focus is on God and the eternal, not fixed only on what we are going through.

In our Epistle, Paul’s lament has to do with his beloved community of Phillipi being swayed by false prophets and teachings, rather than staying true to the way of Christ that he has put forward. The early years of Christianity was a spiritual marketplace of charismatic leaders vying for followers, each with their own versions of Christian faith. Some were legalistic to a fault; others had a hedonistic thread; yet others preached a gospel of worldly prosperity as a sign of God’s blessing, and where the poor are seen as undeserving. Paul was heartsick that the community was being infected by destructive teachings, and urged them to focus on the eternal goods rather than their worldly comforts. Lesson: Sometimes others may lament on our behalf, offering wisdom to reflect and pray over. Occasionally their lament might not fit, but it nonetheless offers an opportunity for reflection.

For example, as a young adult, I had a contract to write advertising copy for a department store. We had just finished the Christmas catalog, and my supervisor turned to me and said, “Sometimes I have concerns about what we are doing. We produce these lovely catalogs not to attract sales from wealthy customers—they pay in cash—but instead, for sales from those who carry large balances on our store credit card, where we make money.” As I listened, I thought, “Oh no; I don’t want to hear this. I’m having too much fun writing these ads.” I told her that I appreciated what she was saying, and privately decided to reflect on her lament later, when I was ready, since I knew her words had moral truth that I needed to consider. That day came sooner than expected: within six months, I would leave advertising.

Our gospel contains two laments. The first underlies the Pharisee warnings to Jesus about the danger he faced. We do know that some Pharisees valued Jesus even if they didn’t understand what he was about. The second lament was from Jesus–not about what awaited him, but rather about the fear and abuse of power by the religious establishment, keeping it from listening and embracing the will of God. Jerusalem, this holiest of cities containing the temple that was the House of God, was also a site of such violence: The prophet Zechariah was killed there; Jeremiah was condemned and barely escaped.[1] John the Baptist was murdered; Jesus knew his death awaited. Yet there was so much potential for healing and spiritual transformation. Jesus echoes God’s entreaty to the Israelites using the mother hen metaphor from the Wisdom literature (2Esdras 1:30). Lesson: Lamenting the “what could be” or “could have been” is part of our letting go, knowing that–like it or not–we must take another path, one perhaps not of our choosing, one that may lead to the cross. God must be in the midst of our lament, for the spiritual strength to take that path.

Despite the importance of lamenting, as a source of self-honesty and closer relationship with God, it’s not something that many enjoy doing. Sometimes a ”Lenten lite” journey is more attractive. Some either don’t want—or feel they can’t—handle lamenting. This was especially so during covid times. Some have feared being consumed by lament and not able to move beyond it, which is a real concern, especially if our feeling that we are loved by God, just for who we are, faults and all, is fragile.

However, avoiding lament can lead to what a colleague has called “the negative effects of toxic positivity,” “the belief that we must stay upbeat no matter how tough the situation may be.” [2] She also points out that when difficulties are glossed over, meaningful conversation can shut down. [3] For some, toxic positivity can make church feel superficial and inauthentic. We need to have a place where we can voice what is on our hearts, and where optimism is balanced with the honesty found in the ability to lament.[4]

The key to a healthy practice of lament is to, first, do it in prayer with God. Much like the psalmist, our prayer should recognize where we have felt God’s presence in our lives, whether directly or through others. We then make our lament by asking for further guidance and support.

Second, we can lament together as part of a community. The prayer of confession that we say in our liturgy most Sundays is an excellent model for both a personal and communal lament. If we were saying it this morning, we would—together–confess our shortcomings and—together–ask for forgiveness and strength to move forward, renewed and restored.  It’s found on page 360 in the Book of Common Prayer. 

Third, part of the pastoral care that we all can do as a community is to be good listeners, open to what others might say, trying to understand what a lament means for the speaker, from their standpoint, but not taking it on personally or trying to fix it. As a wise Catholic nun once told me, “Sometimes when you try to fix other people’s problems, you become the problem.” Sometimes professional pastoral counseling or medical attention is needed. If we aren’t sure how to respond, we can always ask if they would like us to pray with them—even if simply asking for God’s compassion and guidance in Jesus’ name. This brings God into the lament and focuses on the way forward, with God as a source for strength and hope.

A few weeks ago, an Anglican priest in the Democratic Republic of Congo contacted me and a few other friends. I had written a story on a peace center he had established in an area with severe fighting, that helps victims of violence heal spiritually from the trauma and rebuild their lives. It also teaches local leaders how to handle conflict without violence. With the latest bloodshed, his town was being threatened. He explained this in his lament, then asked simply for our prayers, that God might transform hearts to stop the violence. I and several others shared his lament and request, which now has reached across the worldwide Anglican Communion. Afterward, he wrote to say how encouraged he felt in being surrounded by so much care and prayer. His town has been spared just now, but there is much work to do with refugees flooding in, seeking to survive. Lament can be life and hope-giving when it is shared.

Church is a place where we invite God to walk with us amid our varied experiences and viewpoints. if we understand Lent as a time for journeying with God, we will be called to deepen our compassion and to act when and where needed.

What is on your heart? What kind of encouragement or hope do you most need from God just now? How might you invite God into your lament?

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Tashjian, Jirair. “Second Sunday in Lent: Commentary on the Texts: Luke 13:31-35.” The Christian Resource Institute. February 28, 2010. http://www.cresourcei.org/lectionary/YearC/Clent2ntl.html.

[2] Kamna Narain, “The Negative Effects of Toxic Positivity.” Coach Kamna’s QuickRead. February 28, 2025. Coachkamna@substack.com.

[3] Narain, “The Negative Effects of Toxic Positivity.”

[4] “How to Recognize and Avoid Toxic Positivity.” Harvard Business Review. February 19, 2025. https://hbr.org/tip/2025/02/how-to-recognize-and-avoid-toxic-positivity#

The Gospel for this last Sunday of the season of Epiphany is always the same: Jesus transfigured in glory, flanked by Moses and Elijah — the embodiments of the Law and the Prophets. All the accounts of the Transfiguration recall that Jesus was speaking with these representatives of the Old Testament.

But only Luke recounts for us the content of their sacred conversation: Jesus’ departure — literally, his “exodus.” But this lofty conversation and transfigured glory proves to be too much for the all-too human disciples who are struggling with sleep — mixed in, I’m sure, with more than a little terror.

So Peter speaks for all us mere mortals who are overwhelmed by divinity when he manages to blurt out, “Master, it is good for us to be here.”

In the last week or so I’ve been thinking about transformation and Transfiguration, and what might be the difference between the two. Here are some examples.

Some of our children and grandchildren have played with toys called Transformers, where a simple twist changes the shape of the toy into something different. And we employ electrical transformers all the time to increase or lower voltages. These simple changes fail to rise to the status of a real Transfiguration.

Caterpillars are transformed into butterflies; so is that a Transfiguration?  The insect doesn’t think so, but if people witnessing that marvel want to call it a Transfiguration, I would not want to tell them that they are wrong.

I think it’s the human element that can make or embody a Transfiguration. Consider the first reading from last Sunday, the conclusion of the Joseph story. His brothers had sold him into slavery, but Joseph now is viceroy to Pharaoh.

That was at least a transformation. Joseph goes on to invoke Divine Providence: “God sent me ahead of you to ensure that you will have descendants on earth, and to preserve you all, a great band of survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” From the point of view of Joseph’s brothers, their experience is transfigured.

I’m considering what it’s like for us, Jesus’ disciples, to be Transfigured. You might be recalling events in your lives, times of setbacks and failure, which over time became the pathways to new and fuller life.  When you recall those painful episodes in God’s light, they are truly Transfigured.

Our Hymnal includes two settings of the hymn “How firm a foundation.” Many of us have sung the third verse so much we can follow it by heart: When through the deep waters I call thee to go the rivers of woe shall not thee overflow. for I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

Let’s take a closer look at what Peter says in the middle of the Transfiguration. First, he blurts out in wonder: “Master, it is good for us to be here.” So far, so good. When you and I sense a strong spiritual presence, we know it’s good.

But then Peter rambles on. “Let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” The evangelist then inserts a shrewd editorial comment: “not knowing what he said,” as if he had to give us the quote, but we ought to know what Peter is like by now.

We’re like Peter when we want to freeze-dry some powerful spiritual moment and thaw it out to help us when we feel our souls are dry and lifeless. This is our tendency — to make monuments out of fluid states of inner bliss. It can be hard to let go of the joy and ecstasy — we want to cling to them. But only when we let them go can we free up our spirits for more spiritual consolation.

The English poet William Blake wrote a short verse about this:

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the wingéd Life destroy.

He who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

As it happens, over the centuries the institutional church has not resisted the temptation to follow the second part of Peter’s little speech, and memorialize the fleeting moment of Transfiguration by building a church on Mt. Tabor. I hope that pilgrims who kneel in that Franciscan church do find consolation — but they’re not going to find Moses and Elijah flanking Jesus the Christ.

As we prepare for the solemn joy of Lent that begins in three days, I pray that we resolve to renew our hearts to receive whatever our loving God gives to us in our spirits — whether it challenges our faith or consoles our spirit. And let’s not forget William Blake’s succinct guidance.