Weeping

John 11:1-45

Julie hasn’t been to church in ages. She’d grown up in one, but it had been a few years since she’d attended a service outside of her college roommate’s wedding. She’s here on impulse this morning. The sermon title says “weeping” and that pretty much sums up her life lately.

She notes her displeasure as the pastor begins to read the story of Lazarus. Julie remembers this story from Sunday School. She had thought it was creepy and they had joked about Lazarus rising up like a zombie or something out of a nightmare. In youth group, she’d wondered with Martha about the smell or how someone could rise up after 4 days of being dead, and then what happened to Lazarus afterward, cause didn’t he just die again? The story was strange and fascinating.

But now the passage is just vile, a bitter reminder of how people don’t come back to life. Her brother Josh had died five months ago. He didn’t have friends and family around him to even call for help or resuscitate him. And Jesus didn’t raise him back up. He died in a hospital, with strangers around him, hours after he’d been found beaten on the street for no good reason. Just at the “wrong place at the wrong time,” the police officer said.

Julie had cursed God in those days, railed against Jesus and her faith and turned her back on the church once and for all.

Her eyes well up as she listens to this scripture. She’s ready to leave, because what’s the point of listening to this story? A story of the miracle she wanted most of all, the story that happened for one man and his family, but not for hers. A story that teases her with the possibility that someone could be restored to life after death, but that remains so out of reach for her.

She stays, though, because she doesn’t want to make a scene. She steels herself for the rest of this ordeal, called worship. The pastor continues to explain how this is the end of a series of miracles in the gospel of John. Jesus has healed the sick, restored sight to the blind, fed the hungry and now this, his final move, his piece de resistance as he says in verse 4 that Lazarus’ illness is “for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.”

Julie thinks back to all the well-meaning, yet misguided people who told her that Josh’s death happened for a reason. That Josh was such a good young man, that God must have wanted him in heaven early. That this death is all part of God’s plan and she should find comfort in that. And her favorite that Josh is now in a better place.

But Julie doesn’t see the point in her brother’s having to die just to prove that God is all powerful or to somehow create something good. Couldn’t an all-powerful God do great things without having people die untimely deaths? Why couldn’t God have just wanted Josh to keep being her fabulous brother and living his life to the fullest? Wasn’t that enough of a good purpose?

The pastor starts to explain how this is a metaphor—one of those likely things pastors say these days, a way of distancing us from questions like if it really happened, and if so how did Jesus actually raise someone from the dead. She then says it foreshadows Jesus’ own resurrection, making us realize that Jesus has power over death and life.

Even though she’s annoyed, Julie understands the idea of the metaphor here—of this snap shot account, being more about the power of Jesus to conquer death, his own eventual resurrection, than it is about the particular resurrection of Lazarus, and how that might have worked or why Jesus chose only him. But for Julie, who sees herself like Mary and Martha, calling for Jesus, wishing he would do something, it’s hard to look past the literal story of a beloved brother who was saved and restored, and her brother who was not. The pastor points to the humanity of Jesus—how he loved his friend and weeps at his passing.

“But,” Julie thinks, “If God wept over Josh’s death, why didn’t God save him? If Jesus could raise Lazarus, why doesn’t he do it for everyone?”

She has this image of Josh, the one she’s dreamed about a thousand times, his lifeless body, his beloved face, his scraggly blonde hair, just laying there—bruised and broken. But this time there is a person kneeling over him, crying and Julie can see that this is God and Josh awakens and smiles at her—and Julie hears this voice saying, “I was with him Julie, I cried over your brother just as you did.” The scene changes, and Julie sees the lifeless body of Jesus, so long ago, and that same shining person who says, “I wept over him too. I weep for all of you, my beloved children. But I cannot save you all from death. Your eternal life is with me, not here on earth. And it’s painful and confusing and I’m sorry that it happened this way to Josh, I’m sorry that some survive longer and some do not, I’m sorry for the evil men who killed Josh, but I love those killers too, because they all belong to me. I work with what I have, I don’t cause disaster, but I help turn it into beauty. The death of Lazarus, the death of your brother, the death of Jesus—my son and myself—all disasters, but in resurrection, those deaths become beauty.”

Julie blinks and sees the sanctuary again and hears these words, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die. Will live, and everyone who lives and believe in me will never die.” The pastor reminds them that this is not to say that we will all avoid the end of our mortal lives. But it’s a message that resurrection can happen in our lives now. Our lives can be made new in Christ. Beauty can come out of disaster. Life out of death. The message of the resurrection of Lazarus and of Jesus too. She mentions that it’s this particular miracle, in the gospel of John, that will cause Jesus’ death, will be the miracle that draws attention to him and raises questions. Jesus will pay a price for this act.

Julie gets that Josh didn’t get to live to 90 like their grandmother did, but his death wasn’t for nothing. She remembers that four other lives were saved because Josh was an organ donor. And even though Josh is gone that counts for something. Knowing that God didn’t need or want Josh to die helps. Knowing that God cried with her when Josh died helps even more. Knowing that God shares in her grief and pain, helps her feel like she’s not alone. Her grief is still with her, but her anger lessons.

By the time she’s singing the final hymn, Julie feels lighter. She feels peaceful for the first time in months. Her faith is restored, just a little bit. She has the glimmer of hope that maybe Josh hadn’t been alone and that God hadn’t really wanted him to die, especially not such a horrible death. And that his death, leads to new life, after all. That in Jesus, through his grace and glory, all life can be made new.

And it feels a bit like resurrection. Thanks be to God.

Today’s Troubles

Matthew 6:24-34

I don’t know about you, but when I read this passage, I automatically start thinking about the very things Jesus tells us not to worry about: what to eat and what to wear. Are you happy with what you chose to wear today? Are you warm enough or cool enough? Do your clothes match? Are they stylish? What are you going to wear for the rest of the week? Is there laundry to do, dry cleaning to pick up? And what about food? Did you skip breakfast? Are you hungry? What are you going to do after church? Go grab a coffee or a bagel? Eat a good lunch? And what about dinner? What will you have? Will you cook or go out or order in or go to a friend’s house?

You’re thinking about food now, aren’t you? Maybe even worrying about it a bit?

Try to sit here and not worry: Jesus says our life is more than food, but what about the bigger things. Don’t think about your depleted savings account or the fluctuating stock market. Don’t think about your job or school or that interview that’s coming up or that exam. Don’t think about your next doctor’s appointment or procedure. Don’t think about your mortgage. Don’t think about the meaning of life, and what you’re doing, and if you’re really happy or just marking the passing of days. And I haven’t even mentioned war and terrorism and global warming.

The easiest advice that Jesus offers is to not worry about the small stuff. In fact, don’t worry about anything that isn’t from God. Don’t worry about tomorrow, because today’s troubles are enough for today. We could just end it there, with a feel-good, don’t-worry-be-happy sort of sermon. And don’t we all need it?

As a collective, we Americans are more anxious now than ever. We’re anxious, we’re medicated, we’re not sleeping well, we’re not able to be our best selves. Ironically, in many ways, this is the best time ever to be alive. With so many technology advances, medical discoveries, and educational opportunities—we should all be living great lives, and yet so many of us are overcome by anxiety. We have high expectations to live up to, quick technology gives us more tasks to complete in shorter amounts of time. We’ve been told we can be anything we want to be, and yet job markets are tight and competitive, and once we get a job, it’s still really difficult to make ends meet, yet alone buy a grand home and all of the other luxuries of the American dream life. We’re more isolated too have fewer friendships are further away from family.

We’re lonelier, and stressed out, and facing high pressures. It’s normal now to have issues with depression and anxiety—even children are facing these issues—because of the times we live in. It used to be almost shameful, to be taking prozac or Zoloft, but I bet we could go around the room raising hands this morning and find a lot of company. So this passage is both particularly appropriate and excruciatingly difficult for us.

Jesus says, do not worry about food or clothes. He adds the peaceful, comforting illustration of Lilies being clothed in natural beauty. “Birds of the air” that eat without having to grow their own food, grocery shop or cook. But clearly, being a human being is a little more complicated—we cannot disregard a concern for clothing so much so that we run out to a field with nothing on. And we cannot survive on sunshine. Photosynthesis doesn’t work for us. We’re not planted in the ground or covered in feathers.

Food and clothing are two of our basic human needs. It’s quite a different story to tell a wealthy woman not to devote her life to high fashion than to tell a homeless man not to worry about his bare feet in the middle of winter. King Solomon might not have been clothed in glory enough to match the lilies of the field, but that’s not very comforting for a person who lacks food and clothes.

As Jesus urges us not to worry about these things, we need to help others be able not to worry. It’s not to make light of serious needs. Help others not to worry, bring food for ALIVE, bring socks for The Open Table.

You cannot serve two masters, you cannot serve God and money. You cannot serve God and spend a big chunk of time worrying about your own welfare. Because we’ll end up obsessing over money and hating God. Because if we serve money, we undoubted worry a great deal. We worry about interest, security, protection, insurance. We lock up our valuables. We worry about not ever having enough, because somebody will always have more. It’s a game we can’t win. We end up living out of the mindset of scarcity—the fear that there is never enough—which just leads to more anxiety, unhappiness, and the complete distraction from God and all that is beautiful and holy.

If we strive after God, we live into the mindset of abundance. There is always enough God, always enough love, always an abundance of all that is beautiful and holy. We don’t have to strive after money or material goods, can be satisfied with less, without consuming too much, buying too much, eating too much.

Strive first for the Kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be give to you as well. Jesus is our Lord. Jesus overthrows all other concerns. Jesus is our master and we serve him. Which means that we serve the people that Jesus serves: those who are hungry, those who are thirsty, those who need real bread and real water, and those who need the Bread of Christ and the Wine of salvation. We serve those who hunger for God and long for the clothes of his righteousness.

When we strive after God, we find that what we have is enough. We have enough food, enough clothes, and enough trouble to keep us busy for today.

Let Your Light Shine

“Shout out! Do not hold back!” God tells Isaiah, and we all know we’re in for it now. Trumpets were used, frequently, as calls to war in Israel, but God finds a trumpet blast a suitable start for this sermon.

The people of Israel are passionate about their worship. They are faithful and regular and devote. They are a nation chasing after God, fasting and humbling themselves, desiring to draw closer to God, filling the temple to the brim, desperate to know God’s ways—imploring God to answer them. Their actions may seem outwardly holy, but their spiritual practice ends at the temple. And they have the audacity to wonder why God doesn’t kiss them on the forehead with gratitude. God is not impressed by their posturing and whining. God says they serve their own interests on the Sabbath and not God’s. They oppress their workers. They quarrel and fight. And that, in short, their fasting will not make their voices heard on high. It’s not enough to go through these actions when their hearts aren’t in the right place. God doesn’t want to hear it. Worship, if it is not backed by action, is not what pleases God the most.

I know that we look around and lament all the empty space in the pews. When we tell stories of our past, we remember times when we needed the balcony and even further back when we needed the chapel downstairs for overflow. We remember Easters when there was standing room only, when the choir loft was full, when there were 20 babies in the nursery. We sit in meetings and wonder how to get back to those days, how to fill up our pews, how to increase our attendance and membership numbers.

And as a church, we are not alone, all across the nation in mainline denominations, other churches are asking the same questions: why are we hemorrhaging members and money, and have been for the last 40 years and how do we make it stop? While some suggest that mainline Protestantism took a liberal turn in the 1960s and can never grow again unless it becomes more conservative: keeping out gays, no longer ordaining women, stopping our focus on social justice or political progressiveness . . . what we’re really looking at is a world that is skeptical of institutions, that is postmodern and diverse. We’re looking back at the end of Christendom, at a time that has long gone, a time when everyone who was respectable went to church, some for religious reasons and some out of social pressure or shear habit.

We live in a land of many different faiths and many who identify as “Christian” but never set foot in a church. The church no longer has the central place in society that it once held, and this is not necessarily a bad thing. I imagine that most of you are here because you want to be, not because you feel pressured or to obey the rules of society—because our wider culture tells us that we should spend a Sunday morning at brunch, or with the newspaper and a cup of coffee—it’s just another morning, afterall, except that the office is closed.

In our passage in Isaiah, the temple is not facing these problems—people are showing up for worship, it’s the central part of their life, it’s what you do on a Sabbath, take a bath, put on your nice clothes, get to temple, shake hands with all the right people, sings songs, say your prayers, make your sacrifices and your fasts, listen to scripture, and then go out into the world, feeling good and pious. Maybe even to grandma’s house for Sunday dinner or out for a Sunday drive. Kind of like it’s 1952 in America again. And that is what we mourn when we look around the sanctuary and wish for more company. Those days when everybody showed up.

Jesus never said anything about being the center of society . . . Jesus was much more focused on saving individuals and forming a community of love and service to carry out his work. His was a radical group, not concerned with social conformity or respectability.

God says to Isaiah, this is not about worship. I don’t care what’s going on in the sanctuary, but I do care about what is NOT going on in the world. Because the point of worship—comes at the very end of our service together—we come to be nourished, built up, encouraged, and then SENT OUT to the world.

Sadly, when we tell the stories of our church, this is what I do not hear: we used to be really active in the community. All over town, we were known as the church to go to if you needed help. The dinners we cooked for the homeless were legendary. We had the best food pantry, we bought the most coats, we worked with the mayor and city council to find solutions to homelessness and poverty in our city.

I know there was some mission work and giving, but it’s not what is highlighted—it’s not what defines our church, not like our fine music program, or our drama group . . . I’m talking about the stories we use to define ourselves, to tell of our history . . . What we talk about is who we were, are, or want to be. And that’s part of why it’s so hard for us to talk about the future, because we still want to talk about worship style and music, we want to talk about our buildings and our finances, we want to talk about our physical appearance and accessibility in Old Town, our presence as a place to worship . . . but what we need to discuss is our presence as a missional church, our presence to those in the community who are in need physically and spiritually.

We’re starting to get a reputation around town as a place to go for a meal and warmth. The Open Table is truly working at Washington Street. We give the hungry bread. We welcome the homeless into our doors. We are starting to be noticed in ways that we haven’t been perhaps for decades. But there is so much more we need to do t owork to end injustice and oppression.

Listen again to what God promises if we are faithful and care for the poor and work to fix injustices . . . “Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt.” A good walk-through of our buildings can show us a thing or two about “ancient ruins” and a good walk through our financial situation and the realestate situation of Old Town can show us just how unlikely it is that we can “rebuild” anything on our own.

There are churches like ours who have managed to turn around when they focus on mission, when they stop navel gazing and longing for an extinct past and stop focusing on their problems—and remember what God really desires, far beyond lovely music and beautiful prayers and full pews

God doesn’t just want us to show up at church on Sundays but “to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke. To share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house;; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin.” Because we are all children of God, and we cannot praise God with our lips and then deny God with the rest of our actions.

Only then, God tells Isaiah, “Light shall break forth like dawn and your healing shall spring up quickly; You shall be like a watered garden, spring of water whose waters never fail.”

In these days of finding a way forward, this is our message of hope. Thank be to God.