Close Encounters with Jesus: Lazarus (and his family)

Sermon for Lent 5, Year A

John 11:1-45

         

            “Do you believe this?”

            This is the heart of it, isn’t it?  Everything that comes before, and everything that comes after leads directly into this central question, the one Jesus asks Martha, “Do you believe this?”   

             Jesus has finally come to Bethany, finally, four days late for the funeral, even though Lazarus is his friend, and even though Mary and Martha beg him to come.

             Jesus has finally come to Bethany, has come to Mary  and Martha, and Martha comes to Jesus with this statement of faith, or doubt, or grief, or all three:  “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” 

            And it is hard not to read many many things into this sentence.  Real things.  We can read her faith and her hope.  “You are so full of love, and you have so much compassion and power, I know that if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

             But also, can you possibly  hear some grief, and a question of her own.?  “If you had only been here… but you weren’t here, Jesus.  Why weren’t you here?  Why didn’t you come?” 

            There is so much reality wrapped in this simple statement, in the middle of a story that – let’s face it – has so much that is strange about it.             The late scene, the one on the other side, could be from a horror movie – with Lazarus coming out of the tomb, still bound in graveclothes. 

            How spooky is that? 

            But Martha’s words could be our words.  “If you had been here…..”  All of our whys are wrapped up in Martha’s words. 

            There is the why of the woman whose husband has died from cancer.  There is the why of the children who saw their mother fade away with Alzheimers. 

            There is the why of the husband whose wife died during heart surgery, leaving him alone with two small children. 

            You have so many more whys of your own.  And all of our whys start with faith:  we know you are loving and gracious and powerful, Jesus.  Why weren’t you here this time?

            And Jesus replies to Martha’s statement with these words, “I am the resurrection and the life.   

            Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

             This statement --- and a question, and I think the question is as important as the statement.  “Do you believe this?”

            Do you?

            It’s the question to Martha, and to the people gathered with her, and to you and me, too.

            I recently learned that this particular Gospel reading was one of those used when preparing new Christians for their baptism and confession of faith.

             In fact, all of the gospel readings we have heard during Lent – Jesus’ close encounters with Nicodemus – the woman at the well – with the man born blind – and with Lazarus and his sisters – all of them were part of the preparation of new Christians for baptism. 

            And so I was struck by this question – “Do you believe this?”  -- a question I suppose each and every candidate for baptism was asked. 

            Do you believe that Jesus is the resurrection and the life?

             Do you believe that those who believe in him, even though they die, will live?  Do you believe that he is the light of the World, the living water, the Word made flesh? 

            Do you believe, even though you see evil in the world, even though there is danger, even though there is grieving and pain, do you believe that God’s love is stronger, that Jesus is working among us and in us and in the world?

            Do you? 

            Martha said yes.

            And so they went to the tomb, where Jesus wept, and where the people marveled.  “See how he loved him!”  And then Jesus said, Roll away the stone.

            Wait a minute, Martha said (the one who said that she believed).  “Are you sure you know what you are doing?  He’s been dead four days, after all.”  

            It is so with us.

             We believe that Jesus will raise us to new life – but later.

             Not right now. 

            But Jesus says that resurrection life starts now, in the world, with us.  They roll away the stone and Lazarus comes out, still bound up, but walking and living.

            And here is where Jesus says something interesting.

             He tells the people gathered, “Unbind him, and let him go.”  He tells them that they have something to do with Lazarus’ new life, with his resurrection life.

             They can help him to live right now. 

            They can help him off with his graveclothes, and on with the new life he has been given.

            It’s still that way.

             It’s why we like to have baptisms in church, where we can promise to support the person baptized, whether they are 4 or 40 or 80.  We want to be there to say – we will help you to live this new life you have been given. 

            In fact, you can’t do it alone.  None of us can. 

            We are here to help each other stay faithful, to pick each other up when we fall, to set each other free when we are bound in sin, to remind each other who we are, and the great mission God has given us.  

            We are here to comfort each other when the world gets too heavy, and to show each other the truth when it is so hard to see.

            Jesus is the resurrection, and the life right now.  He is making all things new.  Those he believe in him, even though they die, yet they will live.  Do you believe this?

            I remember one Sunday morning when I had to announce the death of a young man from my congregation.

             He had battled cancer for many years.

             I remember where he and his wife sat, every week, at our traditional service. 

            They were quiet people, but she loved to sing, and they attended a couple’s group. 

            When I announced his death, I thought I heard sighs too deep for words.

            Afterwards, I saw people from the community surround his wife, bearing her up, encouraging her. 

            This is what a congregation is for, I thought.

             We gather to remind each other of the truth, because we can’t always see it.  We gather to remind each other of the love that never ends. 

            We gather together to release each other from the power of death in our lives.

            Do you believe this?

            Jesus’ power over death was and is real.

             He is the resurrection and the life.  The raising of Lazarus tells us that.

             Like those who came out to console Martha and Mary, we care for each other, and remind each other of the promise – that Jesus will bring us out of death into new life – not just at the end of time, but now, and every day.  

            We are the people who take  the graveclothes from the dead and offer them the baptismal garments of their new life. 

            That’s what we do for one another.  That’s what our congregation is for

            Do you believe this?

            AMEN

"Give Me a Drink"

It's sort of an odd way to start a conversation.

Especially it's an odd way to start a conversation, if you are the all-knowing, all-powerful Messiah and Son of God, and the person who is coming to the well is a Samaritan woman.

I say this because, well, this IS John's gospel, and Jesus does often come off as someone who has-it-all-together.  Even in this conversation (especially later).

But right now, at the beginning, he asks the Samaritan woman for a drink.  It's noon, after all, and it's not Minnesota in March.  He's got to be thirsty.  He asks for a drink.

I can't help thinking, as I read this story, that it's a parable for missionaries.  Jesus has gone into another country (Samaria), and he means to share his life, living water.  He goes with a mission, but the first thing he does is ask for a drink.

In other words, the first thing he does is reveal his own need, risk showing his own vulnerability, admit that he is thirsty.  Just like she is.

Although the word "missionary" is loaded with negative connotations and maybe is not the best word for us to use any more, the truth is that Christians again live in an era when we need to be missionaries.  This probably fills us with dread, but if not dread, it gives us the idea that we need to go out with all of the answers and as if we have everything all together.  We think we are going to meet people and impress them with our superior humanity, our lack-of-neediness, the way we have it all together.

But perhaps the best mission strategy is just to go out and be thirsty.  To meet people on the basis of our common humanity, to risk sharing our own thirst and our own questions, to reveal some of our own wounds and scars.

When Jesus first sent the disciples out, he told them not to carry extra provisions, to depend on the hospitality of those in the towns where they were going.  Don't be so self-sufficient, he told them.  Go thirsty.

It's a mission strategy, and it's a Lenten strategy too:  Go thirsty.  Don't be so self-sufficient.  Depend on God, on one another, on strangers.

"What Are You Looking For?"

In the past year or so, we have started using the term, "Faith Formation" at my congregation.  In the past, we talked about "Christian Education," or we talked about "Sunday School," or "Confirmation."  Or maybe, "Adult Study."  Words like that.  But now we have abruptly begun to use the words "Faith Formation," fairly regularly, and it's a fair bet that many in our congregation don't know exactly what we are talking about or why we changed the words we use.

To be fair, it is possible to use the words, "faith formation", and do everything the same way as you used to do it.  You can say that now you have faith formation, but you still do Sunday School, and Confirmation and adult study in exactly the same way as before, except that you have a different catch-phrase attached.  I hope that's not the case with us, but it is something to think about, and guard against.

For myself, though, I really like the term "faith formation."  It gives the impression (true, I think) that the process of forming our faith is eclectic:  faith is formed in worship, through prayer, in service, while we are sitting down at a Bible study, at the dinner table, through informal conversations and acts of love done by us and to us.  Faith is formed through times of doubt or struggle or failure as well.  "Faith formation" also hints at the outcome of study and learning at well:  not the simple intake of information, but who we are becoming as disciples of Jesus.

There's this great scene near the beginning of John's gospel.  John the Baptist is testifying about Jesus, telling people that he's the one they have been waiting for.  He is the Lamb of God, the Chosen One, the Son of God.

Two of John's disciples just up and start following Jesus.  I mean, literally.  They start following Jesus down the street.  Jesus turns around and asks them, "What are you looking for?"

It's such a great, and ordinary question.  It's the question that the assistant at the grocery store asks you, the clerk at the department store, the guy at the gas station, if you come in and you are looking bewildered.  "What are you looking for?"  It sounds like a marketing question.  The church has been asking people this question, too.  "What are you looking for?"  And people are often giving the answers you would suspect:  "I am looking for a contemporary worship service."  "I am looking for a good youth program."  "I am looking for fair-trade coffee at the fellowship hour."  "I am looking for a good Bible study."

Here's the thing, though:  when Jesus asks those two would-be disciples the question, they don't answer him.  They don't answer the question.  I think this was a moment of brilliance for the disciples (who are not known for often being brilliant, to tell the truth.)  They did not answer Jesus' question, "What are you looking for?"

To me, this simple silence is at the heart of the difference between faith formation and Christian education.  Christian Education is a menu of choices as we grow in our preferred direction of faith development.  In that scenario Jesus asks you the question, "What are you looking for?" and you tell him, and he designs a curriculum to fit your needs.

But in Faith Formation, when Jesus asks us the question, "What are you looking for?", there is silence.  There is silence, first of all, because we realize that we don't know what we're looking for, not exactly, except that it has something to do with light, and something to do with an ache in our heart.  We check our pockets to see if there are keys, or a quarter, or something that will help us remember who we are.  "What are you looking for?"  he asked us, and the best answer is silence.  And in the silence, we suddenly realize that it is we who should be asking him that question.  "What are you looking for, Rabbi?"

 In the silence, we put ourselves in his hands, we let him form us, we let him form us.  We feel the weight of a piece of bread in our hands, and we see a small shaft of light near his feet.

And we realize that we are the people he is looking for, and that he means to form us, to make us into Light, and Peace, and Bread.

Christmas Day Sermon: "The Most Beautiful Feet in the World"

This is the sermon I preached this morning for Christmas Day worship.  The story is adapted from a wonderful story I found over at Luther Seminary, called "Christmas Moccasins", by Ray Buckley.  The Hymn of the day was the "Huron Carol."

Isaiah 52:7-10

John 1:1-14

          The night was cold and the moon was bright one Christmas eve, when a grandmother and her grandson started on a journey together. 

They held hands as they walked.  The grandmother’s moccasins made barely a sound in the soft snow. 

She always wore moccasins.

While they walked along quietly, the grandson wondered why they were walking this way, and through these woods together. 

He remembered – and he wondered if the trees remembered – what had happened here earlier in the winter –what had happened to his grandmother and him. 

He wondered if the trees remembered how three drunken youths had stopped them as they walked along, how they had hit them, and knocked them down. 

How they had stolen both of their coats, and his grandmother’s moccasins. 

He wondered if the trees remembered that his grandmother had walked home barefoot in the snow, and that frostbite had taken two of his grandmother’s toes.

            And he wondered why they were walking this way again, on Christmas eve.

            When the boy and his grandmother had returned home that evening months before, they had not spoken to one another. 

Grandmother had heated up water for drinking, and for washing, and they had washed their faces and soaked their feet.

Then she splashed water on her face, and she began to pray. 

            She took out small beads that evening, and she began to sew new moccasins. 

She was a remarkable beader.  It was an art. 

She used the smallest, most beautiful, most colorful beads, and she began right away to sew new moccasins.

            *****

            “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,” says the prophet Isaiah in the first reading today. 

Today – Christmas Day – it is the message that we focus on – “Peace on earth, good will to all.” 

That is the message of Christmas – and it's a joyful message. 

Originally, the messenger brought news of the return of the exiles – and the good news was that the Lord was returning to dwell in Jerusalem. 

It’s a joyful message, and I’ll confess to you, that when I’ve heard these words, “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,” I’ve often thought of Julie Andrews, singing with all of her heart as she runs through the hills.  

"The Hills are alive..."

 “How beautiful on the mountains…..”  

 Today we focus on the message, the message of peace on earth, the message that God is dwelling among God’s people…..

            But today, Christmas Day, I want to focus on – the feet.

            Have you ever wondered about that?  How beautiful are the FEET? 

Why not how beautiful are the eyes?  Or how beautiful is the mouth? 

Or even, how beautiful are the hands?   Why beautiful feet?  Because when I think of the word “beautiful” I don’t often think of the word “feet”. 

When I think of the word “feet” – I think more of how tired feet can be after a long day of working, I think of feet that are dirty after walking, I think of feet pounding the pavement, feet walking the malls searching for presents. 

I think of feet that walk and pace with babies who need calming, feet that go out searching for lost dogs. 

And I think of the feet of the long-distance runner.  And then I think that the messenger’s feet must have been tired, after delivering such an important message, walking and running over valley and mountain, rivers and deserts.  

            “How beautiful are the feet…..,, not just the voice, and not just the eyes, and not just the hands, but how beautiful are the feet

– the feet that take you there, to Jerusalem, or to any place that needs peace, that needs to know that God is present. 

How beautiful are the feet – because the feet walk the earth, the feet get tired, the feet go to the places that need healing hands and words of forgiveness. 

“How beautiful are the feet….” Because it’s so important to go, it’s so important to be there, not just in Jerusalem, but here. 

How beautiful are the feet that walk the halls of hospitals, and how beautiful are the feet of the ones who break bread with the hungry,

And how beautiful are the feet of the ones who hold hands with the dying, and how beautiful are the feet of the ones who shelter the homeless. 

            How beautiful are the feet of the one who announced, and who brought peace. 

How beautiful are the feet of the one who walked this earth, healing us and feeding us and shedding tears and bending down and washing feet.

            And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and walked among us.  How beautiful.

            ****

            So the boy and the grandmother walked that Christmas eve. 

They held hands, and they held gifts. 

They held three pairs of moccasins.  They were the moccasins that the grandmother had begun sewing earlier that winter, that very night when they were attacked.  They were beautiful and finely beaded. 

The grandmother had prayed all the while she beaded them. 

And she did something rare and beautiful when she beaded those moccasins.  She turned them over and she even beaded the bottoms. 

Then she wrapped them up in paper.  And she prayed.  She splashed water on her own face, and she splashed water on her grandson’s face.  It was how she prayed.

            Then they put on their coats and stepped on into the snowflakes.

            The grandmother paused at the top of a low hill,  and she paused  to pray again.  The boy’s heart pounded.  “Why are we here?”  he asked.  “Why are we going to see them?  On Christmas eve? 

The grandmother answered, “We are here to do the Creator’s work.  We are here to do the Creator’s work.”

            How beautiful are the feet……

            The walk from the top of the hill to the house below seemed to take forever.  Their steps grew slower as the snow swirled around them.  But they finally reached the doorway.

            The door was opened by a large man.  Behind him was a tree covered with Christmas lights.  “I have small presents for your sons,”  grandmother said.  “May I give them?”  She handed each a package carefully wrapped, and she said to each,  “I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.  God bless you.”

            The room was quiet.  The three  pair of moccasins lay in three sets of hands – they sparkled in the light, with red and blue, white and yellow.  No one spoke.

            How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the one who announces peace.  How beautiful.

            The moon shone down that evening on an old woman with a limp and a little boy holding onto her coat.  They walked through the grove of trees and paused to touch each one.

            And the word became flesh, and lived among us.

            Full of grace and truth.

            How beautiful are the feet of the One who came among us, announcing peace, bringing peace.

            How beautiful are the feet of the One who set us free to love one another.

           

            Merry Christmas.

            AMEN

           

           

6 Monologues from John's Passion: #1

"A Disciple"

I have never felt so close to Jesus as I did on that night.  It was a calm and peaceful evening, full of prayer and singing, full of light and teaching.  Jesus told us many things that evening, while we ate and after dinner.  He even prayed for us.  I remember that he prayed for our protection, and he prayed that we would be united with one another.  I remember that he also told us always to abide in his love -- to love one another.  I remember later thinking it was so strange, how he prayed for us.  We should have been praying for him!  Of course, we never would have thought of that.  We left our dinner with a warm glow in our hearts, but also with some uneasiness.  It was a beautiful, clear evening as we crossed the Kidron Valley.  Then I saw him.  Judas.  And he had with him soldier and police officers from the chief priests.  Their torches lit up the night.

Looking back, you would think that Judas, walking with all those soldier, would have been the strong one, and Jesus the weaker.  But that has never been my impression.  Even when he was arrested, Jesus seemed to be in charge.  And Judas just keeps getting smaller and smaller whenever I remember him.  It didn't take courage to betray Jesus.  It was really an act of a coward -- someone who saw where everything was headed and wanted to cash in early.  He was afraid of what following Jesus really meant, and decided to follow something else.

But we were all afraid of following Jesus at one time or another.  We just didn't take such drastic measures as Judas did.  Some disciples fell away early.  Something Jesus said or did offended them, and they just stopped listening.  Others hung around, but kept their distance.  But Jesus still saw something in us, something worth protecting, something worth saving.  I'll never forget his words that evening, when the soldiers and the police came.  We were all so frightened, wondering what would happen to us.  We we all be arrested, and beaten or killed?  We weren't sure about the intentions of the soldiers.  Then Jesus said, "If you are looking for me, let these men go."  We were free!  We would not be put on trial -- only Jesus would.

Now I hear them saying about Jesus, that he died for me, that he is the Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world.  I know just one thing for sure -- he died for me.  His word set me free.  That's how I felt that night.  And later on, when he returned, he told us that us that we still had a job to do -- to set other people free as well.

Printing the Bulletin, Hearing the Word

Bulletins and I  go back a long way.  When I was growing up, the church bulletins were much less elaborate than they are now;  we were supposed to look up both the hymns and also find the correct liturgy (though there were only two options back then).  We did both.

Nevertheless, the appointed readings were printed on the back of the bulletin (it was not called a "worship folder" back then.)  I remember reading the lessons and thinking how cool it would be to cut them out and save them for a couple of years, because then I could cut and paste them together and make a whole Bible!

Lately, in the interests of being more hospitable, we've taken to printing more in our bulletins, now called "worship folders."  Most of the liturgy is printed in the bulletin now, so that we don't have to look it up.  We print the lessons, but not on the back page.  We print them right there in the middle of the worship folder; you don't even have to turn the page.  And, because some of our worship is more contemporary, we even print some of the songs now, because they aren't in the hymnal.

So in the past few weeks we have a new parish administrative assistant who is learning to put together worship folders.  Though she is an extremely competent person, it's a pretty high learning curve, so we've been simplifying our worship. 

For the past couple of weeks we have not been printing the scripture readings.

Some people have said that not printing the readings actually helps them listen better.  One woman said that her adult son actually looked up the readings in his Bible when he got home from worship, which can't be a bad thing.  It is also nice to have people looking at me or the reader instead of staring down at the page.   It made me wonder about how hospitable it really is when everyone is staring down at their paper all the time instead of paying attention to the singing and the liturgy, and one another.  Yeah, one another.   Could those really helpful worship folders be isolating us from one another?

On the other hand, sometimes I think I have seen some eyes glaze over during readings, as if we should have some sort of visual aid, at least, if we're not having printed words.  I also  noticed at worship last weekend the man from Ethiopia seemed a little disappointed that the readings weren't printed.  He is excellent at English, but I'll bet the printed word helps him. 

I'll be honest, the bulletin seems a little bare to me now, after seeing the printed word on the page for so long. 

On the other hand, what is it that makes our worship hospitable, that makes our congregation welcoming?  What is it that draws people to engage in worship together?  What is it that helps us hear and sing and pray as a body?  And what is it that keeps us separate?

How about you?  Do you print less in your worship folders these days?  How do you hear the Word?

What a Friend We Have in Jesus

This song goes back a long way for me.  It is one of the first songs I ever learned, probably in Bible School.  I think, if I tried, I could sing all three verses by heart.  My grandmother once told me that she remembers prayer meetings at their home when her own grandmother was sick.  They would gather around and sing and pray.  "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" was one of the songs they sang.

I know, I know, the tune is not that interesting.  But try singing the lyrics to another tune (Thy Strong Word, for example), and the lyrics don't sound tired or trite.  "What a friend we have in Jesus/All our sins and griefs to bear/What a privilege to carry/Everything to God in prayer."  And notice that it's "what a friend WE have in Jesus" -- the song is an expression of personal faith, but not individual faith.

I think many of us are very familiar with this comforting image of Jesus -- as a good friend, one to whom we can tell our troubles, who will hear and help and not judge.  There's an old saying, "A friend is someone who knows all about you -- and likes you anyway."  Yeah.  Jesus is that sort of friend.

So imagine my surprise when I was re-reading John 15 this week and I looked again at Jesus' declaration of friendship to his disciples.  "From now on I call you not servants, but friends."  At first glance, this is, of course, "what a friend we have in Jesus."  But it is just ever-so-slightly different.  Jesus is not saying that he is our friend, but that we are his friends. 

Maybe it's the same thing, you say.  Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.  But look:  Jesus says we are his friends, and it's not about how we get to tell him all the things that are on our mind, not about how we get to unload on him when we're feeling blue.  Instead, Jesus names us friends (instead of servants) because "the servant does not know what the master is doing.  I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my father."

In other words, we are Jesus' friends, not because of the secrets we can share with him, but because of the secrets he has shared with us, the things he has heard from the father.

I use the word "secret" because Jesus has shared with his disciples things that not everyone knows, things we are privileged to hear, to know, to act on.  Like a good friend, Jesus has trusted us with the most important things he has learned:  about love and sacrifice and a God who washes feet.   Jesus has trusted us with the most important things he has learned about the Father's love, and that is not something readily apparent in the world.  To a lot of people, it's a big secret.  Oh, once in awhile, you can catch a glimpse of something, if you look carefully.  You might see people rebuilding houses in Mississippi, even now, or you might spy a man dancing with a woman in a wheelchair.  You might notice people opening the doors of their churches to homeless families.   But a lot of the time, the tragedy in the world shouts louder.

So Jesus says to us:  "I have called you my friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my father."  Such as, "No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends."  Such as, "I will not leave you orphans.  I will come to you."  Such as, "For God so loved the world.... " 

And then he sends us out, armed with these secrets he has told us, and more.

What a friend we have in Jesus/all our sins and griefs to bear
What a privilege to carry/Everything to God in prayer.

Yes, it's still a comfort and a privilege to share our own poor hearts with Jesus.
But it's an even greater privilege, I think, that he has shared his own heart with us.

Reading the Bible in 90 Days, Day 76: John 6 through 15

Yes, I've been in the New Testament for about a week now.  It's been a whirlwind tour of the gospels, and today is no exception.

This is familiar territory for many of us, and these chapters contain many stories and famous sayings.  There are the mountaintop stories:  the feeding of the 5,000 in John 6, the healing in the man born blind in John 9, the raising of Lazarus in John 11, the footwashing and new commandment in John 13.  There are also so many images -- Jesus as the Bread of Life, Jesus as the Good Shepherd, Jesus as the Vine, Jesus as the Light of the World. 

It occurs to me that 90% of my funeral sermon material comes from John.  This can't be an accident. 

In the other gospels, Jesus is a healer who teaches.  In John, Jesus is a teacher who sometimes heals.  It feels like every healing in John has a Point, is a sort of Object Lesson, not simply to relieve suffering, but to illustrate a great truth.   And every healing in John is also like a huge spot light, or a strobe light.

One verse stuck out for me in "the Message"; among all the "familiar quotations" in John, I heard it a little differently this time:

Judas (not Iscariot) said, "Master, why is it that you are about to make yourself plain to us but not the world?" 
"Because a loveless world," said Jesus, "is a sightless world.  If anyone loves me he will carefully keep my word and my Father will love him -- we'll move right into the neighborhood."  (John 14:22-23.)

A loveless world is a sightless world.

Still true today.  To see Jesus is to learn to love the world that he loves, in all its pain and waywardness.