In darkness, suffering, and grief, we are able to see that God is with us, and that’s all we need to know.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
All Saints Sunday, year B
Texts: John 11:32-44 (also read vv. 17, 20-31); Isaiah 25:6-9; Revelation 21:1-6

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

If you had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.

It’s a damning indictment these sisters lay on Jesus. Our beloved brother, your beloved friend, died. And you weren’t here to stop it. You abandoned us to this terrible grief.

They had reason to believe Jesus could stop this. As some of their mourning friends said, “he’s healed blind people, surely he could have healed Lazarus.” They’d seen him heal others, and knew he could’ve prevented this heart-wrenching pain.

But they counted on more than Jesus’ ability. Jesus was their friend. He’d eaten at their home, they loved him and he loved them. They trusted that friendship, that love. So when Lazarus grew sick, of course they called on this relationship. If you’re friends with the Son of God, who heals even strangers, why wouldn’t you expect such a favor?

We understand Mary and Martha and their friends.

If God really loves you, you should be safe from suffering, shouldn’t you?

We’re dismissive of Christians who preach a prosperity Gospel, who claim that if you just believe in God, you’ll become wealthy, you’ll have all you want. That God wants you to be a success in all areas of your life. We find such theology distasteful, dishonest, and unscriptural.

But a friend of mine recently reminded me that we’re not so far from this when we expect God’s protection from harm, an escape from suffering. When we ask, where were you God, when this terrible thing happened? Whether it’s an enraged killing of unsuspecting people at worship whom we don’t know, or a cancerous blow on the one closest to us, or the pain of our loneliness: if you’d have shown up, God, we say, this wouldn’t have happened.

Martha and Mary still believe in Jesus. But they can’t understand why he lets them suffer such unnecessary pain.

Martha believes her brother will live in the resurrection on the last day. She believes the promise of Isaiah we heard today, that in those days on the mountain of God, death will be swallowed up and all tears wiped away. She believes in the promise of John’s Revelation we heard today, that there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and no more death, no more crying, no more pain.

But I’m in grief right now, Martha says. Mary doesn’t have to say it. She can barely speak for her weeping. If you’d been here, Jesus, we wouldn’t feel this way.

And Jesus says to Martha: I’m here now, and I am life. Is that enough for you? He says to Mary: I’m here now, and I share your tears. Is that enough for you?

We think we want, maybe even deserve, freedom from suffering in this life.

Now, if we know someone who has suffered greatly in ways that we haven’t, we know we don’t believe God loves us more. When we’re rational, we know suffering happens to all sorts of people and there’s never a rational explanation. But like Mary and Martha, we don’t always think clearly in our grief and pain. All we want is for it to go away.

But what we really need – since we know suffering happens to anyone and everyone – is to know we aren’t alone in it. To know that our struggles, and the struggles of so many, aren’t something we or they endure all alone, with no one to care. What we really need is God-with-us. Emmanuel.

And that’s what happens in Bethany. Jesus stands in the face of Martha’s anger and loves her. He kneels alongside Mary’s tears and weeps with her.

Don’t be distracted by the joyful ending of this story. We know that such things almost never happen in this life. And the critical moment for the sisters is what happens before.

When Jesus is with them. When the Son of God comes to be with them in the darkness of their tears and grief. That’s his answer. No defense of his delay, no explanation why Lazarus died when others were healed. He comes, and holds them in their pain. He is willing to roll back the stone of their grief and look into the worst of their darkness, smell the stench of death, and hold it with them.

Christian theologian James Finley has said that “the absolute love of God . . . protects us from nothing, even as it sustains us in all things.”[1] That’s what Jesus does at Bethany.

We actually meet God most clearly in our darkness, in our tears.

That’s the wonder we learn at the cross. The God of the universe bears all our pain and grief and suffering in the body and blood of God’s Son. Even within the Trinity, the Son feels abandoned by the Father, wondering “have you forsaken me?” That’s how far God goes to be with us: even sharing our confusion at God’s apparent absence.

This is the deep grace of the Incarnation: God comes to bear our lives with us. Our joys and happiness, yes. But also, and most importantly, our suffering and sorrow and pain.

It is this absolute love of God that never promises to protect us but always, always sustains and strengthens us, in which we live most deeply today. We bring George to the waters of baptism, unsure of his or the world’s future, wishing that he and all children would be protected from every possible harm. But we wash him in God’s healing waters and join him to Christ’s death and resurrection, claiming him as a child of God. Claiming that even though his life to come is mystery, we know this: God is with him. The crucified and risen Emmanuel embraces George.

We carry our brother Ken the last steps to his resting place, aware that even as people of faith we are filled with grief and pain in the face of death. But we place our brother next to his beloved Ellie trusting that their baptism is completed, and they are joined to Christ’s death and resurrection, claiming they are children of God. Claiming that even though death is mystery, we know this: God is with them. The crucified and risen Emmanuel embraces them.

“I am here with you. I will always, always, sustain you in my love.”

That’s Jesus’ answer when we cry out, “If you’d been here . . .” This is the absolute love of God on which we ground our lives. Not that we expect special treatment, avoiding suffering because we believe in God. Not that we claim any answers for why suffering happens or why God sometimes seems to prevent it, but not always.

You are grounded in the absolute love of the Triune God who enters the depth of darkness and fear and pain with you and holds you by the hand. Who weeps with you, sits with you in silence, holds your anger, grieves with you, even while breathing in and out in a rhythm of love that calms your heart.

God is with you. Always. And you never need to be afraid. But when you are, you will not be alone. And God’s love will speak to your fear, hold your sorrow, and sustain your life.

Until all things are made new, and the reign of God Isaiah and John promise is finally brought to fullness, and the whole creation sings for joy in God’s new world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

[1] James Finley, from an audio presentation, Intimacy: The Divine Ambush (Center for Action and Contemplation, 2013, audio CD)

Eleison, have mercy: it is our prayer and Christ’s command.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Sunday of the Reformation, Lectionary 30 B
Text: Mark 10:46-52

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

Eleison. Have mercy.

That’s what Bartimaeus asked. Actually, eleison me, have mercy on me.

Jesus, his disciples, and a large crowd are leaving Jericho. It’s like a parade or a march. And Bartimaeus, a blind beggar, hears the crowd, finds out it’s Jesus, and cries out, have mercy on me.

And Mark says “many” tried to shut him up. They rebuked him, told him to be quiet.

Who are these who won’t hear the cries of someone in need asking for mercy, who even would prevent Jesus, someone who could offer mercy, from hearing?

And where are you in this story? Do you sometimes wish those in need would be quieter, quit bothering you and others? Do you stand next to such silencers in the crowd and let them shut out the cries for mercy? Do you reach out to Bartimaeus, help him up, saying, Take heart, Christ is calling for you?

Bartimaeus is real. He lives among us. And all he asks is eleison.

Our government not only tells Bartimaeus to be quiet, they insult him, try to throw him out of the city, even try to deny he exists.

The U. S. Department of Health and Human Services now proposes to define gender as strictly male and female, defined prior to and at birth. The 1.4 million Bartimaeuses in America who identify themselves in differing categories, fluid or changing genders, won’t exist for purposes of health and services. The administration claims this “protects” the health of Americans. We deny Bartimaeus his existence and say we all benefit.

A caravan of thousands comes north from Honduras and Guatemala seeking help, and our administration characterizes these impoverished Central American families with children as dangerous criminals, and says that ISIS – from the Middle East! – hides among them.

But it was U.S. policy and actions in the twentieth century that destroyed the economies of places like Honduras and Guatemala, destabilized their governments, and made U.S. businesses and their profit the priority. These thousands come from desperation created in part by us. We made Bartimaeus. But he isn’t welcome here.

But my friends, these are the easy ones for us to see and want mercy for. There are others who are your Bartimaeus.

She may live in a tent next to Hiawatha, and you’d like to have compassion for her. But then you see the needles and syringes lying around her tent, her children, and it’s not a feel-good story anymore. Maybe you just don’t think if Bartimaeus does drugs she deserves the mercy of her neighbors.

Maybe Bartimaeus has dark skin, and his cries of eleison include his claims that his life is radically different from yours. That he has to teach his children strategies to avoid police attention. That he has to worry about broken lights on his car lest they lead to his death. Maybe you’re just tired of hearing that Black Lives Matter. You wish they’d be quiet.

Sometimes you can’t even see Bartimaeus. She’s going to be waiting for you after church, though, holding a cardboard sign as you enter the freeway. She’ll be there again tomorrow, and if you’re careful you don’t even have to make eye contact, let alone hear her.

Maybe you’re thinking, I actually see all these, and I’m trying to find ways to help. That’s good. But there are so many Bartimaeuses in the crowds, there’s definitely one you don’t see or hear. Keep looking until you find that person who annoys you, whom you can’t bring yourself to care about. Whom you wish would be quiet about their needs.

Then look at Jesus.

It’s a crowd, a parade. And suddenly, Jesus stops, stands still.

He listens. He hears eleison me, have mercy on me. In the midst of the bustling crowd, the noise of the dogs and children, he hears the cry for mercy others would shut down. He commands: bring him here.

And then he asks, What do you want me to do for you?

Here is the glory of the Christ, the Son of God: there is no limit to mercy. There is enough mercy for the whole universe in God-with-us, this Jesus. His very next stop is Jerusalem, another parade with a crowd, this time waving palm branches, and he will leave that crowd and go alone to a cross. He will bear the mercy of the Triune God for the universe in his flesh and blood and offer his life. And there is enough mercy for all.

So, Jesus asks, What do you want me to do for you? What does mercy look like for you? And Bartimaeus astonishingly claims a relationship with Jesus in that moment. Rabbouni, my master, my teacher – the same trusting name Mary Magdalene calls the risen Jesus – my master, let me see again.

And mercy pours out from God-with-us. Bartimaeus the inconvenient, Bartimaeus the annoying, Bartimaeus the shouter of his needs, receives his sight. And he follows Jesus.

Today we once again celebrate the Church’s sixteenth century Reformation, and realize that the twenty-first century Church also needs to be reformed.

We need more than a reforming of doctrine, though. Our twenty-first century question of reform is simple: will the Church be Christ in the world or not?

Will we claim the mercy of God we see at the cross for all creatures? We don’t need to struggle over the doctrine of grace and mercy. The only issue is if we’ll be grace and mercy, if we as Church and as individuals will be Christ. If our lives from waking to sleeping will reveal that there is no limit to God’s mercy.

We start by forcing ourselves to see Bartimaeus, wherever they may be. We start by learning to name our inner protests and justifications as delaying tactics. We start by finally, as Church and as individuals, doing what Jesus does. Stopping in the middle of the crowd, opening our eyes and ears, listening, looking for Bartimaeus.

Then calling her to us, and asking, what do you want me to do for you?

That’s a Reformation desperately needed across the Church. And it’s a Reformation that would cause rejoicing in heaven.

Eleison. Have mercy. That’s our prayer.

We are overwhelmed by God’s love that we know, that we’ve seen at the cross, that we receive in Christ’s meal of life. Eleison is our breath, in and out, because we know how much we need mercy, and we know Who it is who gives it.

But the One who answers your eleison commands with the same word: eleison. You have mercy. Be mercy. Live mercy. Find Bartimaeus and ask what you can do. Listen to the cries for mercy you want to silence and ask what you can do. Stop those in government or in your city who would shut out the cries, who would answer with cruelty, and stand alongside Bartimaeus.

As you struggle with this command, hear one more miracle: Christ asks you the same question. What do you want me to do for you?

Now you know: you are Bartimaeus, too. “My teacher, my master, let me see again. Open my eyes, my ears, my heart, my hands, my mind, my life, that I may follow you. That I may have mercy as you have mercy.”

And Jesus opens your eyes. And now you can follow wherever he will go.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen