Why is the Stone Rolled Away?

Welcome Happy morning!  It is wonderful to gather in our beautiful church to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord.  While it is always a joy to leave behind the rigors of Lent and let forth Alleluias once again, this year brings a special sense of relief for those of us who may need to brush up on our general knowledge of all things religious.  You see, at our weekly Lenten Pot-Luck dinners we had fun playing different game shows: Family Feud, The Pyramid, The Newlywed Game, Jeopardy, and Kahoots.  Each night, while intended to be enjoyable, tested what we know of the bible, the Christian faith, church history, and the Episcopal Church.  The results?  Well, if God evaluates parish priests the way the Commonwealth evaluates teachers based on how their students’ performed on the SOLs, I am in serious trouble.  Let’s just say I should plan on a long-term booking at an extended stay in Purgatory!

On this morning I filled with Easter hope I want to double down.  Based on how well you all answer one simple question, either the penalty for my instructional deficiencies will be forgiven or multiplied.  So please listen closely, take this seriously, make your mark with a #2 pencil, and do your best.  Are you ready?  Here is the question:

Why was the stone sealing Jesus’ tomb rolled away?

Not how, but why?

The answer might seem obvious.  It was rolled away so the Risen Christ could get out.  But before you check this box, let’s take a look at what the bible has to say.  Mark’s was the first Gospel to be written.  Listen to its record:

Very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, [a group of women] went to the tomb.  They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’  When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.  As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.  But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.  He has been raised; he is not here.  Look, there is the place they laid him. 

Lets make a list of the details we find in this account.

· It is early in the morning on the first day of the week.

· A group of women is going to Jesus’ tomb.

· They are anxious about the stone.

· They find the tomb open.

· They enter it, see a young man sitting inside, and are terrified.

· The young man tells them Jesus is risen and encourages them to look around the tomb to see it no longer contains his body.

Luke’s Gospel was written after Mark’s.  Sometimes he draws from it directly, other times he adds new material, and still others he augments Mark’s record:

On the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared.  They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.  While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them.  The women were terrified.

Again we find it is early morning on the first day of the week.  Again, a group of women is going to the tomb.  Luke adds they are carrying burial spices to put on the body.  There is no mention of them being concerned about the stone.  They find the tomb open and enter it.  Jesus’ body is not there.  Luke tells us two men appear beside them and they respond to this with great fear.

John’s Gospel was the last to be written and while it contains a historical record, he was more concerned with meaning than accuracy.  John often arranges events to demonstrate a truth rather than to be a strictly true account of what happened.  Here is what John says:

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.  So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, ‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.’ 

John sets these events even earlier in the morning – before sunrise – and identifies only one woman going to the tomb.  There is no mention she is anxious about the stone sealing it.  When she gets to the tomb it is open.  The text does not indicate she goes inside and she concludes Jesus’ body has been removed and taken to a different location.  There is no one is else present to explain to her what has happened. 

So far we find no direct answer why the stone is rolled away, but it still appears it has been moved so the Risen Christ can get out.  There is one small problem with this choice.  The biblical record indicates Jesus’ resurrected body appears in rooms with locked doors and disappears time and again as mysteriously as he enters.  His body is no longer inhibited by physical barriers.  The implication is staggering: the stone blocking the opening of the tomb could not and would not prevent the resurrected Christ from leaving.  So why was it moved?

We have one more Gospel to help us.  Matthew, like Luke, draws from Mark’s account.  Like Luke, he copies parts, adds parts, and augments parts.  Listen to Matthew’s description of what happens:

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb.  And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it.  His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow.  For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men.  But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified.  He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay.”

Matthew has the same time and day as the others.  He has a group of women.  There is no mention of their being anxious about the stone.  He adds the new detail of soldiers guarding the tomb.  But his most startling addition involves the women and soldiers witnessing an angel descend from heaven who causes something like an earthquake and rolls back the stone. The guards are the ones who are terrified.  The angel announces the tomb is empty and invites to women to enter in to see for themselves.

Matthew’s Gospel is the only one recording the tomb is already empty when the stone is rolled away.  The other three do not address the matter directly, but leave open the possibility this is how it happened.  The implication and answer to our question is this: The stone was rolled away not to let Jesus out, but rather to allow the women (and other subsequent visitors) to enter in to see for themselves it is empty.

Easter, for Jesus’ followers, begins with an empty tomb.  There is much confusion and a good deal of fear as what has happened.  In the biblical record not a single one of Jesus’ closest followers believes he is risen until they meet him face-to-face.  The empty tomb raises profound questions and concerns that are settled only by meeting the Resurrected Christ.

Today, nearly 2,000 years later, the stone is rolled away from the tomb and you and I are invited to look inside.  We are invited to see Jesus’ crucified body is no longer there.  And we are invited anew to ponder what has happened and what it means.  May the Risen Christ be manifested to each of us so we can experience anew the miraculous power of the Resurrection and Easter faith in our lives. 

The stone has been rolled away so you can look in and see the tomb is empty. 

Judas & a Woman I once Met



Allow me to read for you a poem by Georgie Starbuck Galbraith titled “Old Tears in Galilee.”  Listen closely and see if you can figure out whose tears are being described:

No woman has ever borne a child

and worshipped his eyes and the way he smiled,

and reacted with pride at his first clear word;

Who bound up his hurts and loved his absurd

fierce concentration, watching a spider;

Who saw him grow till he stood beside her,

straight and tall as a mountain pine;

No woman who had a son like mine

ever believed that aught than good

could come of this fruit of her motherhood –

no woman ever believed – not I!

That this life of her life was born to die as mine,

going down from Nazareth to Jerusalem

and sorrow and death.

Do you think you know yet who is speaking these words?  Keep listening…

Some say he was wrong, some say he was right

in the way he did that dark spring night.

I only know what is done is done,

and I weep for Judas… I weep for my son.

Galbraith’s poem startles us by challenging us to see the humanity of Judas.  It asks us to see him as someone who was loved by his mother, and from there to recall how he was a friend to the other disciples and a champion of social causes – especially to God’s call to care for the poor.  John, in his gospel, reminds us Jesus thought enough of Judas to wash his feet and to share with him the bread and wine of Last Supper – all the while knowing what was in his heart.

We may want to see Judas only as being one of the chief villains in all human history, but Galbraith’s poem challenges us to realize even he brought light into the world.  And Jesus loved Judas   not just those aspects that were good, but all of Judas; from the dirt on his feet (which he washed on the night of his arrest) to the darkness in his soul (which he knew all too well would led to history’s most infamous betrayal). 

Bill Stafford, in his book Disordered Loves: Healing the Seven Deadly Sins writes this:

Medieval preachers pointed out that Peter sinned almost as greatly by denying Christ as Judas had sinned by betraying him.  Could not Judas have repented?  God will forgive any sin.  In fact, they pointed out, Judas even followed the steps of repentance: he confessed his sin to the priests – “I have betrayed innocent blood” – and made restitution – flinging back the thirty pieces of silver.  But Judas, unlike Peter, did not stay with the other disciples and open himself to God’s mercy.  Still, rejecting, still withdrawn, certain of his damnation, he went out and hanged himself.

Have you ever pondered this before?  Unlike Peter, Judas did not return to the disciples and to the community of faith.  Rather, he cut himself off from the place where God’s mercy is made known.  Perhaps this is the only real difference between Peter and Judas.  Though his sin was great, Peter remained in the community and it was here the Risen Christ met him and it was here he received the grace necessary to go on with his life forgiven and healed.

I was fresh out of seminary in 1987 and hired to assist the rector of a parish on the shores of Lake Erie.  He tasked me with visiting lapsed members and there were a lot of people on the parish rolls who fell into this unhappy classification.  Each afternoon I went off to knock on the doors of two or three people who had not been involved in the parish for a number of years.

I will never forget calling on one woman who was in her seventies.  While I don’t recall her name, I remember much of the gist of our conversation.  I led off with my typical opening, “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”  She responded, “Well, my husband died in 1958.”  Now, I wasn’t born until 1959 and it shocked me to think over the entire span of my life nothing had happened in her life significant enough to mention before this.

At some point our conversation came around to her history with the church.  Some twenty years before a previous rector angered her when he refused to baptize her grandchild because the family now lived out-of-state and did not attend a church.  She was so angered by his decision she stopped attending church all together, even though there are hundreds of other churches in the Cleveland area – dozens of them Episcopal – which she could have joined.

What was the effect, I wondered, of her turning away from the community of faith?  Perhaps at the time it made some sort of impression on the community as a whole.  Maybe she gave a handsome pledge or served on the Altar Guild or was the driving force behind a yearly event.  The fallout happened so long ago there was no way for me to know if her leaving registered in the life of the parish. 

However, it was evident the decision for her was catastrophic.  It was almost as if her life had stopped.  Nothing meaningful had happened to her in 29 years to heal the devastation of losing her husband.  No flower given, no book read, no prayer offered, no service rendered, no task completed, no grace received in nearly three decades was significant enough to alter her self-identity.  As I pondered the many wonders, joys, sorrows, and blessings that filled my years over the same course of time I wanted to weep for that woman.  But hers was a self-imposed prison and the gates unlocked only from her side of the door.

Did her life come to a standstill because she left the community of faith or did she leave the community of faith because her life came to a standstill?  I can’t really say.  Either way this much is certain, like Judas, when she left the community of faith she turned away from the most likely place she could find God’s grace manifested in our world. 

There is an old folk tale about Judas that holds he gradually comes to himself sometime after his death.  Regaining consciousness he finds himself in utter darkness, lying flat on his face on dank ground oozing with filth.  He is exhausted.  For a thousand years he lays there agonizing over what he has done.  Then with a groan he rolls over and, face up for the first time, he sees a tiny point of light high above him.  He realizes he is in a deep pit – a hole with sheer sides made of slime and mud.  For 5,000 years he climbs, groping upward and sliding back down.  At the end of 5,000 years, his hand grips the top edge of the hole, and he pulls himself out until he lays grasping on the ground above.  After another thousand years he regains his strength and looks up and sees Jesus and the eleven, sitting at a table, resplendent in glory.  There is one vacant seat at the table.  Jesus looks at him and says, “Judas, we have been waiting for you.  Come and take your seat.”

Today, as we gather in the shadow of the Cross, we consider what is cost to form the Christian community of faith.  Our Lord and Savior paid for it with his very life, but he considered the grace and mercy made known through it to be worth the sacrifice.  For some, this day is a call to return to what Christ’s death makes possible.  For others it is a call to continue to extend to all the love and grace and mercy made known to us in and through this place.  For all, it is a call to remember no one is beyond God’s love.  Christ’s arms stretched out on the Cross are open wide to embrace the whole world.

Facing the Truth

Today’s gospel lesson falls between two significant events – Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead and the Passover festival.  As Jesus’ closest followers and friends gather in the home of two of his most ardent supporters, both of these events surely are the talk of all present.  They wonder if Jesus has power over even death, what mighty act will happen when he goes to Jerusalem for the Passover. 

For months now, ever since the execution of John the Baptist, Jesus has been telling his followers he will die when they go to the holy city.  His grim vision is part pragmatic hunch (the powers that be surely will not let someone like him live, given his potential for mobilizing the people against them) and part divine revelation (Moses and Elijah talk with him about it during the Transfiguration).  But every time he brings up the subject, Jesus’ followers are resistant to hearing it.  They seem to think he will go to Jerusalem and become a king.  They even discuss/argue what will be their individual positions of power and prestige in this new order.  While Jesus harshly squelches any such talk, it surely is the topic of hushed conversation for those gathered at Bethany in the home of Mary and Martha.

You will remember this is not the first time the sisters have hosted Jesus.  At a previous visit Martha becomes annoyed with Mary who is sitting at Jesus’ feet listening to his teaching while she alone shoulders the burden of preparing a meal for all the guests.  In today’s reading, Martha is in the kitchen once again while Mary reclines discretely at Jesus’ feet.  Of all the people in the house, Mary alone appears to hear and believe what Jesus is saying about dying.  It is not what she wants, but she accepts it is what is to come.  We know this because of the sign she performs.  She rubs Jesus’ feet with a burial anointment she has purchased to use after his impending death.

Facing the truth, when the truth is difficult, is never easy. 

I have a clear memory of an early afternoon day in June 1980 someone tracked me down at a summer job in my college town to tell me my father had suffered a massive heart attack and was in intensive care.  To the astonishment of his doctors, he survived and even came home for a brief period of time.  Still, we were told not to get up our hopes because his heart muscle had been badly damaged. 

We celebrated his 52^nd birthday a few weeks later and I gave him a pair a Levis jeans, with a waist size about ten inches smaller than what he wore before his crisis.  My father never wore jeans, but in my mind it represented youthfulness.  The smaller size reflected my belief he was well on the road to recovery, was going to drop weight, stop smoking, and enjoy many, many more years of health and vigor… wearing those jeans. 

I returned to my work in my college town and a week or so later my father was readmitted to the hospital.  I failed to comprehend the gravity of the situation.  Six weeks after the initial attack the telephone rang as the early morning sun poured in through a window of the house where I was staying.  It was my mother.  “Your father is no longer with us,” she said, her voice strong, but shaking.  “What did you say?” I responded.  It was as if my mother shared a computer file that my hard drive head had no software to open.  “You father has died,” she repeated.  I was absolutely stunned because I had refused to believe what was obvious all along.  I collapsed on a sofa and sobbed uncontrollably.

I know firsthand facing the truth, when the truth is difficult, is not easy.  I know most of you know this as well.  These truths don’t come to us often, but they do come: 

· Your company is downsizing. 

· Your marriage is in trouble. 

· Your child needs more than the “typical” help. 

· Something about your body just doesn’t feel right. 

· Your drinking is taking a toll on you and on those you love.

· Your capacities are diminishing.

· Someone close to you is dying.

This is not an exhaustive list, but you get the idea. 

We have developed remarkable coping mechanisms to help us find easier alternatives when we are faced with difficult truth.  The disciples first turn to denial.  Do you remember how Peter contradicted Jesus the first time he told his followers he was going to die?  The fisherman turned follower said, “This will never happen to you”; denial bald and naked.  They also turn to delusions – substitute visions easier to palate.  “When we go to Jerusalem Jesus is going to be made king and each of us is going to have a special place in his royal court.” 

When I think back on those jeans I gave to my father, I think how much it is a tangible sign of my denial and delusion with regard to his situation.  In as much as we use the devices to avoid the truth, denial and delusion are lies.  And God, who is a God of truth, can do little to help us as we choose to live our lives based on them.  When my father died, the lies I had turned to collapsed in an instant and I was devastated.  Only then, facing the truth, was God able to begin to help me.

Think about Jesus’ followers.  Where did living based on a lie get them?  When Jesus is arrested they flee.  When Jesus hangs on the Cross they are nowhere to be found.  When he rises on Easter morning they are cowering behind locked doors, fearing they too will be arrested and executed.  The lies they choose to live by have been exposed and they are struggling to move forward in the truth.

Now think about Mary.  She is the only person to face the difficult truth Jesus reveals.  Although she is deeply grieved, God is with her and gives her the power to do some remarkable things the others are not able to do.  She comforts Jesus with costly nard.  She stands at the foot of the Cross as Jesus dies, comforting his mother and supporting him to the last.  She works with others in a hasty effort to prepare Jesus’ body for burial before the beginning of the Passover.  She rises early on Sunday morning to join a few other women in the solemn task of finishing the burial work.  And although the Scriptures don’t mention her reaction to Jesus’ resurrection, we can be sure she is one of the first to celebrate because while she mourned at her brother’s tomb a few weeks earlier she confessed a belief in Jesus as the Resurrection and the Life.  I suggest Mary is able to do all of this through the power of God only because she has faced the difficult truth others have been at pains to avoid. 

Think about the events of your life.  What difficult truths have you faced?  How did acceptance affect your ability to operate and minister in those moments?  Have there been times when you have avoided a difficult truth?  What happened as a result?  What did you learn from that moment?  In what ways did you experience God’s presence during those times?  Think about those you know who have avoided hard truths as well as those who have had the courage to face them?  What did you see in their experiences and what wisdom can you draw from them?

In life, some truths are extremely difficult to bear and, in our weakness, we will do almost anything to avoid them.  We have an amazing ability to create and follow absurd alternatives and explanations simply because in the moment they are easier to stomach.  In truth, these lies turn out to be much more difficult because God cannot be with us in them, thus we become disconnected from an essential source of courage and companionship when we need it most.  In the end, when the lies we choose to live by fail and fall apart, we are devastated.  When we embrace a difficult truth we are – in Jesus’ words – set free; free to act, free to give, free to love, and free to live… even as we are dying.  This morning we give thanks for Mary of Bethany and her witness of facing a difficult truth.

Before It's Too Late...

“Give it one more year… and then, if nothing changes, cut it down!”

Jesus’ parables are rich and evocative.  They remain timeless because they invite contemplation and conversation while avoiding simplistic and trite interpretations.  One popular way to approach these stories is to ask which of its characters do you identify with most.  Today’s parable offers a plethora of possibilities.

Perhaps you identify with the owner.  He charted a course, engaged in risk, planted a vineyard, employed a laborer, and expected a return.  But now, at this point in the story, he is angry and frustrated and finished.  He wants to eliminate any and every reminder of his fruitless endeavor.  In his estimation it is time to move on.

Or maybe you see yourself in the gardener.  You are measured, hopeful, and optimistic.  You believe in the potential inside every person, thing, and moment.  You also believe in yourself and your ability to nurture the best qualities in people and situations.  You often find yourself interceding on behalf of others, attempting to be a calm head in a chaotic world.  The flip side of this coin is not nearly as positive.  Maybe you feel it is your responsibility to fix every unfixable problem.

Or perhaps you identify most with the fig tree.  You believe you are not worth much in this world and, try as you might, have little of value to contribute.  You sense you are a disappointment, especially to those who have invested most in you.  They let you know in subtle and not so subtle ways you are wasting away your life.

Maybe you identify with the yet-to-appear fruit.  You are just waiting for your opportunity to shine.  As of today, the stars have not lined up for you, but when they do… look out world because you have a lot to offer.  If only someone will believe and you give you a chance…

In which of these figures in the parable do you most see yourself?  Or, if you really want something to mull over, in what ways do you see yourself in each of them? 

While Jesus’ parables speak in multiple ways to many different situations, biblical scholars remind us each one as a single focused meaning.  Jesus’ main point in this one seems to be time is running out and each of us needs to get our act together… and do it soon!  We Episcopalians don’t warm up to sermons on impending judgment and the urgent need to repent.  We do not want to be compared to the barren fig tree, but this is exactly what Jesus does.  And whether we like it or not, as I often say, its Jesus’ story so he gets to tell it any way he wants.

And to make matters worse, he tells this story in response to a question about tragedy.  Someone asks him about a group of people executed on Pilate’s orders while they were worshipping.  Jesus’ response: “Do you think this happened to them because they were worse sinners than you?  They weren’t… and unless you repent the same thing will happen to you.”  It seems a rather harsh thing to say, and yet Jesus doubles down on it by mentioning eighteen people who died when a tower collapsed on them.  Surely Jesus is not saying victims of calamities get what they deserve, is he?  At least on the surface it sure seems like it. 

Here is another question to ask of a parable: where is grace found in it?  In the midst of all the judgment in today’s story – the owner’s anger, the fruitlessness, the call for punishment – where is the grace?  It is found in the phrase “give the tree one more year”.  Grace is found in the element of time.  The tree still has time to change. 

Time’s precious nature is a theme found throughout Scripture, especially in the Psalms, which compare the length of our days to the grass that flourishes in the morning dew, but withers in the afternoon sun.  For people of faith this reality is not cause for despair, but rather a call to intentional living.  “So teach us to number our days,” writes the poet of the 90^th Psalm, “that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.”  Scripture connects an awareness of mortality with a purposeful life.

I read once middle age is not a chronological point in life.  It is not something you experience precisely during, say, your 42^nd orbit around the sun.  Rather, it is a feature of attitude and awareness.  When we are young we sense the path of life is wide open to us.  You may set out on a particular career choice in your 20s only to discover it does not interest you.  You may try out several different options in your youth because you can always pull the plug on one thing and start another. 

We arrive at the phenomena of middle age when we realize we can no longer hit the reset button – at least without significant consequences.  Middle age is that point in life when you realize you have made your choices and now you have to live with them.  It is too late to do it all over.  It is the first time in our lives when time reveals itself to us as limited.  No wonder so many act out against this initial sense of limitation by engaging in what we call a mid-life crisis. 

The crisis ends with the wise realization the choices we have made are good ones and we begin to see what we have is pretty special and satisfying.  We become aware of how the time we have put into our our work and our relationships and our passions has been an investment.  Even though it is too late to take a different path, the dividends of the choices and commitments we have made are beginning to pay off.

I am embracing the reality I am now in my late-middle age.  I will turn 60 this fall.  Most likely I am at the 2/3^rds to 3/4^ths pole of life.  As I mentioned to the Vestry at our retreat, I will be retiring sometime in the next 7-10 years.  I describe this reality as being like the mileage signs on a highway.  Once you drive to Chicago, the sign tells you are 12 miles from Walla Walla and 400 from Minneapolis.  Yes, I still have a lot more to do in my career, but for the first time the next major destination 400 miles down the road is retirement. 

I am finding being in my late-middle years to be quite invigorating.  For the first time in my life I sense how precious time is, but I don’t fret it is running out.  When we are young we say to ourselves, “I’ll get around to that someday”, imagining our life to be an undiminishing supply of somedays.  Now, I sense the need to count up my somedays and do something with them.  And, you know something, far from being depressing, it is tremendously empowering.

So, for example, I have really enjoyed the various pilgrimages I have been on over the last few summers – hiking, biking, and touring.  If I am lucky I may have another 15 summers where I can continue to do this.  So I think to myself, what are the 15 things I most want to do with my time?  I can tell you this is a question I never asked in my 20s.  In this, and in so many other ways, knowing I don’t have forever has opened uncountable doors to opportunities and possibilities.  I can’t do it all, but I am more likely to be intentional and aggressive about choosing and doing something.

Well, today’s parable of the Barren Fig Tree reminds us time is precious with the hopeful caveat, baring unforeseen circumstances, there is still time.  We each have the time to turn things around, to tend to matters needing our attention, to get up, get going, and get after those dreams we have not yet pursued.  Perhaps it is too late to chase them all, but now is the time to prioritize and to act.

And there is one more element of grace found in Jesus’ story – manure.  While we don’t usually think of the s _ _ t in our lives as being a blessing, in Jesus’ parable it represents all the ways life lines up to help us.  Our quest to be fruitful is never undertaken in isolation.  We are surrounded by those who love and care for us; whose assistance and encouragement means more than we often realize.  And we stand in the presence of the One who created us; whose Spirit works in and through all things to bring forth in us what we struggle to achieve on our own.

Earlier in the week I revisited one of my favorite websites – deathclock.com.  You simply tell it the date of your birth, your gender, outlook on life, height, weight, and whether or not you are a smoker and it will tell you the day of your death.  Apparently my heavenly reward/final judgment with come on Saturday, August 12, 2056.  It may also become my saint’s day because, as a friend of mine once pointed out optimistically, if the Episcopal Church decides to make you a saint, it always assigns your remembrance to the day you die.  Well, I don’t know if I have produced enough fruit to merit such recognition and I don’t know how I feel about the possibility of living to 97. 

According to a countdown clock on the website, as of last Friday at 3:42 in the afternoon, I had 1,179,910,387 seconds left in my life.  I laughed out loud as I watched the seconds tick down… 386, 385, 384 it occurred to me no matter how much time any of has left, each one of you has invested about 1,000 seconds of your precious time listening attentively to my sermon.  I pray the seconds you have left are many and I pray you will consider how you and God would like you to use them.

Time is precious.  What do you need to do with this day?  What do you need to do with this week?  What is the most redeeming thing you can do before the end of this month?  What is God calling you to do before the end of the year?  In the next few years? 

Lord, teach us to number our days

that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.

Freedom

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Welcome to our first attempt at a Celtic Eucharistic liturgy.  You may already have an inkling its spirituality sets a different tone from what we normally encounter on a Sunday morning.  It is more Trinitarian and focused on God’s guidance, God’s protection, and God’s mercy.  The God meet through Western Christianity has taken on a therapeutic persona.  Our God is there when needed, available for council and comfort, wise but not meddling, and encouraging of all our good endeavors.  God, as made known through Celtic spirituality, is engaged in a cosmic struggle while remaining unimaginably close to us.  This closeness is manifested through companionship and connection to the mystical beauty of the countryside.  Today we encounter the God of Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings, rather than the God of Jan Karon’s Mitford series. 

Our reading from the Book of Genesis blends comfortably with Celtic spirituality.  It is concerned with one of the most basic functions of all living organisms – the need to propagate.  It finds spiritual truth and hope in the stars of the night sky.  And it presents us with an image of God far different than a white-bearded, grandfatherly figure sitting on a golden throne floating on a billowy cloud.

God and Abraham engage in the ritual of an ancient Middle-Eastern covenant ceremony.  Today, when two country’s leaders sign a treaty, they exchange pens.  In Abraham’s day the ceremony was much more graphic.  Various animals, both large and small, are gathered, killed, and their carcasses cut in half.  The halves are pulled apart to create a bloody path in between, which those entering into the covenant walk barefoot between, their feet and clothing becoming stained in the process.  As they walk they recite a series of blessings and curses – the conditions of the covenant and what will follow based on adherence or disregard.  In essence, each party expresses a willingness to be like the slaughtered beasts through which they walk if they prove unfaithful.  (And you thought getting a mortgage was an undertaking!)

God promises to provide Abraham with a son, and even more, that his offspring will be as innumerable as the stars.  Abraham wants to believe, but needs a sign.  God directs him to lay out what is necessary for a covenant ceremony.  As night approaches Abraham falls into a fitful, trancelike sleep.  The text tells us a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch pass between the animal pieces.  These two symbols – perhaps related to how God protects the Israelites fleeing from Egypt as a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night – stand for God in the ritual.  Abraham himself does not enter into the gruesome walk; indicating God already deems his faith sufficient to seal the covenant and God assumes all the consequences for failure by Abraham or his offspring.

Middle-Eastern covenants bind behavior by defining how each party will and will not act and what each party will offer and receive from the relationship.  The bible tells us God enters into covenants with Noah, Abraham, Moses, and the people of Israel (through the ceremony we read about in last week’s Old Testament lesson).  As we partake of the Body and Blood of Christ we remember we have entered into a new covenant with God made possible through the work Jesus our Savior.

Each of the biblical figures who enters into a covenant with God does so freely.  The same is true for us.  We are neither forced nor coerced.  We can follow or we can forge different path.  We can act with affection towards others or we can be alienated one from another.  We can be like chicks huddling under the protective wings of the mother hen or we can run amuck in the world.  The choice is ours.  God gives us the freedom to choose.  But why?  Why does God allow us to obey or to disobey?  Why does God assume the consequences of our unfaithfulness?  Why did God create a world where things can go so wrong?

I just finished reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Gathering Moss, which I quoted in a sermon last fall and then received as a gift for Christmas.  It has been a wonderful devotional-type read that has helped me to feel closer to our natural world.  Kimmerer describes the interconnectedness of every aspect of forest life.  Every organism, great or small, has a role to play.  It finds its niche in greater community – taking what it needs, giving what it doesn’t, doing something that is necessary for others.  For instance, did you know that a slug moving over moss picks up spores on its slimy underside and carries them several inches, thus providing the possibility the moss will reproduce in a new location?

Within the vast network of a forest there is little freedom.  Yes, the slug may turn this way or that.  A bird may choose to float on the wind or to work against it.  A falling leaf may or may not be carried off by the breeze.  Still, all things great and small are predisposed to do their particular part.  So why are we humans so different?  Why can’t we be a part of the bigger system without having the possibility of doing so much damage to it?  Why, at times, do was take more than we need, refuse to give what we have, and neglect to do our part for the common good?

In one chapter of her book Kimmerer describes a time she was hired to consult on a private development.  An extremely wealthy individual building a mansion on a huge expanse of property wanted to recreate an authentic Appalachian forest on the site.  No expense was spared in this effort and Kimmerer was called in to consult on the mosses involved, which hints at the scope of the undertaking. 

Well, it turns out you can’t just pick up a clump of moss from one place, put it down in another, keep it moist, and expect it to survive.  Moss, in all its varieties, is delicately situated in a place with specific kinds of nutrients, air-quality, sunlight/shade, partnering organisms, and a host of other factors.  You can’t just pick it up and move it.  Kimmerer notes the owner behind the project really did want to want to recreate an authentic ecosystem and took elaborate steps to make it happen, but his desire to control the process of growth ruined what he hoped to create. 

She then quotes Barbara Kingsolver who wrote, “It’s going to take the most selfless kind of love to do right by what we cherish and give it the protection to flourish outside our possessive embrace.”  I have read and reread this quote nearly a dozen times and there is so much in it I still can’t quite get my head around. 

It’s going to take the most selfless kind of love to do right by what we cherish and give it the protection to flourish outside our possessive embrace.

Celtic spirituality is grounded in creation as the Creator had made it.  God has created the forest to be a dynamic, interconnected ecosystem that, while random, lacks the freedom of choice.  God created the human family desiring we each have freedom.  While God could force each person to be like a brood finding love, protection, and comfort under divine wings, our response means more when it is entered into freely.  God’s selfless love eschews the possibility of a smothering, possessive embrace.  Our free will, our faithful response, elicits God’s deep joy.

We see so much in our world which must please the One who created all things and we so much which must not.  Our own lives are no different.  We choose at times to be faithful and we choose at times to forsake the terms of the covenant we have embraced.  But through it all we are free.  The choice is always ours.  Today, through our Celtic liturgy, we bind ourselves again to the strong name of the Trinity: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.  May we know God close enough to be a companion and source of strength and may we sense the restraint of God’s selfless love which invites our faithful response without smothering us in a possessive embrace.

Remembering

Last Wednesday we launched into our annual Lenten journey.  This first Sunday in Lent begins with the familiar story of Jesus being tempted by Satan in the wilderness.  It will end on Palm Sunday with the reading of his passion and death on a cross.  Over the course of Lent we will rehearse familiar liturgies and rituals, gather weekly for a meal and spiritual nourishment, refrain in worship from saying a particular word of celebration, mark the days by fasting, and in many other ways prepare with joy for the Pascal feast.  All of this helps us to remember… to remember our Lord’s walk we know as the Way of the Cross and to remember not even the grave can contain God’s Spirit. 

The rhythm of doing this annually may be arbitrary, but it is a good one.  Most likely as soon as the first human beings discerned the yearly cycle of the seasons they began to celebrate annual rituals.  Some of these are related to the movement of the sun while others are based in moments of birth, union, and death.  Some involve an entire nation while others are deeply personal.  Some take place on a specific day, others stretch out for a longer period of time.  Each, in its own way, provides an opportunity to pause, to remember, and to reflect.  Absent such rituals we would soon forget those things that matter most; the things that shape, mold, and define who we are.

In this morning’s first lesson we read of the origin of one of the first annual rituals celebrated by God’s people once they enter the Promised Land.  They gather at the town of Shechem, which is lies about halfway between Jerusalem to the south and the region of Galilee in the north.  God instructs the people to erect an altar of unhewn stones on which to place their offerings.  God directs them to carve the commandments into the stones so that as the years pass by the people will not forget them.  The altar is to serve as a permanent reminder of the covenant they have made with God.

Every year the people regather in this spot to make an offering of the first fruits of the field.  Imagine surviving on what you stored for the winter months, some years cutting back consumption as supplies run thin, collecting the initial produce of the new growing season, and (rather than eating it) offering it to God.  This ritual makes several profound statements:

· Give to God the first of what you have, not what is left over.

· Trust God will provide.

· The need to be thankful is more significant than my need to be satisfied. 

The Deuteronomy text instructs that some of the offering be given to the priests.  This is what sustains them until the collection of the next festival’s offering.  And the text states what is left is to be shared at a community meal (so yes, there is a biblical mandate for the Pot-Luck dinner but no, it does not specify fried chicken, deviled eggs, or something made with Jello should be served).  Still, this directive to gather as a community suggests one cannot live out the faith through private devotion and individual piety alone.

As each person makes an offering, the contributor recites an ancient creedal history:

A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous.  When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression.  The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.  So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me.

Why does every person recite this and why do it every year?  Well, you only remember the parts of your story you tell and retell.  And what you tell has a way of shaping who you are and what matters most to you. 

The men of the parish I served in Richmond used to gather monthly for a bag lunch.  Charles McMurdo – one of the church’s founding members – always brought something from the past for what affectionately become known as “Mr. Mac’s Show & Tell.”  One month he passed around a copy of a parish budget from the early 50’s.   Typed on a single side of a 5x7 sheet of paper, it showed the church’s annual expenses to be a whopping $24,000.  All gathered zeroed in quickly on the Rector’s salary package, which came in at the princely sum of $6,000 for the entire year.  This, of course, solicited barking about returning to the good olde days.

My eye, however, was drawn to the line item in the budget for diocesan giving.  It designated $6,800 for support to the wider mission of the church, a figure just shy of 30% of all the parish’s income.  Why such a staggering commitment?  And to deepen the mystery, by the time I was called to serve as rector some forty years later, the percentage of giving had fallen below 5% and the total amount was… still $6,800.  Why had the founding members been so generous and why did the amount of giving become frozen over the years?  Mr. Mac could offer no insight.  None of the other longtime members had a clue either. 

While pouring through old documents years later I learned that the parish’s spacious wooden property had been purchased by the diocese and given to the church as a site to erect its facilities.  This too was something Mr. Mac and other founding members did not recall.  I theorized diocesan giving in the early church budget reflected a sense of gratitude and partnership, but as the memory of the connection between gift and giving faded, commitment to diocesan funding waned.  As the percentage decreased, over time this budget item became more of an obligation resented by leadership than an offering of thanksgiving.  All of this happened because the story had been forgotten.

Reflecting on the power and importance of stories, I have come to see how they foster mystery, meaning, identity, and wisdom:

·  They connect us to the Divine Being behind all creation, thus putting us in touch with the fundamental Mystery found in all things. 

·  They allow us to ponder what has significance and purpose, thus giving us a sense of the meaning of life.

·  They link us with our ancestors in the faith by inviting us to appropriate their stories as our own, thus giving us a sense of identity and place.

·  They enable us to understand the precedents for what we encounter, thus equipping us with the wisdom of time-honored ways of acting and reacting.

Story telling and remembering, as individuals, as a family, as a community of faith, and as a nation is so essential God’s people did it through the offering of the first produce of the new growing season after a long, meager, drab winter of nothing but rations for dinner.  As Jesus noted while fighting off temptation, every stone can be turned to bread, but this will not satisfy your deepest spiritual need.  We need the stories of God’s encounters with the human family and the mystery, meaning, identity, and wisdom they provide.

So we begin our Lenten journey by remembering to remember.  We affirm our need to tell our stories – our personal stories, the stories of our family, the stories of this church, the stories of our community, and the stories of our nation – as we revisit The Story of God’s love made known in Jesus Christ.