This feast day of Pentecost is one of my favorites in the church year. I was ordained a priest on this festival 26 years ago in Grace Cathedral, San Francisco. But even more than that, I love this day because we celebrate the Holy Spirit.

As the years go by, I am more and more drawn to this person of the Trinity, this way of envisioning God as Spirit. Like Native Americans and Hindus, I believe that God is in all of creation. God is also beyond this world as well, existing without form and beyond time, but this world is filled with the Spirit.

Like some physicists who are people of faith, I see all matter at the subatomic level made up of divine energy, an energy whose existence cannot be explained, an energy that guides this complex universe and everything in it to adapt, to evolve, to continually bring life out of death. The energy of the Spirit is blowing in and out of what we imagine to be separate objects, separate people. The Spirit is what gives breath, form, intelligence, and harmony to all of life.

But I’ve come to the point where I don’t just believe this to be true. As Carl Jung said towards the end of his life when he was asked if he believed in God, “I don’t believe in God. I know God.” I know that all of life is pulsing with the energy of Spirit, in the winds of springtime, in every blade of grass, in every person, in every circumstance.

This is true even in things and in people we don’t think of as beautiful or good. John Cage, the composer who used everyday sounds as much as instruments, said "The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is why do I think it's not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason…[and so] if something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, then eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all."

This is seeing things with awareness. It is seeing things deeply, as they really are, seeing that all of life is wondrous, all filled with the Spirit of God. Experiencing life this way changes how we pray. Instead of thinking of ourselves as separate from God, needing to reach out to a God who is apart from us, we just open ourselves to the Spirit who is already completely present within us, around us.

There’s nothing complicated about this; it doesn’t require great training; it doesn’t even require a lot of time. It’s just a matter of quieting down, softening our heart, and opening our mind to the energy of God. We don’t have to ask or say anything. We can just be present, feeling alive in the moment. But we feel it with an added dimension, a sense of sacred electricity, a sense of eternity, a sense that everything is held together, and that ultimately all shall be well.

Experiencing the Spirit this way in prayer, it changes how we relate to the world around us. Rather than imagining ourselves to be separate from other people, our nation as separate from other nations, and human life as separate from all other life forms, we can see humanity and all creation as one unified organism, animated by the Spirit.

Seeing life this way, how can we pollute the earth? How can we wage war against our brothers and sisters instead of seeking understanding and reconciliation? How can we ignore the needs of those who suffer because they were born into bad circumstances? How can we hold a grudge and dismiss others with resentment? We are, as St. Paul said, members of the same body.

The Spirit therefore has two transformational effects: one is the transformation of our awareness and how we pray; the other is the transformation of how we relate to the world around us.

This is the story of the earliest disciples, too. With the gift of the Spirit, first their hearts were transformed. After Pentecost, they became fearless, able to see God’s goodness in every circumstance, filled with love and hope. Again and again, that’s how they described, in the many letters of the New Testament, the transformation that had come over them.

But the Spirit also changed their relationship to society. They began to gather people across class and educational and ethnic boundaries. They shared their money, their food, and their hope in God. They healed those who suffered. They built a community that stood in stark contrast to the dog-eat-dog world around them. Theirs was a community based not upon status, competition, and self-absorption, but mercy, mutuality, and reconciliation.

For many years, St. Michael’s has excelled in helping people personally engage with the Spirit in the first kind of transformation. We’ve had a lot of emphasis on authentic spirituality. We’ve always done a lot of outward ministry, too, but we’ve been weighted towards the individual, the internal process of spiritual transformation.

But now, as I have said to you in many ways over the last few months, I believe that the same Spirit who transforms hearts is calling us to transform our community and the world around us. This is what the Spirit always does. Now is the right time in our history as a parish to allow the Spirit of God to take our spiritual grounding and apply it even more powerfully in communal and external ways.

Every day I see the Spirit is moving us in this direction. If you have any doubts, listen to this litany of developments that have all been taking place over the last few months:

· Fr. Christopher and Deacon Jan Bales have empowered many of you to bring a truly amazing amount of new creativity into education, fellowship and outreach.
· We’ve just hired a new and very skilled Business Administrator, and we’re looking for a part-time Communication Specialist, both of whom will help us do what we do in a more professional and integrated manner.
· We’re raising up two people to be ordained soon, who will expand our ability to reach out to new populations within and outside our parish.
· We displayed our many activities in a major Ministry Fair on April 13 and through weekly ministry moments by lay leaders from this pulpit. Dozens of you have signed up to join these ministries, and we are in the process of engaging you in them.
· Having concluded through our feasibility study that shall be able to raise nearly $2 million for new construction and renovation, we are moving ahead with creative design ideas so that all our activities have space to meet.
· We did a separate survey about ministry priorities, and you have very clearly said that you are committed to the core of worship, pastoral care, and education, but that you also want move outwards with more energy, being a light to the world around us and directly serving those in need.

This is an exciting time to be part of St. Michael and All Angels. A pedestrian way of describing this time is to say “Gee, there’s a lot going on.” But with the eyes of faith, with the eyes that see the Spirit moving through all creation, we see that the very same Spirit who has transformed our individual awareness and our prayer is now transforming our community and our relationship to the world around us. This is what the Spirit always does.

Today on this feast I am deeply grateful for the continual work of the Spirit in my own life and in so many of yours, transforming us from within. I am also grateful for the movement of the Spirit among us, transforming who we are as a community and what we shall be to the world around us. Happy Pentecost.

Hiking with Jesus through the olive groves outside Jerusalem, the followers of Jesus were soaking in the words of the kingdom from their beloved teacher and friend. These were heady, heart-filled days in the presence of the Risen One. Who could have imagined it, the one who was dead had come back to them in a new and startling way. He had presented himself to them alive, no matter that mind and heart could only try to comprehend such a marvelous mystery.

Forty days they’d been bumping into the Risen One, puzzling over his words, marveling at his resurrected body, being surprised by his walking through walls, wondering what was next. And then it happened, he left them standing there in the orchard, whisked away on clouds and wind and mystery. I wonder did they try to hold on, did they grab at his legs and feet as he rose? Did they try to tether the power of God to terra firma? This was not a mass ascension at Balloon Fiesta Park, this was a lone ascension, and there was no basket to climb into and tag along. No ropes to hang onto and be carried into heaven. No Jesus, the Risen One was gone. Where did he go?

Where did he go, the thirty-something, muscular young man, with his wisdom stories? Where did he go, my love, the crucified one, the healer of souls, the one who laughed with us at dinner and stunned us with his servanthood. Where did he go?

Look into the clouds in search of him. Scan the heavens. Scramble the jets. Pull up the radar. We must try to find him, to bring him back, to drag that glorious body back to earth. How can we live without the one who was made alive again? How can we live without the one in whom the fullness of God was pleased to dwell? But there is more to it, it was not only the divine that we discovered but the fullness of humanity in this Risen One. Our humanity has been lifted into heaven, the most alive humanity ever known has just escaped. How could they have let Christ escape? How can we live without this new humanity, our humanity?

We weren’t prepared for this disappearing act, or were we? Think about the stories that we’ve been listening to since Easter. Thomas, proof demanding Thomas, challenged us to believe without the ability to touch the body of our beloved. There are other ways of seeing and believing. On the road to Emmaus we learned that we meet Christ every time the community gathers to break open the scriptures, every time we share a meal. We discover Christ anew in the breaking of the bread and are nourished by Christ’s presence. In Jesus’ tender conversation with Phillip, we heard Jesus disclose, “I am in the Father and the Father is in me.” The Christian community that wrote these words and lived by them had come to the wild realization that the beloved and absent friend was none other than God. What is more those who experienced the Risen One began to talk about how even in Christ’s absence they were connected to him, sustained, nourished and grounded in a new source of energy and hope. So perhaps we were prepared for Jesus’ disappearing act after all. The witness of our ancestors in the faith have been telling us in Gospel form what it means to be connected to Christ in his absence, how our lives have meaning even after Jesus has been allowed to escape. The faithful stories we have pondered over the last weeks encourage us to trust our absent lover, to realize that Christ is not far from each one of us. For `In him we live and move and have our being', as Paul proclaimed to the Athenians.

But where did he go? What about his absence? What about his body, his wonderfully rich humanity? We are not allowed to get hung-up on this point. No, the message of the angels is clear, “ Why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

In Ephesians Paul tells us that Christ’s body is put to good use, in that it is seated at the right hand of God, “far above all rule and authority and power and dominion and above every name that is named, not only in this age but in the age to come. And that God has put all things under Christ’s feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.” Our humanity is seated next to God in the person Christ, our humanity is now represented, no more than that, it has been taken into God. God loved our humanity so much that our humanity has been welcomed into God.

But while our humanity, our body, has been taken to God, Christ’s body is now found on earth. The body of Christ is not only sitting next to God on high it is here because the church is Christ’s body. We are Christ’s body here and now. In Christ there has been this fantastic invasion of the body switchers. You are Christ’s body but not just you alone, WE are Christ’s body. We the lovers of Christ, the worshipers of St. Michael’s are the living body of Christ. Together we make up the mystical body of Christ here and now in this place. That is what this wonderful passage in Acts is telling us. When we come together we are Christ’s body, we are Christ’s witnesses in the world, we are the chosen vessels of God’s Spirit to spread his kingdom anew in the world.

We are Christ’s body gathered each week in this place of worship. We the people of God physically gathered to hear scripture with our ears, to pray with our voices and bodies, to sing our lungs out with accordions or pianos or violins leading the way, to physically give thanks to God for the blessings of this life – yes both the easy blessings and the hard ones.

We are Christ’s body gathering to feast at a table that is open to all who are seeking the presence of the Risen One in their lives and hearts and bodies. Through taste and touch, and hands out stretched we enact a moment of the kingdom of God, feasting in the divine presence with others that we may or may not see eye to eye with but we can love in the power of the Spirit, in the compassion of Christ around the altar of God’s blessing.

We are Christ’s body when we celebrate the passage of our young people from childhood to manhood and womanhood as we did last week. When we feel in our very bones the importance of passing on to the next generation the truthful story of the Risen One that it might illumine their path, fire their imaginations, loose their creativity, and ground them in God’s love.

We are Christ’s body when we gather to give Christ’s new friends a holy bath, washing them in the waters of life that recall our beloved’s dying and rising to life anew. To be washed in one’s Body in the midst of God’s people is intended to be an experience of new birth, the washing away of the old and the claiming of a new birth-right. A birth that marks one as Christ’s own forever and joins them to the body of Christ.

We are Christ’s body when we gather to offer food to those who need it. Nourishing their body just as Jesus nourished those in need near him. Caring for the whole person is part of what it means to be God’s witnesses in Albuquerque, in New Mexico, and to the uttermost parts of the earth.

We are Christ’s body when we gather to anoint and prayer for the sick in our midst, recognizing the presence of Christ in their physical body. We commit ourselves to minister to them, in body and spirit, attempting to live out the deep compassion and mercy of Christ. And in death we celebrate the life that was lived in that body, animated by God’s breath, a living prayer to the creator.

We are Christ’s body when we gather to forgive sins – even in private confession the whole church is present, proclaiming the good news of Christ, go in peace your sins are forgiven, don’t be held hostage to the past, you have a future with God. We are Christ’s body when we live as forgiven and forgiving people.

We are Christ’s body when we gather to praise God for those who are called to lead in this place just as we will soon at the ordinations of Daniel and Judith. In gathering around them, in seeing hands laid upon their bodies, we will recognize in them the blessing and pain of leadership based on self-giving service. We will confirm in them the calling to lead the friends of Christ with a servant’s heart just as Jesus did.
Here in our gathering, eating, washing, proclaiming, anointing, praying, singing, listening, forgiving, healing, burying we are Christ’s own body, Love’s own body, taken, blessed, broken and given for the life of the world. And that my friends is a great way to kill a Sunday morning, just being the body of Christ around this ancient breakfast table.
The angels were right to say, don’t stand around looking up into the sky. The Body of Christ is not only gone, it has been smuggled back into the world through us. We are the Body of Christ, we are the eyes and ears, and legs and arms and feet and minds and faces and hearts of Christ’s love. Christ’s Body is us and we are Christ’s.
It is your body and mine that are blessed to receive the gift of the Spirit’s empowering. May the Spirit animate your body, enliven your mind, fire your heart. May the Spirit compel you out into the world, to heal, to forgive, to aid, to bless, to love in Christ’s name. This is the message of the Ascension and Christ’s missing body. By God’s grace may we truly be what we are called to be, Christ’s Body in this world. And may the circle of Christ’s love continue to expand through us, at St. Michael’s, in Albuquerque, in New Mexico, in the Southwest, and to the uttermost parts of the earth.

I wish to acknowledge my deep debt to Juan Oliver for his excellent writing on the Ascension that inspired me and connected with what I desired to proclaim in this sermon.

We’re coming down the home stretch of Easter season. The risen Christ has been appearing to his disciples. Soon he will ascend into heaven – in fact, we celebrate that feast this Thursday. 10 days after that he will send the Holy Spirit, which we celebrate in 2 weeks, on Pentecost.

Today’s gospel puts us temporarily back in the Last Supper, because on that evening, Jesus previewed to his disciples both the Ascension and Pentecost. He told them that soon the world would see him no longer, that he would go back to his Father. But he would not leave them as orphans. He said I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth.

This morning I’d like to talk about this Spirit of truth, because our faith tells us that Jesus sends it to us, too. Who or what is this Spirit of truth? What are its characteristics? How do we know we’re being guided by it? 9:00 You young people, you Rite 13 candidates, at this point in your life you question what truth is, and so you should, for you must find your own way through life. All of us ask, along with Pontius Pilate, what is truth?

One place to start is with Paul, in our first lesson from Acts today. Paul was on one of his missionary journeys, spreading the Christian message among Gentiles all over the Mediterranean. At this point in the story, Paul had arrived in Athens, the very center of Greek culture and philosophy, where they searched for truth like Americans watch football. Paul hiked up the Areopagus, the hill where the governing councilors of Athens assembled, and where philosophical debates took place.

In this place of ancient import, Paul addressed the Greek citizens, first expressing his appreciation for how “extremely religious” the Athenians were; why, there were temples everywhere to various gods, even one dedicated to an unknown god. He then quoted one of their favorite poets.

What Paul was doing was remarkable. We often think of Paul as a kind of arrogant, narrow-minded person who had a firm grip on the truth, demanding that others agree with him. But in today’s story, Paul comes across very differently. He is humble, appreciative of Greek religion, pointing out its strengths. He begins his speech by finding common ground.

This is, I think, one of the first qualities of the Spirit of truth. Some think that God’s truth has to be protected, that it is somehow fragile, and if we don’t defend it, it will shatter into a thousand pieces. But God is more powerful and more fluid than that. Truth is large, and it encompasses many expressions.

I learned from years of practicing Zen Buddhist meditation, from regular exposure to psychology, from a little understanding of modern physics and the arts, that the Christian truth is greatly enriched and enlivened when it is influenced by other paths. The insights and practices of others give me a fresh feeling about my faith, which otherwise can get stale with exclusive use.

After all, we are dealing with a God who is ultimately unknowable, who is beyond our complete comprehension. Therefore none of us has the whole picture, and we need one another to fill out a richer picture of God. As Paul told the Athenians, this unknown god they worshiped is the mysterious, transcendent Creator who made the world and everything in it, and who therefore can never be confined to anyone’s shrine or altar.

If God is so vast as to be the source of all life, so free to be even beyond our religious scriptures and doctrines, then the Spirit of truth is characterized by humility and with openness, a readiness to be surprised. If it is truly the Spirit of God that is guiding us, we will not be so convinced that we have it all figured out; we will always be peeking around the corners of our beliefs and habits to see how else God might be revealed.

Secondly and paradoxically, the Spirit of truth is also characterized by its nearness, its accessibility. But how can this be? How can the Creator of heaven and earth, only glimpsed by myriad religions around the world, also be something close at hand, something we can know and feel?

At the Last Supper, Jesus promised this very thing. He told his friends that the Spirit he would be sending would abide with them, that it would be in them. Jesus went on: “On that day you will know that you are in me, and I in you.” Paul told the Athenians the same thing: “In him we live and move and have our being.” Searching for God is sort of like a fish searching for water. We live in God; the divine is the atmosphere in which we live and move and have our being.

And yet we must search. Paul said that the Creator of all people made us in such a way that we would “search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him – though indeed he is not far from each one of us.”

I think this has to do with searching not so much for God, who is always near, but for our own authentic way of accessing God, which can be somewhat obscured. Each one of us must struggle to sift through practices and teachings, through our own resistance and bad habits, in order to find our own way to connect with God. You Rite 13 kids need to do the same as you mature. This doesn’t come automatically to us, it doesn’t stay the same once we’ve found it, and it certainly isn’t the same for everyone. It takes years of searching within, and as we evolve, we must keep searching for how today, we might find God.

Over time I’ve utilized various means to do this: backpacking, music, meditation, the Daily Office and the weekly Eucharist, study and writing, community and ministry, the intimacy of close relationships and the ongoing struggle with my own demons and limitations. But within each of these different means there is one common thread - the search for the kinds of experience that God promises: peace, truth, confidence, creativity, vitality and unconditional love for others. This is always the same. How I access it at any given time is different.

Finally, the Spirit of truth is characterized by love. If what we think is the truth is not loving and kind, merciful and understanding, concerned about caring for the least among us, it is not the Spirit of God. Jesus said over and over again that love is the defining reality of God, and therefore the defining reality of our humanity. This is the first and greatest commandment, he said, “love God and love your neighbor as yourself.” The letter of John boldly says “God is love.” During the Last Supper in our gospel today, Jesus said that in the Spirit that he would send, they would love God and be loved by him, living in the unity of love.

This is the greatest truth that the Spirit reveals to us. We are all one. Every breath you take is shared by the breath of others, by the breath of all living things. Plants and animals; rivers, oceans, sky, mountains and deserts; all races and tribes, rich and poor: we are all one living, breathing, interdependent being. The whole creation is God’s body.

Animated and unified by the Spirit, we are a vastly complex and beautiful body, evolving through space and time. For those who have eyes to see it, we reveal our divine source in every detail, and this source is love. Divine love is the inner force that insistently brings life out of death, that keeps searching for ways to recreate harmony and justice when parts of our body rebel against our innate divine nature and hurt other parts of the body. Divine love then binds us up, resurrects us, and moves us forward again.

And so we are given the gift of God’s Spirit of truth. This Spirit is always beyond our comprehension, and so it asks us to be humble and open to its surprising expressions through other people, other pathways. This Spirit is already and completely abiding within us, closer than we are to ourselves, and yet in order for us to experience it, we must search diligently for our own authentic pathway into it. And this Spirit is love: unifying, harmonizing, resurrecting love. This is the Spirit of truth that God sends to us.

Passages such as our Gospel reading this morning are challenging to read and understand and, tough to explain. They feel theological and heady, repeating phrases like “coming and going, believing and knowing” There is not much action or drama, except for the questions from Peter and Philip.

The setting for our text is Maundy Thursday, the last meal before Jesus’ crucifixion. In the verse immediately preceding, Peter has just been warned that he will deny Jesus three times before the cock crows. The Gospel then shifts into what is often called the Final Discourse in which Jesus instructs his disciples about how they are to live in this world when he has departed.

Our reading is bracketed by two commands from Jesus. Beginning with: Do not let your hearts be troubled. And ending with If, in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it. In between these sentences, in words that sound like a farewell speech, Jesus announces his imminent departure. He urges those present to be like him and to do works greater than he has done. He tells the disciples that their encounter with him, Jesus the Son, makes it possible for them to have an experience in God, as the Father.

Don’t let your hearts be troubled. The Greek word used for trouble is (tarasso) tarassw a word used to describe Jesus’ distress when Mary approached him weeping over the death of her brother, Lazarus. The meaning of this word is not simply sadness. It is a profound disturbance in the face of the power of death and evil. It addresses the complexity and confusion of the disciples who were troubled at the departure of Jesus. Jesus is not just telling his disciples to buck up in the face of his death: he is telling them that the events that are about to occur may look as if they are rising out of evil and death. The disciples need to stand firm in the face of this threat.

I met Alice when I was called to the pre-operative area in the Cardiac Center. She was about to undergo her second cardiac catheterization. The first one had been aborted when she almost died after experiencing an allergic reaction to the dye. A different technique was going to be used this morning and the medical staff was confident that the procedure would be successful. As the time for the procedure approached Alice’s anxiety and distress escalated and the nursing staff requested I visit with Alice.

Alice had three children, was Catholic and divorced. She talked about her concerns and also expressed hopeful confidence in the physicians. It did seem, however, that there was something, just beyond my sight, that was really disturbing her. When the nurse poked her head around the curtain to let us know that they were ready for Alice and that I should leave, Alice, grabbed my hand and through tears pleaded: Please, not yet. I negotiated more time with the nurse and sat down next to Alice, hoping I could she would reveal what was so distressful.
What I learned was at the age of 17 Alice had become pregnant after being raped. She had had an abortion and for the next 30+ years she never told anyone what had happened to her. As I held her hand, Alice looked up at me and sobbed: Do you think God is punishing me now for what I did? Do you think God could ever forgive me?

Troubled hearts. They hurt; they come in all sizes and they are often very well disguised. The death of a loved one, job loss, the onset of a serious illness, the loss of a pet: When there is a sudden and unexpected change in our life- our world turns upside down. Our hearts become troubled.

Our culture sends so many mixed messages about what we should value and desire. Am I not supposed to seek a better life for me and my family or is this somehow selfish ambition? Should I worry about the price of gas and my retirement funds or does that mean that I am being materialistic and somehow callous towards those in this world who live in abject poverty? How do we live in this world as a Christian when there are so many seductive and nice distractions? Conflicting desires-troubled hearts.

We were told just a few weeks ago at the Maundy Thursday service to do as Jesus did and to love one another; yet we get drawn into jealousy and competition with one another. Those grudges we thought we had put behind us, they come to greet us like an old friend. Perhaps we have grown tired of continually forgiving that family member for the same bad behavior. These grudges and our behavior trouble our hearts. How do we follow Jesus’ command to forgive others and ourselves?

We wonder what happened to our faith. There is a very deep worry that we won’t find it or worse-that we have found it and this is all there is and all of us are pretending that this is enough. We are stuck living in our troubled hearts.

One evening when I was about 13, my father went off with a friend to a YMCA Board meeting. A friend of my mothers came to get her so they could also go off as well. As I was clearing the dinner table the phone rang and I heard my mother say: “oh my God”. She sat down, collected herself and then told us that my father had been taken to the hospital. They suspected that he had suffered from a heart attack. Apparently, my father, who was a physician, recognized the symptoms and told his friend to take him to the hospital. After my mother left, the household was very much in an uproar. None of us kids knew what to do. My mother’s friend was surveying the kitchen and noticed that we had had Brussels sprouts for dinner. She looked at us and said, emphatically: Well there you have it. Brussels sprouts cause gas and gas can feel like a heart attack. There’s nothing to worry about.

Not feeling particularly comforted by those words, I went upstairs and found my prayer book. I knelt by my bed, found the prayers for those who are ill and started to pray. Every night while my father was in the hospital I took my troubled heart to my knees and prayed. I grew in awe of the feelings that praying brought to me. My father came home and lived another 35 years. I, however, have never eaten another Brussels sprout.

That morning in the Cardiac Catheterization Suite, Alice’s troubled heart called out in pain. She needed to know that God loved her, no matter what she had done. My heart was troubled out of fear of losing my father. Alice and I each experienced gloom expanding over us: We were in a place that was more than darkness. Alice came face to face with everything about herself that scared her. She was in a place where she was afraid to be alone and, paradoxically, a place where she was afraid to let anyone else in. I was in a darkness that threatened my whole world, my life as I knew it, my identity. We had troubled hearts. Alice and I did the only thing we knew to do at the time when we faced the threat of evil or death. We followed the words of Jesus at the end of today’s reading: If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.

When we pray something happens. A door opens, a shaft of light appears. God comes and stands by us in our despair and in our anxiousness, just as God does in our joy and celebrations. God calls out our name: perhaps in such hushed tones that we are forced to quiet our minds to hear, or so loudly that we can make no mistake who is calling us. God waits for our troubled hearts to come and rest in prayer.

Will every prayer be answered? We know it will. Will it be answered the way we want it to? Of course not. But, that is the mystery. God is faithful. We offer our petitions to God for needed forgiveness, healing, sustenance, peace, reconciliation: these are the natural responses of faith to the loving goodness of God. God comes to all of us whether we are good and faithful and attend church every Sunday, or whether we are filled with doubt and stuck in our troubled hearts.

When we extend our hands in prayer to God and ask that the turbulent waters of our lives be calmed: we can feel our burden lighten. When we stretch out our hands to receive the sacraments, we participate in Jesus’ everlasting life through his body and blood; and when we share the peace, we experience Jesus in community.

May we always remember to offer our troubled hearts to God in prayer. May we always remember that through Jesus we find God. May always remember that through one another and community we find Jesus. Amen.

You can imagine how dispirited Jesus’ disciples must have felt after Good Friday. A couple of days later, two of them, walking along towards the village of Emmaus, were talking it over. A stranger approached and asked them what they were discussing.

The description is poignant: it says that the two stood still, looking sad. An awkward silence, staring at the ground. Finally, one of them replied “are you the only one in the city of Jerusalem who doesn’t know?” And here comes the deep sadness: “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” We had hoped. We had hoped, but now all is lost.

We all know this terrible feeling of disappointment and regret. We know what it is like to be walking along the road, dispirited, with nothing to say in the awkward silence. Some of you have had to deal with some hard things: the loss of a child, a life-changing illness, a marriage that is falling apart, or the many losses that come with aging. You had so hoped that things would have turned out differently.

Even if you are fortunate, like me, not to have had to go through some of these things, you know disappointment and regret, because you are human. The other night, while watching a video shot by a platoon of young soldiers in Iraq, I became overwhelmed by sadness about the world. I am so tired of violence and the threat of violence; indifference to disease, hunger, and global warming; pointless consumerism; everyday petty cruelty; simple-minded politicians and preachers; and endless asphalt and cars, everywhere.
I had so hoped that things would be different than they are.

But regret can be paralyzing. On Holy Tuesday at the liturgy of Tenebrae, one of our readings spoke to this. It was written by Brother Roger, the founder of the Taize Community in France, who was recently mourned with great loss and regret by his own community when, at the age of 90, he was senselessly murdered during a worship service.

In our Tenebrae service, it was as if Brother Roger was speaking from the dead to the regret and loss of his own community, as well as to our own personal disappointments: “In regret the inner self disintegrates…A person’s spirit becomes sterile when it keeps on reconstructing a situation that is past and gone, giving itself over to fruitless brooding.”

When we get stuck in brooding disappointment, the inner self disintegrates. Our spirit becomes sterile and we keep reconstructing what happened or should have happened. This, in a very condensed version, was the disciples’ situation on the road to Emmaus.
It is occasionally where we find ourselves. We think over and over about what happened, what might have happened, what should happen. This brooding makes our spirit sterile, lifeless.

On the other hand, it doesn’t do any good to try to make ourselves feel better, to look on the bright side. This usually doesn’t work. Instead, what seems to help is an active acceptance of our grief, opening our heart to what is, and waiting.

This is not so easy, because the sense of loss is fearful. Part of us believes that standing in this fear will destroy us. But in fact, standing in the reality of what is, consciously, with an open heart, is sometimes the only thing that will bring us new life.

Parker Palmer, a well-known educator, philosopher, and activist, wrote about standing in what he called “the tragic gap,” the space between what is and what we wish were possible. Our tendency is to resist, or to escape: fight or flight. We try to force an unnatural change, or we muffle our feelings with drink, drugs, or stupid activity.

Palmer suggests that instead we stay in that tragic gap, living with the tension, being open and receptive, waiting for the unknown future. I like to think of this as being like a cat in front of a mouse-hole: alert and attentive to what might come next.

Palmer says that in this act of waiting, as we live with the tension, the heart eventually breaks open to a new possibility. We can’t make this happen; it is a gift of God’s grace.
What comes is never what we had expected. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples did not recognize Jesus as he spoke to them. But they felt something towards him.

Later they said “didn’t our hearts burn within us in that conversation on the road?” And because they intuited something about him, they invited him to dinner, imploring him to stay a little longer. Then at supper, in a eucharistic moment, in the moment of prayer and breaking bread, their hearts and their eyes were opened. They could finally see.

Their whole perspective changed. Their regret had them busy reconstructing a situation that was past and gone, over and over again in their minds - that Jesus would march into Jerusalem and redeem Israel. It didn’t happen. Instead, he came to them later as a stranger on the road, showing them that God’s resurrection power is unlike worldly power.

This power brings God’s light into everything, even into the darkest places, and it awakens spirits to wonder and beauty, to love and delight, no matter what the circumstances have been.

God’s resurrection power will not be stopped by loss, regret, or death; it has the ability to make all things new. Resurrection power sneaks up within the soul, breaks open our heart, and then ripples out into the world, changing everything around us.

What Jesus did that day was to take the disciples’ experience and reinterpret it. He didn’t deny their loss; he simply reframed it. He helped them see that while suffering is real and very hard, it is not the end of the story; the scriptures have always told us that God is more powerful than that.

There is always life beyond the grave. Jesus broke open the scriptures and the bread, and in doing so, broke open their hardened, regretful hearts to a new possibility. They were reborn.

Perhaps you are living in some kind of tragic gap between Good Friday and Easter. Perhaps you are walking along some lonely road between places, mourning a loss, regretting what could have been, what should be, or, like me sometimes, just feeling a deep disappointment in the world.

Stand in the tragic gap; live in the tension. Be prayerful and attentive, like a cat in front of a mouse hole. And all the while, keep your heart open and receptive, trusting, like a child.
Let go of your expectations of what might come next. Allow yourself to be surprised by grace, to have your whole way of seeing things reinterpreted. Allow your heart to be broken open to new possibilities. I know this to be true: resurrection will happen, Easter will come again, for God is faithful.

“Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.

There have been many instances in my life where I can relate to St. Thomas’ doubt and his need for Jesus to prove his existence. I have often attempted to do the same thing - make Jesus my own personal puppet, where he works on my terms, I yank, and want him to respond. I poke, and he has to prove that he is real in my life.

We know however, that a constant demand by one person is not the basis of a mutual, loving relationship. It becomes a demand for love, a demand for proof. We do not want that with Jesus or one another.

There is no need to poke and prod, Jesus does not disappear, and He is always present. Our challenge is to recognize him in the routine, in the mundane of our everyday lives.
A 16th century, uneducated monk named Brother Lawrence understood having Jesus continually in every aspect of his life. He was overwhelmed by the power of God and found God in the ordinary.

He reminds us that God does not really expect much from us; maybe a little remembrance of Him from time to time; a little adoration; sometimes to pray for His grace; sometimes to offer him our sufferings, to thank him for the gifts he has given, and those he still gives.

Brother Lawrence reminds us to turn to God in the midst of our troubles, and console ourselves with Him as often as we can. To simply life our hearts to God, sometimes even at meals, in the company of others because the least little remembrance is always acceptable to God. There is no need to cry out loud; God is nearer to us than we think.

But we forget this, and look for proof. But the Good News of Christ is that we do not “go to God” as if God sat in the starry heavens awaiting our arrival; rather, God “comes to us” in the Incarnation. Jesus “is with us” in those small sacred rooms of everyday life. It there we find peace, the peace of God’s presence.

Our faith is filled with the word peace. Christ greets his disciples with “Peace be with you.” We say, “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth,” at the end of Mass the Deacon bids “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” In a few moments, we will say to one another “The peace of the Lord be with you always.”

Those are more than words, a handshake, a chance to turn around and see if that person behind you is really wearing that color. Greater than the dictionary definition of: quiet; tranquility; mental calm; serenity.

Peace - It is the recognition of the divine among us, to truly hope for the Lord to be with our brother and sisters. In that small room, when Jesus wished the Apostles peace, when he promised them his peace, it was his assurance that he would always be with them, and would bring them into a deeper communion of life with him, the Father and the Holy Spirit.

Ironically, it has been said that this presence, this peace of Christ is a gift which both calms and challenges us - it does not make us immune form pain and suffering, or death, rather it enables us to face these painful realities, and triumph over them in union with Christ himself.

When our interest becomes serving God, to bringing God to the most unlikely places, in seeing God in every circumstance, person, and situation in life. There is peace.

When we strive to bring Christ to one another, to find ways to speak words of encouragement to others, find ways to reach out to the silent that are yearning for Christian love and compassion – we find the Lord’s peace.

When our only gift is the slight chance that we can make a positive difference in the life of our brothers and sisters – we become instruments of his peace.

It is in the darkness, when I cannot steady my path, or find a light - I feel God presence. I often feel his reassuring hand. When Moses wanted direction, God spoke to him saying “I am with you.” In the darkness, I listen for that soft voice whispering “I am with you.”

But that is in the dark. It was a friend who helped me understand the importance of recognizing the presence of God in my daily life. It was during the fall, and I was studying a glorious maple tree that was turning a glowing deep orange.

I had nurtured since a sapling, and while I appreciated its color, I focused on the irregular branches and the awkward bent of the branches. While focusing on the obvious, I noticed my friend, silent, sitting, and looking through the tree.

Marveling with a sense of appreciation, she was looking at what a writer has called “the spaces between the leaves;” she was looking for something that was not supposed to be there. Behind the tree, was resplendent, auburn pheasant, staring at me. I was focusing on the obvious, oblivious to the unexpected, unaware of being surrounded by God.

The pheasant slowly walked away and disappeared. We did not say a word and I was filled with the sense of the divine, the unexplainable feeling one gets, when you behold a beautiful sunset or rainbow, when hear rain fall on the roof, when you hold your child for the first time, when you feel the warmth of love, when you sense holiness, when you know that God exists.

We do not have to poke, prod or probe Jesus. God made everything and it is been said that everything God makes has a voice. Everything God makes has a story. God is everywhere, in each millisecond of the day. God is in all of creation.

He is in that small room filled with frightened Apostles and a doubting Thomas. He is in this church, our homes, offices, our lives. When we realize that he is always in our presences, there is no greater comfort, no greater peace - We have the peace of the Lord. It is where we find conversion.

As the pheasant disappeared, I looked down and thanked my friend for helping me to truly see what was in that sacred space, in that room. That old, arthritic, furry, dog looked at me with a sense of knowing. She knew instinctively, without reasoning, that there was something special in the space between the leaves.

We must come to know, in much the same way, instinctively, that Jesus is in both the sacred and the ordinary of our lives. We come to know God in a different way, from the heart and not the head. I would like to leave each of you with an ancient Irish blessing that simply says: The Deep peace of the risen Christ to you!

Amen.

This morning I’d like to take you on a tour of the resurrection. To do this I’m going to ask you to imagine a series of 4 concentric circles. It will be a bit like the ancient Temple in Jerusalem that had an outer Court of the Gentiles, an inner court for Jews, a more inner chamber where the priests made sacrifices, and at the center, the Holy of Holies. Curiously, this central place was totally empty, I suppose so that there could be room for the Holy One. My tour of the resurrection this morning will similarly take you through 4 concentric circles, beginning at the outside and moving towards the center.

The outer circle of resurrection is like the Court of the Gentiles. In this place all kinds of things took place –purchases for the necessities of worship, gossip, business transactions, news of the community. Similarly, the first circle of resurrection is quite broad. It is Easter as a springtime festival. This morning we began our first liturgy with a full moon and a bonfire in the patio at 6am. We’ve got an Easter egg hunt, and a delicious breakfast all morning. Beautiful music and colorful streamers abound. We’ve got bunny rabbits, children, and flowers. Later today, many of us will have an Easter dinner with tasty food and wine.

Then we throw in Jesus’ resurrection into the mix, and the festival becomes vast, cosmic:
Now let the heavens be joyful, let earth her song begin
the round world keep high triumph, and all that is therein
let all things seen and unseen, their notes together blend
for Christ the Lord is risen, our joy that hath no end!

Every culture, every race has festivals like this, and at this level, the details don’t really matter very much. As long as you’ve got color and food and jubilation, it could be Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, Diwali - the Hindu festival of lights in India, or an African wedding. This first outer circle of Easter is all about the renewal of creation in spring. It is wonderful, and for some of us, more than enough. Perhaps this is exactly where some of you need to be today.

When we step towards the center of the Temple in Jerusalem, we enter the Court of the Jews, where the stories of scripture were read, and the faith was taught – Jesus himself taught here. Similarly, when we move into the second circle of the resurrection, we encounter our central story and teaching: Jesus’ rising from the dead. An earthquake, a massive stone miraculously rolled away, astonished women at an empty tomb, an angel in white, and the risen Lord, majestic and transformed.

Years ago, I moved into this second circle of Easter as I had never before when I visited the Holy Land. Walking the hills of Galilee overlooking little fishing villages, wandering through the ancient, crowded, blood-soaked alleyways of Old Jerusalem, it dawned on me: Wait a minute! This was real. A man named Jesus lived a human life here. He gathered followers, miraculously healed the sick, and shared wisdom that woke people up to God. They executed him on a cross and he came back alive! His friends would never be the same. All of this really happened.

This second circle of resurrection is about the story of Jesus: the power of God working through him, his holiness, his love. He radiates with glory. He has ascended into the heavens, exploding, as it were, into all creation, dwelling as risen Lord within and among us. Perhaps some of you today are taken by this story about Jesus, and this is where you need to be. Devotion to the risen Christ brings you renewal.

In the Temple, the next inner chamber was where the priests made the animal sacrifices on behalf of the people, offering the most precious thing possible back to the Creator – an actual life. In the same way, if we take a few more steps toward the center, the resurrection begins to cost us something. It involves sacrifice. For here, resurrection is no longer just about the springtime renewal of nature or an inspiring story about Jesus. Here God begins to ask more of us, something more than celebration or devotion. God asks us to change.

This third circle is where our behavior is resurrected. As we read the gospels and begin to understand the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, we find ourselves unable to live as we have lived before. We can’t tolerate pettiness, resentment, and a purely materialistic view. We grow weary of our addictions and our fears. We can no longer believe in the illusion that the emotional ups and downs of our daily life are ultimately real and worth the trouble. We want to learn how to love our enemy, forgive those who harm us, and to be a more humble servant for the greater good of all. We see other people as our brothers and sisters in God, worthy of respect and dignity, no matter who they are, and we strive for justice and peace.

This third circle is what we will re-commit to in a few moments as we renew our Baptismal Covenant. It is about the resurrection of our behavior – dying to the old life of sin and rising to the new life of grace, so that, with God’s help, we might be more Christ-like. Here, Easter becomes something to practice every day. Perhaps this circle of resurrection is where some of you are today; you feel compelled to follow the risen Christ along his pathways.

But finally, there is yet another circle, at the center: the Holy of Holies. Like the center of the Temple, this place is empty, too. This is the most challenging circle of resurrection. It asks more of us than celebration, more than devotion, even more than behavioral change. It invites us to die and be reborn. It promises inner transformation. Let me tell you what it has been like for me to be taken there now and again.

It happens when things are dark or confusing, when I find myself stuck within my own frustrating limitations and unshakeable habits, when I am powerless to climb out of a dark place on my own.

In some of these times, and only by the grace of God, I have occasionally managed to surrender. Dying to the illusion that I can save myself, dying to my own ability to understand and act effectively, I fall down and put all my trust in the same thing Jesus did when on the cross he said Into your hands I commend my spirit. I give up.

Over the years I have learned to trust that in this dark tomb of my soul, hidden from my sight, a small stirring will always begin, something beyond my control and my understanding. It grows in me as an intuition, a sense that what I’m struggling with is being opened up into a greater reality. Over time, as I trust in it patiently, this greater reality grows and becomes stronger.

Eventually, questions I previously struggled with just don’t seem to matter any more. With fresh eyes I see the world anew, and am free. It becomes natural to love without condition and to walk gratefully through this wondrous world. I taste what St. Paul called the peace of God that passes all understanding. I know what Dame Julian of Norwich meant when she said All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Now none of this happens because I finally figured something out or tried harder; it happens because I die and God rises up, by his own power, within me.

I have come to count on this process of resurrection as the only thing that is ultimately real and lasting. I have come to trust that resurrection will always come when I need it – perhaps not today, but it will come. It cannot be forced into being. Like the Holy of Holies, it needs an empty place - our weakness and our need for God – in order to have room to be.

Perhaps some of you have experienced this, too. Perhaps some of you today feel stuck in some difficulty, something you have no power to fix. Perhaps it is time to surrender, to give up your preferences, to lay down your imagined self-sufficiency, your ability to understand and control your life. Perhaps it is time to die.

You will find that there is life beyond this tomb. It stirs in the darkness even now, waiting to be born, waiting for you to get out of its way so that it may rise up in you. This is the power of God. It is the power of Jesus’ resurrection, and it is as real as the Easter eggs and colorful flowers of today’s festival.

Don’t think of any of these circles we’ve toured this morning as better or holier than others. Don’t imagine that they are sequential, or that you ever really leave any of them behind. Sometimes we need festivals that celebrate life. Sometimes we need devotion to our risen Lord. Sometimes we need to change our behavior. And sometimes we need to die and be reborn. We move through these circles of resurrection again and again, and each one of them is infused with the glory of God. In each one our Creator generously and abundantly makes life new again.

Alleluia, Christ is risen, and we and all creation are risen with him.

Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem was just prior to the Jewish festival of Passover, when thousands of pilgrims flocked into the city from all over Israel and the wider region. Because sometimes things got tense, extra Roman guards were deployed for the festival. Imagine them coming noisily into the crowded streets on horseback, stirring up dust, banners flapping, armor clanking, drums beating: a public display of imperial power, a threat of violence.

And on the opposite side of the city, perhaps the same day, a different kind of procession came through the Mount of Olives, the traditional place of Jewish kings. We often think of this as a spontaneous eruption of affection for Jesus, but I think it was a provocative demonstration deliberately planned by Jesus and his friends.

Jesus knew the scene in the city during the festival; he’d been there for Passover before. He knew how the Romans would make their triumphal entry. And so while the soldiers did their thing, Jesus and his disciples styled their procession as a mockery: soft garments were spread on the ground, children waved palm branches, a man in a homespun robe sat on a donkey, for God’s sake.

And in doing all this, they also evoked for the crowd a precise passage from the prophet Zechariah: Your king is coming to you, humble and mounted on a donkey. The crowd understood the connection with this scripture. This promised king, they knew, would come in humility and mercy, to bring about peace and justice. That’s why the common people loved this demonstration, and why the people of power became alarmed.

Two processions, two alternatives. One maintained a kingdom of power and violence. The other ushered in a kingdom of peace, humility and mercy. The kingdom of Rome and the kingdom of God.

Then, the next morning – and this is the part that we skip over during Holy Week, I’m not sure why – Jesus went into the Temple, and turned over the money-changers’ tables. As he did so, Jesus quoted two passages of Hebrew scripture: this is a house of prayer; and you have turned it into a den of robbers. These passages were originally written about Israel being called to welcome marginalized groups and outsiders, and about condemning the oppression of aliens, orphans, and widows.

By contrast, the Temple system that had developed by Jesus’ time required expensive pilgrimages from distant places, expensive sacrifices, and, back home, expensive tithes: all in exchange for the purity that they said God required. So Jesus undertook another deliberate action, this time in the Temple, in order to indict this system of economic exploitation that served hundreds of privileged urban religious bureaucrats. The crowds knew what he was doing in this action, too, and they understood his use of these scriptures.

And so when Jesus had finally decided that “his hour had come,” he made his public debut on the stage of Jerusalem with two premeditated, provocative actions, both obviously evoking the prophets from the past. One action proclaimed an alternative kingdom of peace, humility and brotherhood to the kingdom of power and violence. The other action indicted economic exploitation. It is no wonder that the Roman command and the Temple elite worked together to execute him within a few days.

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2,000 years later, Jesus still enters into the cities of the world. He still offers an alternative kingdom. You and I live in a culture that is wonderful, in many ways. I am grateful that I live in this time and place. But it has its dark side, characterized by raw power and scorn for the weak, war and the threat of war, and economic exploitation for selfish personal gain. Such are the kingdoms of the world. Our nation is no different from Rome in this regard.

We have a choice, as did the people of Jerusalem 2,000 years ago. We can choose to accept the inevitability of this kingdom of the world, justify it to ourselves, and contribute to its continuation. Or we can choose to believe in and do everything we possibly can to usher in Jesus’ alternative kingdom based on the biblical values of peace, economic justice, mercy for the marginalized, hospitality for the alien among us, and reconciliation between all.

We can be citizens of the kingdom of this world, or we can be citizens of Jesus’ kingdom of God. The choice was set before Jerusalem in 33 AD, and it is set before us today.

The story of the raising of Lazarus reminds me of a scene in one of my favorite movies The Princess Bride. The dead Westley who is attempting to stop the marriage of his true love Buttercup to the evil and ridiculous Prince Humperdinck is brought to Miracle Max (played by Billy Crystal). Westley is brought to Miracle Max by his partner, the revenge-seeking Spaniard Inigo Montoya.

Miracle Max: [Lifts and drops the arm of the dead Westley] I've seen worse.

Miracle Max: He probably owes you money huh? I'll ask him.

Inigo Montoya: He's dead. He can't talk.

Miracle Max: Whoo-hoo-hoo, look who knows so much. It just so happens that your friend here is only MOSTLY dead. There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there's usually only one thing you can do.

Inigo Montoya: What's that?

Miracle Max: Go through his clothes and look for loose change.

Jesus, a bit of miracle worker himself, has been hiding out across the Jordan River after a confrontation with the religious establishment in Jerusalem. He has gone back to his roots, back to where his cousin John had been baptizing. He is renewing himself, his mission and his base of followers. Every good prophetic movement can benefit from a retreat to re-organize and gather strength.

While across the Jordan, Jesus receives a message from Mary and Martha, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” Jesus’ response is strange, for though he loved the whole family, he lingers a few days before making his way to the village of Bethany near Jerusalem. Though in Jesus’ defense the message does not seem urgent and there is no reason to believe that the illness was life-threatening.

John’s Gospel is full of cryptic talk about Jesus’ motives for going to see Lazarus. There talk of glory being revealed even as the disciples are fearful of once again going back into the region of Judea where the religious elites had sought his life and would be happy to arrest him.

Jesus arrived in Bethany too late. Lazarus is more than just mostly dead. He has been in the tomb four days which is significant because of a basic Jewish belief that the soul lingered near the body for 3 days so that death was truly final on the 4th day. Lazarus’ body had begun to rot and according to Jewish custom his soul had departed. Lazarus was all dead.

Jesus meets with both Mary and Martha separately but the two sisters unknowingly deliver the same line, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” The tone of the conversations is simply sadness. There is no accusation, no bitterness, just a quiet confidence that if Jesus had been with Lazarus things would have worked out differently.

In the midst of this long and strange story, the writer of John offers a crucial theological point that is the commentary for this culminating “Sign” in John’s Gospel. Jesus engages Martha about the nature of resurrection, and proclaims one of the I am statements this Gospel is noted for, “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. Martha proclaims her faith in Jesus at that moment but fails to connect this to her brother’s death and leaves Jesus to find Mary.

Mary’s arrival takes this story out of the head and into the heart of all those involved. Jesus is himself greatly disturbed and deeply moved by the weeping of Mary and others. As Jesus begins to seek out the place of Lazarus’ burial he too begins to weep. Jesus’ response is odd and puzzling. He was “deeply moved,” the text tells us, but the word in the Greek means more than that. It implies that Jesus was not only moved but angry, full of righteous wrath, and ready to act. Why is Jesus so disturbed? Why does he weep? At whom or what is he angry?

Perhaps Jesus’ tears were for the whole world. Perhaps his anger was for the cruelty of death, that stalks all, takes some violently, snuffs out lives too soon, leaves such big holes, causes such suffering. To be sure he wept for his friends Martha and Mary in their loss. He wept for his friend Lazarus, decaying in the grave. But Jesus wept for more than that. He wept for the frailty of life, and the crazy unfair way of death’s dark dealing. More than likely Jesus’ wept because he knew that there was so much more to the story than those in front of him seemed to understand. There was so much fear in their eyes, such a resignation toward death. Perhaps he wept because so few seemed to understand what he was about, so few seemed to believe in what they had seen already.

But they weren’t just tears of sorrow and anger either. For in the midst of his tears he found his center, his calling, and felt the quickening of the Spirit. There was life in him, a wild kind of life that needed to be let loose. There was a life in him that reached out to say there is more, more than you might believe, more, than you can even hope. And there is a big difference between being merely dead and being alive to God.

Surrounded by a crowd of mourners musing about his love for Lazarus and his wonder-working abilities, Jesus approached the tomb, commanded that the stone be rolled away despite the protestations of the truly reasonable. Jesus filled the air and bodies around him with prayer until they crackled and buzzed with the glory of God, and uttered the fearsome call, “Lazarus, come out.” There was a trembling of the earth, the sound of wings and rushing air, and cries and moaning from within.

His beloved friend, Lazarus, a dead man was walking again, drinking in air, stumbling on weakened limbs, searching for answers to too many questions at once. People were shouting and crying and shrieking and running and feinting. Jesus’ voice pierced through the noise, “Unbind him and let him go.”

What does one do when one is brought back to life? One of the problems with this story is that we never find out how Lazarus responded. He is the recipient of one of Jesus’ biggest miracles and then he drops out of view. Lazarus is snatched from the stench of death and is never heard from again. No one asks him what it was like to be dead? We’ll never know, or will we?

To be sure things like this don’t happen every day in Albuquerque. It would be easy to allow our skeptical historical-critical view of this story to neuter it beyond any fertile use. Some scholars will remind us that John’s Gospel is a very late one and that much of the material in it seems to come from the experiences of a later faith community and not from eyewitness account of Jesus’ life and ministry. Jesus was not some primitive Miracle Max. He was a first century Galileean wisdom teacher who said some interesting things but didn’t do that much that can be historically verified.

The trouble is that the more you hang around people who are attracted to Jesus the more weird miracle-like things you find happening. The more new life seems to be the order of the day. The more resurrection reveals itself. Oh, to be sure, there is the tendency among the educated faithful to disregard “signs” even when they stand out against the ordinariness of life. Our interpretive machinery begins to whirl and clank and we historicize, or we psychologize, we defend ourselves against the uncanny, the unusual, the unfamiliar. What’s dead should stay dead, that is the way the world works.

John’s gospel is clear about how the religious authorities responded to Lazarus being called into newness of life again. Yes, they immediately began to plot how to kill Jesus. I suppose we might want to be careful lest we do the same.

When Jesus shouts, “Unbind him! Let him go!” he is not only shouting to dead Lazarus, he is shouting loud enough to be heard even by us, listening in on the scene. He is shouting to a dead man but also to every dying person. Jesus’ words are not just for long ago, these words are for today as well.

We are all of us Lazarus. Oh we may not be dead yet, but we are headed there and some of us are in more of a hurry than others. What of death binds us, controls or confines us? What part of our life needs to be made new? The truth is that like the line of a T.S. Elliott poem we are all “living and partly living.”

The point of this strange pre-Easter story is that Jesus loves Lazarus enough, loves life enough to call Lazarus back into it. In essence he says there is a big difference between all dead and mostly dead. He saw in Lazarus more life to be lived.

For many of us death is an article of faith, functionally we believe: there are no second chances, you can’t teach a old dog new tricks, people don’t change, I had no other options this is all I could do, I like things just the way they are, or I simply cannot face the pain and uncertainty of new life. We are hooked, addicted, stuck, bound, and fearful. We have all kinds of names for these tombs we inhabit: substance abuse, factors beyond our control, burned-out, apathetic, the facts of life, depression – but these are really the facts of death. As this Lent sharpens into Holy Week, honestly taking stock of our lives is the basis for moving forward into newness of life. Is it possible to pray, to pray of ourselves or of our friends, “Lord if you had been here, our brother or sister would not have died”?

One of my favorite Easter Hymns, Now the Green Blade Riseth is beautiful commentary on this passage. [sing the fourth verse]

When our hearts are wintry, grieving or in pain,
Thy touch can call us back to life again,
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.

Into the midst of our lives, into the midst of this community Jesus confidently strides and yells, “Come out,” “Unbind her. Let her go!” It is the nature of Jesus to intrude, to surprise, to shock with new life. One does not need to wait for Easter, for Jesus is the Lord of life from the beginning of time. He comes with resurrection in his fingertips, his heart weeping and his eyes alive with compassion.

Are we willing to allow Jesus to lead us into newness of life as individuals, as a community of St. Michael’s? This past week someone told me, “There is so much new life at St. Michael’s so much energy, things are changing and growing around here in such remarkable ways, that I’m excited to see where this community is headed, what it is becoming.”

It’s true, Miracle Max is not going through the pockets of St. Michael’s looking for loose change, we are not all dead, in fact far from it. However, I believe that Christ is calling St. Michael’s into newness of life. What is the shape of Christ’s resurrecting love that wants to be known in us? Yes, we are planning to build onto our existing campus, but with what kind of life will those new buildings be filled? What new life will the people of this city find at St. Michael’s? Will this be a place where people come back to life again?

On the edge of the village, among the tombs, in the midst of St. Michael’s Jesus is crying with a loud voice, “Lazarus come out.” The air crackles. The earth trembles…Love is come again.

The average height of an American woman is 5’ 4”, and the average height of an American man is 5’ 9”. Recently studies have been done on the beneficial effect of height upon self-esteem, romance, and success. Every inch above the average height adds an extra $1,000 to annual income. A recent study by two Princeton economists attempts to prove that the reason taller people make more money is that they are smarter than short people. Taller candidates usually win the presidency, so it looks like Obama is the one.

Fortunately for me, my mother was advised by my pediatrician – who knew I’d never be tall - to treat me as if I were normal. It worked. I’ve never thought of myself as small. In fact, I think I’m quite large, at least inside. You will be happy to know that your Rector and your Associate Rector are the same height as many great people: Ludwig von Beethoven, Salvador Dali, Dustin Hoffman, and King Tutankhamun. So don’t even think about reducing our salaries.

You obviously don’t see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but you look on the heart – just as the prophet Samuel was told to do by the Lord in our first reading today. Samuel and the Lord were peeved with King Saul because in wiping out the Amalekites, as God ordered him to do, he didn’t kill every living thing: he spared the best animals for sacrificial worship. This is one of those charming Old Testament stories we’re all so fond of. Anyway, a new king was to be chosen.

The Lord sent the prophet Samuel to the least of Israel’s tribe, to the least important family of that tribe, to the least of the family’s sons, David. This short young man wasn’t even invited to the family meeting with the prophet. He was out tending sheep. But he was sent for, and anointed as the new king of Israel. He was chosen because God saw him not as mortals see, not by appearance or stature, but by looking into the heart.

This is the same issue of the gospel today. Jesus heals a blind man, who sees Jesus’ heart, who recognizes him as the Messiah. He and his parents are questioned sharply by the religious authorities in the synagogue, but he stands firm. In fact, he turns the tables and interrogates them.

The Pharisees cannot see who Jesus really is, because he doesn’t fit their preconception of what a Messiah is supposed to be. They perceive only the unimpressive appearance and stature of Jesus, not a powerful deliverer of Israel. The poor beggar is the one who sees as God sees. He looks into the heart of Jesus and sees God. As Jesus said, I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.

This is one of the great themes of the whole gospel of John. As we’ve been discussing at the 10:15 Sunday class, this gospel claims that Jesus came into the world in order to reveal God’s glory. In John’s gospel, new life comes not by imitating Jesus the rabbi, but by seeing Christ for who he is, and by becoming one with him. In John’s gospel, Jesus doesn’t say follow me; he says come to me, drink my living water, eat my bread of life.

The lowly, like the blind man, saw Jesus with the eyes of God and were given the light of new life. The powerful ones, like the authorities of the synagogue, rejected him, killed him, and continued to live in darkness. It is a cosmic drama, played out through the Christ story, a mystery play of good and evil, truth and lies, life and death, God and the devil.

Now it is easy to dismiss all this as a dualistic myth. It is certainly true that the author of John takes this theme to an extreme, ending up with a Jesus who in some ways is inconsistent with the Jesus of the other gospels, condemning those who don’t accept him.

But John’s also got something. He was writing out of a profound spiritual experience that his community had. They saw Jesus with spiritual eyes, as the Risen Lord who was within them and among them. Like St. Paul, they were less concerned about the biography and teaching of Jesus of Nazareth, and more concerned about being transformed by the presence of the living Christ within them. For them, when they placed their trust in Jesus, he lived through them and made them new people. He resurrected them spiritually.

And so when they wrote their gospel, they portrayed Jesus as they knew him. He revealed the glory of God to them. He was living water to them, the bread of life, the Good Shepherd, the light of the world. Jesus and the Father were one for them. To come to Jesus was to pass through a portal into the life of God. They just went a little too far in making this the only portal.

Some 50 of you are currently attending the video/discussion series Saving Jesus. It is a presentation by some of the contemporary New Testament scholars who emphasize the historical Jesus of Galilee – who he might have really been, what he might have really taught. This is Jesus the teacher, the rabbi, the human who calls other humans to follow him, to live as he lived.

Some of these scholars entirely dismiss the Christ of John’s gospel. They say that the historical Jesus would never have pointed to himself as divine, that all these “I am” statements are not historically accurate. They’re probably right about that. But then they take the next step and conclude that because this image of Jesus is not historical, it is worthless, or even destructive. We should throw out the Creeds, the doctrine of the Trinity, the importance of believing in Christ, and anything about Jesus that smacks of the supernatural, including walking on water and being transfigured on a mountaintop. We’re left with a human teacher.

They insist on seeing Jesus as mortals see him. If it is supernatural, it can’t be true. If it can’t be proven historically, it didn’t happen. If it isn’t like our experience, it isn’t real. Seeing Jesus only as mortals see him, we conclude that he is like us, and we exclude anything otherworldly about him.

But when we look upon Jesus’ heart, we see as God sees. We see him as the icon of God, a window through which we are able to glimpse the unfathomable mystery of the divine. We see in him as the light of the world, come to illuminate our darkness. We see him as the Word made flesh, revealing the glory of God’s glory, full of grace and truth. Why couldn’t a person whom God fully inhabited walk on water, or multiply loaves and fishes to feed a multitude? Why couldn’t he turn into pure light on a mountaintop?

Leave aside the excesses of John’s gospel, the exclusive and condemning tone. But don’t throw out the baby with the bath water. Know that John and his community wrote out of a very real encounter with the Risen Christ, and here is the key thing: this mystical encounter was just as real and just as historical as the experience of earlier disciples who walked with Jesus around the shores of Lake Galilee.

So pray to Jesus, gazing at an icon of his face. Receive the Eucharist with devotion to him. Kiss a crucifix on your wall. Ask Jesus this day, every day, to guide you into all truth. You will find that he will live in you, and he will make possible what you cannot do alone. By looking upon Jesus not just as mortals do, but as God does, by looking into his heart, he will take you into God’s heart. Millions of faithful Christians have proved this by doing it over the centuries. This is the Christ of Paul’s letters and John’s gospel, the Christ of the Creeds. This Christ is the mirror image of Jesus of Nazareth. They are, in fact, one and the same person.

We know this because of the things that the divine Christ leads us into are the exact same things that the human Jesus leads us into: mercy, compassion, justice, humility, brother- and sisterhood, forgiveness, healing, peace of mind, and union with God.

So in the end, it may not matter whether you try to follow the teachings of the human Jesus, or you come to the divine Christ and place your trust in him. Perhaps, like many of us, you could try doing both. He will, in either case, lead you into the quality of life he called the kingdom of God. He will resurrect you.

To many of us, the story we have just heard is familiar: the woman at the well. Usually, we focus on Jesus in this story. He broke custom by speaking publicly with a woman, a hated Samaritan at that. He offered her living water, that is, himself. He pointed out her 5 marriages and current live-in boyfriend, and in doing so held her accountable and also completely accepted her. He identified himself as the Messiah.

But this year when I read the story I saw it from the point of view of the woman at the well. Who was she? What was her response to Jesus, and why? How did he affect her? What might that say about our response to Jesus?

First of all, she was one of the Samaritans, Jews who had broken off from mainstream Judaism some 400 years before Jesus. The schism was partly about whether the temple should be in Jerusalem or on Mount Gerazim, where today, the 700 remaining Jewish Samaritans still live.

In Jesus’ day, there was widespread prejudice against the Samaritans, which is why his story about the Good Samaritan is so surprising. And so Jesus and his disciples were in unfriendly territory that day; they were among traditional enemies.

The woman had also been married 5 times. We don’t know if every husband died, whether they left her, or anything else. But we do know that she was living with another man at the time. So in the village, she probably had a reputation.

She also was very outspoken. She boldly questioned this itinerant rabbi, asking him first why she spoke to him and asked her for water, since they were enemies. She went on, making strong declarative statements: “Give me this living water you’re talking about. I see that you’re a prophet. I know the Messiah is coming.”
And then she went and spoke boldly to her own people: “Come see a man who told me everything I have ever done.” This was no shrinking violet.

But what is really interesting to me is what happened to her in this conversation. She was open to what Jesus was saying, and far more perceptive than Jesus’ own disciples. After all, they came back later to the scene and when Jesus told them he had food that they didn’t know about, they thought someone had slipped him a sandwich. He was speaking metaphorically. The woman at the well, by contrast, was drawn in to this business of living water. She recognized that he might be the Messiah, and told everyone so.

The villagers came to see, and because they believed in her convincing testimony, they asked Jesus to stay with them a few days and teach them. The woman at the well is the first person in the gospel of John who really gets Jesus. She is the first real apostle, bringing other people to faith in Christ. Imagine that - the first apostle was a woman, and a Samaritan, no less!

Because of this woman’s testimony, something remarkable happened. Hostilities between traditional Jews and Samaritan Jews that had simmered for 400 years were overcome that day. Jesus and his disciples went into the enemy village and stayed a few days, talking with them about God. They ate together, probably healed some people, and shared in the gift of God’s love.

As Jesus pointed out to her, worship isn’t about place – Jerusalem or Mount Gerazim – it’s about spirit and truth, for God is spirit. They became one in spirit and truth, and it was all because a bold woman opened her heart to this stranger.

This little story is a microcosm of what the whole gospel of John is about. We’re studying John’s gospel at the 10:15 Sunday class now, and we’re seeing how the main message of this gospel is Jesus coming to the world in order to bring about unity.

Some receive him and become children of God – they find unity with God and one another. Others reject him, with the result of conflict and violence. At the end of this gospel, Jesus’ last words to his disciples are in the form of a farewell prayer: As you, Father, are in me and I in you, may they also be in us...so that they may be one, as we are one…so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.

Yesterday I went to see a film about the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947, at the time of Indian independence. Communities were ripped apart as Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs all slaughtered one another. A million people died in the carnage as irrational prejudice and hatred spilled over. Many more millions fled for their lives, going to places where they could be safely a part of the majority.

As we left the theatre, my friends and I asked ourselves why is this so typical of us the humans? Why do Sunnis and Shiites project so much evil on to one another, Jews and Palestinians, Serbians and Albanians, or for that matter, Anglos and Hispanics, Americans and suspected terrorists? Why haven’t we learned our lesson?

Why must we go on hating, assuming the worst, excluding people whom we don’t like, and killing? Why do we ever think this will actually work? Why are so many followers of Jesus Christ perfectly okay with waging war against other human beings? How is it that we’re even debating what levels of torture we can legally employ? The whole damn thing is so primitive, so tribal, so opposite of what Jesus lived and asked us to do.

It’s easy enough to say “well, ‘twas ever thus and ever shall be; we live in the real world, and must be practical” and go on with the ancient violence. But Jesus came to show us another way. Blessed are the peacemakers, he said. Love your enemy. Do good to those who persecute you. Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.

Jesus did all this in times just as dangerous as our own, but he didn’t use that as an excuse. He could have said “well, ‘twas ever thus,” but he didn’t. He came to help us understand that we are already one with God and we are one with one another, and therefore the only force that will work, in the long run, is love and reconciliation.

You can’t destroy darkness with more darkness; one can only shine light into it. To prove that this is practical in the real world, Jesus took his disciples into a Samaritan village and lived there for two days with their enemies. To prove that this is costly, he gave his own life.

This hits home when we begin to examine our own attitudes about our enemies. It comes down to this: Who is a Samaritan for you? Who are you afraid of? We all carry some prejudices; what are yours?

Who, in your mind, should be kicked out, shut up, locked down, done away with? Whose point of view is not worth even considering? Is it Christians who say that Jesus would approve of torture and war in some circumstances? Is it Republicans? Evangelicals? Liberals? So-called “orthodox” Anglicans? Undocumented workers? Militant Muslims? Someone at the office? Someone in your own family?

When we open the eyes of faith, as did that bold woman at the well, we see God in everything, in everyone. We understand that we are never apart from God, for God is always everywhere. We know that we can never really have enemies, for all are united in the same Spirit, all are infused with the love of God – whether they know it or not; everyone is our sister, our brother. As we promise several times a year in the baptismal covenant, we will respect the dignity of every person, loving our neighbor as ourselves.

John’s gospel tells us that Jesus came as light into a dark world. Those who have eyes to see him for who he is, like the Samaritan woman, are given abundant life. Living with Christ, we wake up in him and experience the underlying unity of God and all creation, and treat everyone as if this is really so. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.

Wars will continue. People calling themselves friends of God will still kill and torture. Prejudice will persevere. The darkness will always be with us. But so will the light.

So the question is, are you going to contribute to the darkness or the light? Are you going to really be open to hear what Jesus says, and then do the radical thing that he asks, to live in spirit and in truth, whether or not it seems practical, whether or not there is a cost in doing so?

That bold woman at the well is offered to us as the first example of faithful discipleship, someone who opened her mind and heart to Jesus, and then let him lead her and her whole community into reconciliation. This Lent, as we call to mind our own need for reconciliation, we give thanks for this nameless woman and pray for the grace to be so bold.

In the season of Lent, which we began a few days ago with Ash Wednesday, we are invited to deal with some of the temptations in our life. The two main stories in scripture today are about temptation, of course.

Both stories offer very tempting lies, lies that we sometimes live by, lies that have harmful consequences. But by contrast, they also provide a very simple and profound truth, and it is this:
There is a spiritual dimension to life;
it will forever be mysterious and beyond our control;
but it is the only thing that satisfies.

In the first temptation of Christ in the wilderness the deceiver, as the devil is also known, offers the lie of materialism. He says to Jesus Look, you’re hungry. It’s a hungry world. Turn these stones into bread and feed everybody. You want to know how to do God’s will in this world?

Is that what you’re out here trying to discern, after your baptism? It’s easy. Use your power to make the world a better place. Food, jobs, houses, prosperity, freedom from the Romans: these are the things that matter, aren’t they? Put your energies there. You can make it all happen.

To which Jesus replies It is written, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” The deceiver says that the material world is all that matters. Jesus says that there is a spiritual dimension to life, and it matters more than anything.

Two or three times a year I go to visit my mother, back to where I grew up: the San Francisco Bay Area. As much as I love it, I frequently feel a deep sadness when I’m there, a kind of soul-sickness. I look around and all I see is shiny, aggressive materialism.

Everything has to be the absolute best: the best coffee, food, and wine; the best car, interior design and landscaping; the best stores, culture, and entertainment; the best vacation destinations, and the best in personal grooming. And if you live in this world, if you devote yourself exclusively to it, you are promised security, peace of mind, and joy. What you get, in fact, is nothing but anxiety, and a hunger for more things to fill the emptiness inside. This is the same lie that network television promotes. It is the lie of American consumerism.

But this lie is not limited to consumerism. We really believe that if the difficult person in our office would just stop being difficult, if we had a little more free time or money, if our health were better, if things were the way we want them to be, then we could be happy.

This is a form of materialism, because it places our total trust in external realities, and it never delivers. It is a lie. Living like this, we allow ourselves to be jerked up and down, up and down, depending on how things are going for us.

To this Jesus responds One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God. He says, in effect, there is a spiritual dimension to life. God is. The Spirit is. We are spiritual beings. When we open our heart in prayer, we release spiritual energy, wisdom, and love that is always there, just beneath the surface of things.

I have learned (the hard way, of course) how easy and how critical it is to pray my way through the day. When I open my mind and my heart to the Spirit and ask for guidance so that I can prepare a sermon, visit someone who is deathly ill, navigate my way through a potential mine field among staff or parishioners, or try to figure out how to raise enough money to do what we do, it is amazing what happens.

Ideas come. The right people show up. Enough money is given. I’m centered enough to handle what is before me in a more gracious way.

When we live knowing that there is a spiritual dimension to life, when we open our mind and heart to this reality, we enter the current of the Spirit, and it always takes us to good places. As Jesus said Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you (Matthew 7:7). As St. Paul said Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances (1 Thessalonians 5:16-22).

The second temptation of the deceiver was this: [He] took [Jesus] to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you.’” Essentially, the temptation was to believe only in a God who behaves according to our expectations. To this Jesus replied Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

In the last year, I took two graduate classes at UNM, and it was surprising to me to see just how intellectually unfashionable belief in God has become. Many times students spoke condescendingly, making fun of the fairy tale of a magic, invisible, divine being: “Nobody is going to step in and save you or make the world better. That’s a fantasy. If there were a God, he or she would be more obvious, and the world would be a different place.”

Atheists are not the only ones who demand that God behave according to our expectations in order for us to give permission for God to exist. We do it all the time.

We doubt because we can’t figure out why God allows bad things to happen; we get confused when we’re trying our best to be faithful and things don’t work out the way we want them to; we don’t know why we often feel so distant from God. We want God to behave on our terms, to be the kind of God that we want - our faith can even become contingent upon this self-centered proof when we aren’t willing to consider anything else.

Do not put the Lord your God to the test, Jesus said. Do not try to reduce God to what you can conceive or approve of. Allow God to be both very real to you and beyond your comprehension. And so the second part of the truth given to us today is this: the spiritual dimension to life will forever be mysterious, and beyond our control.

Faith asks us to trust in someone who gives no guarantees, no crystal ball, no plan. It’s like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where our intrepid hero, hotly pursued by the enemy, steps out on a narrow ledge over a great chasm. The only way is forward. His secret map tells him that there is an invisible bridge there that will only appear if he steps on it. He risks it all, and escapes. We, too, are asked to place our trust in something that cannot be proven, and is beyond our control.

Which brings us, finally, to the last temptation. This one is found in both the gospel and the Hebrew story of the Garden of Eden. It is the temptation to be entirely self-sufficient, and not place our trust in the Spirit of God.

The snake in the garden - and by the way it doesn’t say that this is the devil, just a talking snake - says to Eve If you eat the fruit from the tree, you won’t die; you’ll become like God, knowing good and evil. Well, what’s so bad about knowing good and evil? Aren’t we supposed to discern between them, to seek wisdom?

The problem is when we rely only upon our own power to make every decision, to discern our own way through every problem. The problem is when we think that we are free to make up our own mind, based upon our fears, our politics, what our friends or the guy on the radio says, with no consideration of God’s higher authority, no thought about what the scriptures say.

We forget that we are marked as Christ’s own forever in baptism, and we make decisions based upon considerations that have nothing to do with what Jesus asks of us. The lie is this: If you eat the fruit from the tree, you won’t die; you’ll become like God, knowing good and evil.

In whom shall we place our trust? God wanted Adam and Eve to be naked, vulnerable, in that garden, to rely upon God for everything. Jesus said Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him. Our call is to learn how to place all our trust in God and Christ’s ways and to live accordingly.

We do this by immersing ourselves in the scriptures, in the faith community, and in prayer, listening carefully, and then acting on what we hear. As Jesus said Blessed are those who hear the word of God and obey it! If we worship God and serve Christ’s ways, we will not be disappointed. God will lead us into peace, righteousness and truth. And so the third part of scripture’s message to us today is that reliance upon God is the only thing that satisfies.

On this first Sunday of Lent, we are asked to consider what temptations, what lies we tend to believe in but which will never deliver: materialism, the demand that God be what we expect, and self-sufficiency. And by contrast, we are also reminded of the truth that will never fail us:

There is a spiritual dimension to life;
it will forever be mysterious and beyond our control;
but it is the only thing that satisfies.

In New Orleans this Last Sunday of Epiphany before Lent begins is called Mardi Gras Sunday or Sundi Gras as we playfully dubbed it. Service times are moved up so the faithful can find parking spots and make it into church before the crowds show up for the 5 or 6 parades that roll that day on the traditional St. Charles Ave. Route like Toth, Tucks, Carrolton, Orpheus and more. You can hear the marching bands from the church and feel the excitement in the air.

Those Sundays were filled with Jazz and Dixie land in the Eucharist, Grillades and Grits down stairs in the parish hall, crowds filing past the church doors with lawn chairs and coolers to stake out a place along the parade route. It was a day we often scheduled baptisms and had what was a unique liturgical moment we called the beading of the baptized which meant that stands of white beads were placed on the newly baptized along with their family. Children would walk the aisles handing out white beads to the congregation at the peace. It was a festive day and always on that day the strange and beautiful reading of the Transfiguration of Jesus on the Mountain, his face shining was part of the celebration. Just as those who emerged from the waters of the font were shining in our midst with droplets of water and the oil of chrism on their faces.

As I pondered this supernatural story of Jesus being revealed in Glory as God’s Beloved Son, a title for this sermon came into my mind – “A Tumble with the Divine.” When I told my wife about the sermon title, she was a bit incredulous but figured it was St. Michael’s and I could probably get away with it.

Oh yes, I am aware that a sermon title like “A Tumble with the Divine” might indeed carry with it sexual overtones. I am however not the least bit scandalized by this idea being in good company with the Christian mystics, who throughout the ages, have spoken of union with God as the highest of callings for all humans. However, that is not why I chose the title.

I chose the title “A Tumble with the Divine” because in Eastern Orthodox Icons depicting the Transfiguration, the three disciples are pictured tumbling down the mountain, overwhelmed, bowled over by the Glory of God revealed to them in the person of Jesus. You can see several reproductions of Transfiguration icons on the banco behind me that offer an opportunity for prayer and reflection during the service today. For a moment the three disciples caught a glimpse of the divine. But that is to get a little ahead of ourselves.

The Transfiguration is not an easy passage to talk about. Jesus himself didn’t speak of it and he charged the disciples not to speak of it either. Matthew presents it as an intensely private, encounter between Jesus and God, so private that only a few of his most trusted disciples were allowed the experience. The mysterious meeting across time and dimensions is made even more so by the swirling clouds that hide some of it from the disciples view.

Modern scholars question the placement of this story seeing in it a post-resurrection encounter with the Christ placed earlier for literary impact as a foreshadowing. Modern readers find it difficult for though it has the form of a historical narrative its otherworldly content points to a mystery, a mystery beyond the reach of historical reconstruction or scientific verification. What is clear is that this story is not just trying to tell us something about the historical Jesus, the peasant prophet storyteller and itinerant healer who fell afoul of the Roman justice system and was crucified as a royal pretender and subversive charismatic leader. The story of the Transfiguration is trying to draw us into something deeper, deeper into the experience of Jesus as he was experienced by the community that grew up and was shaped by his person. For me deeper means trying to find my way into the story, to lose myself in its mystery.

Three of Jesus’ disciples are bidden to come with Jesus to a high mountain, apart by themselves. We are not let in on his reasons, only that he desired for them to be with him. This high mountain has traditionally been identified as Mt. Tabor in southern Galilee, though it rises only a few hundred feet above the plain it provides an excellent vantage point to see the vast panorama of southern part of the Upper Galilee, about 6 miles from Nazareth, a part of the world that Jesus knew and loved. Even today the faithful make their way here on religious pilgrimage just as countless others have for centuries.

Mountains, high places are important in scripture as places that symbolize the border zone between earth and heaven, between the material and the spiritual. The Irish, my people, call them “thin places” places where the veil between this world and the next is so sheer that it is easy to step through. If you’ve been in one of these places yourself you know what I’m talking about. They may be in ancient places, at holy wells, or shrines, or windswept peaks, but they may also be in hungry eyes of child who needs a chance to go to school, or in the moment of decision to reach out and help, or on the yoga mat in the cool of the morning. No matter where one finds them they are electric with connection these border zones. These “thin places” are places are where we become strangely alive to the divine, suddenly open, surprisingly aware of something beyond ourselves.

That is where Peter, James and John found themselves on Mt. Tabor after a 45 minute climb. Their hearts were pounding, they were winded but intensely alive as they took in the view around them, light dancing on the valley below changing with every moment the wind whipping their hair.

We don’t know which one of them eventually took the risk of sharing the story with the Gospel writer, but the details are clear and unmistakable. First the memory of his face shining like the sun and his clothes, blazing white – filling them with awe and terror. There is no terror like that of the utterly familiar suddenly changing in front of us, revealing things we have never expected. Then there was the realization that they were no longer alone on this high place. They were witnessing with God-given ability some kind of visitation across time and space. We have little description, no record of the images or pictures that led them to their recognition of Moses and Elijah. We are told only that their friend and teacher, Jesus, was engaged in a conversation with the most revered persons of old.

The three disciples look on in wonder, spectators viewing a meeting across worlds and time, like children griped by the subtle pain and joy of beauty. In this thin place, they do not know what to say or what to do. Silently they watch the veil between heaven and earth lift for an instant and that is enough to overwhelm them with wonder, they could not handle more.

Peter, the extrovert, breaks the spell, speaking to Jesus wanting to say something, to do something, to be helpful. Is it time to build, to memorialize the event, enshrine the moment, of this visitation that is like nothing he has ever experienced? He wants to hold on to the mystery to harness this glory and terror. But, no it cannot be that way. Without divine help, Peter cannot comprehend.

Suddenly a cloud covers the mountain, a thick mist blowing over the summit. The vision is hidden from view and you begin to regain your senses. And then a voice comes out of the bright cloud speaking to your mind something strange and wonderful. What you sensed in your heart is now made overwhelmingly clear that the friend you climbed this mountain with is far more than any friend, he is himself a mystery for which no language exists save that of awe and worship and holy terror.

And this of course is the moment that the Orthodox Icon of the Transfiguration endeavors to capture, the disciples tumbling on the ground, overcome by fear, overwhelmed by the divine.

Moments later it is the human touch of their friend and master Jesus that brings them back to earth, comforting them and dispelling their fears. And it is this line of the Gospels that is meant to summarize their experience, “And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.” It is Jesus, in his humanity that calms their fears. It is Jesus’ presence with them not only in the mysterious but in the mundane that wakes them to life again.

Peter, James and John descend the mountain with Jesus. They do not share their experience with others. No, the three disciples treasure this experience in their hearts as food for the journey ahead. Its power and grace will sustain them in the days to come, the days of Jesus’ arrest, trial and execution. They will eventually share this strange experience when the time is ripe. In the days of the resurrection they will remember that mountain-top and the light of transfiguration because they will witness it again.

This powerful story of the Transfiguration will evoke different responses in each of us. You may quite literally have encountered moments of transfiguration of which the story itself reminds you You may feel as though you are ready for a trip up the mountain and a tumble with God. Perhaps you are in pain waiting for the human touch of Jesus to bring you back to your senses. More than likely you are scared witless by this story, lest God actually get your attention through the brightness of his presence. No matter where you are the important thing is the willingness to search for, to be open to those moments when something in our own lives is lit by a light beyond ourselves - to find those thin places where the Divine Glory can send you tumbling in awe and wonder, to let God have his way with you. It can be in our experiences of beauty, of nature, of intimacy, of worship, of prayer, of compassion, or self-giving. The divine will not be limited or tamed – transfiguration can come in many guises.

Like Peter, we will want to hold on to the moment. But this is not possible, for just as with Peter a cloud will come obscuring our view and bringing us back to our senses, back to the earthly. But if we listen closely there may be a voice speaking to us out of the cloud, and we will know that the Lord is with us. And what is more we will have been given if only for a brief moment a vision of the “beauty of God”. And it will be enough, to have looked on that beauty and to have been changed by it. And it will be enough because we know that we can look at such beauty for no more than a moment. If it were ours for longer, we would not be able to bear it. For even a moment of God’s Glory is enough to send us tumbling down the mountain in awe and wonder – never to be the same again. Amen.

This is part one of a two-part sermon. I’d like to talk these two Sundays about where I think God might be calling us to go next in our continuing evolution as a community. I’m leading up to next week, our Annual Parish Meeting, and I felt I needed more than just one sermon to address this topic.

The scripture readings for these two weeks are all about being called. Today God calls Israel to be a light to the nations; Paul is called to be an apostle and the members of the church in Corinth are called to be saints; Andrew and Simon Peter are called to be disciples of Jesus.

Every person of faith is called. Each of us is called to be in relationship with our Creator; we are called to grow spiritually; and we are called to serve our brothers and sisters in this world. In our own unique ways, we are each called to be a light to the world.

What is true of every individual is also true of every faith community, including St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church. We are called to be in relationship with God together; we are called to grow spiritually together; and we are called to serve others together. As a community, we are called to be a light to the world.

So much for generalities: what are the specifics of that call, today, for us as a parish? Well, to answer that, it might help to have some context. We are now 58 years old, and have a long history of being a diverse place, with a strong emphasis on helping our individual members live out their spirituality in authentic ways. This is an important part of our corporate vocation, and we will continue to live into that call.

But I believe another calling is now before us. If we respond to this calling, we will even more of a light to our diocese, our city, and beyond, for generations to come.

Picture, if you will, a solid foundation of hundreds of faithful individuals. That’s what we are: a strong bedrock of people who have, for years, been growing spiritually in an atmosphere that is forward-thinking and yet traditional, open-minded, diverse, challenging, real.

Now picture us working together to build on top of this foundation a kind of structure that houses activities that are accessible, well-organized and well-funded, all designed to help people move more deeply into faith and service. Over decades to come, people enter this structure and are welcomed into these activities, welcomed into a community that not only encourages them to grow spiritually, but knows how to help them grow.

I’m asking you to imagine broadening our emphasis on faith development by individuals, to emphasize faith development through community. I’m asking you to imagine more effective ministries. I’m saying we are called to more mature ministry that will be characterized by accessibility, depth, and consistency. In short, it is time to join our individual lights together, in order to be a more powerful combined light to the world.

Two years ago, your Vestry and I had a vision of significantly developing our education, spirituality, fellowship, and outreach. We felt it was time to grow up, as it were, from a parish that had a rather informal and spotty history of program development to a higher and more formal level of thoughtful planning and organization.

And so we searched for an Associate Rector who could help us fulfill this vision. We found Fr. Christopher McLaren, who obviously has tremendous gifts in this area, among others. He has worked very hard with many of you to do what we’ve asked him to do. People are definitely responding; the need for what we are doing is made obvious by the large number of people who are participating in new offerings. It’s working.

But here’s the rub: our resources – in the form of committed volunteer leadership, office staff, materials, and physical space – have not caught up yet with our vision; they have not yet caught up with the leadership we have in Fr. Christopher.

And so he frequently puts together brochures himself, makes reminder calls, sets up video players, and scrambles to make sure people are there to help run his programs. Every day he runs into limitations in office technology and available staff time. He has to creatively juggle the use of very limited meeting space for 7 different classes on Sunday for various ages, and numerous events during the week and on Saturdays. We’re thin on volunteer leadership, staff, materials, and physical space. Our resources have not yet caught up with what we are called to do, and what we are, in fact, doing.

This is a good problem to have. Leadership should always be a little in front of what is currently possible. Our job is to push the envelope. A parish should never have all the space and money it needs; these are signs of a community that doesn’t challenge itself enough.

I’m also certain that God eventually provides us with the resources to do what he calls us to do. But sometimes we have to do some self-examination to access those resources. Sometimes we have to change our habits.

One of the habits that I think we need to change is to become more realistic about what it takes to provide consistent and effective programs that help people grow in their faith. We begin with this by each one of us asking ourselves whether this is something we value. If we do value it, we then ask if we are willing to commit to it. And what would this commitment, this habit of realism, look like?

More of us will make the connection between the enthusiasm and gratitude we feel for this place and what it takes to run it. More of us will look at the percentage of our monthly income that we give to this parish and see if it accurately reflects the importance that this community has in our lives every month. More of us will look at our investments, wills, and other potential for planned giving to see how we might benefit this community in significant, long-lasting ways. More of us will offer our personal gifts and our time and volunteer to take full responsibility for an area of ministry. More of us will look beyond our own individual spiritual growth and want to provide the same for others not yet here, not yet even born.

The result of this new realism will be powerful; it will enable us to be a stronger, more effective light to the world, through the generations to come, beyond the period of time that you and I are here.

This will not happen overnight. The culture of a parish changes slowly. But this is exactly the right time in our history to begin, because we’ve got a stable, healthy, happy, generous, involved, and sizeable membership. We have strong lay and clergy leadership; and, most of all, we have a solid spiritual foundation. Laid before us is a golden opportunity, and this doesn’t come along too often. Let’s take advantage of it.

We are called, like Isaiah, like Israel, like the church in Corinth, and like all the saints, to be a light to the world. We need resources to live into the next level of this calling. We need to improve our physical facility, we need more lay leadership to step up, we need to add a little staffing, we need to bump up our operating budget and add depth to our endowment. None of these are dramatic in themselves, but they add up.

I’m not talking about radically changing who we are, but simply maturing in how we do church. We can do this. But it will take a change of outlook, a change of culture, a change of many individual habits.

So let’s keep talking to one another about this over the months ahead. For I’ve discovered that when some of us begin putting something positive out into the middle of the community, when we pray about it regularly as individuals and as a group, when we live with the question and don’t settle for easy answers, when we keep talking, things begin to shift. The Spirit moves among us, and we are changed in surprising ways that we cannot plan out ahead of time. The people of God come through.

I trust the process, and I trust that God will provide us what we need to fulfill what we are called to do, if it truly is of God, and if we respond to that call.