Of Holding On and Letting Go

2nd Sunday in Lent, Year C
Text: Phil 3.17-4.1; Lk 13.31-35

This week in our Little Lambs preschool chapel, we began reading the story of Moses. And the story of Moses, of course, begins with the story of Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, who is afraid. Ironically, he’s afraid of the Hebrews, these people who have no power and no standing. He’s afraid of them because of how numerous they are; he worries that, if they wanted, they could overthrow him and take his power away from him.

So, he strikes first: he takes away their freedom, making them all slaves. Then he takes away their children. This, of course, makes the Hebrews afraid of Pharaoh. So, the story bible summarizes, Pharaoh is afraid, and the Hebrews are afraid: everybody in Egypt is afraid.

Looking Forward with the Saints

All Saints’ Sunday, Year B
Text: Isa 25:6-9; Rev 21:1-6; Jn 11:32-44

There is a rich tradition surrounding the life of St. Lazarus of Bethany. In the Eastern Orthodox Church, tradition states that he fled Judea because of plots against his life (which St. John the Evangelist mentions later in his gospel narrative) and comes to the island of Cyprus. There, he is appointed the bishop of a town called Kirion by St. Paul and St. Barnabas. He lived there for 30 years before being buried for the second and final time.

In Kirion (now called Larnaka), a tomb which was discovered in 890 with the inscription “Lazarus the friend of Christ.” The saint’s remains were transferred to Constantinople by Emperor Leo VI, who built the Church of St. Lazarus over the tomb for the people of Larnaka. There is also a St. Lazarus Chapel in Pskov in Northwestern Russia where a Russian monk returned with relics from the church in Larnaka in the 16^th century.

In the Western Church, the tradition holds that Lazarus, along with his sisters, St. Mary and St. Martha, were put in a boat by hostile Judeans with no sails, oars or helm and that, after a miraculous voyage, they landed near Provence in France. Supposedly, the family all went different ways, preaching throughout Gaul. Lazarus went to Marseille, where he became the bishop. During the persecutions under the reign of the emperor Domitian, he was beheaded. His body was laid to rest in Autun, in central France, under the Autun Cathedral, but in Marseille, they still claim possession of his head, which is, of course, venerated.

We Tell These Stories, Not Because They Happened Once, But Because They Are Always Happening

Easter Morning, Year B
Texts: Isa 25.6-9; Mk 16.1-8

We tell these stories, not because they happened once, but because they are always happening. We tell these stories because we see ourselves in them, and the stories, then, give us hope for where we will end up, for how our own stories will end.

A Wafer of Bread, A Drop of Wine

Audio recording of “A Wafer of Bread, A Drop of Wine” recorded during worship. (12:39)
Delivered at Evangelical Lutheran Church, Mt. Horeb, WI. Easter 3, Year A. Mother’s Day
Texts: Acts 2.4, 36-41; 1 Pet 1.17-23; Lk 24.13-35

As we listen to these scripture readings today, we notice that there is a theme that runs through the lessons. It is a theme of separation, of isolation, of division. In the reading from Acts, we hear about Peter preaching to the people of Jerusalem about the death of Christ. They realize their own part in Christ’s death, and they are “cut to the heart,” they feel separated from God so that they ask Peter, “What should we do?” In Peter’s letter, he writes to a group of people who have been separated from their families and their society. They are still living in their own land, but they live there as exiles, foreigners. And, of course, we hear the story of the two disciples sadly making their way to Emmaus as they grieve the death of Jesus.

In this story of the road to Emmaus, only one of the disciples, Cleopas, is named. Some scholars believe that his traveling companion remains unidentified so that we when we hear the story might put ourselves in the shoes of that unnamed disciple, walking sadly along, grieving the crucified Lord, feeling alienated from and abandoned by God. I know that I have seen myself in that disciple. Like so many of you, I have my own story of isolation from God.

In 1991, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. She struggled with the disease for two years before she died. I was 10, and my sister was 7. Since we were so young, we had trouble making sense of where God was in that tragedy. Why hadn’t God answered our prayers? If God loved us, why did this terrible thing happen? My father found himself suddenly a single parent, trying to cope with his own grief and to also comfort to two young children.

During that time, we walked with Cleopas on the road to Emmaus. We felt that loneliness that comes from God being so far away, wondering where God is and if God had any power to help us. Each one of us has been walking with Cleopas at some time in our lives and have felt that separation. When we look at our world now, we see division, separation, disunity. We see the chaos in Libya, the destruction in Haiti, the stalemate in Palestine, the contention in Washington and Madison.

We are a people defined by what separates us. Republicans versus Democrats, Pro-Life versus Pro-Choice, Left versus Right, we all feel that separation from one another and from God. Week after week, we come to this place and we hear the words of Scripture and we confess that Christ is risen, but then we go back out there and we ask, “Where is God’s promise? Where is the resurrection?” The death that separated Jesus from us on Good Friday continues to reign in our world and separates us even now from that promise of God’s kingdom.

But here is the good news in that story for us today. While Cleopas and the other disciple were walking, Jesus came and walked with them, even though they didn’t recognize him. Even though they didn’t understand as he explained to them about all that had happened, he kept talking. Even though they didn’t know who they were inviting into their house, he came and stayed with them. Even when we cannot see where God is on the road, God is still with us. Jesus doesn’t wait for us to find him or invite him into our hearts or accept him as our personal Lord and Savior. Even when we can’t see him, even when we don’t know who to look for, Jesus comes and walks with us.

They didn’t recognize him when they saw him, they didn’t recognize him when he explained that the Messiah was supposed to die and then rise again, they didn’t even recognize him in the waning light as they invited him into the house. When those disciples saw Jesus, really saw him for who he was, was when he took the bread, blessed it and broke it, and gave it for them to eat. Likewise it is in that same meal that we recognize Jesus today.

It feels strange to talk about Holy Communion because on this morning we are not sharing the meal. However, in a way, that emphasizes the point. Today, as we talk about the meal, we notice its absence, just as in the Eucharist itself, we celebrate Christ’s presence, but we notice his absence. As soon as Jesus broke the bread and the disciples saw him, he was gone again. And again, they felt his absence. When we eat the bread and drink the wine, we too notice his absence. We believe that he is truly here in, with, and under the bread and wine, but he is not here how we would like him to be. He is not here to heal our pains, to encourage us with his words, or to take us in his arms.

This absence is painful. It is the same absence we feel at the loss of loved ones, like my mother. We know that there is this promise that we will see them again, that Christ’s resurrection paves the way for us to meet again in the kingdom, but though it is a nice hope for the future, that promise is not strong enough to move our lives today. Our liturgy calls the Holy Communion “a foretaste of the feast to come.” The meal is not enough to fill us, but it is enough to remind us of God’s unfailing presence.

When Jesus broke the bread in Emmaus, his disciples finally saw him, even though he had been there the whole time. It took me many years to see where God had been when my mother died. I couldn’t see at the time because death and division can cloud out hope, but looking back now, I see Jesus in my friends at school who shared their sympathies with me. I see Jesus in all those people from our church who prayed for us, who babysat for my parents, who cooked meals for us. I see Jesus in my dad and my sister and the way we consoled and supported one another. I see Jesus in my mother and her faith and love for God and her devotion to us in spite of her illness. I see Jesus in my stepmother, who became a part of our family and loved us as her own. I could not see Jesus then, just like Cleopas could not see him on the road, but in the time since, I have come to see that, without my realizing, he was there just as surely as he walked to Emmaus, wearing many different faces and speaking in many voices.

Holy Communion is a physical, tangible sign that even when we are blind to his presence, Jesus is Immanuel, God-with-us that we can taste and touch, a promise that we can hold on our tongue. Because Jesus is God-with-us in the meal, that same meal unites all of us with him and with one another. The miracle of Communion is that somehow, God gathers us all up like grains of wheat scattered on the hill gathered into one loaf of bread. God crosses all the lines and walls that divide us, crosses even death itself, and brings us together for one brief moment.

When I eat the meal, I am sharing the body and blood of Christ with my mother. I share it with my ancestors, with my descendants, with all people across time and space and with Jesus Christ in the kingdom. With all that divides us, with all that separates us from God and one another, somehow God is able to reach out and give  us union, give us com-union, in this simple gathering and these simple gifts: a wafer of bread, a drop of wine.

When God feels far away, when the resurrection seems distant and abstract, when we fail to see God in our pain, in our conflict, in our struggling, this bread, this wine, becomes for us the risen Jesus Immanuel. The meal is God’s sure and certain promise of life that God is always with us, that God walks and struggles and lives and dies with us even when we are unable to see God walking alongside us. And in this world of death and division, that is a promise that you can taste.