Sermon Preached on the Fifth Sunday in Lent

I am the resurrection and the life ...

Ezekiel 37: 1-14; Psalm 130; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord;
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
(Book of Common Prayer, page 469)

These words of Jesus are a direct quotation from today’s Gospel (John 11:1-45) and open every Episcopal burial service – every burial service from the Book of Common Prayer. Every one I have officiated at over forty years:

When I was first ordained, a curate in suburban Boston. And then when I was rector of parish on the edge of urban Boston – the other night something brought back to me a tragic incident, when a parishioner was badly burned in a fire, and the long vigil over a week with her at Boston City Hospital, where they took wonderful care of her in the burn unit and then I read the words opening her funeral. As I would read them in the center of Manhattan, then on Cape Cod, and since 1993 here.

I am the resurrection and the life -- woven through those years of ministry are these words of Jesus – sometimes said with one or two people present in the church or at the graveside. Once in New York City with three people present, my wife and (then little) boy and the parish secretary who had been the three people present at the person’s baptism. Sometimes in a church filled with people, the church so full people standing in the doorways, as I read the words coming down the aisle before the casket.

The words are exactly the same, the words sung by the choir of Westminster Abbey as a princess was brought into the church, the whole world watching on TV -- I am the resurrection and the life -- the intent exactly the same, to speak the word of the resurrection.

And whatever we have or have not done, in St. Chrysostom’s Chicago, we have faithfully done just that: spoken the word of resurrection: the core belief of Christianity that on a day in our human history Jesus died and was buried and on the third day rose. Our hope is that when we die, when those we love die, we will be raised to the new life in him.

So on the Fifth Sunday of Lent, on the threshold of Holy Week which begins next Sunday, Palm Sunday, we find ourselves celebrating the great central message of Easter. What gives? What’s going on? Well, every Sunday is a feast of the resurrection of Jesus.

And we come to Holy Week remembering that the passion and death of our Lord is the self-giving in love of one who is risen from the dead and present with us -- I believe – present in word and sacrament. It is why I love having Holy Communion amid the deep solemnity of Good Friday – for it is the day we remember the self giving love of the one who lives at the heart of God and is present with us at God‘s heart. The one who is God with us, Emanu El, God here, with us, loving us. Whatever happens.

I mentioned that story when I was a rector, the first time, on the edge of urban Boston, and had a long vigil driving to Boston City Hospital to visit a very badly hurt parishioner. I do not remember the exact year, but I was around twenty seven. It was my first experience with a severely burned person. I have great admiration for doctors and nurses who care for them. What brought this to mind last week was the visit of an old friend who is just such a doctor.

All those years ago, I had been trained to visit in the hospital, the program for seminarians at Massachusetts General Hospital. I did go, faithfully. I remember the great kindness of the nurses to this young priest, explaining what was happening. It was deeply jarring. One learns how to deal with that, it is part of the spiritual life of a priest, well, part of the spiritual life of any disciple of Jesus.

A winter’s night in St. Stephen’s in the South End

One winter night, after visiting, I dropped into an Episcopal Church not far from Boston City Hospital – St. Stephen’s in the South End. It has had a long ministry in the city – at another location a hundred years ago Bishop Brent was rector when he became Missionary Bishop of the Philippines. The night in the mid 70s I dropped by, something was going on in the parish house, and the door was open and I slipped through and into the church, where it was completely dark, except for lights from outside coming through the high windows – street lights. And the flickering candle by the aumbry, where the bread and wine are kept . However broken life was, God is present, loving in Christ, even if only it seems a small flickering candle flame on a cold winter’s night.

The resurrection of Jesus speaks to our future, our hope we will be with him but also just as much to our here and now, and the promise God is with us. Loving us in him.

Today’s story took place before the first Good Friday and Easter and indeed the opening of the story is directly related to what lay ahead.

A hesitation and a temptation

Because Jesus hesitated. It was a human hesitation. It was not cowardice. I remember being told only a fool is never afraid. Courage is what you do with your fear or apprehension and when there are choices and hesitations. Am I up to it? Can I do it? Can I take it? Very human. Very human to run away. It takes courage not to run away. t to.

The story opens with Jesus getting word that his close friend Lazarus was very sick. Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha lived in Bethany a village, as the story tells us, about two miles from Jerusalem.

If you walked, if you walk today from Bethany to the city, you will soon (two miles) find yourself at the top of the Mount of Olives, looking down to a narrow valley, with the Temple Mount rising on the other side. It was the road Jesus would take on Palm Sunday – a very visible way of coming into Jerusalem.

For Jesus, going to his sick friend meant going to Jerusalem. When Jesus said he was going, his disciples tried to talk him out of it. The same thing is recorded in Matthew, Mark and Luke – that when Jesus said he was going to Jerusalem, the disciples were not happy. It comes up at a different point in the story in Matthew, Mark and Luke (the writer of John characteristically going their own way) but the basic reaction of the disciples was the same in all four. In Mark, it was when Simon Peter spoke up against it, Jesus snapped back, uncharacteristically stern, in the tension of the temptation not to go – “Get behind me, Satan!” (Mark 8:34)

The temptation was there (he was in every way tempted as we are, yet did not sin) – the great temptation was to run away. It still is one of the great temptations.

It was Thomas who spoke up and said, said, Let us also go that we may die with him. Courageous words, although Thomas and the others would run away except for John and the women.

The only one of the men standing beneath the cross was John. The others were gone.

Jesus went to Bethany, to find everyone in mourning. He spoke to Martha and then Mary. In the face of our human experience of loss and sorrow he said the great words, I am the resurrection and the life.

“I am” -- one of his I am statements, one of seven in John’s Gospel – four of the seven in last Sunday’s story and today’s and the Good Shepherd chapter in between – four of the seven – I am always doing percentages, 57%. In the face of our human experience of death he said, I am the resurrection and the life, and calls us, calls you and me, to believe -- which for me is primarily to trust in God’s love. Trust that when we die we will be held in the love and compassion and mercy and forgiveness we see in Jesus of Nazareth in the Gospel stories. That is what heaven is like, it is like him, it is being with him. I am the resurrection and the life,

And then when he went to the tomb he wept. He loved and cared so much.

Then he had them open the tomb and called Lazarus out.

So may the risen Christ one day call each one of us, out of death into life.

(This sermon was preached by the Rev. Raymond Webster, Rector, in St. Chrysostom’s Church, Chicago, Illinois on Sunday, April 10, 2011, the Fifth Sunday in Lent.)

Sermon preached on the First Sunday in Lent

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Psalm 32; Romans 5:12-19;
Matthew 4:1-11

Weakness isn’t all bad.  Weakness can be perfectly innocent, like a newborn baby or ripe fruit.  It can mean delicate, or soft.  But something that is soft gives.  When you press it, it succumbs; it’s malleable and manageable.  It can be manipulated, literally handled.  When we’re talking about character, not babies and fruit, weakness isn’t so appealing, is it?  At its most basic, to be weak means to be affected, to be tossed around like a tennis ball.  Which isn’t a quality most of us wish to embody.  None of us want to be worked on.  None of us want our softness, the places where we give, to be exposed or exploited.  That’s why we can’t stand temptation.  Temptation is a loaded truck driving across a warped bridge.  It’s a china teacup in a sink full of pots and pans.  Temptation is a banana in the bottom of a backpack – an irresistible force honing in on just that part of you that is vulnerable and soft. 

And it’s everywhere.  Temptation is one of the great experiences all people have in common.  It depends on our weaknesses for its strength, it feeds on the places where we are vulnerable and soft.  But its ultimate objective is our commitments.  Temptation calls into question the good decisions we’ve made, the things we’ve committed ourselves to.  When your dog eats anything and everything you set before him, he’s not giving in to temptation, because he never decided to take heart health seriously.  But when you tell your neighbor that thing about the other neighbor that you promised you’d keep secret?  Temptation.  No doubt about it.  Because you committed to being trustworthy.  And as long as you do commit to things, and make promises, and decide for one thing over another, you will always be tempted.  It won’t go away.  You can be aware of yourself, resolve to be strong where you are weak, you can get really good at resisting temptation, but as long as we’re human, and we live here, we’re in it for the long haul. 

The same inevitability of temptation is there for Jesus, too.  Today Jesus is led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil – the Gospel suggests that this was his whole reason for being there.  And there are a couple of important things to hear echoing around in there.  First, Matthew, who told this story, is always presenting Jesus like a new Moses.  So just as Moses and the Israelites struggled in the desert, and formed their identity in the desert, so will Jesus.  But there’s something more elemental here that we’re supposed to get, something that was an earth-shattering idea for early Christians.  Jesus is more than a new Moses – he’s a new Adam.  Think about it: Adam was with the devil, was tempted, and gave in.  And when he gave in, all of humanity gave in with him, forever and ever and ever.  If Jesus can go through the same thing – go into the wilderness, be tempted by the devil, and stay strong?  Well then maybe he can save us.  If we all attach to Adam and die, maybe we can attach to Jesus and live.  Because he has suffered – he passed through – the same things that we do.

Here’s the tricky part, though.  Does Jesus really have the same experience that we do here?  We pray all the time in Lent that he was tempted like us, but without sin.  When we hear this story, though, it doesn’t sound like normal human temptation.  I’ve never been tempted to perform a miracle, or summon angels, or take over the world.  Even if we could distill Jesus’ temptations down to more relatable things, food, favors, power … they’re still so remarkably cosmic, so out of our league.  In the end, it seems, Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness isn’t really a story about us.  It’s a story about him, and who he was committed to being for us.

Remember, to have temptation, you’ve got to have a commitment, something that you’ve decided to do or be that you are tempted to turn from.  Jesus was committed to his mission, the work he came to do.  And the temptations themselves are his chance to prove that commitment, to present all of his soft places, all of his possibilities for giving in before he set out to do his work.  First, the bread.  Jesus is tempted to turn lots of rocks into lots of bread – not for himself, but for hungry people.    Jesus, who will end his life humiliated, is given the chance to be the people’s hero.  And he stays committed to his mission. What about power?  Plenty of people were expecting Jesus to stage a political revolution, to inaugurate a literal kingdom.  Jesus, who was put to death by an Empire, is given the chance to rule the world.  But he stays committed to his mission.  The worst one of all, to me, is the one about jumping off the temple, and being rescued by angels.  Because you can hear in it foreshadowing of the cross, and you can imagine how afraid he must have been, and how much he must have wanted that help, to escape the event that we’ve all got in the back of our minds as we begin Lent, knowing that Good Friday is coming.  Jesus, who will die a physical death, is given the chance to live.  He stays committed to his mission. 

The tempter, of course, is presenting him with supernatural options: miracles, angels, the kingdoms of the world.  But were Jesus to choose any of them, he wouldn’t end up being a supernatural Messiah – he would end up being a weak, soft human.  He would be a guy whose success depended on handouts and popularity; he’d be a dictator who would rely on force and violence to maintain the status quo; he’d be a refugee, free from death and danger, but running from the work he set out to do for all of us.  Instead, he refuses the supernatural options and chooses, in fact, the only option that’s open to us, too: he remains faithful.  He trusts in God.  Again, he chooses his mission because that’s what we are: we are his mission.  Being like us, being human, being our new Adam, is who Jesus is.  He is Jesus not for himself, but for us.  When he goes to be tempted, he takes us with him into the wilderness and he doesn’t give us up.  Because he is like us, because he’s human, he has places that give, but he doesn’t give in.  And when he makes it through, we all make it through.  When he emerges, strong, we all come out, strong. 

And we all come out with a mission.  Our soft places are still there, we’re still vulnerable, but we’ve been handed a commitment that is bigger than anything else.  We get to show the world what love looks like, we get to show the world what forgiveness means.  We can go through the rest of our lives never giving up hope that our weakness will be made strong, and that like those newborns, little by little we’ll be able to hold our necks straight, and stand up, and walk. Jesus didn’t give us up in the wilderness, and won’t be giving up on us anytime soon.   

Sermon preached  by the Rev. Danielle Thompson at St. Chrysostom's Episcopal Church in Chicago, IL on Sunday, March 13, 2011 at 8:00am and 11:00am. 

Looking ahead to the First Sunday in Lent: Matthew 4:1-11

There are plenty of hot-button issues to keep us busy in this upcoming week’s Gospel reading.  Matthew 4:1-11 is the story of Jesus being tempted by Satan in the wilderness.  When I think of all there is to deal with in this passage, I imagine one of those carnival games where another gopher’s head pops up just as you’ve punched one down with your mallet.  “The Devil!”  “Sin!” “Temptation!” 

In the version of Matthew that I read (NRSV), the devil is described alternately as “the tempter,” “the devil,” and “Satan.”  The Hebrew idea that lies at the heart of each of these titles is of a figure called ha-satan, which means “the accuser.”  The Accuser’s most famous appearance is in Job 1-2, where he (for lack of a better pronoun) is depicted as a member of the heavenly court who challenges human beings in order to test their faith.  Ha-satan is unlike our modern notion of the devil in that he is one of God’s councilors, and his duties are something we can’t imagine God condoning. 

We’re getting pretty close to opening up a can of worms here, which is a hard thing to undertake in a context like this one.  On a blog, we can’t share questions and reflections as we work our way through a theological problem - not ideal.  It might be helpful, then, to point to just two things about ha-satan to help spark some thoughts about the figure of devil in Matthew 4.   

First, even though it’s hard to understand why a member of the heavenly court would be allowed to run around making life difficult for human beings, notice that nobody imputed this sort of activity to God.  In the story of Job, God was ultimately responsible for human well-being, but was not by nature one to test or tempt.

Second, there is something really effective about evil being personified as it is in Satan.  “The Devil” shows us that sin is bigger than any one of our individual failings, yet we experience it as individuals (personally).  The figure of the devil shows us that sin has a power all its own that one person alone isn’t strong enough to tackle.  We may use the terms “structural evil” or “systemic evil” to describe this bigger idea of sin, but my own understanding of “original sin” falls pretty much in line with it.  Finally, the devil can influence a person, can engage a person intimately, and can be worshiped (as he suggests to Jesus in verse 9).  The figure of the devil is objectifiable and personal, but the devil is not a person.  Jesus is, however – and he reveals himself to be very human in this passage of Scripture.  

(Danielle Thompson)