Jesus teaches us that there is a creational rhythm that undergirds our life together. We have all we need within ourselves because God created us this way. With God’s help, we can embody this rhythm and live as the creatures God created us to be.

Vicar Anna Helgen
   Day of Thanksgiving, year B
   texts: Matthew 6:25-34

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you and peace, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” These words have always meant a lot to me, even before I knew it. Back in 9th grade, I picked this verse as my confirmation verse. I don’t remember what my confirmation class did with these verses, other than including them in the stoles we made out of felt and puff paint, but I know that this verse was meaningful to me. It comforted me as a teenager, and even more so now.

I’ve always been a worrier. In 5th grade I was a part of a synchronized swimming community group. As I held my breath under water and flailed my legs in the air, I’d sob with worry that my mom would forget to pick me up. A few years later, I’d worry about leaving my family for my first week away at summer camp. Now I worry about lots of things. I worry about the weather when I’m on a canoe trip, constantly assessing the clouds in the sky to see if any look ominous. I worry about my family–about their health and their happiness. And I worry about my life, too. That I can find balance and peace. That I can maintain connections with friends as they move to new places. That everything will work out.

Worry gets in the way. It lingers in our brains and tricks us into focusing on something that does not demand the attention we eventually give it. We worry about real problems, but also potential problems, creating worst-case scenarios so that we’re prepared for whatever might come our way. Ultimately, though, worry separates us from others. It hinders our relationships with God and with each other so that all we are left with is ourselves and our worry. If you’ve been there before, you know it is not a good place to be.

In our gospel reading today, Jesus tells those gathered around him not to worry about anything–not life, not food, not drink, not clothing. While these may not be our specific concerns and worries, I think we can still learn a lot from our friend Jesus.

“Look at the birds of the air,” Jesus says, “Consider the lilies of the field.” Jesus invites us to see nature, to really see these creatures as they live in the world. The birds don’t stockpile their food; they receive what God gives them. Likewise the lilies don’t obsess about what they’ll look like in the future; instead they grow and bloom into beautiful creations. Jesus points us to creation because creatures like birds and lilies live without worry. They live as God created them to be!

When I worked as a canoe guide at Wilderness Canoe Base near the Boundary Waters, I learned to worry about the weather. I say learn because I didn’t know going into this job that the weather would be one of my daily concerns. I didn’t know how much space it would take up in my brain or how it would keep me from enjoying the experience of the wilderness. I came to be known as the guide who always went on trail when it was raining. And with the rain came wind, thunder, lightning, and, you got it: worry. Before I’d leave for five days in the wilderness, my friend Emma, another guide at camp, would reassure me, “Anna. You can do this. You are a canoe guide.”

Well, there I was. On another trip. Six youth, one high school volunteer from camp named Rachel, whom I used to babysit, an adult advisor, and me: Canoe Guide Anna. We arrived at a very large lake, Lake Gabimichigami. It was over a mile across and we needed to paddle to the other side to get to our next portage. Per usual, it was raining. And windy. And there were huge waves. Huge. Our canoes were already beginning to fill with water. My worry took over. I couldn’t think. I felt sick. My brain went to those worst case scenarios… My campers will surely capsize and end up in the water. Our sleeping bags and tents will be soaked. We’ll never get warm. I won’t be able to start a fire. And so on.

With the help of Rachel, the one I used to babysit, I was pulled from my anxiety and soon figured out how to deal with the task at hand. She reminded me that I was a canoe guide, that I had been trained for this, and that I had the resources within myself to get through this situation. I realized I didn’t need to worry; I could instead act and carry out my responsibilities as Canoe Guide Anna. We got our four canoes together along the water’s edge, hopped out of our boats, and walked them along the shoreline to our next portage. It took forever and I’m sure we covered way more than a mile in distance, but it worked, and no one swamped their canoe. We survived.

I still return to the Boundary Waters. And I still worry. But little by little, I have come to see the weather as simply a part of God’s creation, living the only way it knows how, releasing energy into the atmosphere as it was designed to do. And it certainly helps to go with some trusted companions on the journey, those friends who can bring you back to reality and remind you that you’ve done this before.

As Jesus invites us to look to creation to manage our worry, we are led back to our Creator, to God who provides all that we need so that we can live the way God wants for us to live and as the creatures God created us to be. I find comfort that there is a Creator behind all this–a Creator who brought all into being and guides us in our efforts to be who God made us to be. A God who cares about relationship. Not only does this comfort me in times of creational chaos, but also in my daily life.

Sometimes we might need a friend to bring us out of our own anxiety and worry and to remind us of our gifts. Sometimes it happens through prayer and other practices that lead us back into relationship with God. When worry is out of the picture, we’re able to tend to our relationships with others and especially with God. Jesus teaches us today that there is a creational rhythm that undergirds our life together. We have all we need within ourselves because God created us this way, and with God’s help, we can embody this rhythm and live as the creatures God created us to be. God made us for this life.

This leads us to rejoice. Without worry, we can celebrate each day, live completely in each moment, embrace who we are fully, and give thanks to our Creator. By rejoicing we give thanks to God: for relationship, for life, for creation, for all that is good.

Today is a good day to rejoice. It’s Thanksgiving! It’s a day to be thankful and to live in gratitude for the gifts God gives us. I am especially thankful for a warm bed, a loving family, friends who remind us of our gifts, and creatures that teach us how to live fully as God intends for us to live.

So look at the birds of the air today. Or consider the lilies of the field. And then, be glad and rejoice! For God has done great things!

Amen.

Healing and hope for the world begins when the followers of the Christ, ruler of the universe, follow him, stand as he does, offering themselves to others for the sake of love.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Christ the King, the Last Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 34 B
   text:  John 18:33-37

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Who’s really in charge here?

A provincial governor, with the authority of a global empire, sits on a chair across from a standing, half-naked, exhausted man. Is this prisoner a revolutionary to be feared? People say he thinks he’s a king.

The prisoner does seem in charge. Jesus shows calm confidence, certain about who he is. He may not look like a king. But he has more authority than the other one.

Jesus is also strangely confident in his followers. Pilate asks if Jesus is a king; he says he isn’t like worldly kings. If he were, Jesus says, his followers would fight to defend him. “My followers know the kind of king I am. That’s why they’re letting this happen. They know my voice, and they follow me.”

Forgive us if we wince. We know what his disciples were doing, and it wasn’t because they understood Jesus’ true kingship. They were running in fear. We know ourselves, too, and we’re pretty sure Christ’s confidence is also misplaced in us. We don’t really understand Christ’s way of ruling the universe, and we aren’t very good at following Christ’s voice.

But we also know that, regardless of who’s really in charge of this world, it’s a terrible mess.

“You will hear of wars and rumors of wars,” Jesus said last week. Don’t we know it.

Global political tension is unbelievably high, and no one in charge knows what to do. Few military options can contain ISIS, if any, and that’s only one horror. No corners of this world are untouched by terrorism, destruction, oppression, murder. Violence against the most vulnerable, women, children, elderly, minorities, doesn’t take a day off. Our city is in turmoil, as many have been, over another suspicious death of an unarmed black person at the hands of authorities. It’s hard to look anywhere and not see intractable, violent, and terrifying problems.

Meanwhile, in our country Christ’s followers seem just fine with fighting and violence. People seeking the U.S. presidency gain in the polls by outdoing each other in bigotry, hatred, disregard for the poor and vulnerable, suspicion of the stranger, often in Christ’s name. When one leading candidate seemed willing to call for a national registry for all Muslims, before he realized it might sound a little too like Germany and the Jews in the 1930s, we know we’re in no position to help the rest of the world. We’re an election away from real repression and increased violence and correspondingly worse terror and fear throughout the world. And Christ’s followers are leading the way.

It’s clear Pilate’s still in charge here. Rule by military might and keeping the peace by violence worked for Rome, until they couldn’t contain what they created. It’s worked for the modern world, too, if by “worked” we mean at least some could live in peace. But the terror and evil our way of life has engendered in this world is coming to birth, and likely can’t be contained. We have the world we have made, and we don’t like it.

But despairing at what’s happening in the world distracts us from this reality: we don’t follow Christ our King very well.

We focus all our attention and concern on the huge issues “out there,” perhaps because that won’t affect our own decisions too much. We decry those “other Christians” as if we aren’t also at fault, as if we hear Christ’s voice well.

Every problem on the world stage appears in our daily lives. Following Pilate’s way, or our way, or Christ’s way is a choice we make with every moment, every breath. What will you do with that person who offends you? How will you react to that one who treats you badly? Or the one who ignores you, shuns you, shames you? Or who angers you? Disappoints you? Betrays you? Or who hates you? Misunderstands you? Disagrees with you?

And how will you be to others? Will you delight to prove you’re right and they’re wrong? Will you bully people to do what you want, or passively manipulate people to do your will? Will you run over people you disregard, or shut people you don’t approve of out of your life, or ignore people that don’t meet your standards? Will you make decisions based on your preconceptions and prejudices instead of taking the time to learn and consider why you feel a certain way? Will you act immaturely because you don’t get your way? Will you act however you want to act, whatever the cost to others?

What does a follower of Christ Jesus the King choose to do in those situations that is different than a follower of Pilate and his cohorts?

Who’s really in charge here? That’s the question.

Who do we let say to us, “That’s not how you should act?” Who justifies our behavior? This matters, because the only way anything changes in Pilate’s world is when people stop following Pilate, are changed by God and start following a different way. When one person commits to nonviolence as a way of life, when one person chooses a way of peace and reconciliation with another who has harmed them, when one person says, “I’m not in charge, and the world isn’t, Christ my King is.”

The problems that plague our world have few solutions in the short-term. But if more of Christ’s followers started hearing Christ’s voice, changing their behavior, following the path of vulnerability and loss, in the long-term real change will happen.

So because it has to start with each of us, in this Eucharist we practice this hard path, we practice our following.

After we’ve heard God’s voice in the Word, and before we eat together at Christ’s table of forgiveness, we practice and learn.

First, always, Christ gives us peace.

Then, remarkably, we turn to one another, one at a time, take each other’s hand, look each other in the eye and honestly, lovingly, truthfully, offer the same blessing of Christ’s peace.

So we practice for the path of Christ our King. You can’t hold a weapon in a hand you’re placing in another’s. When we greet each other this way in this place, it’s more than convention, more than “hello.” It is a holy moment where we follow our King’s voice and say there is no animosity between us and the other, only the peace of Christ. Even those whom we might have problems with, or fear, or whom we feel dislike us. It’s a vulnerable moment where nothing is protecting us, yet the peace of Christ binds us.

Following the voice of Christ our King in the world looks the same. The peace of Christ shapes our actions, our love, our self-giving. We can’t speak of the problems of the world and ignore the person next to us. So we follow Christ’s voice, not our own, not Pilate’s, and reach out in peace.

It’s scary. That’s why we practice here, to learn how to be vulnerable and open and honest with others, as our true King is. That’s also why we need to stay next to that prisoner standing before the throne.

Christ’s confidence before Pilate is ours to claim.

We just take our other hand, the one not holding another person’s, reach up, and take Christ’s hand in ours.

See him before Pilate, knowing what was coming, unafraid. That’s the hand to hold if we’re going to follow our King in self-giving, vulnerable love in Pilate’s world. We hold each other’s hands and the hands of everyone we meet in love and peace as we walk our path together. But we also walk beside Christ our King, holding that hand with all our might.

Then Christ’s confidence and peace of mind and heart become ours. We can do this path with the strength of our King. We begin to hear Christ’s voice and follow, and the healing of this world we’ve so badly damaged begins.

And let’s keep in mind the other thing Jesus seems confident about.

Hear the pride as Christ talks about us to Pilate: “My followers know my voice, they follow me. They know my kingdom is not like this world’s. I trust them.”

It doesn’t matter if we think Christ’s confidence in us is misplaced. This is the One, the true God, whose death and resurrection have begun the transforming of the whole cosmos. The One in whom all things live and move and have their being.

Who are we to say that Christ our King is wrong about us?

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Death is a reality of our communal life together, and for us to live fully as God intends we must live in hope with one another. We must live as a resurrected people.

Vicar Anna Helgen
   Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 33 B
   texts: Psalm 16; Hebrews 10:11-25; Mark 13:1-8

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A few weeks ago I was looking through old photos at home because my uncle asked that I find pictures of my grandpa to share at his 90th birthday party. I started with a box from when I was a teenager that contained all the pictures I’d taken on my first trip to the Boundary Waters in 2002.  As I went through the photos, I noticed something interesting. Nearly all them were of natural things: waterfalls, flowers, lakes, trees, rocks, and so on. There were very few pictures of people. As I looked at each photo, I could hear my 15-year-old-self experiencing this place for the first time and exclaiming things like, “What beautiful lakes! What an amazing red pine! What an interesting rock formation!”

We’ve all been there before and have taken a picture of something that demanded our attention. We’ve stood in awe before a beautiful building and wondered how something so magnificent was ever built. We’ve looked up in wonder at a redwood forest and imagined what it was like when these trees were small. We’re drawn to these structures and places because of their permanence. They are strong. Lasting. Beautiful. They evoke wonder and awe. We’re fascinated by them because they create some sense of stability in the midst of our chaotic lives.

For the disciples, the temple was the place that elicited the “ooohs” and “aaahs” and evoked a sense of wonder. It was an architectural marvel, standing on a rectangular platform and surrounded by a retaining wall that was almost one mile around. The Roman historian Tacitus described the temple as a mountain of white marble adorned with gold. It had courtyards, porches, balconies, covered walkways, and stairs. It was the center of religious life, the place where God dwelled, the most spectacular building in all of Jerusalem, and the disciples couldn’t help but comment on it. What large stones! What large buildings!

And then Jesus tells his disciples that the temple will be destroyed. All of its buildings. All of its stones. It will all be thrown down. I can’t imagine what it would be like to stand in the midst of such grandeur and majesty and be told by Jesus of all people that it will all come crumbling down. The disciples want answers. When will this be? What will be the sign? How will we know? But Jesus gives none. He only goes on, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines.” The disciples are left wondering about an uncertain future.

It would be nice if we too could be prepared for these types of events, but unfortunately, they have become an everyday occurrence in our world today. All we need to do is pick up a newspaper and read the headlines: war, hunger, violence, terrorism… disease, racism, human trafficking, and climate change…these are the realities we face today–realities that bring death. They shatter communities. They destroy homes. They tear families apart. They bring fear, chaos, and isolation. They catch us off guard and surprise us. They break us down.

We experience these events on a regular basis. Death of a person or a place. The end of a career. A broken relationship. Illness. The loss of a home. And now, a brutal attack in Paris on the innocent. Death affects our loved ones, but it also affects those whom we don’t know. Those who live across the globe and speak other languages, even those who live right here in our neighborhood whom we don’t notice.

We’re never quite the same as who we were before our encounter with death: before the diagnosis, the fire, the refugee crisis. Death changes us and shapes us into who we are today. We carry it with us in our bodies and hearts, each scar and wound a mark of its constant presence in our lives. What remains are our broken bodies, grieving hearts, and wondering minds. Sometimes we wish we could go back to how things used to be, when life was more stable and less confusing, when there wasn’t so much to worry about. Hope can be hard to come by in this dark territory and it’s easy to feel helpless, alone, and even abandoned.

Like the disciples, we want answers. But instead of providing them, Jesus comforts: “Do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come…This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” These words might sound a little empty to us, almost like someone saying after a heartbreak, “Oh don’t worry, honey. It’ll all work out in the end.” But this is Jesus speaking here! And sharing his message with the disciples just days before he will be put to death.

Instead of being overwhelmed by the future destruction of the temple, Jesus draws the disciples from despair and into hope. He reminds them that something new is coming and will be birthed from all this destruction. It won’t happen at the snap of a finger, but more slowly, like a baby growing inside its mother’s body, a glimmer of life taking shape with each passing day.

Death is a reality of our communal life together, and for us to live fully as God intends we must live in hope with one another. We must live as a resurrected people. Hebrews gives a lovely description of what this looks like and how it might come about:

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Living in a community of hope means we rely on one another when life gets hard or when these experiences of death creep up on us. Because it is hard to be alone. So, together as God’s people, we cling to the confession of our hope without wavering: that God is faithful. We build one another up by encouraging each other to love and acts of service. We don’t forget to show up. We send sympathy cards, make phone calls. We pray for those who witness brutal violence and tragedy, and we advocate for change and justice. We become bearers of hope for one another. Bringers of light to a broken world. We speak up for those with no voice and stand with those who are invisible. Because in moments of death, it is hard to cling to hope. We need each other.

But we also know that God promises to show up.  The temple has been destroyed, and yet God is here among us. Jesus is put to death and thus enters our pain, despair, and suffering, and now there is no place of darkness where God’s light will not shine. Slowly, God will begin to heal our wounds and scars, opening a new way for all of us. It is not the end, but the beginning. It is not death, but life. “For he who has promised is faithful!”

So let us hold fast to this confession of hope without wavering:
That God is faithful and will not abandon us!
That God will not bring us down.
That God will stand forever.
That God dwells here with us.
That God brings resurrection!

Death is not the final word. God is among us…Turning endings to beginnings, and creating life from death. And this is worth proclaiming boldly! What an amazing God!

Amen.

God helps us break down the barriers of fear that keep us from walking the path of Christ, a path where we find abundance, and God’s grace given and received with our companions on that path.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 32 B
   texts:  1 Kings 17:8-16; Psalm 146; Mark 12:38-44

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

That story is not all fun and games for Elijah, either.

The LORD God sends him to live in a foreign country, in the midst of a drought, and ask a starving widow to take care of him.

How could any of us say what Elijah’s told to say to an emaciated woman, gathering sticks for her last fire and meal? Feed me, and God will bless you. Feed me first, in fact, even though you don’t have enough for you and your son. How could we ask anything of someone who says, “I’m going home to prepare a meal, and then my son and I will die”?

We’re not just concerned about Elijah, either. These two widows and those who surround them raise complicated questions. What is Jesus really saying about the poor woman who gave away her last coins? How does God sustain the widows and orphans, as today’s Psalm declares, along with the rest of the Hebrew Scriptures, and at the same time command this widow to give away her last meal? What on earth does any of this have to do with us?

That last question is the one that’s most tricky and dangerous.

Every November the lectionary gives to one Sunday readings that deal with money in some way, likely because many congregations focus on stewardship now. So do we at Mount Olive. In a few weeks we’ll all bring our promises of what we will give next year to our shared work together and offer them to God. These readings are sometimes viewed as great texts to convince people to dig deep and give.

Unless we don’t want to use Scripture to manipulate emotions and motivate by guilt. It’s what’s often done. How quickly is the widow and her offering made an object lesson about how miserly we are, giving only a little bit to the church when she gave all her money? How often are these widows lifted up as paragons of faith, implying none of the sluggards in the pews approach their devotion?

It may be there are lessons for our stewardship here, but we’re not going to find them by manipulatively using these widows as leverage.

That happens when we preach these readings apart from the grace of God that loves and saves the world.

God’s grace does not manipulate. God’s grace doesn’t shill for an institution. God’s grace doesn’t send people on guilt trips in hopes of motivating them.

The love of the Triune God for the world is so great God became one of us, taught us a healing way of love and life, died at our hands, rose from the dead, and now makes all things new. That truth gives joy and purpose to our every breath.

We can’t lay it aside every time we get a juicy, legalist interpretation of Scripture that sometimes is effective in getting certain results, but at the cost of true faith and discipleship.

If we’re going to understand anything about these two widows we have to look at them through the lenses of Christ’s life, teaching, death, and resurrection. We need to know before we begin where God’s grace is.

Grace today starts with “she gave everything she had.”

This tense moment with the scribes is right in the middle of Holy Week, and at the end of this week Jesus will, in fact, give everything he has.

That’s the grace at the heart of this story, and the story from Kings. This isn’t news to us; every time Jesus invites us to discipleship it comes from this grace, but in different clothing, different metaphor. We always look into the eyes of the Son of God who says, “I’m going down this path, where I will lose all to save all. Follow me.”

Days from his death, this isn’t metaphor for him, it’s real. These widows gave everything they had; Jesus, the Son of the Living God, will give everything he has. Those who follow are told, “this is the path of life, to lose as your Master loses. That’s where you’ll find true life.”

Well, we have boundaries, barriers we’ve raised that keep us from walking out onto Christ’s path. We see three in these stories.

To walk with Jesus, we need to take down the barrier of what we think is enough.

If we’re frightened by anything these widows do, it’s their giving everything. We’re glad to share with others, even generously. But everything? What if we don’t have enough?

If we share our wealth, will we have enough to live on till we die? If we share our love, what if we’re drained by someone who doesn’t give back? If we share our time, what if we’re asked to give time we can’t spare?

But what we mean by “enough” can change. When we see people who thrive on much less income and “necessities” than we do, we see that “enough” is a flexible idea. Our criticism of people who seem to be unable to function at income levels we can’t dream of reaching is another sign of the multiple meanings of “enough”.

When we take down our “enough” barrier, we find the abundance of a God who has no limits to love or grace, who always provides. We find there’s “enough”, even when we die to our fears, because our Lord is risen, and there is life enough for all.

To walk with Jesus, we need to take down the barrier of whom we love.

Who are the people whom you cannot say “no” to? Whom can you not refuse to love, to help financially or otherwise, to give your time, your energy, your life? That’s the boundary.

This foreign widow opened the circle of those to whom she couldn’t say no to include Elijah. There’s no earthly sense in sharing her last meal with a stranger. The boundary of her circle was changed.

We fear taking down this barrier. We struggle because we think some aren’t deserving of our help, and some don’t belong to us. We fear we’ll be overwhelmed by people who need us, that if we don’t limit our giving of wealth, life, time, love, we’ll be drained dry.

And the One who was crucified and whose life flowed out onto the ground says, “When did I ever tell you otherwise? Of course that’s the risk. And of course some don’t deserve it. Do you?”

When we take down this barrier so we can walk the path with Christ, we find the grace of God to love others regardless of whether we think they deserve it, or that they belong to us. We find the strength of God not to worry about being taken advantage of. And we find the joy that we are never alone, because now all are in our circle.

To walk with Jesus, we need to take down the barrier of whom we let love us.

Who are the people whom you allow to help you, to love you? Whom you trust to reveal your pain, your need, your difficulty, and permit to care for you, give you grace? That’s the boundary.

Elijah’s willingness to ask a starving woman to feed him opened him up to the grace of God for her, her son, and for himself.

We fear taking down this barrier for lots of reasons. As we heard a few weeks ago, for some our pride causes us to hesitate to let others know of our need. For others of us it’s our anger, our fear, our shame, or other reasons. This barrier can be higher and stronger than the others. We don’t like being seen as needy, or trusting others to meet that need. We can be comfortable seeing ourselves as God’s presence to others. We’re frightened of the vulnerability it would take to let others be God’s presence to us.

When we take down this barrier so we can walk the path with Christ, we are given the courage of God to let others help and love us. And we come full circle to the first boundary, because when others can love us, we’ll always have enough.

There is death in taking down our barriers. Losing our protection is frightening.

But the path on the other side is with the risen One who destroys death and makes all things new. Who gives the grace of a new sense of what is “enough,” and the joy of being connected to all, both in our care for them and their care for us.

We are made new in Christ’s death and resurrection, for this path. Once our protections are dropped, our lives begin to flow in love toward God and neighbor and the love of God and neighbor flows toward us and we finally live the life God dreamed for us. Where no one is left out, where the abundance of God is for everyone, where all find their jars and jugs filled to the brim, and we live together in the peace and fullness God intends, until our Lord returns.

This is not fiction. Not in the life of the Triune God. This is the new thing our risen Lord is making. And it lies on the path of Christ that stands before us.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

We walk amongst graves in our lives, living in a world with death, but like Mary we walk with the true God who not only weeps with us, but heals us and the world now and for a life to come.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   All Saints Day
   texts:  John 11:32-44; Isaiah 25:6-9; Revelation 21:1-6

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Jesus and Mary of Bethany walked to Lazarus’ tomb.

It was a cave, with a stone rolled in front of it. This isn’t the last time disciples of Jesus will come to such a place, with such a cave and stone. And like those women on Easter morning, Jesus and Mary come to a place where death is real, permanent, immovable as a boulder.

Today we walk with them to a burial place. Every day we worship here we walk with Mary and Jesus. We worship with the graves of our loved ones beside us, graves we’ve recently filled. We leave communion and pass them again. We worship in a cemetery.

We notice this today more than usual. We take our normal incense, smoke that is our prayer to God, smoke that also honors the presence of God in our midst, and we spread that fragrance at our place of burial. Apart from the feast of the Resurrection and our funeral Eucharists, this is the only time we do this there.

Today we remind ourselves to remember. To remember our loved ones who have died. To remember that we worship in a cemetery because we don’t ever want to forget the truth of our death, and the death of those we love. To remember that we constantly walk on graves, amidst our beloved dead, above those who for centuries have lived and died. After millennia, everywhere we walk is holy ground, sanctified by the dead. Everywhere we walk we walk with Mary and Jesus.

It is good to remember we always walk amongst our graves. Where death is real and permanent. Because it is only at the grave we find the truth that gives us life.

We walk amongst our graves and remember names today, from this year and many, many past years, because it’s essential to our life and our faith.

Our culture too often urges us to move on after death, uncomfortable with grief that isn’t neatly processed, impatient for us to get over the deaths of those we love.

We stubbornly say on this day every year that we don’t intend to get over it. We remember every year because there is grace in remembering, joy in the midst of grief, whether it’s recent or long-standing.

We insist on remembering because as long as we live we want the memory of those we love to be alive in our hearts and minds. We insist on remembering because we hope that when it’s our time to go, others might remember us, that our existence won’t fade quickly after we leave.

We insist on remembering for the same reason Mary and Jesus went to the tomb. Mary went to visit and name her brother, to mourn him, to show Jesus the place. She didn’t expect him to be raised. She did what we’re doing today.

And there, amongst the graves, Mary saw the wonder of what the Triune God can do, a wonder even death cannot stop. When we go where Mary went, we also begin to see.

When we walk amongst our graves like Mary, we see and remember how powerless we are in the face of death.

Mary repeats her sister Martha’s plea, but less angrily. She’s mostly sad and helpless: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” At the implacable stone covering where her brother is laid, Mary can’t see any course of action, anything to do, but weep.

She used to be confident, to know what to do. When Jesus visited, she sat at his feet and listened, filled with joy. She would confidently know what to do later when, as Jesus’ worst week began, she took sweet-smelling oil and anointed him for burial. But in the face of this death, her brother four days buried, she can do nothing but weep.

We walk amongst our graves to remember we’re that helpless. We see systems of oppression, habits of violence and war, world-wide poverty and hunger, and see no way to break them. We see a culture warped with the sins of racism and selfishness, inequalities that tear people apart even in our enlightened, free country. We see things that bind us in our own hearts and keep us from being who God means us to be.

But we walk amongst our graves because death is even more powerful than all of these things. All that sickens this world, all that owns us, all that causes pain and suffering, as intractable as they are, death is more. We walk amongst our graves and remember how powerless we are. We weep with Mary because it’s all we can do.

So when we walk amongst our graves like Mary, we do it because with Mary our tears are welcome.

We may be functioning perfectly well, coping with our grief, finding a way to live without our loved ones, but at times when we remember deeply as we do today, the tears often come, unbidden, uncontrollable.

That’s why we can’t take our eyes off of Jesus today. Jesus stands at Lazarus’ tomb with his grieving and weeping sister and weeps with her. Now, Isaiah, and John in his Revelation, see a future before us where God will wipe every tear from every eye and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.

Yet before that happens, while we live on this side of the grave, what does God do? The One who is God-with-us stands with us at the graves of our beloved and weeps with us. The One who is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, who is making all things new, that One is content to share our grief here, and shed the same tears we shed.

So in that day when the Triune God wipes away all tears from all eyes, our God will first need a tissue for God’s own eyes. This is immeasurably comforting. The true God knows our grief and shares it. Here amongst our graves we are not alone.

But mostly, when we walk amongst our graves like Mary, it’s because Jesus promised we’d see something marvelous.

We need to know we are powerless; we are comforted to know God grieves with us. But we come here because Jesus promised this to Martha and to us: “If you believe, you will see the glory of God.”

It is death that is the great power, the end of all possibility, the great unknown; it is death that tells us there’s nothing more we can do. Sometimes we dream, wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone who died could come back to life and tell us what to expect, comfort us? That’s what we want. Then we’d know.

Oh . . .

Oh.

This is why we walk amongst our graves. Because when we come to that other cave, with that other stone, we find it is rolled away, and the cave is empty. We look up from our tears and see our risen Lord standing before us saying, “ See, see . . . I am making all things new.”

We recognize that in becoming as powerless as we are, even going through death itself, our God has destroyed death’s power forever.

We can only see this at the grave. And what this means is stunning.

Amongst our graves we see the empty tomb of Christ Jesus and we are amazed.

Because if even death, the great finality, the great power, is over and done, then all the other powers that plague our world have no chance. All the things that we see no hope in changing are ultimately doomed. So we can begin to work to dismantle them, to heal our society and our world. Because our Lord is alive and is making all things new.

And if even death, the great finality, the great power, is over and done, then all the things that bind us and keep us from our life as children of God have no chance. All the things that own us, lead us astray, keep us from loving God and loving neighbor fully, are ultimately doomed. So we can begin to work to dismantle them, too, to find healing of our hearts and lives to be who we were always meant to be. Because our Lord is alive and is making all things new.

And if death, the great finality, the great power, is over and done, we will not end there, either.

Our hope for those we love is our hope for us: because Christ lives we also will live. Because our Lord is alive and is making all things new.

We worship in a cemetery because here we find hope and joy for the healing of this world, for the healing of our lives, and for the life with God forever that awaits us with those whom we love who have gone ahead.

We worship here because it is here we learn to say with Isaiah, “This is our God for whom we have waited, that God might save us. Let us be glad and rejoice.”

Let us be glad indeed. The One who is making all things new has already begun. And on this day we remember, and we are glad.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen