Tag: Sermons

Jesus is feeling a bit out of sorts in today’s gospel. Why?

At the beginning of this chapter, we find John the Baptist in prison for making things too hot for Herod. He’d been criticizing the powers that be for too long and it got personal when he started talking about the illegitimacy of his marriage – so Herod arrested him. John rightly thinks that he might not be getting out of prison alive.

So he’s reassessing his life. His ministry. And who Jesus is. The one he had baptized in the Jordan and said that this one was full of power, full of dynamite power, as the Greek term has it. That this is the Messiah, the one sent by God.

But now, sitting in the cold dark prison, hungry, facing most likely his death, John wonders. There has been no mighty act of God to change things. No sweeping reforms, No revolution, No massive transformations. Could he have been mistaken about the whole thing?

Ever feel like that? Looking over your life and wondering if you actually got it right? Spent your time and energy in the most productive ways? Moved the needle of your family forward? Of your work life? Of anything? It can be tempting when you look around and wonder what change all the activism has accomplished/

At any rate, John sends a few of his disciples to ask Jesus straight out – “Are you the one? Are you the one who is to come from God, or should we be waiting for another?”

And Jesus says, “Tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the poor have good news brought to them.”

And that’s it. That’s what God has. Small acts of mercy. That’s the Messiah at work. The Kingdom of God come to earth. Small. Not really noticeable on a big scale. Little plants of milkweed scattered here and there. Enough for some of the monarchs. Maybe enough of the monarchs.

That’s the news John gets, and whether he’s content with that or not, the Bible doesn’t tell us. Whether he goes to his death contented with what God is doing or not, we don’t know. What the Bible does tell us, is that he stays faithful. He does not recant. He goes to his death, faithful to the God who has promised salvation.

Friends, let’s be honest. I don’t think the God of Jesus who works mostly in small ways is what we are looking for either.

The day after our nation’s 250th anniversary, I am in mind of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s beautiful declaration of interdependence. – A cease to an extractive economy, but an economy built on mutual flourishing. A recognition of our inter-dependence with the monarchs and the whales and the hummingbirds and the trees.

And our recognition that the only real way to bring this about is neighborhood by neighborhood, block by block. Not in any fell swoop. Most likely not in any large change way. Maybe… but our own neighbors are what we are given.

Tell John what you hear and see. The blind, one or two of them at a time, receive their sight.

So, today’s gospel – and we see Jesus’ own frustration. His own frustration with the folks around him, who can’t even celebrate the bits of the kingdom that are happening. Who can’t even praise God for their neighbor who was begging because he couldn’t walk, and now he’s walking!

“What shall I compare you all to?” He says. “You are like children who won’t play the game. We play the flute and you won’t dance. We wail, and you won’t mourn.”

“John fasted and you called him crazy. I eat and party and you call me a glutton and drunkard.”

God cannot win with you all. Prophets. Teachers. Messiahs. The dead raised to new life. You basically don’t want any of us.

And then, as if to prove the point – the lectionary skips Jesus’ prophetic warnings! Woe to you, he says. His warnings that this refusal to listen, this refusal to engage with God’s mercy, this refusal to acknowledge the power of mercy and forgiveness and grace, leads to judgement.

It’s not that God rains down fire, but when a people will not share, will not welcome others, will not extend grace – destruction follows. It is the natural outcome of crossing your arms, pouting and saying no – no to the stranger, no to feeding the hungry or housing the unhoused or offering grace and the hand of friendship to ones enemies. There’s outcomes to all of that.

And it looks like death. It feels like contraction and emptiness. That’s the part the lectionary skips.

And then our lectionary picks up again with these beautiful verses – some of my favorite in the gospels – come to me all you that are weary and I will give you rest.

But notice who he is saying this to – Not the wise intelligentsia, the powerful people, who rely on their own forecasts and their own desires to have things their way, not to the presidents and the commandants – he is turning towards those who are truly burdened, the little ones who are more towards the bottom rungs of power. He’s not saying I will give you rest to the ones who drop the bombs but the ones upon whom the bombs are dropped. Not to the ones who pump out more and more oil, but to the ones whose homelands are being threatened by rising sea waters.

To the little ones – which means the hungry, the homeless, the children, the blessed ones to whom the Beatitudes are addressed, to those who hunger and thirst for justice and for righteousness, to those who are merciful and pure in heart. These are the ones who carry real burdens, and they need real rest.

“For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” Jesus says. He doesn’t say, there’s not going to be any yoke, there’s not going to be any work or any responsibility, in other words. But there are ways of being in this world that are easier than other ways.

I’m offering you an easier way. A lighter way. A freer way. Dance with me. He says. Step away from the kingdoms of this world and play the game of the kingdom of God.

And what is the game of the kingdom of God? Planting milkweed. Sharing your pears and your lemons and your deviled eggs. Walking to the bus stop with someone else. Stopping to greet your elderly neighbor and chat with them. Finding ways to make someone else’s day better. Voting in ways that lighten people’s burdens of not being able to pay higher and higher rent and not being able to get medical care. Thinking through policies that make it easier for immigrants and working to get those policies passed. And while you’re doing that, making friends with strangers and maybe even learning another language.

Acts of mercy, as the church has traditionally talked about them. Acts of mercy can get short shrift as they seem so inconsequential. But, according to Jesus, they are not. This is how the Kingdom of God arrives.

Tell John what you hear and what you see. The poor have good news brought to them. The blind receive sight, the deaf receive hearing.

May we have the ears to hear/ The eyes to see / and the lightness of heart to dance. And to cry.

Instead of pouring in more better stop while you can

making it sharper won’t make it last longer

rooms full of treasure can never be made safe

when your work is done retire this is the way of Heaven

This poem expresses ancient wisdom from a Chinese text called the Tao Te Ching, and it is a foundational document in the practice of Taoism. I picture Taoist thought as the negative space in much of Chinese painting — a recognition of the background needed so that the foreground stands out.

When I do Morning Prayer, in addition to Christian texts, I often include readings from other traditions, such as the poems of Rumi, or stories from the Sufis. I often read these poems from the Tao Te Ching — but they can be rather impersonal. So I’ll balance this quote with a couplet from the Old Testament Book of Sirach. It is advice given to a venerated elder who is presiding at a festive celebration. So this morning I am assuming the role of your local venerated elder.

Speak, you who are older for it is your right

But with accurate knowledge and do not interrupt the music

I have arranged that this day shall be the last time I preach and celebrate here — and a Taoist might observe that this is a “propitious” time to retire. The church observed the feast of St. Alban just this last Monday — June 22nd.

Forty years ago, on July first, 1986, was my first official day as your Rector. As it happened, I was also forty years old at that time. 

Thirty years ago, I met a parishioner here named Joni, who became my wife — and she has wedding photos she would like to share with you at the reception.

Twenty years ago I stepped down as your Rector to begin serving as an interim pastor. I was 60, and after a long pastorate, it was time for a major change.

I did agree to return on a volunteer basis as the church dealt with Covid, and continued to serve once a month for in-person services. But I’m eighty now and today concludes forty years of my service here.

So — what next? I’m pretty excited for your future. Your numbers did decrease during Covid, but you have proved very resourceful. Other churches closed, and even our flagship Episcopal seminary in Berkeley has been revisioned for the digital age. Its buildings are repurposed. But you are still here! You serve the community with much-needed childcare, and you support the arts with Calliope, and a range of musicians here.

As for me, it’s no secret that I have become possessed by the benign spirit of the Muses. Every day I am either working on stained glass projects, or at least thinking about my current and my next projects. I post motivational quotes in my shop. Here are a couple of them. Richard Diebenkorn tells me: “Art is not delivered like the morning paper — it must be stolen from Mount Olympus!” Or Picasso: “Art is a lie that tells the truth.” Or from a Japanese artist group: “Fracture is simply the revenge of the material for being extracted from the earth.” Glass is mostly sand that has been tortured into a molten state and then annealed and sliced up. If not treated with respect, the glass will fight back.

My shop can resemble a monastic cell, but with music and a dart board. From the letter to the Romans: “God calls into existence things that do not exist.” We share in God’s creative actions when we create new things. From the Angelic Doctor Thomas Aquinas: “God is an artist, and the universe is God’s work of art.” Some of our parishioners have visited a hermitage on the Big Sur coast. The founder of that order of monks, St. Romuald, wrote this, which I see every day in my shop: “Sit in your cell as in Paradise. Put the whole world behind you and forget it. Watch your thoughts like a good fisherman looking for fish.”

When this church undertook a capital funds drive and remodeled the church. you brought in this well-crafted table to serve as your altar. So — do you remember what happened to the big seven-foot altar that was here before? Well, I’ve got it! now Your old altar has become my work-bench. It’s ergonomic, and I store supplies and tools in the spaces that used to hold the communion kneelers.

In his book, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce makes a connection between what the artist does and what the priest does in celebrating the Eucharist: The artist “transmutes the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everlasting life.” I suggest that all of us are artists of our own lives.

Each of us has to take the daily details of our ordinary days, with all their limitations and potential, and create something out of them — not just anything, but something we are proud of, worthy of divinity. Each one of us has a divine spark within — which is why we gather here — to remember our divine calling and to recharge us on our spiritual quests.

Well, I have just exceeded my two-page limit for my sermons. Time to wrap it up.

First, a repeat of that gentle poetic nudge from the Tao Te Ching:

 

Instead of pouring in more better stop while you can

making it sharper won’t make it last longer

rooms full of treasure can never be made safe

when your work is done retire this is the way of Heaven

when your work is done retire this is the way of Heaven

 

So far, so good — reasonable and balanced words, a little cool and impersonal.

Now, that sage advice from the wisdom of Sirach — for that venerated elder:

 

Speak, you who are older for it is your right

But with accurate knowledge and do not interrupt the music

 

“The Price of Discipleship”

 

Interesting readings today.

First, Sarah convinces Abraham to send Hagar and her son away.  God reassures Abraham, but not Hagar, that the boy has a future.

Next, Paul tells us that to belong to Christ, we need to die to sin.

Finally, we have Jesus laying out in detail to his disciples what their commitment to him will cost them.

These are the kinds of passages that make me wonder if I have any business calling myself a Christian.

What is the cost, for us, in our time and place, of following Jesus?

And how do we deal with our fear?

Most of us here probably won’t be called to put our lives on the line for our faith.  Some may have religious divisions in their families that are painful, especially if any of the people involved believe that the consequence of wrong belief is eternal damnation.

But for many of us, the worst reaction we’ll face for believing in Jesus is ridicule, or possibly a verbal outburst from someone who sees nothing in religion but shame and blame and war mongering.

So, no, it really isn’t much of a risk for us to show up at church every week. Of course,  we do have more responsibilities than that, as Christians.   

This congregation is pretty conscientious about offering practical help to people in need.  But sometimes, I think, our faith asks us to step out of our comfort zones.  For example, this spot right here is not my comfort zone.

And this is where fear comes in. 

I read a commentary on this Gospel reading that talked a lot about fear.  Fear as a powerful motivation, and fear as a tool for politicians (and I would add advertisers) to manipulate us.

I imagine that physical reactions to deep fear are probably the same for everyone, but the things that we’re afraid of are not.  One person’s exciting challenge is another’s worst nightmare.  I know that’s true.  I’ve seen pictures of people appearing to sleep soundly on a portable ledge, attached to the face of Half Dome.

But I would guess that almost everyone would be afraid of the kind of violent death that Jesus warns his disciples about.  And we know that many of them did die violently and probably very painfully.

So, how do we overcome our fears? 

Jesus tells his disciples that they need not fear those who can only kill the body but not the soul.  I thought about that for a long time, wondering if I could really trust even God enough to look death in the eye.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I do see how this works. Jesus is telling them that if they can don’t run away from this physical danger, they will be rewarded with something much better than a few more years on earth.  I remembered times when I found a way through my fear because I trusted that the outcome would be better than if I gave in to the fear.  Sometimes the equation is very simple, like standing up here and reading what I’ve written, because for me, it’s worth a few butterflies to dig into the readings like this.

Other times, it’s harder.  Once, on a hiking trip, I found myself looking at a more or less vertical rock face, which the guides informed us we would be climbing.  This was really not my idea of fun, as I think I hinted earlier.  But there were rewards, getting to finish the hike, for one, and at least equally important, not feeling like a wimp in front of the rest of the group.  The guides assured us it wasn’t that hard, and I made sure that a couple of people were ahead of me, so I could watch how it went for them.  It was fine. And I was really glad when it was over.

I don’t know if this is helpful or not, or if it applies to everyone or every situation.  Personally, it’s been interesting to think about fear, because I see myself as a rather fearful person, and I know it holds me back sometimes.  There are some things I can’t imagine I could ever do, no matter what the situation was. Maybe there are things like that for you, too.

Trusting in God is a good thing.  So let us all pray for the courage to do what we need to do, and to be spared from challenges that are too much for us.

Amen.

 

Today is Trinity Sunday.  In fact, it is the 692d Trinity Sunday after the Feast was put on the calendar in 1334.  And since we’re counting, I think this is my third or fourth reflection for Trinity Sunday.  And each time the reflection gets shorter.  And I wonder if this is because the subject is getting simpler or I am getting dumber. 

Leaving my IQ aside, I don’t think the subject is getting simpler.  Trinity Sunday is kind of the Sunday to which the whole first half of the church year, from Advent through Pentecost, points.  And a lot is commemorated in that period.  There’s God the Father’s creation of the universe: Jesus’ gift of salvation; the presence of the Holy Spirit among us.  After all this, Trinity Sunday raises the question who exactly is our God.  No, the Trinity is definitely not a simple topic.

So, how do we approach the question of who our God is.  We don’t want to be presumptuous.  And we can’t pin down an answer.  But I think not getting an answer is the point.  The question will go on forever, and our attempts to understand will be bits and pieces of understanding.  The bits will come to us through Scripture, through contemplation.  And I don’t mean something fancy when I say contemplation.  I mean prayerfully thinking about what kind of person God is.

Today, I’m going to mention one of the bits and pieces:  This is how God looks at us and feels about us.  Since we are made in God’s image, we do have a little access to God’s feelings.  This means we can answer from our experiences and the experiences of the kinship between all of us here.

In his First Letter, John actually defines God.  He says that God is love.  (1 John 4:8).  In what follows this definition, John points out two other things.  The first thing are the events that we commemorate from Advent to Pentecost — the Creation, the Incarnation and Salvation, the activity of the Spirit.  The second thing that I think John wants us to know is that the structure of the universe is love, that this love became flesh so that we can live or abide in God, and that the Spirit is our witness to this.  (1 John 4:7-16)

So, let’s take the abstract word “Love” and give it content, that is, let’s give it some down-to-earth reality by dragging it down to the level of our experiences.  In other words, let’s put ourselves in God’s shoes.  And let’s put God in our shoes.

So I thought of three examples, and I am sure that you can think of others.  I think these examples will, I hope, show us what God is like and also let us feel a kind of intimacy with God.

First, the Bible has a huge arc.  Simply put, the arc is that God put us in Eden and has been working hard ever since to put us back there.  This is exactly the love that we have when we want others to be happy.  It is the love of gift giving at Christmas or whenever.  It is the parent’s and teacher’s love that wants us to grow up and be happy.  It is the child’s love that works for the well-being of the parent.  These are all the kind of love that wants others to be in Eden.  This is the same love that God has when the Bible says he wants to open Eden again for us, that he wants us to be happy. 

Here is another example. In the Letter to the Galatians, Saint Paul lists the fruits of the Holy Spirit.  These are really nice.  Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Generosity, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-control.  (Galatians 5:22-23)  These are qualities that I think everybody wants to have.  They are the love that we give to our church kinship, to our co-workers, to the store clerk, the passerby on the sidewalk, the dog, and so on.  If we look back at the source of these fruits, we are looking at God because a giver of personal qualities like these fruits has to have these qualities himself.  God is certainly generous!  But he also has to be gentle and kind and patient.  He gives us what he has.  Let me give you the list of the fruits of the Spirit again:  Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Generosity, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-control.

A third example comes from the world of sorrow.  Perhaps, someone beloved is ill or is no longer capable of thought or is angry with you.  He will not talk to you.  He will not acknowledge you.  He behaves in ways that ignore your wishes and hopes.  He contradicts you.  He has cut you off.  He even seems to hate you.  Yet, you still worry and fret and pray and phone.  You still try to talk.  That is, you still love.  And I think your love is the same love God has for the sinner or the person who ignores him or even despises him or the idea of him.  It is the love of the father in The Prodigal Son who runs out before his son reaches the door because his son has always been his mind and the father hangs out around the door.  God loves to the point that he is always hanging out at the door, always picking up the phone to make a call.  In a way, this love is the summation of the other two examples I gave.

So, in conclusion, if God is love as John writes, I think he is an awful lot like us and we are an awful lot like him.  It is because we both love, God first — I mean, he is the Creator — and then us.  For God it is one-hundred percent love.  For us, well, let’s say that frequently it is love.  Pick your own percentage. We can talk this over with God when we meet the Trinity face to face and no longer have to struggle with one of my reflections because we are seeing Love as in a glass darkly (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us and exalt us to that place where our Savior Christ has gone before.

 

This phrase comes from our opening Collect this morning, and it points in two directions: looking ahead, it refers to next Sunday, the feast of Pentecost. But it also looks back to Ascension Thursday, exactly forty days after Easter.

When we recall Christ’s ascending from this earth, we’re marking a departure date. The Ascension of Jesus means that the person of Jesus Christ has gone from earth. We’re not completely abandoned. Next Sunday we’ll celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit, who reminds us of all the teachings and the powerful deeds of Christ Jesus.

Next Sunday’s we’ll hear about the number of new Christians baptized that day, and when we do, recall the number of Christians present in today’s first reading. It’s not a large number, considering all the redeeming work that Christ Jesus did.

After all his teaching and healing and leading by example, those who remained after the experience of Easter were, St. Luke tells us, “about one hundred twenty persons.” 120 persons constitutes a small group, the size of many parish churches.

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. A sociologist, Margaret Mead wrote that.

Margaret Mead worked as a cultural anthropologist in Samoa, among other places. And in her own life, some of her ideas, shared with her small group of friends, did indeed change a lot of minds, and hearts as well — not without controversy!

To repeat her insight: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. Next Sunday, on Pentecost, we’ll see what became of that small group of 120 persons.

 

Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us and exalt us to that place where our Savior Christ has gone before.

 

It’s worth pointing out that Jesus did not leave any organizational plans for a church. In fact, more than one theologian has made the ironic observation that “Jesus came preaching the reign of God, but what arrived instead was the Church!”

 To my mind that’s a little too cynical, as if the church were a human mistake and that God had something else in mind entirely. But my point is that Jesus didn’t give specific instructions on how human beings were to carry on his work.

So Peter and the other early church leaders figured out the church as they went along, not without heated disagreements about who’s in and who’s out — and how you tell. And you know, we’re still doing that two thousand years later, re-creating the church.

As I mentioned at the start of this sermon, Ascension marks a departure date. We cannot get to know the human Jesus in the same manner his first followers did. But the sacraments — especially the Eucharist we are about to celebrate — keep Christ’s presence lively for us — as individuals and as a community.

This day, this week, is full of potential. Recalling what is past, we can be looking for finding the love of God at work in new ways in our lives.

 

Today’s gospel reading (John 14: 1-14) comes right after the long discourse in which Jesus tells his disciples some bad news: one of them will betray him. Jesus will be leaving them soon. Peter will deny him three times. In today’s reading, Jesus is reassuring the disciples that they will be all right and will be with him in the end. He also tells them that after he leaves, it will be up to them to do his work. As usual, they have a little trouble understanding what he says.

Imagine what they must have been feeling. Most of us, at some point, maybe several times in our lives, have made the transition from student or trainee to doing a job without constant supervision. It’s often a little scary, but imagine your teacher is Jesus and the job is bringing people to God. And maybe you hadn’t quite grasped that someday it would be your job.

Now he’s telling them that he’s leaving, but he’ll be back for them. Who wouldn’t be confused?

Jesus promises that he will prepare rooms, or dwelling places for his disciples in his Father’s house. We hear these verses often at memorial services, so it’s easy to imagine that he’s talking about personal luxury suites in the afterlife. But Jesus isn’t usually that literal, is he?

So what are those places? I was a literature major, and I’m capable of squeezing every drop of blood out of a metaphor. My favorite translation is “rooms”. A room is a contained space, can be large or small, might have a single purpose or many…. Well, you get the idea. What are the rooms that Jesus is preparing for his disciples, and by extension, for us?

My best guess is that the phrase points to the places in ourselves where faith dwells.

For me, that place feels like a room. The door is always open, in the sense that I believe I’m on the right path by trying to follow Jesus. But most of the time I don’t quite feel that I can get all the way in, to the space where I trust that I’m truly walking with Jesus.

This uncertainty reminds me of a line from the movie, “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”? It’s about some British senior citizens who answer an ad for a retirement hotel in India. When they arrive, they find it’s not quite the luxurious place they were promised. The owner tells them not to worry, because everything will be all right in the end. And if it’s not all right, it’s not the end.
I actually think that’s a pretty good philosophy. The trouble is, we’re not in a movie, where there will be a few tears and some laughs, and everything will be resolved in a couple of hours.

We’re in a real world where things are not all right at all. Even if we have enough faith to believe that it will get better, we can’t help feeling angry about what’s happening and fearful about what might happen next. I can’t help wondering, when will everything be all right?

Friday evening, I had a conversation with a neighbor who was justifying her failure to get to the demonstration that afternoon by the fact that it wouldn’t do any good, because the government doesn’t care what we do, it would just have been to make herself feel good.
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation. I wondered why I seem to feel less discouraged than she does.

And I realize, for me, it all comes back to faith. I really do believe that a better world is possible, and I feel a responsibility to do whatever I can, however small, to bring it about. Not to be silent in the face of evil. And I believe that if enough of us are out there, they’re going to have to start listening.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have the faith and the commitment to do it without the support of this community. This is the room where our collective faith dwells.

We know what happened to the disciples after their final meeting with Jesus. They did, in fact, do the work of Jesus. As we try to do, in the hope that everything will be all right in the end.

Today is Good Shepherd Sunday.  Last week, it was the Road to Emmaus Sunday.

Today, after a brief detour last Sunday in Luke’s Gospel, we’re back to reading John’s Gospel.  In fact, in all three years of our lectionary cycle, throughout the seasons of Lent and Easter, almost all the Gospel readings are from John.

I could be wrong, but it seems like those who designed the lectionary felt John had something special to say about Jesus’ death and resurrection.  Perhaps they were hoping that, by hearing John’s Gospel, we might experience the Risen Christ in our lives.

That may be why, in all three years, the Fourth Sunday of Easter is Good Shepherd Sunday.  In years two and three, we will hear the verses that follow today’s reading, when Jesus keeps talking about the Good Shepherd.

Yet the point of today’s Gospel reading isn’t that Jesus is the Good Shepherd, nor is it that we are the lucky sheep.

Rather, today we are invited to hear and see the Risen Christ in our Eucharistic community – to see God’s new life at work in each other.  In this community, we experience and practice God’s love, the self-renewing love that literally flows and breathes into us from Jesus’ death and resurrection.

John’s Gospel tells us that Jesus uses the “Good Shepherd” as a figure of speech, an image field.  Jesus uses this figure of speech because he is talking to the Pharisees and Jews.

Our reading today is part of a larger section of John’s Gospel. In chapter 9, Jesus heals the man born blind from birth.  We heard this as the Gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday in Lent. 

But some Pharisees are upset that Jesus claims that this healing proves that he, Jesus, is from God. John’s first readers would see this point more clearly because the pool where Jesus sent the blind man to wash his eyes was called Siloam, the “sent one.”

In response, Jesus tells the Pharisees that they are blind.  They have refused to see that Jesus is the Light of the World.  In today’s reading, Jesus goes on to tell the Pharisees that they are the thieves and bandits who try to kill and destroy the sheep.

Here we need to say that the Pharisees and Jews in John’s Gospel are not those devout and respected lay religious people active at the time of Jesus.  Jesus and the Pharisees were, in one sense, on the same side.  The real enemies in Jesus’ time were the Romans – along with some co-opted religious leaders – who enforced a brutal occupation.

A better way to understand all this is to see that in John – and in Matthew, from which we’ve been reading in Year A – Pharisees and Jews are interchangeable, and they serve as stock characters who represent the central conflict in the drama (almost Greek-like) that John presents.

The purpose of all this is to encourage us to confess that we are the Pharisees and Jews.  We are blind from birth, and we hold on to the privilege of our ancestors.  We are prisoners of our upbringing, of our past experience, or nostalgia for the days our youth.

Because of our blindness, we have been exiled from the sheepfold.  The image from Psalm 23 recalls the great garden – Eden.  Adam and Eve were exiled from that garden. The people of Israel were exiled from Egypt and wandered in the wilderness. The Israelites and the Judeans were exiled by the Assyrians and Babylonians.  In Jesus’ day and in the days of John’s Gospel, they were exiled in their own country under Roman occupation.

Today, we too are exiled into an era of corruption and war, of cruelty and divisiveness.  We live in time of unending uncertainty and ceaseless anxiety. 

This passage from chapter 10 is, in a real sense, the gate that opens to the second half of John’s Gospel.  As we go out through the gate, following the Good Shepherd, we discover that we are following him to death – his own death and ours.  In the verses that following immediately, Jesus tells us that the good shepherd lays down his life – a foreshadowing of the crucifixion.

Then as Jesus leads us further, in chapter 11, we have the foreshadowing – a practice run, if you will – of the resurrection in the raising of Lazarus.  Here we have been led into green pastures, back to the garden of Eden.

Later, in chapter 20, we find ourselves with Mary – in another garden – where the Risen Christ calls her – and us – by name.  Then, later the same day, Jesus asks Thomas – and us – to put our hands in his wounds.  Jesus urges us to keep trusting what the Apostles and those after them tell us about this new life.

All of this is meant to take us out of our minds: we are being moved to hear, see, and touch the Risen Christ.

Right now, our heads are spinning and our hearts are racing.  We worry about the future, we re-live past events, and we struggle to respond to the violence and poverty that have been unleashed. 

Some of us – all of us? – get up in the morning determined to figure this out, do something to make it all better – or, at least, to not let all this “get to us.” 

But today’s Gospel promises us that as we hear Jesus’ voice, as we keep our eyes on focused on each other.  And then we realize that, alone, we can never figure all this out.  By ourselves, we can never make it better.  Left to own devices, what’s going on in the world will get to us.

The good news is that, when Jesus opens the gate and welcomes us into this new community, we are led into green pastures beside the still waters. 

In his account in of the feeding of the 5,000, John goes on for 71 verses.  Mark takes a mere 14 verses.  Only in John’s account do we hear there was lots of grass where the people were fed.  That’s the pasture where the Good Shepherd leads us.  In this Eucharistic community, there are huge cisterns of the best wine, gushing water, and an endless supply of the Bread of Life.

The gardens that surround our sanctuary here at the corner of Washington and Curtis are green and beautiful.  And, inside, this gathering today is lively and joyous.  Here we experience the abundant life. 

What makes our life together so abundant is not so much amount – we aren’t a large and wealthy gathering – but rather, as the Greek word for abundantly implies, our abundance something that happens over and over, again and again.  Week after week, we hear and speak, sing and pray – and again and again, we see God’s love at work among us.

Our first reading from Acts 2 says it best:

Those who had been baptized devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.

Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.

 

Easter Sunday was three weeks ago. Seems even longer. Time moves on and it moves fast.

But we are still celebrating! 50 days to celebrate the glorious reality of resurrection. And our gospel this morning takes place on Easter Sunday! On that same first day of the week that Mary Magdalene and the other women had gone to the tomb early in the morning to wrap Jesus’ dead body in herbs and spices – and found the tomb empty. It’s the same day that they rushed back to carry the news that Jesus was risen.

But now it’s later on that day, and two of Jesus’ followers are trudging home. They had gotten the women’s news, but it was nonsense to them. They walk the seven miles to Emmaus in grief, in shame, in profound disappointment. And the risen Christ comes from nowhere to walk alongside them. But they do not recognize him. They do not recognize him as he listens to them and helps them to re-frame that same story in God’s light. But even in their grief they do what disciples do – offer hospitality to this stranger. And it is in the midst of that hospitality, as the risen Christ takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it and offers it to them, that their eyes are opened. And they rush back, into the night, to run the seven miles back to Jerusalem, to share the amazing news.

I want to invite us this morning to back up from the joy and join them, as Jesus did, on that walk of shame and grief and anger and disappointment. Because honestly, it’s not a stretch to say, just as they said – “We had hoped…” and it’s not a stretch to tell our own stories of dashed dreams and disappointments.

When we see what the criminality of our own leadership, when we see what is happening in Iran, in Lebanon, in our own country, around the world, and possibly in personal challenges we are facing within our own lives and those of our loved ones, we are, currently experiencing deep disappointment, anger, grief – so many different and difficult emotions. And so it’s not a stretch to place ourselves alongside these dejected ones. We too are in their company.

“We had hoped….”

And Jesus in his brand new not even day-old resurrected body is not going to pull up beside us and re-frame things. In the Eucharist yes. In the experience of community, yes. In the revelation of God’s eternal power that comes upon us as we day by day continue to love and serve in equal measure all of God’s children, yes. But it helps to have a re-framing of reality from a powerful and current voice that commands world-wide attention.

And so, this morning I want to call on Pope Leo – who by God’s grace, is one of the current leading voices for the universal church and for the gospel of Jesus Christ, who is a mighty and beautiful and powerful voice for peace, and by the power of the Holy Spirit is an uncowed, unbowed American, speaking eternal truth to earthly power.

Here is what he shared for Easter – I’m bringing it to you because it shines so much light and hope into our world, and I hope into our personal lives as well.

Easter HOMILY OF POPE LEO XIV

St Peter’s Square Easter Sunday, 5 April 2026

Dear brothers and sisters,

Today all of creation is resplendent with new light, a song of praise rises from the earth, and our hearts rejoice: Christ is risen from the dead, and with him, we too rise to new life!

This Easter proclamation embraces the mystery of our lives and the destiny of history, reaching us even in the depths of death, where we feel threatened and sometimes overwhelmed. It opens us up to a hope that never fails, to a light that never fades, to a fullness of joy that nothing can take away: death has been conquered forever; death no longer has power over us!

This is a message that is not always easy to accept, a promise that we struggle to embrace, because the power of death constantly threatens us, both from within and without.

From within, this power threatens us when the weight of our sins prevents us from “spreading our wings” and taking flight, or when the disappointments or loneliness we experience drain our hope. It likewise looms over us when our worries or our resentments suffocate the joy of living, when we are sad or tired, or when we feel betrayed or rejected. When we have to come to terms with our weakness, with the sufferings and the daily grind of life, we can feel as if we have ended up in a tunnel with no end in sight.

From without, death is always lurking. We see it present in injustices, in partisan selfishness, in the oppression of the poor, in the lack of attention given to the most vulnerable. We see it in violence, in the wounds of the world, in the cry of pain that rises from every corner because of the abuses that crush the weakest among us, because of the idolatry of profit that plunders the earth’s resources, because of the violence of war that kills and destroys.

In this reality, the Passover of the Lord invites us to lift our gaze and open our hearts. It continues to nourish the seed of the promised victory within our spirit and throughout the course of history. It sets us in motion, like Mary Magdalene and the Apostles, so that we may discover that Jesus’ tomb is empty, and therefore in every death we experience there is also room for new life to arise. The Lord is alive and remains with us. Through the cracks of resurrection that open up in the darkness, he entrusts our hearts to the hope that sustains us: the power of death is not the final destiny of our lives. We are all directed, once and for all, on the path to fulfilment, because in Christ we also have risen.

With heartfelt words, Pope Francis reminded us of this in his first Apostolic Exhortation, Evangelii Gaudier, affirming that the resurrection of Christ “is not an event of the past; it contains a vital power which has permeated this world. Where all seems to be dead, signs of the resurrection suddenly spring up. It is an irresistible force. Often it seems that God does not exist: all around us we see persistent injustice, evil, indifference and cruelty. But it is also true that in the midst of darkness something new always springs to life and sooner or later produces fruit”

Brothers and sisters, Easter gives us this hope, as we remember that in the risen Christ a new creation is possible every day. This is what today’s Gospel tells us, as it clearly describes the event of the resurrection as taking place on “the first day of the week” (Jn 20:1). The day of Christ’s resurrection thus takes us back to that first day when God created the world, and at the same time proclaims that a new life, stronger than death, is now dawning for humanity.

Easter is the new creation brought about by the Risen Lord; it is a new beginning; it is life finally made eternal by God’s victory over the ancient enemy.

We need this song of hope today. It is ourselves, risen with Christ, who must bring him into the streets of the world. Let us then run like Mary Madgalene, announcing him to everyone, living out the joy of the resurrection, so that wherever the specter of death still lingers, the light of life may shine.

May Christ, our Passover, bless us and give his peace to the whole world!

“By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope.”

As I went through the readings earlier this week, I couldn’t help but feel like they were very familiar and then I got to the gospel and remembered this is the week of doubting Thomas. And as my memory is getting a little challenged with each passing birthday, I had to look through my files and confirm that I had the opportunity last year to give the reflection on the Second Sunday of Easter as well. For a second I thought well I don’t want to focus on doubting Thomas again, so what else speaks to me?  

It is nearly a year later in what seems like a very long year, one that has brought many conflicts and uncertainty, celebrations and travel farther than we have ever been before. And in that year’s time I’ve had a chance to listen to the readings again, to celebrate a cycle of Christmas, Lent and now Easter. It is another year to reflect and listen to a message that may be hard during challenging times. 

And it is still the season of Easter, the time to celebrate the resurrection because Christ is risen. The resurrection from the dead was God’s promise, that we might have a new life in him. In the past week though I have been thinking about resurrection not just from the dead, but in our day to day lives. 

Last weekend I had a friend visiting who told me about her brother-in-law who at 40 years old had to have quadruple bypass heart surgery. She mentioned in particular that the quadruple bypass surgery was like a second birthday. Over the course of the week in my curiosity I looked up what happens during that surgery and the one thing that caught my attention amidst general amazement that surgeons can do this – is that the patient’s heart and lungs are stopped and a machine does the work of those body parts while the surgeons create a detour in the heart’s arteries with veins from different parts of the patient’s body. And then the heart and lungs are started up again and hopefully the patient is able to recover and extend their life. That second birthday makes sense, it’s almost like a rebirth. 

The impact though was beyond just her brother-in-law’s health, her husband has paid more attention to his health, seeing doctors for the first time in years and checking his heart – finding that his arteries are clogged though not to the point where surgery is required but other treatment and a change of lifestyle might be beneficial. In a confluence of events she also had a health scare and combined – her and her husband are taking greater steps to manage their health, being mindful of the opportunity they have to change their diets and move more – making a rebirth of sorts for themselves.

In less drastic fashion last Sunday, I decided that one of my plants needed more room to grow and another one might be on its way out. A couple months ago my cousin, friend and I each bought a small money tree with the goal of all of us keeping them alive. We’ve had some mixed results, my cousin showed me hers and unfortunately the plant did not do well and she mentioned that in her attempt to save the plant she removed the stems that had died, yet it didn’t help. It occurred to me last Sunday night that I should also remove two of the dead five stems in my plant so that the others could thrive. So while I should have been getting ready for bed, I ended up repotting two plants because I wanted to re-pot the money tree in the pot of the plant that I thought was dying. What I discovered in the process was that the plant that only had three leaves still had an extensive root system that seemed intact. I didn’t have much faith in what I was doing, however I put that one in a different pot and to my surprise, I saw two shoots coming out of the plant the other day. I am hoping in a new space and with a bit of attention it is being rejuvenated to grow again. And so far the money tree seems to be doing ok in its new pot as well. 

These are two very different examples of what looked to me like resurrections this past week. Easter was the greatest resurrection yet I believe it calls on us to see the opportunities to recognize new life and how our actions can impact others. To see where change is needed to fully appreciate the opportunities and life we have on earth and be good stewards of God’s message. We may not know the ripples of our actions, yet I can only imagine that if we let our lights shine, in what may seem like dark times, those ripples will come together to be brighter than what we can see. 

Having someone share a different perspective and see us in a new light can be exactly what we need. In a time when civilizations are being threatened we need to remember that creation and our existence is amazing. As Astronaut Victor Glover remarked when reflecting on Easter, “In all of this emptiness — this is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe — you have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist – together. I think as we go into Easter Sunday thinking about all the cultures all around the world —whether you celebrate it or not, whether you believe in God or not — this is an opportunity for us to remember where we are, who we are and that we are the same thing. And that we got to get through this together.” 

Together we continue to celebrate Easter, the miracle of the resurrection, a lord who cares for us, the new births we see every day and the light that we carry. “This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses.”

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

I’d like to begin this sermon on Easter morning with a special word of welcome to those who are visiting with us today. We’re glad you’re here this morning, and everyone is welcome to join us to receive Communion.

Over the years I’ve heard some very inspiring sermons on Easter Sundays, along with compelling stories that point to the heart of the Easter message: that good wins out over evil, and that death does not have the final word.

And over the last few decades, it’s been my privilege to preach on Easter Sunday — to attempt, as best as I am able, to remind many people of this good news, this great and overwhelming news, that we have a share in the risen life of Christ Jesus, who overcame death and the grave — and what’s more, who wants us to share in the divine risen life — to live eternally.

In different years, I’ve shared some insights of great Christians in our history — a form of spiritual thievery from the treasuries of past believers. Some time ago I found a powerful Easter sermon by a deacon named Ephrem, who lived in the region of Syria in the 4th century. He preached:

We give glory to you, Lord, who raised your cross to span the jaws of death like a bridge, by which souls may pass from the region of the dead to the land of the living. 

We give glory to you who put on the body of a single mortal and made it the source of life for every other mortal. You are incontestably alive! Your murderers sowed your living body in the earth as farmers sow grain, but it sprung up and yielded an abundant harvest of people raised from the dead.

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

I began serving at this church 40 years ago! And to keep things fresh, I also took Sabbaticals every other summer — I’d be away for two months at a time. At the ten-year mark, in 1996, I traveled to two different monasteries.

The first was a Roman Catholic monastery called New Camaldoli, south of Monterey, with a commanding view of the Pacific Ocean. They were hermit monks, and the guests were expected to maintain silence throughout each day.

The second was staffed by Episcopal monks, in the hills above Santa Barbara. and at that place the visitors were quite conversational — talking at communal meals. Over lunch one day I joined a table of young men who were on a special retreat.

These were survivors of the AIDS epidemic. They had not only seen their partners die, but they were expecting to die soon themselves — it was only a matter of time.

And yet in 1996 the first anti retro viral treatments developed. They were not a cure, but they were giving these men more time to remain alive. Their retreat leader was helping these survivors to deal with the reality of prolonging their lives, when for years their only prospect was certain death from AIDS. I’ve thought of their situation as a kind of Easter story — new life in place of death.

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

I’m going to take a chance and quote a cartoon — taken from the New Yorker. New Yorker cartoons are “insights” rather than laughs — an “aha” moment. The setting is the office of a seated psychiatrist; his patient is a sad-faced Easter bunny lying on the couch, with his little basket of eggs on the floor beside him. The man tells the rabbit, “I’m more interested in the eggs you are hiding from yourself.”

Are there insights and inner beauty that we fail to bring to the surface of our souls? Have we allowed the pervasive corruption and sheer greed of some politicians to sap our joy, to stifle our free speech? Have we given in to their deadly cynicism?

Forty days ago, we observed Ash Wednesday with a Litany of Penitence, which included this phase: “Our failure to commend the faith that is in us.” Lent is over — Is our faith stronger than it was forty days ago?

In the middle of Mark’s Gospel, we hear of a father asking Jesus to heal his son. He expresses it this way: “If it is at all possible for you, help us.” Jesus snaps back: “IF it is possible? Everything is possible for one who has faith!” The father replies: “I do believe — help my unbelief.” For Jesus, partial faith is enough for now — but God wants to see us grow stronger and bolder in our faith.

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!  Alleluia!