Jesus prays within the life of God that we all be one – even our own community here at Mount Olive – and in that prayer we find hope in this time apart.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Seventh Sunday of Easter, year A
Texts: Acts 1:6-14; John 17:1-11

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

Jesus prayed that “they” all be one, even as he and the Father are one.

Think of that. Jesus, the Incarnate God-with-us, God’s Word in our flesh, the eternal Son of God, prays within the life of the Trinity that we (if we’re part of Jesus’ “they”), that we be one even as God is One within that life of the Trinity.

But who is the “they” Jesus prays about? The Scriptures declare, as we learned last week, that all things, all people, will be drawn up into the life of God in Jesus’ death and resurrection. This is God’s will, and it will be done.

But in this particular prayer, Jesus prays specifically for his followers, those who trust him as God’s Anointed. Here, Jesus prays within God’s life for all Christians to be one, a important and needed prayer.

But in this time we’re apart, we could also take the “they” one step closer to home. Our community of Mount Olive is also dear to the heart of the Triune God, and in this prayer, the Son is also praying that we, the people of God who come together as Mount Olive, might be one, even as the Father, the Son, and the Spirit are One.

But how can we be one when we can’t even be together? That weighs heavily on my heart. In a hymn we love to sing, we pray: “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days.” That is our deep need, right now.

There’s a joy in the community of believers we hear of today that is hard to see.

In these days between Christ’s Ascension and the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost, the believers gather together. The closest inner group – the remaining eleven, some of the women (Jesus’ mother is named, and we can be sure Mary Magdalene was there), and even Jesus’ brothers – this inner group of leaders gathered in the Upper Room. They devoted themselves to prayer together, Luke says.

Just that simple. They wanted to be together, so they were. They wanted to pray together, so they did.

We can’t even imagine that right now. We worship in our homes, and God blesses that, but we deeply long to be together. Our ministry with our neighbors is sharply limited. We do church business by meeting remotely, but the simplicity and ease of understanding that comes from meeting face to face is kept from us.

This is right and good. Opening ourselves to being a hot spot where the virus can rapidly spread and kill would be irresponsible and sinful. But the oneness of these believers, the ease with which they gather and live in community, is painful to see right now.

We’ve taken for granted how easily we were able to find each other in community.

Around 225 of us gather together on any normal Sunday. There are people you see every week in the pews you always sit in, your regular neighbors. You come, knowing you will likely see them. There are others you see in the greeting of Christ’s peace, others you know you will likely see at coffee hour. Think of how many of this community you might see on any given normal Sunday. And we used to need to do nothing for this except get dressed on a Sunday morning and come to church.

What those in our community who are homebound already knew, we all know now. To come to church whenever you want is an astonishing grace. It means sharing life with whoever is there, whether for worship or community meal or meetings or Bible study or shared ministry. You don’t have to look at a directory and decide who you’ll meet. It just happens. Until you can’t come.

Now our challenge is to learn how to be one, together, while we are apart. When it’s not easy. “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days.”

The wisdom and courage we need from God is to be intentional and creative in how we can stay together while apart.

Since you can’t just see people randomly, you’ll need to think. Who are your pew neighbors? Have you spoken recently? Whom do you see in the hallway on the way to coffee that you love to catch up with? Could you send them a note? I rejoice to hear of those in the congregation who are calling and writing to each other, just to stay connected. We all need to find that joyful intentionality.

There are other creative things you can do. A group of members who live near each other shared in a recent Olive Branch that they have a virtual dinner regularly. They all eat a shared meal, but all in their own homes, while on a video call. Are there Mount Olive neighbors near you that would want to do this? Are there other “virtual groups” you can start? Some are doing remote cocktail parties or coffee times.

Your leaders at Mount Olive are working on this, too. We already have a group of intentional callers, and could always use more. Now we’re dreaming of other ways we can maintain our community as these months apart stretch on. Perhaps a virtual coffee hour at a certain time on Sunday mornings, or helping organize remote neighborhood gatherings. I’m hoping to get another Bible study written so we can see each other remotely and listen to God’s Word together. There are many things we can do.

We pray, “grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days,” because our lives depend on this community.

We meet and know the Triune God when we are with each other. And to know God is eternal life, Jesus prays today.

Eternal life – something we for centuries have reduced to only life after death – also means knowing the Triune God who comes to us in Christ in this life! Since God is embodied in us, when we’re together as a community, we know God better. We find eternal, abundant life. You and I see the face of God in each other, know the hands and voice of God from each other. This community of faith is a sure sign of God in our lives.

It’s vital that we creatively and intentionally work together to maintain our community in this time apart, lest we lose the abundant life of knowing God now, in each other, that is one of God’s greatest gifts.

We can’t risk each other’s lives, or plan events that risk our safety. We can’t see each other face to face, or hug each other. So, we need to find out how we can be God for each other, in those creative, yet safe ways. “Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days,” we pray.

And that’s the Good News for today, too. Because we’re not the only ones praying that.

Jesus prayed that “they” all be one, even as he and the Father are one.

The unity of all God’s children is on God’s heart and mind, and part of the Triune God’s inner prayer and love and discussion.

And so is the unity of those who are called together as Mount Olive in this time and place. Our life together matters to God as much as the life of all God’s children matters. The wideness in God’s mercy, as we also love to sing, has room for thousands of worlds such as this. And the love of God can even devote prayer time for our little band of siblings in Christ as we seek to remain one while apart.

And God promises to make this oneness happen, too, that’s what Jesus’ prayer really means. God’s inner prayer is our hope and our life, because the courage and wisdom we need to do this together will be granted, for the living of these days. This is most certainly true.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

The disciples’ joy at Jesus’ ascension comes from a foundation of trust in who Christ is and who they are in Christ. The light of Christ is not extinguished; it’s changed. Now, the disciples are tasked with carrying it out into the world.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Ascension of Our Lord
Texts: Acts 1:1-11; Luke 24:44-53

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

When Jesus ascends into heaven, right before their very eyes, the disciples are overjoyed!

I have to admit, this reaction surprises me. Joy? Confusion and fear seem to be more their style. Even if we consider only the weeks since Palm Sunday, when the disciples arrived in Jerusalem with Jesus, they have rarely reacted to events with joy. What they have done is misunderstand Jesus’ teachings, get into arguments about who’s the greatest, fall asleep while praying, and deny even knowing Jesus. Not to mention doubting the resurrection, locking themselves away in fear, and failing to recognize the risen Christ. The disciples aren’t especially known for their celebratory responses.

Even at the start of the last conversation before the ascension, the disciples “startled and terrified” when Jesus shows up. They think he’s a ghost! (Luke 24:37) How do they get from startled and terrified at the beginning of the conversation, to overjoyed by the end, especially considering this is their last conversation with Jesus? What does he tell them that causes such a change of heart?

Before his ascension, Jesus shares four things with the disciples: a teaching, a mission, a promise, and a blessing.

Jesus begins, as he did on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:27), with teaching. He teaches the disciples about the law and the prophets. He “opens their minds to understand the scripture.” (Luke 24:44) Jesus wants them to be able to understand his life, death, and resurrection within the wider narrative of God’s relationship with people of faith. And he wants them to understand their own role within that narrative as well.

So he gives them a mission. “You are witnesses,” he tells them. They are being sent out in the world to tell the story of God’s love in Christ. The early church will come back to this mission again and again. Although the word “witness” is only used a handful of times in the Gospels, in the book of Acts, which describes the life of the early church, it’s used more than a dozen times. The leaders of the early church reminded themselves of this vocational calling many times. We are witnesses. We are the ones who tell the story of God’s grace. We are the ones who testify to the power of the Gospel.

To be a witness was not an easy task, and in truth, many of the early Christians suffered because of their witness. Many were killed because of it. The same word that means ‘witness’ becomes synonymous for one who is killed because of their faith: a martyr. To be a witness requires commitment, courage, even self-sacrifice.
So Jesus gives them a promise: the Holy Spirit will empower you for this work. Although this is Jesus’ farewell to his disciples, the on-going presence of God will stay with them. Divine power will be poured out on them, Jesus says, it will clothe them. They will be surrounded, enfolded, covered by the mysterious and transformative power of God’s spirit.

And if those three gifts weren’t enough– the scriptural teaching, the call to be witnesses, the promise of the Holy Spirit– Jesus leaves them with a final blessing. The text says that while he is still speaking this blessing over them, that Jesus is drawn away into heaven (Luke 24:51). The very final words they heard him speak are ones of blessing and sending. There’s no more conversation; Jesus is gone, right before their very eyes.

And the disciples are overjoyed!

They leave eager to worship, committed to one another and to the Gospel. Perhaps Jesus’ parting gifts– teaching, calling, promise, and blessing– perhaps these helped the disciples bear the pain of this separation. It seems likely they still had questions, doubts, fears. They were still shocked and grieving. Likely they got into more arguments, made more mistakes, continued to be the same people who were masterful at missing the point. And yet, these disciples step into the next chapter of their lives with confidence and joy because they trust who Christ is and who Christ has called them to be.

They trust who Christ is. When Jesus told them that he would not leave them orphaned, they believed him. When Jesus told them that his body was given for them, they took him seriously. When Jesus told them that the gift of the Holy Spirit would be poured out on them, they knew it would be so.

And they trust who they are in Christ. Their identities are rooted in the truth and freedom of the Gospel. Jesus has made them witnesses, and they know that being called and sent by Christ changes everything. Their role is to go out and proclaim forgiveness in Chris’s name. Who wouldn’t be joyful at the task of inviting others into the life-giving, heart-opening, grace-filled way of Christ!

It’s not as powerful as having Jesus speak it to you, but I want you to know that this is your vocation as well.

And the gifts that Jesus gave the disciples are also yours: the teaching of scripture, that speaks the Word of God to you; the mission to witness to the redemptive love of God for the world; the promise that God’s powerful spirit is poured out on you; and the everlasting blessing of the holy and Triune God. These are also for you.

The Ascension story isn’t about Jesus absence it’s about Christ’s presence – in you!

It’s a story we tell our children every week in Godly Play. Every Godly Play classroom has a Christ candle that gets lit as children gather, a reminder that the light of Christ is with us. When it’s time to leave and put the candle out, we say, “Watch carefully, the light is going to change.” The light was all in one place, but it can be in many places at once. Like the smoke rising from the wick, God’s presence fills the room in a different way. We tell the children the Christ light still shines in each of you, and you will carry it out into the world. That’s what the story of Ascension is about, and that’s why it’s a story of joy.

After Jesus ascended to heaven, just in case the disciples missed that point (like I said, they did have a track record) some mysterious robed messengers show up to remind them (Acts 1:9-10). “Why do you stand looking up to heaven?” they ask the disciples. In other words: What are you looking at? The light isn’t up there. The light has changed. You’re carrying it. You know who you are. You’re witnesses. So you’d better get going out into the world and shine that light.

Amen.

All people: God is the God of all, and has made all creatures to search for God. As we know God in Christ, we, with “gentleness and reverence,” invite people to know the God who made and loves them.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Sixth Sunday of Easter, year A
Texts: Acts 17:22-31; 1 Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21

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

Pandemic.

It’s a word we’re sick of, it gives us fear and anxiety and grief and anger.

It’s Greek. “Pan-demos.” Meaning, “all people”. When the World Health Organization recognizes that a significant number of the world’s countries and population are at risk of a particular disease, they declare it a pandemic. “All people” are at risk of suffering. “All people” should take care.

“All people” divides our national response to this crisis. Our national government has a significant number of leaders, including the president, who don’t care about “all people” in the U.S., let alone the world. Many decisions made at the highest level intend to help only a small group of people, disregarding “all people,” the people who will actually get sick, suffer, and potentially die because of those selfish decisions.

But the word pandemic isn’t by itself a bad word. It’s an adjective, it describes something else. A pandemic disease is terrible, a horror we pray will be brought under control, and soon. But even saying “all people” are suffering from this crisis claims we are all together in this as one on this planet. That’s a really good thing.

And what if we modify other words and thoughts with the word “pandemic”? Learn a “pandemic” way of thinking and being that always begins with “all people,” not with our own personal wants, or our own country’s wants? A pandemic lens for thinking and being would see all people as our siblings, all people as ones who matter, no people as our enemies. This would be a huge blessing.

The honest truth, though, is we Christians often lead the call for an exclusive lens of thinking and being, not one that embraces all people.

We take words like Jesus’ in today’s Gospel and turn them from encouragement for his disciples into words excluding anyone who doesn’t believe as we do. The Church as the exclusive place of those God loves has been a tremendously sinful idea for much of our history. It’s led to much destruction and death, often at our hands.

But if we were to really understand Jesus, we’d see the risen Christ’s desire is that not a single creature be left orphaned, alone, not just us. Yes, here he says his followers will encounter a world which doesn’t see the Spirit of truth at work, doesn’t trust Jesus is the Christ. That’s helpful awareness.

But throughout his preaching and teaching, Jesus is clear that God’s love in Christ is for “all people,” a pandemic love, a love even for the whole cosmos. All things will be drawn into God as Jesus is lifted up on the cross. None of God’s children will be left orphaned. All people will be brought into the abundant life God has made in the world in Christ.

Listen to what we prayed at the start of worship today: “Almighty and ever-living God, you hold together all things in heaven and on earth. In your great mercy receive the prayers of all your children, and give to all the world the Spirit of your truth and peace, through Jesus Christ.”

We have made it clear to the Holy and Triune God today that we recognize God is a pandemic God, God for all people. Now, how will we live in a way consistent with our prayer?

The apostle Paul, on the Areopagus in Athens, declares a beautiful vision of such a pandemic God.

A few verses earlier, Paul is distressed when walking around Athens and seeing all the temples to idols. But when the Athenians invite Paul to speak, he does something remarkable.

He speaks graciously about the Athenians’ religiosity, that they clearly care about faith and prayer, to have all those temples. Then he speaks of their temple “to an unknown God” and proclaims a welcoming vision of God’s love for them and for all.

God is not confined to these temples and shrines we build, Paul says. This God the Athenians call “unknown” is actually the God of the universe, maker of all things and all creatures. Every human being derives from the creation of this God, Paul says. And remarkably, this unknown God of whom Paul speaks actually wants all people to search for and find God. To grope until they touch God.

God, in this pandemic love, longs to live inside each of God’s children. All are God’s offspring, even these Athenians, all are loved by the God Paul proclaims, who raised Jesus from the dead.

This is the heart of Jesus’ teaching, that God has come in Christ for all, and Paul invites the Athenians to know that God, too.

Today Peter says, “Always be ready to make an explanation to those who ask for an accounting of the hope that is in you, yet do it with gentleness and reverence.” Here, Paul’s speech is a direct result of the Athenians asking Paul to say more about what he believes, what he hopes.

And Paul’s speech models the gentleness and reverence Peter asks for, too. Paul listens to and observes the Athenians, their culture, their faith. He walks around the city and gets a feel for who they are. Then, when asked, he proclaims the good news of God in Christ in a way that opens God’s love for all people.

Peter and Paul show us our path of living faithfully in trust of our pandemic God.

First, your life will be visibly different enough that people actually demand from you an explanation of your hope, your faith. Does your love of others witness to your world? Can people see your hope in God’s love for all people enough that they might dare to ask you about it? Even in this time apart, each of us have opportunities to witness by our kindness, our love, our hope, our politics, that God is a pandemic God who loves and heals all.

Imagine what our country and world would be like if everyone who belonged to Christ were beacons of hope and love to their families and friends, acted as if all people matter to God and to them, and showed this in public, and on social media, so much so that people asked, “where do you find that?”

And when you engage others who don’t believe as you, when you’re talking about the hope that is in you, follow Paul and listen first. Observe their lives, their faithfulness. Even if it distresses you, like Paul, set that aside and pay attention. Then, when you do speak from your hope, the gentleness and reverence will naturally be there. It will come out graciously and will invite people to know the God who made them and desires to be touched by them. To live in them.

It is the Triune God’s deep desire that all God’s children find home and abundant life in God here.

None of God’s children can be left orphaned, alone, with no one and no God to love them. In Christ’s death and resurrection, God’s life and love have begun the transformation of this world, for all people, pan demos.

It sounds simple, that you could live with this hope and actually witness by your life and your reverent, gentle words, that all people are a part of God’s love. But it is how God’s love for all people will finally get to all people. It’s how God’s healing can even start changing our society and world to be one where all people are always considered and cared for.

Because our pandemic God wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Way, truth, life: these are not abstract concepts but the embodied Christ in your lives, and also how the Triune God lives embodied in you.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Fifth Sunday of Easter, year A
Text: John 14:1-14

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

“I am.”

That was Jesus’ answer to Thomas and to Philip. “I am.” He didn’t explain or teach them anything. He simply said, “I am what you are asking.”

Thomas wanted a map to where Jesus was going, the place with God. He wanted to know the way there.

“I am the way,” Jesus said. “And the truth. And the life.”

Philip wanted to see God for himself, the one Jesus called “Father,” to whom Jesus said he was returning. He thought if Jesus just showed them what he was talking about it would help.

“If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen God,” Jesus said.

We reduce “the way, the truth, and the life” to theological concepts to understand and discuss. We talk about God the Father and God the Son and God the Spirit, as if the Triune God were an object to be studied, dissected, understood. But the Incarnate God-with-us points us in a completely different direction. “I am,” is what Jesus says.

I am the way, Jesus says.

The way of Christ, which Jesus often speaks of, is a way shaped like a cross, a way of vulnerable, sacrificial love. But it is not a way that can be laid out, mapped, with instructions, a list of actions you do. That’s the way the world works, but as poet W. H. Auden says, Jesus is a Way “through the land of Unlikeness.”¹ Jesus doesn’t have a book called “The Ten Steps to Faithfully Follow My Way.” Jesus says, “I am the Way.”

The way of Christ begins and ends with looking at Jesus, the Christ, the Word of God. Jesus is a way of living, a way of loving, a way of relating to God and to neighbor. So you can’t know the Way until you live in the One who is the Way.

Poet and priest George Herbert describes Jesus the Way as “such a Way as gives us breath.”² In your breathing-in Christ’s love and grace you begin to live Christ’s love and grace. You become vulnerable in your love because God is vulnerable in God’s love, and you’re breathing that vulnerability in, becoming what you already are in Christ. Love of God and love of neighbor then flows from you.

I am the Truth, Jesus says.

Jesus didn’t teach an abstract concept called Truth. He said knowing the Truth would set his followers free. And then he said, “I am the Truth.” I am what you seek.

Jesus embodies the Truth that God loves humanity deeply enough to join our life. All God’s true intention for the creation is known in Jesus, God in our own human flesh and blood, skin and bones. Every breath Jesus takes is God’s breath breathing in our life, and saying, “this is good, I love this.”

To know God’s Truth is not to have a fact to fight over, a possession saying you’re right and I’m wrong. To know God’s Truth is to know, in person, Jesus, the Truth of God’s love for you and for the world, who is real and alive and with you.

And this Truth is, as Herbert so beautifully says, “such a Truth as ends all strife.” When you live in the One who is God’s Truth there’s nothing to fight over. Instead you find, as Auden says, in the midst of the “Kingdom of Anxiety” in which we live, the home you’ve been looking for your whole life. A home of Truth that God is embodied in you and in all creatures.

I am the Life, Jesus says.

Last week Jesus said he wanted all God’s children to “have life, and have it abundantly.”

Now he says, “I am that Life.” To breathe in and become Christ’s Way, to imagine the Truth that your very life and body are beloved by God and inhabited by God, is to finally know true life.

“Such a Life as killeth death,” Herbert wrote. And not just death at the end of our mortal lives, though Jesus certainly promises that in this part of John’s Gospel. Jesus the Life kills death in all its forms, whether fear of a global pandemic that confines us to homes while sending others into deep danger, or any fear and anxiety that threaten us. Jesus deeply wishes for you to know him as Life now. Abundantly. In this “World of the Flesh,” as Auden puts it. Because death has no power over you even in this world.

I am, Jesus says. I am for you and I am for this world.

This is a wonderful gift in this terrible time of crisis, where every day we wake up to news that is worse, where we still haven’t reached the peak of this wave, where we don’t know how any of this will look when it settles down, and even when that might begin to happen.

Nothing can separate you from the love of God in the One who is your Way, your Truth, and your Life. Because now you live in “I Am” yourself. You embody Christ’s Way, Christ’s Truth, and so you know Christ’s Life. And your God-embodied life and love now say to your world, “I am. And you can be, too.”

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

¹ This, and subsequent Auden quotes: W. H. Auden, For the Time Being – A Christmas Oratorio, part 8, “The Flight into Egypt: IV: Chorus; in W. H. Auden Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson; copyright 2007 The Modern Library, New York; page 400. Set as a hymn in Hymnal 1982, Episcopal Church U.S.A., hymn 464.

² This, and subsequent Herbert quotes: George Herbert, The Call, stanza 1; in George Herbert – the Complete English Works, ed. Ann Pasternak Slater; copyright 1995 Everyman’s Library, Alfred P. Knopf, New York; p. 153. Set as a hymn in Evangelical Lutheran Worship, to Ralph Vaughan Williams’ tune, hymn 816.

As we learn to be community in new ways during physical distancing, we can look to the example of the early church who cultivated community amidst the uncertainty following Jesus’ death by trusting God’s guidance through the Holy Spirit.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Fourth Sunday of Easter, year A
Texts: Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; John 10:1-10

Beloved in Christ, may the love of God be with you this day and all days. Amen.

Have you seen any chalk messages around your neighborhood?

You might have spotted some out your window or on an evening walk on your block. It’s become a trend during the pandemic. Sidewalks are covered in rainbow-colored chalk messages that say things like: “We’re all in this together” or “Don’t be afraid” or “This too shall pass.” My favorite one I saw recently said, “I can’t wait to hug you.”

The chalk trend is a sweet way to cheer one another up in difficult times, but it’s also deeper than that. It’s a philosophy of community. The messages remind us that although we are physically distancing, we are not socially distancing. We are coming together by staying apart. We are taking care of, and being cared for, by strangers we’ll never even meet.

Even once the stay-at-home orders are lifted, this practice of physical distance is going to be with us for a long time, as we continue to cope with the coronavirus. We will need these reminders that the distance is actually a form of community. We’ll need these reminders on our sidewalks, in our conversations, in our prayers. This is what love of neighbor looks like right now. This is a new way to be community together.

This Easter season we’ve been reading in the book of Acts how the early church discerned what it meant to be community together in a new way.

Things were changing for them, and they were facing a lot of uncertainty as they struggled to understand Jesus’ death and resurrection. How would they know how to move forward in the absence of their teacher and leader?

What we read in Acts is that they learned to listen to the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Even though Jesus was not physically with them any longer, the Holy Spirit moved among them and within them. That Spirit was a gift of Christ’s ongoing presence, poured out on the disciples.

But the apostle Peter says it goes further than that. Peter told the crowds that came to hear him: the promise of the Holy Spirit is for you, and for your children, and for those who are far away. The Holy Spirit is a gift for everyone to whom God calls! (Acts 2:39) The Spirit is not constrained by time or place. It’s not exclusive or limited; it’s abundant and generous. The disciples navigated the uncertainty after Jesus’ death because they trusted that abundant Spirit, which Jesus had promised would continue to guide them.

Through this faithful group of Christ-followers, God drew more and more people in, and they cultivated community together.

In Acts, we hear how radical the vision of togetherness was for these believers. They worshipped together daily and shared meals. They supported one another socially, spiritually, and economically. They accounted for every person’s needs. They shared everything.

Loving one another in this way sounds unrealistic in the midst of a pandemic, when you can’t be together and have all things in common. You can’t share meals and worship. You can’t even share handshakes and hugs. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be Christ-centered community.

You can care for the needs of others. You can support one another socially, spiritually, and economically. You can praise God with glad and generous hearts, study God’s word, and pray in your home, as Acts tells us the early church did. You are doing all of those things, and God is still working through you every single day. The Spirit is still speaking to you as you navigate how to be community in the midst of these circumstances.

When Jesus talked about how the community of believers should depend on God for guidance, he often used the image of a flock of sheep being led by a shepherd.

We heard this in our Gospel reading from John today. The shepherd leads the sheep by voice, calling to them and guiding them. The sheep can’t see all that well, but they can listen. They recognize and follow the voice of their shepherd. And they know to run away from other voices that might try to persuade them down a different path.

Following the voice of the shepherd can’t keep the sheep from all harm. They can’t huddle in the safety of the sheepfold forever. At some point, they need to go out and find pasture where they can eat, and they trust the shepherd to lead them there, to the green pastures and the still waters. (Psalm 23:2)

When you imagine yourself as one of God’s flock, navigating the dangers of the world, you might experience God as the shepherd who calls to you and leads you to the good fields. You might experience God as the gate that welcomes you back in to a place of safety. You might experience God as the gatekeeper who protects you while you rest, keeping out anything that would harm you. Jesus uses all of these different images to help people understand the ways that God cares for them.

And if all those metaphors confuse you, and you’re asking how God can be a shepherd, a gate, and a gatekeeper, know that you’re not alone. After all, the disciples themselves admitted that they weren’t sure what Jesus was talking about. So he gave them the bottom line.

Jesus says what matters is this: God wants life for you.

And not just the kind of life that’s sufficient or good enough. God wants the kind of life for you that’s abundant, like a cup running over, flooded with blessing. (Psalm 23:5) God wants this for you, and for the people you’re isolated with, and for the people you miss and want to hug, and for the people you’ve never even met. Even when it feels like you are walking through the valley of the shadow of death, you are not alone in this. The whole flock surrounds you and the good shepherd leads you.

Keep listening for the voice that speaks abundant life to you. Keep listening for the voice that calls you into courageous love for the world. Keep listening.

Amen.

We are still on the road to Emmaus, seeking open eyes and open Scriptures, walking with Christ who opens both for us and accompanies us with life and hope.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Third Sunday of Easter, year A
Text: Luke 24:13-35

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

This couple from Emmaus was on the road and having a really hard time of it.

All their hopes for the redemption of their people were dashed, because Jesus, the one they thought was God’s Anointed to save Israel, had just been brutally killed. Everything they understood about what God was doing in Jesus was turned upside down. And their hearts were broken in grief over what had happened to their beloved friend and teacher.

But this long walk of seven miles transformed them. On that journey they met a stranger who both opened the Scriptures to them and opened their eyes. By the time they got home, they’d found new hope, new understanding, and even comfort and healing for their grief.

Two things are notable: first, they couldn’t return to where they were before. Not meaning Jerusalem, they went back there that very night. But they couldn’t return to how they understood Jesus, and what God was doing, before all this happened. They would need a new way of seeing and understanding.

The second thing is that for most of this story, they’re still on the road to Emmaus, they haven’t arrived at their destination. Maybe not even by the end.

Right now, we’re still on the road to Emmaus, too.

This pandemic, and all the accompanying anxiety and fear, the tragic deaths, the concern over whether our national government will coordinate any useful plan to mitigate this crisis, our worry over how long it will last and whether it’ll come back, all of this has permanently changed the world we know.

Just as this couple had their whole world upended and destroyed seeing Jesus crucified, our whole world as we thought we knew it has ended. Whatever we come to know as normal will be different. We can’t return to where we were.

So right now, as people of faith, we’re not where we’re going yet. We don’t yet understand what’s happened, we don’t fully understand what God is doing in this. We’re grieving the loss of friends and so many around this world, grieving the loss of our expected future.

We need to have the Scriptures opened to us, just like these two.

We long for the teaching Jesus gave this Emmaus couple, helping them understand what God was doing in this death and resurrection, and what it meant for the world. We need Christ to walk alongside us as a community of faith and open the Scriptures and the tradition to us. We need to listen together for when our hearts burn within us with Pentecost fire as God’s Word speaks to us.

So: we need to walk together on this shared road, read Scripture together, pray together. Listen for the Spirit of God – the gift of the risen Christ – to open God’s Word to us and lead us to understanding and hope. To help us understand what Jesus means saying “it was necessary” for God’s Messiah to suffer this. What it means that God willingly enters our suffering and takes it into God’s own life. What it means that Christ is risen in the midst of this suffering and death that is changing everything.

We need our eyes opened to see Christ, too, just as they did.

Like them, we have come to know Christ in the breaking of the bread. When we gather for Eucharist we know Christ is with us, and as we share it between each person we have learned to recognize Christ’s Body, see Christ’s face in each other. Though right now we can’t worship together and share this Meal, we still need to have the Spirit open our eyes to see Christ in our world and in each other.

To remember that Christ is incarnate in every child of God on this planet, and that to see a neighbor in need is to see our beloved, risen Christ. To be able to see those who are most affected by this pandemic and recognize the deep injustice upon injustice that those who earn the least, who struggle the most with poverty and other wants, are also those most deeply harmed. To see Christ’s face in their faces and hear the call to serve them as Christ.

So: we need to walk together on this shared road, and, with the Spirit’s guidance, help each other see Christ. Because if everything is going to be different going forward, we need to see that new reality with eyes that can see Christ in this world. So as we pray and vote and engage and serve we always know we’re in Christ’s presence, on holy ground, in our love of neighbor.

There’s an ancient Latin saying that is normative for my faith journey.

The phrase is “solvitur ambulando,” which means, “It is solved by walking.” It is in the journey that we find our answers. This road we walk together is where we will understand God’s solution, find God’s guidance, know God’s healing of all this grief and pain, be filled with God’s hope for our future as a community of faith and as a city, nation, and world.

J.R.R. Tolkien wrote, in The Fellowship of the Ring, “Not all who wander are lost.”¹ Martin Luther said regarding the life of the baptized, “We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it; this is not the end, but it is the right road.”² Just because we’re living our lives on the road and not at our destination doesn’t mean we’re lost, or that we’re not in God’s hands.

It’s the opposite. The invitation of our Christian faith is to walk our roads to Emmaus together, and know that as we walk, we will learn, grow. Our eyes will be opened as God’s Word is opened to us.

Because remember: we don’t walk this road alone.

The Triune God in Christ is always walking alongside us, even if sometimes we can’t see it. Yes, we’re often foolish and slow of heart to trust God, as Jesus points out today. But Christ still makes the journey with us, opening Scripture to us, opening our eyes. Opening our hearts to know and trust God’s suffering in this world’s suffering, God’s Easter life in our lives.

And so we walk together. It’s a grace-filled road we share.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

¹ J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, book 1, chapter 10; page 182 in the second edition, copyright ©1965, Houghton Mifflin, Boston.

² Martin Luther, “Defense and Explanation of All the Articles,” a response from March 1521 to Exsurge Domine, the papal bull of condemnation of his writings issued by Pope Leo X in July, 1520. Luther’s Works, vol. 32, The Career of the Reformer II, p. 24. Translation from Michael Podesta.

Whenever you miss Easter, for whatever reason, Jesus always comes to where you are, calls you to life, and sends you out.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Second Sunday of Easter, year A
Text: John 20:19-31 (with references to 1-18 and chapter 21)

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

Mary Magdalene missed Easter. The tomb was open and empty when she got there.

She didn’t know where else to go in her confusion and despair at Jesus’ death. So even before it dawned after the Sabbath, she was at the tomb.

Her confusion and despair only deepened at the ominous emptiness she found: an open tomb, Jesus gone. She ran to the others and told them, came back, and then stood there confused, alone, sad. She had no idea what to do next.

Then she heard her name. The voice of her beloved friend and teacher said, “Mary.” Jesus came to her where she was. And then Mary knew Easter. Then she knew resurrection life.

The other disciples missed Easter. Some didn’t come. Others came, and left.

Apart from the women, the rest of the disciples were locked away in fear. Fear that, since Jesus was dead, they had nothing to live for. Fear they might be next in line for arrest and death. Peter and John heard Mary’s frightening news about the empty tomb, ran to it, looked in. Then they went back and re-locked the door.

And then they saw Jesus. Jesus came to them where they were, locked away, and breathed peace on all of them, men and women. Then they knew Easter. Then they knew resurrection life.

Thomas really missed Easter.

He wasn’t at the tomb Sunday morning or the Upper Room Sunday night. He missed it all.

His doubts were legitimate. He wasn’t going to raise his hopes just because the others thought they saw Jesus or had an experience he dearly wished he’d had. He didn’t dare hope again without something he could touch and see and know himself.

Then Thomas saw Jesus. Jesus came to him where he was, took his hand and drew it to his side saying, “touch me, Thomas. Know for yourself.” And then Thomas knew Easter. Then he knew resurrection life.

Well, we just missed Easter.

We worshipped where we were, sang along, prayed, heard each other proclaim that Christ is risen indeed. It was a blessed gift in our time of separation, our staying at home for our own safety and the safety of our neighbors. But for many of us, myself included, we could not remember another Holy Week in our entire lives where we weren’t at church, an Easter Day when we stayed at home. I can’t begin to tell you how I missed seeing you all, being with you.

We were closed up in our homes, worried about loved ones who are ill, anxious about ourselves. Despairing at the breadth of this plague on this planet. As locked away as the disciples, as confused and afraid as Mary and Thomas, we missed Easter together.

But listen, dear one. Do you hear? In your disappointment and sadness, Jesus comes to you where you are and calls your name. You are known, beloved, God’s dear child, wet with baptismal water, and Christ is calling your name. So you can know Easter. So you can know resurrection life.

If you miss Easter for any fears that lock you away, Jesus will come to you.

You fear being hurt, so you lock your heart away from others. You fear threats that fill this world, so you hide behind your garage door and your locked front door, and don’t engage. You fear the sacrifices it might take to follow Christ, so you lock away your mind and imagination so you don’t think about it. You have no idea what Easter could do to change this.

Look, dear one. Do you see? Jesus comes through all your locks and breathes God’s Spirit of peace into you. You are filled with God’s love and forgiveness, and that takes away your fear. There is no place you can lock yourself away that Christ can’t come in and say, “Peace be with you.”

This is what resurrection life means in your life. The risen Jesus always comes to you where you are. The Spirit is breathed into you, and you don’t need to be afraid, or lock yourself away again. You can risk love, risk witness, risk reaching out. Risk life.

If you miss Easter because your doubts feel so strong you can’t get around them, Jesus will come to you.

Doubt is part of faith. But what if it seems like all you have are doubts? There’s so much death and destruction in our world, does what happened on that Sunday morning long ago really matter, change anything? Is there really life in Christ for the world? For you? If only you could touch Jesus and know for sure.

But look at around at this community of faith, dear one, these loved ones who walk alongside you in Christ, even at a distance these days. Jesus has come to you where you are, and says, “These ones, they are me. For you. In them, you can touch my wounded hands and feet and side, and trust me.”

Don’t fret if sometimes you feel you’ve missed Easter.

Jesus will always come to where you are and call you by name, breathe peace into you, take you by the hand. So you can know the resurrection life that lies on the Christ path of vulnerable, sacrificial love. So you can have Easter.

And then Christ sends you to take it into the world. Mary was sent to be an apostle, to tell the others the good news. All the disciples in the Upper Room, men and women (even Thomas), Spirit-breathed, were sent to forgive, to love, to feed Christ’s sheep.

You are sent with resurrection life in you, as Christ, to others who’ve missed Easter, to be with them where they are, even as others have been with you as Christ.

To tell them they are loved and known by name to the Triune God. To offer peace and hope to those who’ve locked themselves away. To reach out and embrace those who struggle in doubt. To be life for those who are facing death’s touch. To bear this life as Christ did, for the healing of the world.

So everyone can have Easter.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

 

You’re afraid, we all are, but the women at the tomb show us we can still look up, hear the good news, and bravely share our lives – still afraid, but filled with joy in God’s life in us.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Resurrection of Our Lord, Easter Day, year A
Text: Matthew 28:1-10

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

They were so scared, they looked dead.

These tough guards at the tomb, armor-clad, carrying weapons, were terrified. They shook and fell to the ground. Like dead men.

Give the benefit of the doubt. Earthquakes are scary. And an angel of God showed up in the earthquake. That sent them into hysteria, dropped them like trees. Here this being from heaven sits, on the stone that used to cover the tomb. The tomb they were supposed to be guarding.

They were, instead, frozen with fear, curled up on the ground. Like dead men.

We know about being frozen.

This pandemic has paralyzed the entire planet. Whole countries are locked down, businesses and schools closed, hospitals filled to capacity. All of us are staying at home, only going out for essential things. We know we’re trying to save lives by this. We’re helping the government and health care systems to catch up with supplies and beds for when the peak hits. But here we sit on Easter, in our homes. Unable to move.

We’re not frozen by fear of seeing an angel or experiencing an earthquake. We’re frozen by what we can’t even see. Is it on my clothes after the grocery store? Is it in the air? Did I wash my hands? Did my neighbor walk too close to me on the sidewalk, and now I should worry? For something invisible to the naked eye, fear of this little virus has immobilized us. Almost like we look dead.

But something else freezes us.

Even if we were all together in worship this morning, there would be this other fear. We’ve just walked with Jesus through these Three Days and have seen him demonstrate with his own body and blood what the path of God’s love, the path of Christ, will mean. He talks about it all the time; you can’t read a teaching of Jesus and not encounter it.

But we’ve just seen it means literal servanthood toward others, on our knees. It means sacrificing ourselves in love for others, and losing things dear to us. We’ve seen that even Jesus struggled with this when he prayed in Gethsemane. And we saw it led him to a brutal and horrible death.

We don’t really expect to die for following. But there’s a reason many Christians in every generation reduce the faith to simply believing the right things, having correct theology. That comes from fearing the alternative: that Jesus meant Christian faith to be a life fully engaged in a relationship of love, vulnerability, and self-giving, with God and neighbor, that costs us.

We might have to face our own prejudice and privilege and lose some comfort. We might have to dare to allow ourselves to live on less so others can live. We might have to have our dearest opinions and convictions and biases challenged and broken open. We might have to risk being hurt.

It’s much easier to curl up inside, immobile, and act as if faith is thinking things right, and not being someone new. When we do this, we look dead.

But there were others experiencing that earthquake, seeing that angel.

There were some women there. Disciples, followers of Jesus. Unlike the other disciples, they came out of hiding to go to the tomb and be near Jesus’ body, early. Before dawn.

And they’re terrified, too. But they don’t fall to the ground like they’re dead. They keep their eyes open. They stay standing.

And so they hear this frightening angel tell them news they never could have hoped to hear: Jesus has been raised. He is alive. The angel shows them the place, and sends them out to tell the others.

They keep their eyes open still. They start walking. And they meet Jesus on the way! Wonder of wonders, they get to hold him. Love him. Even worship him.

These women were just as afraid as the guards, just as afraid as you and I. But they held it together long enough to see what God was doing in this frightening moment. To see news of great joy for all people.

But they don’t get to freeze in this moment of joy, either.

Both the angel and Jesus send them to go and tell the others. They can’t go home and celebrate this news, live with warmth in their hearts, knowing God raised Jesus. This faith in Jesus isn’t something you keep inside, immobilized from acting in the world.

No, they are sent out to be vulnerable, just as Jesus always said. They’ll risk being disbelieved. They’re women, so they’ll also risk being discounted and ignored. They’re sent to witness with their vulnerable, self-giving lives that servanthood and sacrificial love, even to death, always ends in resurrection and abundant life. That this path they’ve all been called to walk looks terrifying, and filled with loss, but it ends in the earthquake of God restoring life that has been freely given for others.

Of course you and I are also sent. If you want to follow Jesus, it means taking this joy of God’s Easter life and letting it break your immobility. It means going into the world to be Christ. To be self-giving love.

Whether it’s in this health crisis or dealing with all that ails our society or dealing with your neighbor, your friend, your loved one: you have learned the path of Christ in these Three Days, and it is frightening. But it always leads to resurrection and abundant, new life. Jesus promises you that.

Are you still afraid? Do you fear this sending Jesus gives you?

That’s OK. Take one more look at Matthew’s Gospel. Do you see how the women left the tomb to witness? They went “quickly, with fear and great joy.”

They were still afraid. But they were filled with joy. They didn’t know what the future would be for them, and it still frightened them. But they now knew this path was filled with God’s abundant life and love, a life that cannot be stopped by death, a love too strong to stay in a grave. And that gave them great joy.

It’s the joy of God’s Easter life that swings the balance for you, gives you just enough courage – it doesn’t take much – enough courage to outweigh the fear you have of being out there, vulnerable, as Christ, in the world.

If you want to follow the risen Christ, just follow these women. They’ve got the right idea. Fear and great joy, with enough resurrection courage to get moving.

Just move, the angel says. Move, Jesus says. Move, and I’ll help you with all the rest.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Stay awake with Jesus tonight, and learn to follow his path not only through trial and sacrifice, but to the life God brings through this path to you and to the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Maundy Thursday
John 13:1-17, 31b-35; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; all seen through the lens of Matthew 28:36-45, Jesus in Gethsemane.

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

All Jesus wanted was that they stay awake.

In the olive grove outside of Jerusalem, late on Thursday night, he took Peter, James, and John into the trees, where he prayed. He hoped they’d stay awake with him. They didn’t.

Maybe we can. There is so much of today’s liturgy we can’t do this year in our separation. We can’t confess our sins together and each receive individual absolution at the altar. We can’t wash each other’s feet, though you can at home if you’re with others. We can’t gather together as Christ’s body and share the Meal Jesus gave tonight, and that hurts most of all. And we can’t experience together the starkness of stripping down the chancel at the end of this liturgy.

But we could try to stay awake with Jesus tonight. We don’t hear the Gethsemane story Thursday when it happens, only on Passion Sunday. But that time on the Mount of Olives later this evening offers a vision of how we might walk with Jesus, not just through the next few days, but the rest of our lives.

Let’s go to Gethsemane now.

³⁶  Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” ³⁷ He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be grieved and agitated. ³⁸ Then he said to them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.” ³⁹ And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.” ⁴⁰ Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, “So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? ⁴¹ Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” ⁴² Again he went away for the second time and prayed, “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” ⁴³ Again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. ⁴⁴ So leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words. ⁴⁵ Then he came to the disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? See, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.”    (Matthew 28:36-45)

Gethsemane is a return to the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.

Some of his first words as a preacher were “follow me.” We don’t often think of them tonight, or during these Three Days. But they’re central to everything happening here. Jesus called people to follow his path, the way of God’s love. He told them it would mean taking up a burden like a cross. It would mean the loss of things dear to them. Maybe even their life. We’ve softened his call to follow over the centuries, but in these Three Days the implications of “follow me” become clear.

If you follow Jesus, it means going to the Upper Room and learning to do what he did there. It means going to Gethsemane and learning how that will be yours to endure. It means going to that forsaken hill of death outside Jerusalem and learning how it’s your hill. But it also means going to a garden early Sunday morning and being awake for God’s promise.

For Jesus, and for those who belong to Christ, these days are all about learning to follow. And for that, you need to stay awake.

If you stay awake, you will see a path of servanthood for you in the Upper Room.

Watch closely this moment that centers our worship tonight, when Jesus strips off his robe and, dressed as a slave, kneels and washes the feet of his followers.

After he does this, Jesus is absolutely clear: I did this so you would follow me in the same. Be willing to stoop down in love and do the most menial task for another person. Or, just do this commandment: love one another as I have loved you.

If you stay awake for this hour in the Upper Room, you see what following looks like for you. It means being a servant in your love, just as Jesus was a servant in his.

And that means sacrifice for you.

When Jesus changed the Passover ritual dramatically, it must have shocked those at the table. Mary, Peter, Thomas, what did they think? The Passover bread is passed, and he says, “Take this, it is my body for you.” The Passover wine is passed, and he says, “Drink this, it is my blood poured out for you.” What on earth was he doing?

If you stay awake, you’ll see he’s saying following me means taking my whole life into you, my sacrificial love and suffering. When you eat this bread and drink this wine you are joined into what I am going to do tomorrow. You become part of my suffering and death, and it means forgiveness and life for you and the world.

Because now you are my body. That’s what Paul taught us, but Jesus says it here. He takes you, he takes me, breaks us open, and hands us to the world, saying, “Take this one, she is my body for you.” “Take this one, he is my blood for you.”

In this Meal, in your following, you become Christ’s Body and Blood for the world, your body and blood broken, poured out, in your sacrificial love, for God’s healing of the world.

Go to Gethsemane tonight and stay awake. You’ll need help for such hard following.

Jesus wanted the disciples to stay awake because he knew he was going to struggle with this path. He knew he’d be talking to the Father, in the mystery of the Triune Life, about this cup he was to drink. This sacrifice of his own body and blood, the sacrifice of God’s life for the world.

And he didn’t know if he could follow this path. That’s what you need to stay awake for. See how hard it was for Jesus. Learn that even the Son of God struggled with the costs of a servant life, a life of sacrificial love, a path that led to even losing his life.

If you’re awake and following Jesus this far, on this path, you’ve already realized it’s going to be very hard. But now you see you’re following someone who knows how hard it is, who agonized over this path as much as you do. And who ultimately said, “Not my will, but yours.” Who found the spiritual strength to be God’s life for the world, and who offers that strength to you.

But please notice something about what Jesus asks you tonight.

What he commanded you, and me, was to serve the person in front of us. One person, before whom you kneel and wash feet. One person, to love as you have been loved. One person, where you will sacrifice yourself out of love.

Don’t fret about following Christ’s path “for the sake of the world”. Just imagine what it would be to follow Jesus for the sake of that one person you’re with right now. And to keep doing it for all you meet. That’s where you’re called to be a servant. To love. To sacrifice. It will mean Gethsemane moments of prayer and you’ll need the help of God’s Spirit.

But let Jesus handle the whole world. Just follow where you are.

And remember who has stayed awake with you in these days.

Mary Magdalene and some of the other women who were followers, disciples, apparently had trouble sleeping Friday and Saturday night. They were up well before dawn Sunday morning. They were awake. And they wanted to follow where Jesus was.

So they went to the tomb. And they saw that God’s love is too strong to stay in a grave.

That’s where the path of Christ finds its joy, in resurrection on the other side of servanthood and sacrificial love. We’re not there yet this Holy Week.

But stay awake. Watch Jesus and learn. Pray for the strength to follow. And in the early morning darkness very soon, you’ll see something astonishing about God’s love and life.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

 

We hear the Passion story anew amidst these unprecedented circumstances that have us celebrating Holy Week in our homes. The death we face – in this story and in our world – is real, but the God who loves us accompanies us into the suffering.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Sunday of the Passion, year A
Texts: Psalm 31:9-16; Matthew 26:14-27:66

Palm Sunday looks a little bit different this year. Even your palm leaves might look a little bit different this year. These are dark and scary times to be moving into the celebration Holy Week, a beloved and special time in our church year. It feels strange to be hearing the story of Jesus’ passion from our own homes, instead of in the sanctuary together.

But as is so often the case, the scriptures meet us right where we are. The realities of this moment seemed unimaginable just a few weeks ago, and yet these ancient texts from thousands of years ago can reach across time and space and speak God’s word to us today.

Perhaps the Psalmist’s words could be your own: “Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress. My strength fails me.” (Psalm 31:9-10, ESV) This Psalm is a lament: it cries out in need to God. But laments don’t end with grievance; they also includes expression of praise and trust in God. In the midst of pain and fear, you can declare, as the Psalmist does: “My times are in your hand, God.” (Psalm 31:15)

“My times are in your hand.” Jesus actually says something very similar at the opening of the Passion reading we heard today. As he arrives in Jerusalem, he says to his disciples: “My time is near.” (Matthew 26:18) Jesus accepts each day as it comes, continuing to trust that his time is in God’s hands. Jerusalem has been pulling him like a magnet, even though he knows what trouble awaits him there.

And we know what trouble awaits him there, too. The Passion story is so familiar that you might have to intentionally invite yourself to hear it in a new way. Perhaps the unprecedented circumstances we’re in might help you do that. The seemingly mundane aspects of this story might resonate with those of you who are sheltering at home for days on end right now.

The story opens with Jesus and his friends celebrating a holiday,  not in a temple or synagogue, but in a home. There are no elaborate rituals, only a shared meal made with everyday food and drink, made with what they had on hand. Bread and wine. These ordinary things become extraordinary in the hands of Christ, who transforms them into vessels of God’s grace. Bread is body, broken open that it might feed all. Wine is blood, the sign of a covenant with God, a promise sealed and kept forever. It is only Matthew’s Jesus who specifically mentions “forgiveness” being poured from the cup. A well of mercy that will never run dry. At the end of the celebratory meal, Jesus and the disciples sing hymns and pray together. (Matthew 26:30)

This Holy Week, as you gather around your tables to share a holiday at home, remember those parts of the story. Remember Jesus’ body and blood; remember Jesus’ promise and love. Notice the sacramental coming alive in your own hands. Sing the hymns you love, and pray the prayers you know. Trust that Christ is present right where you are, even in a Holy Week that looks unlike any other.

Of course, despite its ordinary moments, the Passion is an extraordinary story. It is full of the unexpected and inexplicable. It is full of sacred mystery.

In this Passion story we proclaim that Emmanuel, God who has come to be with humanity, will die for humanity. No failure, no sin, will change that. And this story is full of human failure: betrayal, abandonment, denial, torture, execution. None of these can undo God’s love in Christ. That love is poured out for all people, in all places, at all times. That cup of forgiveness always overflows.

In this Passion story we proclaim that we do not worship a God who conquers or punishes but a God whose victory is in sacrifice and mercy. This is a God in solidarity with those who suffer, because this is a God who suffers. In this story we see that God knows what it is to be human, like me, like you. God knows your pain, your sickness, your grief, your death. God goes with you into the dark.

So Holy Week might look different, but the truth of this precious story that we tell every year, that truth does not change. Your God does not change. Your God still comes to you, right where you are, and still speaks to you, right where you are. And the Word God speaks is one of love, even in the face of death.

That death isn’t theoretical. It’s real. This week, we encounter that death directly – in the story of Jesus’ journey to the cross. And in our own world, right now. Holy Week, even this Holy Week, has space to hold our grief in that. Even the Light of the World, dies. That’s where the Gospels story ends for today.

Except for one last detail. After Jesus’ death, his body is taken down from the cross and put in a rock-hewn tomb. Perhaps the officials who had ordered Jesus’ execution felt like justice had been served, a threat had been neutralized, the law had been upheld. Perhaps they felt like this marked the end of the story of Jesus, the supposed Messiah.

But something kept nagging at them. The Gospel writer tells us that they just couldn’t stop thinking about something Jesus had said when he was still alive: something about rebuilding a destroyed temple; something about the dead being raised to life; something that had sounded crazy at the time.

A heavy stone is rolled in front of the entrance to Jesus’ tomb, and soldiers are sent to seal it shut, just in case. A guard is put on 24-hour watch outside. But still, it just doesn’t feel secure enough. They’re just not sure death can hold Jesus.

And everyone is left to wonder: What if there’s a crack that’s just enough to let the light in? Or maybe to let the light out? What if Jesus was telling the truth all along? What if death is not the final word? What if, somehow, the story doesn’t end here? Friends, this Holy Week, may you live into these mysteries even in the midst of the mundane.

Amen.