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.