Remembering how we do this

Our faith in the present is shaped by remembering God's faithfulness in the past. We are sustained by the same God who has sustained us before, and all those before us.  We modern folk are always looking forward. We forget that at any moment we could receive again the gifts and lessons we've been already been given. Here is a glimpse back at our own journey where God met us in difficult times. This God meets us again, here and now.

 Repent: lament, return, remember, rest
A sermon from June 2021 (mid-pandemic lockdown, post George Floyd murder)

 

Psalm 4

Answer me when I call, O God of my right!
   You gave me room when I was in distress.
   Be gracious to me, and hear my prayer. 

How long, you people, shall my honour suffer shame?
   How long will you love vain words, and seek after lies?
          Selah
But know that the Lord has set apart the faithful for himself;
   the Lord hears when I call to him. 

When you are disturbed, do not sin;
   ponder it on your beds, and be silent.
          Selah
Offer right sacrifices,
   and put your trust in the Lord. 

There are many who say, ‘O that we might see some good!
   Let the light of your face shine on us, O Lord!’
You have put gladness in my heart
   more than when their grain and wine abound. 

I will both lie down and sleep in peace;
   for you alone, O Lord, make me lie down in safety.

 

There’s a desperate vigilance and awful heaviness about the world at the moment. I think even if we aren’t paying super close attention, many of us are still feeling it. A shared, psychic weight to the world. Even as we are hurriedly vaccinating people, the case numbers are rising toward a global highest point, and what, another mass shooting? Wasn’t there just one yesterday? The pressure feels audible, the tension palpable. So many people I know have commented on how utterly exhausted they feel. But at the same time our sleep is fraught and spotty. We are alert, restless and exhausted.

 

It feels like we’re given two options, and neither one is tenable. One is to watch every minute of the Derek Chauvin trial, read everything we can about little Adam Toledo, break apart the video of Daunte White’s killing, stay up late watching national guardsmen teargassing journalists a few miles away from us, track the vaccinations, stay on top of the politicians, check in on the suffering children at the border and the conflicts simmering all over the globe, worry about the threat of climate change, and compulsively wonder what more we should be doing. And if we are not out marching or speaking out then we are following those who are, because we need to feel like we are doing something, like something is being done that can stop all this, or fix all this, and Lord, it’s all so awful how can we ignore even a moment of it? 

 

The other option we’re given is to go numb and limp. To shut it all off, and block it all out, and take in nothing but our own lives and desires. And maybe we occasionally feel a teeny bit guilty, but that’s better than helplessness and rage with no outlet. And sometimes we just bounce wildly back and forth between the two.

 

But there is a third way. And I think this Psalm gives it to us. 

 

It starts with lament. When the tears feel close, and sorrow claws up the throat, and anger and rage are right here next to us, we aim all of that right at God.  We moderns are pretty scared of lament in church, preferring the more palatable confession, but lament is an integral part of our faith. And this particular lament of David, we know, was sung in community, all the voices crying out together, Answer me when I call to you God! How long will this go on?

 

There is a mystery word here that shows up 71 times in the psalms and twice in Habakkuk, Selah. Because it’s very close to the word for pause, and also the word for praise, throughout the millennia it has come to be seen as a kind of mix of both - pause and praise God. Take a beat and turn your attention back to God.

So built right into the song is a pause, everyone stopping, silent, shifting focus back to God. And then continuing on in unison.

 

So hear the Psalm again, in this paraphrase:

 

O God who knows me, answer me when I call!

When I have been confined in anxious misery before, 

you’ve opened up expansive space for me to breathe, 

please hear me now; give me your grace again.

 

How long will our humanity be torn down? 

How long will lies be elevated, 

and people spread vitriol, delusion and exploitation?

 

Stop.

Take a beat. 

Turn your attention to God.

 

God has drawn us to God’s own being, 

those who seek God are claimed for God’s purposes.  

When you are worked up and distraught, 

don’t turn to division and blame; don’t tear down others.  

Instead, sit in it with God, 

be silent in a restful space. 

 

Stop.

Take a beat.

Turn your attention to God.

 

Lay everything before the Almighty in vulnerable honesty, 

and trust God with it. 

So many people say, “There is no goodness that we can see!” 

Oh Lord, let your love and truth shine on all of us!

You have filled me with deep joy, 

more happiness than when they have all the wealth 

and satisfaction they desire.

 

I won't stay up babysitting the world,

I will sleep soundly and deeply

because this your world, God, 

and my life is held in you.

 

Lament. Return to God. Then remember.  

This earth is heavy with sorrow and need. 

And at the same time this planet turns slowly in the utter silence of the vast cosmos, nestled amongst the great lights of burning stars, held in orbit to the sun. And within this planet, while one hemisphere is nestling down in winter hibernation, here the green shoots push up through the soil, and trees are awakening. And all over the planet new babies are born, and broken relationships are mended, and people are tending to each other, and there is laughter and joy, and tears of deep connection, and healing, and hope, and love remains the most powerful force in the universe, always at work, always, always, always.

 

But oh! We forget. So quickly, without realizing it, even when we’re trying to remember. 

This happened to me yesterday. I was remembering, and then I was completely derailed when I read in a commentary from 2012 (Shauna Hannan, Working Preacher) that in the first verse, where it says, you made space for me it originally alluded to “release from a tight noose at the neck,” the opposite of the word for when I was in distress, which is used for “a constricted larynx.”  And I stopped hearing the promise of God’s deliverance and the invitation to trust, and all I could see was that God did not make space for George Floyd when he was in distress, and how could I preach this text in the shadow of that? 

 

All day long I spun out, all day long I fixated on my words, the overwhelming sorrow and brokenness of this world, the pain of our city.  I did not lament. I obsessed. I did not take my anguish and sit silently before God. I logged onto the news and social media and started babysitting the world again. I did not come in honesty before the Almighty. I got caught up in blame and frustration in the country, and became controlling and edgy in my own house. 

And then I looked at the clock and realized it was time for evening prayers.[1] So I sat down on zoom with those who meet together every evening.  

Stop. Take a beat. Turn your attention to God.

 

And suddenly there was joy, in sharing about a day spent with happy little cousins, and our delight and horror at a ridiculous amount of accidentally purchased bananas.[2] Suddenly God was meeting us right there in our humanity, in our need, in our coming together. Then one of them repeated back to me that love is the most powerful force in the universe, and I was invited back into trust.

 

We are meant to stand with one another and for each other, to hold each other and fight for life for each other and us all, for this whole beautiful and broken world. We are made for love. God calls us into God’s purposes; we are drawn into God’s own being. We get to share in the love God is already, always bringing.

 

And then, at the end of the day, we sleep.  

To sleep is to yield to our most essential humanity – our creaturliness, our need, our soft, vulnerable, universal humanity, the warm breath, closed eyes, heavy limbs of us. 

 

Sleep is trust. It is pure being. Sleep is admitting we are not God. Sleep returns us to the humility of our own humanity. Only from here can we be fully in this life, with and for each other. 

 

We belong to God. This is God’s world. God made it. God came into it to bear our suffering and share our pain and take on our death so that death cannot, will not define us, will not have the last word, will not prevail. 

 

So stop. Take a beat. Turn your attention to God.

 

There is a poem by Pablo Neruda that I love, called Keeping Quiet. It goes like this:

 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

 

For once on the face of the earth

let’s not speak in any language,

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

 

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines,

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

 

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would look at his hurt hands.

 

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victory with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

 

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.

 

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with 

death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

 

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.” 

 

Christ has risen. He is risen indeed. 

Death does not get the last word, and love is the most powerful force in the universe. 

May we join in fully. And may we sleep soundly.

Amen.

---

[1] At this time, Pastor Lisa and I were praying every morning and evening, and the congregation every Sunday night, over zoom, with a family navigating mom's cancer.

[2] In my first foray into online grocery shopping, rather than 14 single bananas, I’d inadvertently bought 14 2lb bunches of bananas.

Lament. Return. Remember. Rest.

Psalm 4

There’s a desperate vigilance and awful heaviness about the world at the moment. I think even if we aren’t paying super close attention many of us are still feeling it. A shared, psychic weight to the world. Even as we are hurriedly vaccinating people, the case numbers are rising toward a global highest point, and what, another mass shooting? Wasn’t there just one yesterday? The pressure feels audible, the tension palpable. So many people I know have commented on how utterly exhausted they feel. But at the same time our sleep is fraught and spotty. We are alert, restless and exhausted.

It feels like we’re given two options, and neither one is tenable. One is to watch every minute of the Derek Chauvin trial, read everything we can about little Adam Toledo, break apart the video of Daunte White’s killing, stay up late watching national guardsmen teargassing journalists a few miles away, track the vaccinations, stay on top of the politicians, check in on the suffering children at the border and the conflicts simmering all over the globe, worry about the threat of climate change, and compulsively wonder what more we should be doing. And if we are not out marching or speaking out then we are following those who are because we need to feel like we are doing something, like something is being done that can stop all this, or fix all this, and Lord, it’s all so awful how can we ignore even a moment of it? 

 

The other option we’re given is to go numb and limp, to shut it all off and block it all out and take in nothing but our own lives and desires, and maybe we occasionally feel a teeny bit guilty, but that’s better than helplessness and rage with no outlet. And sometimes we just bounce wildly back and forth between the two.

 

But there is a third way. And I think this Psalm gives it to us. 

 

It starts with lament. When the tears feel close and sorrow claws up the throat, and anger and rage are right here next to us we aim all of that right at God.  We moderns are pretty scared of lament in church, preferring the more palatable confession, but lament is in integral part of our faith. And this particular lament of David, we know, was sung all the voices crying out together, Answer me when I call to you God! How long will this go on?

 

There is a mystery word here that shows up 71 times in the psalms and twice in Habakkuk, Selah. Because it’s very close to the word for pause and also the word for praise, throughout the millennia it has come to be seen as a kind of mix of both - pause and praise God. Take a beat, and turn your attention back to God.

So built right into the song is a pause, everyone stopping, silent, shifting focus back to God. And then continuing on in unison.

 

So hear the Psalm again, in this paraphrase:

 

O God who knows me, answer me when I call!

When I have been confined in anxious misery before, 

you opened up expansive space for me to breathe, 

please hear me now, give me your grace again.

 

How long will our humanity be torn down? 

How long will lies be elevated, 

and people spread vitriol, delusion and exploitation?

 

Stop.

Take a beat. 

Turn your attention to God.

 

God has drawn us to God’s own being, 

those who seek God are claimed for God’s purposes.  

When you are worked up and distraught, 

don’t turn to division and blame; don’t tear down others.  

Instead, sit in it with God, 

be silent in a restful space. 

 

Stop.

Take a beat.

Turn your attention to God.

 

Lay everything before the Almighty in vulnerable honesty, 

and trust God with it. 

So many people say, “There is no goodness that we can see!” 

Oh Lord, let your love and truth shine on all of us!

You have filled me with deep joy, 

more happiness than when they have all the wealth 

and satisfaction they desire.

 

I won't stay up babysitting the world,

I will sleep soundly and deeply

because this your world, God, 

and my life is held in you.

 

 

Lament. Return to God. Then remember.  

This earth is heavy with sorrow and need. 

And at the same time this planet turns slowly in the utter silence of the vast cosmos, nestled amongst the great lights of burning stars, held in orbit to the sun. And within this planet, while one hemisphere is nestling down in winter hibernation, here the green shoots push up through the soil, and trees are awakening. And all over the planet new babies are born, and broken relationships are mended, and people are tending to each other, and there is laughter and joy, and tears of deep connection, and healing, and hope, and love remains the most powerful force in the universe, always at work, always, always, always.

 

But oh! We forget. So quickly, without realizing it, even when we’re trying to remember. 

This happened to me yesterday. I was remembering, and then I was completely derailed when I read in a commentary from 2012 (Shauna Hannan, Working Preacher) that in the first verse, where it says, you made space for me it originally alluded to “release from a tight noose at the neck,” the opposite of the word for when I was in distress, which is used for “a constricted larynx.”  And I stopped hearing the promise of God’s deliverance and the invitation to trust, and all I could see was that God did not make space for George Floyd when he was in distress, and how could I preach this text in the shadow of that? 

All day long I spun out, all day long I fixated on my words, the overwhelming sorrow and brokenness of this world, the pain of our city.  I did not lament, I obsessed. I did not take my anguish and sit silently before God, I logged onto the news and social media and started babysitting the world again. I did not come in honesty before the Almighty. I got caught up in blame and frustration in the country, and became controlling and edgy in my own house. 

And then I looked at the clock and realized it was time for evening prayers. So I sat down on zoom with those who meet together every evening.  

Stop. Take a beat. Turn your attention to God.

 

And suddenly there was joy, in sharing about a day spent with happy little cousins, and our delight and horror at a ridiculous amount of accidentally purchased bananas. Suddenly God was meeting us right there in our humanity, in our need, in our coming together. Then one of them repeated back to me that love is the most powerful force in the universe, and I was invited back into trust.

 

We are meant to stand with one another and for each other, to hold each other and fight for life for each other and us all, for this whole beautiful and broken world. We are made for love. God calls us into God’s purposes; we are drawn into God’s own being. We get to share in the love God is already, always bringing.

 

And then, at the end of the day, we sleep.  

To sleep is to yield to our most essential humanity – our creaturliness, our need, our soft, vulnerable, universal humanity, the warm breath, closed eyes, heavy limbs of us. 

Sleep is trust. It is pure being. Sleep is admitting we are not God. Sleep returns us to the humility of our own humanity. Only from here can we be fully in this life, with and for each other. 

 

We belong to God. This is God’s world. God made it. God came into it to bear our suffering and share our pain and take on our death so that death cannot, will not define us, will not have the last word, will not prevail. 

So stop. Take a beat. Turn your attention to God.

 

There is a poem by Pablo Neruda that I love, called Keeping Quiet. It goes like this:

 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

 

For once on the face of the earth

let’s not speak in any language,

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

 

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines,

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

 

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would look at his hurt hands.

 

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victory with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

 

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.

 

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with 

death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

 

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.” 

 

Christ has risen. He is risen indeed. 

Death does not get the last word, 

and love is the most powerful force in the universe. 

May we join in fully. 

And may we sleep soundly.

Amen.

 

Breath

Daily Devotion - May 27

I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays) 

while we are pausing gathering in person. 

- Kara

Our city is grieving, angry, weary.  I have written and erased so many words. I am grieving, angry and weary, and I don't have any words today. 

But my friend, Pastor Jodi Houge, shared this with her congregation today, and it spoke to me. I am grateful for her words.

Breath

The amount of time that we have all spent thinking about breath lately seems staggering. I'm not interested in virtue signaling or an echo chamber because it doesn't lead us anywhere we haven't already been. And I'm tired of the loop.  It's Pentecost this Sunday--and the Spirit blows so hard on those gathered that it feels like everything is coming apart. Perhaps it's time for this to come apart?

We already have a virus that steals breath. And now, we are surrounded by images of a kneeling police officer squeezing the very breath out of a man named George Floyd. While I can't actually find someone to blame for the virus, I do know the collective sin of white supremacy is one I inherited, benefit from and want desperately to be free of. I want things to change because I love your kids and your babies and the expectant parents on the cusp and I want them to grow up without fear. I don't want anyone to have to fight and beg to breathe.

Scripture tells us: "We shall not kill." Lutheran theology takes us to task with a proactive regarding that commandment: "We are to fear and love God, so that we neither endanger nor harm the lives of our neighbors, but instead help and support them in all of life's needs." Baseline: do not kill one another. Next level: help one another live. Racism, church, does not help us live. Not any of us. I have waves of panic when I think specifically of our sweet adolescent boys who are brown or black skinned. George was someone's baby.

Now, there are 10 million actions steps you can take--they are all being heavily circulated right now. But perhaps first we take a minute, a breath, to repent. Because none of those actions steps create real change unless there is change within our own hearts and minds. And as a person of faith, I believe that is holy work. That is the Spirit. That is God-breathed and will bring life.

________

OK, a few words, after all...

When God breathes into dust, life comes where there is no life.  I want to join God in building a world where our belonging to God and each other is the lived reality.  

Our faith gives us two responses, both of which we avoid because they're uncomfortable, and they're honest; they make us face and feel our powerlessness instead of giving us the illusion of power.  But these holy tasks return us to the core of our humanity, and empower us to participate in God bringing life. They are Lament, and Repent. 

When we lament we bear the grief and don't turn away from it. Mouring upholds our shared humanity; it honors the ones who are lost. It keeps us connected to how things should be by bearing the pain that they are not that. 

And when we repent, we confess the brokenness around us, the sin and lies we have absorbed and perpetuated. We come honest to our hearts, so Holy Spirit can cleanse and ready us for the freedom and newness God wants to bring in us and through us.

So today I am returning to breath. I'm lamenting and repenting. 

God, breathe life into the dust of us.
Amen.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps tonight before bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we and so join our souls with each other and the people of the whole earth:

Tonight, perhaps we can practice both lamenting and repenting, through speaking or singing these words, until we've felt ourselves emptied out and filled up.

Breathe on me, breath of God.
Fill me with life anew,
That I may love
what thou doest love,
an do what thou wouldst do.

There are no "good" days

Daily Devotion - April 3

I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays) while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara

Today I woke up to the announcement that Minneapolis beaches and outdoor pools will be closed through the summer.
Through. The. Summer.
The City Pages headline read, "Summer is Cancelled."

It feels like too much to take in.
This thing is going to go on and on.

I am angry.
I am sad.

I have seen friends share, "I had a bad day yesterday."  And by "bad" they mean they had hard feelings to live with - sadness, anxiety, fear, anger.  By this measure, a "good" day is when we feel the easier feelings to live with, like happy, or grateful, or peaceful.

We tell ourselves we are supposed to be feeling the "good" feelings, at least most of the time.  And if we are feeling the "bad" ones, we should keep it to ourselves for the time being, and try to get over them quickly.  Once we move out of the discomfort and vulnerability, like maybe tomorrow, we can admit that we had those feelings today.

We used to measure our days by what we got accomplished. Did we get a lot of work done? Do we have a lot to show for our time? By that measure, right now every day is a "bad" day for many of us.  So we have shifted all the pressure of judging our days onto our emotions. But feelings aren't "good" or "bad."  Nor are they designed to be barometers of whether life is "good" or "bad" at the moment, or whether we are "doing good" or "bad," or our even whether our day has been "good" or "bad."

I have to keep remembering this: feelings are merely indicators that our needs are being met or unmet in the moment.  And right now is a weird, volatile, intense, rapidly changing and utterly standing still time, like nothing any of us have ever been through.  So it makes complete sense that our feelings would shift rapidly throughout the day, up and down, back and forth. And in the midst of all this, there are feelings I enjoy having, and those I'd prefer not to feel.  But they are all helpful. They are all informative.

My informative feelings are telling me that:
Right now, my needs for shelter and love are being met; my needs for hope and space are not being met.  That's happening at the same time. It's not "good" or "bad" - it just is.

Perhaps, if we insist on reaching a conclusion about how our day has been, "hard" or "easy" might be a more helpful way to label it. Or maybe we can begin to learn to inhabit our days as they are, resisting tallying them up on team "win" or "lose."  Just meet ourselves with gentleness and acceptance of the one life we are living in right now.

Just now, when I looked at the needs list to see what I might be needing, the one that screamed off the page at me was mourning.
So here I go again. 
I am sad.
I am angry.
I have a need to mourn what I wanted summer to be.
I have a need to mourn, again, all that this virus is taking from us all.
I can't receive the gifts in what life actually is, if I judge my feelings and don't recognize my needs.
The good news for me is, mourning is a need I can meet.

Circling back today to the Rumi poem is helping me.
So, here it is again:

The Guest House by Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps, tonight before we go to bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we might pray this Psalm, and so join our hearts:

Prayer of Lament, (Psalm 130 paraphrased)
Out of the depths of my being I cry to you, my God;
Come near, hear my voice.
Listen to me! Turn your heart to hear
my cry for mercy.

If you, my God, kept a record
of the times we turn away from you
and reject your love,
God, who could stand?
But you restore us to our belonging in you,
so that we can, with clarity of purpose,
serve you and care for each other.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
 and in God's word I put my hope.
I wait for the One who comes in,
more than those who watch for the morning,
more than those who watch for the morning.

O beloved children,
put your hope in God,
for with our Source of being is unfailing love
and with Love incarnate is full redemption.
God who enters in, will redeem God's children,
from all that destroys.

This week, we are reading through the Gospel of John.  In my house, it is at the dinner table. Maybe for you, it will be when you wake up, or before bed, or over lunch.  It can be read in about 20 minutes a day, or by reading three chapters each day.  If this is your approach, today, we are reading Chapters 16-18.

How it begins and ends

Daily Devotion - March 29

I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays) while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara
 

John 11:17-45

Lazarus

This week, when our MN lockdown began, Governor Walz explained how we are too late to flatten the curve. Now we are hoping to buy some time to get enough hospital beds in place  - even if they are in stadiums and hotels.  We are too late to keep the worst from happening, now we are just trying to extend its hit so we can be more prepared when it does. 

When Jesus finally gets to the home of his dying friend, he’s not even a little too late; he’s four days too late.  There’s no extending or preparing; it’s over, not even close.  There’s no turning back. He was supposed to be there, and he wasn’t, and Lazarus died.

Jesus, you’re too late. If you had only been here. 
These are the closest people to Jesus.  He loves them, they are the ones that scripture says Jesus loves.  Other than the unnamed “disciple whom Jesus loves” who races Peter to the tomb, Jesus loves the Father, he loves his own, and he loves Martha, Mary and Lazarus.

And still, he was not was there when Lazarus died.
There are more and more people in the world, in our nation, in our own communities, who will not be there when their loved one dies. This is terrible and tragic.
And most of us would give anything to be there.

But Jesus had no pandemic lockdown.
He could have been there, and Martha and Mary aren’t afraid to say he should have been there.  Lord, if only you had been here, this terrible thing would not have happened. 

This is part of having a relationship of love, a real relationship.
We express our hurt, our confusion, our disappointment.
We don’t make excuses for the other, even if the other is God incarnate. Perhaps especially then.

We learned last summer: there are times for the Psalms of orientation and times for Psalms of disorientation (and times for Psalms of new orientation too). And we learned that we don’t tiptoe around God when we’re upset, You’re a good God and I will praise you.  I know you are with me, even if I can’t feel it.  
All that might be true, but like King David, we are supposed to say it right to God, just like it is- if you had been here instead of absent, this would not have happened. Hear the trust, the faith in that? You could have fixed this and you didn’t. 
We are supposed to ask why.  We are allowed to yell and scream and argue and accuse. That’s part of the deal.  All told, Mary and Martha held it together better than I would have.

But that isn’t to push Jesus away. That kind of honesty exists within a relationship of love.  Because what they say then is, Come and see where we have laid him.
The same words Jesus said to the first disciples in the very first chapter of John, the words Jesus says to us, inviting us into the Kingdom of God way of being, Come and see.
These are the words we say back to him, in our loss, and in our grief, come and see. 
Come and see what we have lost. Come and see the destruction. Come and witness the horror. Come, Lord, and see what we are facing.

And Jesus shows up to wail and rage at the injustice and awfulness of it. He joins the mourners in their grief.

Death is ruling over our lives right now, the threat of physical death and the death of our lives and life as we have known it, it’s looming.  Even as we hide away to try to prevent it from taking more lives, it creeps over the mountains, through the streets of our cities, across our arbitrary borders and alleged divisions, and we are all pinned down in place by it’s threat.

And we feel like we’ve lost our lives – so much of what defined our lives a month ago is paused, or ended forever.  So we are stir-crazy and stressed out and bored and afraid.  And everything feels more exhausting, somehow, but how can that be? Because most of us are not even going anywhere or doing anything!  But that’s part of the deal too. We’re dialed down, our capacities are diminished, we’re withdrawn, in shock, and we’re tired.

We’d like to avoid this suffering, oh, how we’d like to prevent it!  We want Jesus to sweep in right on time and prevent it.  But as frustrating as it is for us, we don’t have a God who rushes to stop the bad thing from happening. We have one who comes into it.
Being in relationship with God-with-us means we face death and grief with Jesus. We say, “Come and see” and expect that he will.  And Jesus comes to mourn with those who mourn.

And then we learn that into the finality of death, the “unprecedented,” “things will never be the same” circumstances, Jesus comes into the midst of the death and brings new life right out of it.

I am the resurrection and the life. Jesus says. Jesus is the embodiment of life, resurrection comes in him, through him. Right in the midst of death, life shows up. Right in the midst of death, resurrection happens.  This is not a future hope – it is that, certainly, but it is always now.  Abundant life is now, here. Christ is here.
We don’t get resurrection, or life, as idealized beliefs, or future goals.  We get them right now; in the moments we need them, through the very person of Jesus Christ coming near to us.

One writer puts it, “This is a story that begins in lament and ends in resurrection and life.”
Lent, this season of preparation for Easter, is a human paradigm, to get us into the place of openness to receive the life God brings by turning our gaze toward the death that precedes it.
But this year we don’t need this structure- we are, right now, living in Lent.  We are living in a story that begins in lament and ends in resurrection and life.

Jesus didn’t come on time to temporarily delay his own friend’s death. Jesus enters in and suffers death with all of us, and overcomes death permanently for all of us.

Those who witness this, like the ones who unbound Lazarus’s grave bandages and draped a cloak around him, who held his arms and walked his creaky joints back to the house, drew him a bath, fed him a meal, welcomed him back into the community, they trusted. They believed, because they were part of what God was doing bringing life.

The One who is the resurrection and the life, said come and see what I will do, and drew them into ministry for one another.  This One brought life out of death right in front of them and summoned them to participate.  

All around us, at every moment, this is happening, in big and little ways.  God is bringing newness, life, hope, connection, joy, a future that we could not have envisioned or dared imagine, right out of the impossibility and destruction around us and within us.
Because every time death meets us – in big and little ways, it is a story that ends in new life.
Come and see.
Amen.
 
(This year, we are asking, "Who is this God and what is God up to?" And "What is a good life and how do we live it?" along with some of our biblical ancestors.  The sermons related to this series are here: Hannah, Mary, Anna & Simeon, John the Baptist, Samuel, David (we had a theater performance, here's an older sermon about David), The Samaritan Woman, Mary of Bethany (preached by Pastor Lisa), Martha, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Thomas (preached by Pastor Lisa, follow up devotion here)

CONNECTING RITUALS:

This week, our congregation is reading through the Gospel of John.  In my house, it is at the dinner table. Maybe for you, it will be when you wake up, or before bed, or over lunch.  It can be read in about 20 minutes a day, or by reading three chapters each day.  If this is your approach, today, we are reading Chapters 1-3.

We are also setting aside Sundays for Sabbath rest. After we log off of our worship service, we are staying off of TV, phones and other sources of news and distraction. This is time to continue remembering that we belong to God and each other, to rest in some gentleness and let that truth soak in deeper.  Instead of more news, we might:

Get out in the fresh air. Take a nap. Read poetry or scripture. Cook with someone. Do yoga.  Relax in the tub. Play a board game. Build legos.  Write a letter. Look through photo albums.
Be human in a non-plugged-in way for whole day (or for three hours minimum), at least once a week. 

We believe that taking Sabbath time will help us return to the situation that being human right now is with more grace, perspective and courage.

Perhaps when you are ready to move back out of set-aside time whatever time that is in each of our homes, we might use this liturgy for leaving sabbath time, and so join our hearts:
Liturgy for Leaving Sabbath Time
(To be used at the end of the Day)

This ritual may be done with a group or alone.

• Light the Sabbath candle. (Or gather around candle that has been lit through the day).
• Moment of silence.
• Share with one another, or reflect to yourself: 

What was the best part of this Sabbath time for you?

• Share or reflect: 

What do you look forward to in the week ahead?

• Pass the spice packet, (bowl of spices, cinnamon stick, etc) and inhale its fragrance deeply.  

Let the smell linger and remind you of the sweet depth of Sabbath rest, to carry the sense of Sabbath with you as you enter your week.

• End with a simple prayer like, “Thank you God for the blessing of Sabbath time. Thank you for the gift of life, and for sharing all of life with us.  Amen.”
• Extinguish the candle.