God who brings life out of death - Redeemer Episcopal Church

Mark 1:9-15

The Baptism of Jesus

9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

The Temptation of Jesus

12 And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. 13 He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

The Beginning of the Galilean Ministry

14 Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, 15 and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

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This sermon was originally preached in a specific place with a specific people in a specific time, but we believe in a God who transcends time and space, so I hope that this word might speak to you as well. You can read the manuscript below, or you can listen to the sermon (and see it preached with infusions from the Spirit) by finding it within our worship service video at this link. 

God of life, be with us this morning as we are reminded of Jesus’ journey from baptism, through the wilderness, and into the work of bringing about the Kingdom of God. Amen. 

A couple of weeks ago, Father Wiley talked about the language in Mark’s gospel. It is fast-paced and no-nonsense. It moves so rapidly from one scene to the next that if you’re not paying attention you might miss something important. Compared to the other gospel accounts, there is barely any detail at all and it feels like time is moving super quickly. 

In this pandemic, I have noticed that it has felt like time has kind of morphed into nothingness. On a good day, I know what day of the week it is. On a bad day, I forget the month. Perhaps some of you feel this way too. 

Maybe it’s because we are almost exactly a year out from when the news first broke about this pandemic and we began hunkering down and cancelling things. It seems that time has both compressed and expanded at the same time. 

That is what Mark’s gospel reading feels like this morning. It is quick and has very little detail. There is no long, drawn out description of Jesus’ baptism, no wild narrative of the temptation in the wilderness. We just get these events in rapid succession. 

I think part of the reason is because, for Mark, these are just markers in time. One sentence marks the proclamation of Jesus’ identity. And the next marks the beginning of Jesus’ formation within that identity. Mark doesn’t dwell on any of this because the real story here is that Jesus has work to do in the world! 

As we enter, perhaps timidly, into the season of Lent, we see that Jesus is thrust into the wilderness. We see that everything moves quickly and wildly, from one scene to the next. It feels so much how we are living today— being thrown into the next season of life and liturgy before we have even processed the last. 

But that is the way that time works. I’m reminded often that the older I get, the faster time moves.  And we see Mark employing these rapid pace because baptism is not the end of the story for Jesus. It is not the finish line where he receives his glory— it is only the beginning of what will come. Jesus’ baptism is where he claims his identity and is claimed by God, the very beginning of his formation as God’s child. 

After this, Jesus is thrown into the wilderness, tempted, formed, reformed, and then brought back from the wilderness for his work in the world— the healing, touching, speaking, teaching, loving, invitation— that he will extend to the ends of the earth. The work of the coming of the Kingdom of God. 

The same is true for us in our own baptism. Whether we were baptized as babies, children, or later in our lives, our baptism is only the beginning of our journey with God. Baptism is the first part— an important, vital part— where God says, “yes, this is my child, and no one can name this child anything differently than my beloved.” And then…. And THEN we begin to live into that identity, being thrown into the wilderness of formation, and reformation, questioning, doubt, and new faith. And then we are thrust into the world to participate in the coming of the kingdom of God, with the new knowledge of what it means to be God’s children in the world. 

This morning we also heard the beginning of God’s promise to God’s people after the flood in Genesis. What looks like death for the entire world is actually new life for Noah and his family. The promise of God after the destruction of creation is not the END of God’s relationship with the world, it is the beginning of a new covenant. It is the beginning of a new relationship that will be marked by flourishing and abundance instead of scarcity and rebellion. 

This pattern continues in worship. The confession, the lament we cried out in the Great Litany is not the end of our liturgy, but the beginning of God’s promise to us. God promises to hear us and forgive us each time we come before the alter with our confessions and our laments. Each week, there is a part of our liturgy that we do just that— and then God welcomes us into a new relationship in the body and blood of Christ Jesus at this table. 

And again, it is the same with Ash Wednesday, where we were reminded that we come from the dust and that we will return to the dust. Being reminded of death seems like it would be an ending, but not for our God. God does incredible things with death. 

No, Ash Wednesday is not the end of our season for renewal and growth, but the beginning. God looks at our mortality and says, “I can do something beautiful with that.” And we smear ash on our foreheads, almost as a mockery to death that lingers so near, God only begins working in this season. No, God says, you have no power over my children because they have been claimed by me who bring life out of death. 

We’ll see it as we move through this season of Lent. Whether it flies by or drags along, seemingly endlessly… or whether time continues to contract and expand in incomprehensible ways like it has all year… we will see that God brings life out of death. We will see that this darkness, this wilderness, is only the beginning of what God has in store for God’s people. 

Because God is in the business of bringing about the Kingdom— and the Kingdom of God is full of life, abundance, and flourishing— and death cannot stop it. Despite the start of this season when we come face to face with the darkness, wilderness, and even death— we know, truly, that it is not the end. We know what comes next, we know what comes after baptism and being thrust into the wilderness— it is Jesus’ work bringing about the coming of the Kingdom of God. It is the feast, THIS feast. And it is OUR participation in this feast, in this kingdom work. It is life everlasting, coming at us rapidly, wonderfully, in time that is ever expanding and contracting to meet us. Amen. 

Finding Christ Outside of the Meal - Redeemer Episcopal Church

Luke 24:13-35 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)

The Walk to Emmaus

13 Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14 and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. 15 While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16 but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. 17 And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. 18 Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” 19 He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20 and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. 21 But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22 Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23 and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24 Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” 25 Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26 Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” 27 Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

28 As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29 But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. 32 They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” 33 That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34 They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” 35 Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

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This sermon was preached by me for our April 26, 2020 morning prayer service for a specific context to a specific people. I hope that it can also speak to you amid the COVID-19 public health crisis. You can read my manuscript below or you can listen to the audio at this link. You can also watch the entire morning prayer service at this link. 

Let us pray. 

God who is known and recognized in the breaking of the bread, make yourself known to us now. Reveal yourself to us in this time when you often feel so distant. Amen. 

Like many people during this time of social distancing and isolation, I am finding myself having a bit more time for spiritual practices and things I wouldn’t normally have time for while I was working on campus regularly. In my newly found time, I have been helping lead a small group called “Abide.” We meet weekly and one of the purposes of the small group is to notice where God is present around us during this time and share it with our small group members. Because sometimes it feels like God is really far away when we are going through change, grief, or difficulties and we need to be reminded that God is, in fact present. 

So that’s what we do. We get together over video every week and talk about where God is in our lives. 

In the story we hear this morning, two of Jesus’ followers walk to Emmaus and Jesus walks with them, speaking to them, questioning them, reprimanding them a bit, and ultimately being present with them. But it is not until Jesus breaks bread with them that they recognize him. 

It’s hard for me to not relate to this story intensely. I, too, recognize Jesus most fully in the breaking of the bread, in the Holy Meal of Christ’s body and blood. I was told a few months ago that I preach about baptism and Holy Communion A LOT. It’s because they are my favorite things in the whole world. And I can be reminded of our baptism each week, but I get to see, and touch, and smell, and taste and even hear the breaking of the body and blood of Christ Jesus every week. It is so tactile and moves me so much. I sometimes joke that I became a priest just so I could be the first in line at this holy table. 

I know that is has been incredibly difficult not being present here at the church building to gather with one another in worship. I feel it too. But even more than that, we have been away from this table for so long. We have not been nourished by the body and blood for such a long time. We may have forgotten how it tastes, feels, sounds, smells, and looks. We may not even fully realize how much our hearts long for it right now. I feel it too, my beloveds. 

And I also recognize that I had taken it for granted. It was the way I MOST recognized Christ, which made it much more difficult for me to recognize Christ anywhere else. How can anything be as beautiful and perfect a reminder of our Jesus’ presence with us? 

And now that we cannot gather for the meal, this feast, now that we are not able to come to this table, are we able to recognize Jesus? 

Oh dear friends, it is difficult. When we have our normalcy and our routine is ripped out from under us, it is difficult to find God in the mess. But God does hear our cries and supplications. And even if we don’t recognize him, Jesus is with us along this road that is so full of disappointment and grief. 

Jesus is walking alongside us, bidding us keep walking, asking us to continue to hope. Just as Jesus was present on the road to Emmaus, he is present here with us now. Not even death could keep him from us. 

But I am reminded that this journey to Emmaus happens on the day of Jesus’ resurrection. On the same day that the women run from the tomb proclaiming the risen Christ, there are those who doubt and wait for more to be revealed. There are these two on the path stretched out before them, grieving the death of their friend and teacher, unable to comprehend the good news of the resurrection, unable to recognize their savior walking beside them. 

All this is to say that sometimes resurrection takes a while. Sometimes resurrection takes a few days, perhaps even several weeks. “Sometimes new life comes in fits and starts,” Debie Thomas tells us, “sometimes seeing and recognizing the risen Christ is hard.”

God is with us, even when we don’t recognize it. God is actually even more present with us when we don’t recognize God’s presence. 

Yes, of course, God is in the breaking of the bread, but God is in so much more than just that. 

That small group that I talked about before is called “Abide” for a reason. We come together each week as a small community to abide with one another, to abide in God’s presence, and remind one another that God abides with us. God is present with us when we gather in community and we need each other to be reminded on that because we so often forget. 

We forget that God is in morning prayer each Sunday, God is in our gathering together even if it is physically apart from one another. God is in the Zoom Bible studies and the food pantry ministry. God is in the text you send to your lonely neighbor and God is there on the evening walk with your family. God is there in the protective masks and the quiet, patient conversations you have with your children. 

As much as we long to be in this building together again, and I know we long for it, because even though I stand here, I long for your faces and your embrace and your presence. As much as we long to be here in this place we are reminded over and over again in this time that God is not confined here.

God is present in the meal, oh but God cannot be limited to the meal. And I thank God for that difficult but comforting reminder. 

I leave you with these wise words from Debie Thomas: “So keep walking.  Keep telling the story.  Keep honoring the stranger. Keep attending to your burning heart. Christ is risen. He is no less risen on the road to Emmaus than he is anywhere else.  So look for him.  Listen for him.  And when he lingers at your door, honoring your freedom, but yearning to feed you, say what he longs to hear:  Stay with me.”  And invite him in. Amen. 

A Terrifyingly Beautiful Call

(Sermon at Luther House Chapel on April 10, 2016 - John 21:1-19)

Last year when I was working in a church, I was approached by a parishioner after preaching. He said, "Sarah, you should really stop starting your sermons with 'I love this story of Jesus.' Surely you don't love every story of Jesus. And anyway, you use the same beginning for every sermon."

At the time, I smiled sweetly and said, "Oh but I do love every story of Jesus. There is not a single story of Jesus and his disciples that does not bring me great joy. I love them. And I love telling them! But you're right - I should probably stop repeating myself."

And I do. I love every story of Jesus - but I understand his point. Sometimes saying I love every story of Jesus doesn't quite do every story justice. Take this story, for instance - I do love this story of Jesus and his disciples. The imagery is rich, Jesus nourished his friends - it is a beautiful scene. But I don't just love this story - this passage actually terrifies me.

Like the disciples, we really have no idea what we are getting ourselves into when we encounter God incarnate in Christ Jesus. We encounter God - or rather God comes crashing into our life - and suddenly things are turned upside down and inside out. It's terrifying.

My husband calls these "mountain-top experiences." And I would guess that many of you have had these experiences throughout your life. It could be while you are on a mission trip, it could be the moment you hold your newborn baby in your arms for the first time, it might be in the midst of great pain and sorrow... You can have these experiences throughout your entire life - in fact, for some of us, it is what brought us to church in the first place.

One of my mountain-top experiences happened in the Central American country of Honduras, literally on the side of a mountain in a small village.

It is the kind of experience that makes God feel so close. Suddenly and beautifully you know that you're walking on holy ground and the existence of God and the love of Christ are undeniable. And somehow, in some way, you know your whole life has changed. You know your identity has shifted and your goals and your mission in life are new and more important.

All of that happened to me on that side of the mountain in Honduras - everything change and all of a sudden I knew I wanted to do international mission work. I knew I wanted to travel the world and meet new people and fall in love with all of God's creation. I was so ready for the next adventure, I wanted to change my plans and change my life to go where God was leading me.

But ten days later, I was back in the United States and I decided not to quit seminary, I decided not to immediately become a missionary. I began classes again and I started work once more. And as I entered the usual drudgery of providing for myself and thinking of my own needs, I slowly forgot about all those powerful moments on the side of that mountain. The fire that had been blazing in Honduras started to diminish until it was just embers.

That's exactly where we meet the disciples in the passage this morning. They had been following Jesus for nearly three years - surely having mountain-top moments on a daily basis as Jesus healed people around him and taught them about scripture. Their lives had been changed, their hearts had been renewed and shifted in these moments. There was a fire lit in their hearts that was roaring for the mission that Christ had given them.

But then Jesus died, and the fire faded - they became scared and worried that maybe they couldn't live out this mission for Jesus. And then they witnessed him resurrected - another beautifully terrifying mountain-top experience.  But then he was gone again, and they were left with this mission that seemed too hard and too crazy.

And isn't that exactly where we are today? Two weeks ago, we came to church early (early early) and greeted one another with joy and thanksgiving that our redeemer lives! And we shouted "hallelujah!" And we sang songs and hymns with more energy than we should be able to muster at 6:30am.

And now, only a few weeks later we can barely drag ourselves out of bed to make it to church. We have forgotten that it is still Easter and we should still be shouting "hallelujah!" We have forgotten that Christ lives.

So the disciples are coming down off of all these mountain-top experiences and they know deep within their bones that everything has changed. They themselves have been changed but they are lost and they don't know where to go from here.

So they decided to go back to what they knew before Jesus had entered their lives and completely changed them. But if I know anything, it is that once Jesus enters your life, there is no going back to the way things used to be. You can try, but it will not be the same. So they went fishing. The disciples went back to the everyday drudgery of life. They did what they needed to do to provide for themselves and their families.

But I imagine that the reason they didn't catch any fish might be because they could feel that uneasiness, the restlessness, knowing everything had changed and that fishing was not what they were supposed to be doing. I imagine they felt something similar to what I felt when I came back from Honduras - I was restless and unsatisfied with life. Nothing seemed to be quite right because I tried so hard to go back to my old ways of living - before Jesus had come so close to me on that mountain.

And Jesus, as loving and persistent as he is, and wanting to make sure his disciples completely "get it" before he leaves them, he comes back and reminds them again. He reminds them who he is and what his mission is. He reminds them of whose they are and what their mission is.

And this is the terrifyingly beautiful part - Jesus doesn't just leave the disciples with a new job or a check list of things they need to get done as his disciples. He says, "feed my lambs, provide for my lambs, feed my sheep." He commands them to become shepherds. And if you know anything about being a shepherd, you know that "shepherd" is not a job title, it is an identity.

You can't take your "shepherd hat" on and off as you please. You cannot go out to the fields and throw food out to the sheep and lambs twice a day and call yourself a shepherd. Being a shepherd is 100% effort, 100% of the time. It is our new identity, it is our new mission and our new life. That is what it means to be a disciples of Christ.

Following Jesus is not easy and it is certainly not a list of things that we can check off our to do list every day. And that's why this passage is so terrifying to me. That is why mountain-top experiences are so terrifying and beautiful - because when God comes so close that we can no longer deny God,  we are in for real change. Our lives are no longer about taking care of ourselves. All of a sudden we are given all of these sheep in the form of our brothers and sisters in this world - our loved ones, our friends, our enemies, people in foreign lands we have never met - for whom we are called to lay down our lives. Just as Jesus laid down his life for all.

So this morning and throughout this season I pray that we take these mountain-top experiences, these moments when God comes so close that we suddenly feel changed and re-created, and we do not back away. When Jesus call us to feed his sheep and follow him, I pray that we understand the terrifyingly beautiful call to be his disciples and accept it - empowered by the Holy Spirit and renewed by the promise of our risen Christ and of the coming Kingdom. Amen.

Death

"Well, you're here. So that must mean something, right?"

This was said in the sermon on Monday morning - the first day of the Global Missions new personnel orientation.  And a couple of us have really latched onto it.

Well, we're here. So that must mean something, right?

I'm in Naperville, Illinois (a suburb of Chicago) for the next week and a half with twelve other missionaries.  And it's terrifying.

Some of us were called here by God. Some of us were looking for something different, something with meaning and ended up here. Some of us were (literally) called by Global Missions to come and serve. And (I think I can speak for everyone) we are a little freaked out. I think we are all freaked out about something a little bit different (if we admit it).

I'm mostly concerned about dying.

Last night, after sitting in safety seminars and health seminars all day, I went back to my room and wrote up my Last Will and Testament, Living Will, and Power of Attorney.  And that made me feel a little bit better, but to be honest, that's not the kind of dying I'm afraid of.

I have pretty much accepted the physical dangers missionary work might expose me to.  I'm also pretty aware of how mortal I am.  I'm not one of those twentysomethings who believe that they are invincible.  I'm also not afraid of dying.  I have a similar mentality as Paul: it would be better for me to die and be with my God, but I'll probably stick around before seeking any sort of martyrdom.

However, I'm pretty freaked out about the other ways I am going to have to die (and be risen).

As a 23 year old, I'm not unfamiliar with this process. As a Christian, I'm not unfamiliar with the implications.  And as a Lutheran, I'm not unfamiliar with the insane amount of grace in the process.

I have died many times over in the past couple of years. Mostly because there have been a lot of changes around me, but also because a lot of things have changed within me.

I'm not a child anymore, but I'm not an old person yet either.  This is a time of change, a time of challenge, and a time of re-creation. I have re-created myself over and over again through the years.  And God has been working on it too.

But when I say "re-creation," I don't mean what some of you might be imagining - molding a clay jar into a bowl, or reusing paper products in coffee cups. I mean something more like smashing a clay bowl on the ground and stitching it back together with putty, glue, and gold leaf.  I mean something that feels a bit more like being a piece of paper torn, chewed up, and blown out of a straw as a spitball.

I have died in the last few years.  Parts of me, whole parts of me, entire pieces of my personality, have died.  Terrible parts, angry parts, proud parts, ugly parts - they have died over these past couple of years.

But there's a whole lot left to die in me.  And to be honest, I'm terrified.

There's a lot of ugly, proud, angry, terrible parts of me that still need some work.  In fact, they need more than work - they need to die.  And it's going to hurt.  It's not going to be pretty.  I'm going to resist it and hold onto those ugly parts for as long as I can.  Because death scares me.

But I'm here, so that must mean something, right?

Either I'm crazy or I know that something else happens in the death of those ugly parts of me.  (I'll give you a hint: it's the second one.)

I know that when the ugly parts of me die, it allows room for new, beautiful things to be risen by Christ.  I know that God is working through the death and resurrection within me.

I know that God does not just let things die (even the ugly things) without some sort of re-creation.  I trust that when I'm failing, flailing, and being downright wrong, God will provide enough grace to keep me above water.  I believe that Christ's resurrection is a clear and beautiful foretaste of our own resurrection at the end of time. It is the most incredible example of what God has done, what God continues to do, and what God will do until the end of time. 

So that's why I'm here. Because I'm really scared of death and I know that this year of mission is surely going to kill me. And God is surely going to resurrect in me the things that need resurrection. So that must mean something, right?