As many of you likely know, we celebrated the Feast of the Ascension via livestream at Christ the King last Thursday. But the reality is, most folks don’t remember or celebrate the Church’s feast days during the week anymore. I did hear that in New York City this past week, they paused the newly-resumed street sweeping schedule on the Feast of the Ascension. That is just great news to me. Somewhere in the United States, the Christian calendar still matters!

Since most American Christians don’t celebrate the Feast of the Ascension on the Thursday of the 6th week of Easter anymore, the lectionary gives us one of the ascension narratives on the Sunday that follows.

In Luke’s gospel account of the ascension, Jesus tells his disciples to “stay here in the city” just as he is about to ascend into heaven. The city Jesus is referring to is Jerusalem. They were to stay put until further notice so to speak. I think we can relate to that. 

Some of you know that I am in the novitiate process for a dispersed Episcopal religious community called the Order of the Ascension. The Order was founded in 1983 by a group of Episcopal clergy and lay people who had a common call to urban ministry. In 1980, one of the Order’s founders, Fr. Robert Gallagher, wrote a short booklet entitled “Stay in the City” for the Diocese of Pennsylvania. The ideas of "Stay in the City" were partially responsible for the convention of that diocese declaring a moratorium on the closing of all city parishes while work was done to develop a revitalization strategy.[1]  

 In this booklet, Robert was urging the bishop and diocesan leadership not to abandon their inner-city parishes in Philadelphia. “White Flight” had taken hold, and most Episcopalians had chosen to move, work, and worship in the suburbs. Urban parishes and ministries were dying. This flight to the suburbs was happening all over the country. As such, Gallagher’s rally cry of “stay in the city” became the foundation for what became the Order of the Ascension.

A lot has happened since the early 80’s, and now those of us in the Order are dispersed throughout the country. Our mission is no longer primarily focused on inner city, urban ministry. But the Order’s charism remains the same: The development of parish churches grounded in Anglican pastoral and ascetical theology, especially Benedictine spirituality.[2] As members of the Order, we promise "to seek the presence of Jesus Christ in the people, things and circumstances of life through stability, obedience and conversion of life."[3]

I am sharing all of this with you for two reasons. First, I think it’s important for you to know what I’m up to, why you see the letters “OA” written after my name, and what I’m doing in my formation as a priest. I’ve written and preached about the Order of the Ascension before, but I imagine many of you still aren’t aware of it, and Ascensiontide is a great time for me to remind you!

The second reason I am talking about the Order of the Ascension is that I think the Order has a lot to offer to us here at Christ the King. Upon first glance, CtK is about as far removed from the spirit of the Order of the Ascension as any church. The fact is, we are a church made of the people who did not “stay in the city.” Most all of us moved away from whatever city we lived in to get a fresh, new, start here in the Emerald Coast paradise. Our church building is 20 years old, not 200 years old. Until fairly recently, our church doors were closed and locked Monday through Saturday, except for an hour on Wednesdays. We are about as far removed from a historic, inner city, urban parish as it gets.

But some of us were members of urban churches prior to coming here. And those of us who were probably don’t miss the financial and missional headaches that old, historic, downtown churches can bring. Many people love living here precisely because everything is new – our homes, schools, churches, grocery stores, even the relationships we form. As such, there is a strong transient culture here - folks are frequently coming and going. 

But there is another trend that is developing in our area. Families are moving to the area by the droves, and they are choosing to call this place their home. They are working here, they are sending their children to the local schools, they are joining local churches, and they are establishing their roots here. As such, our community is growing more diverse. We are no longer just a resort or retirement community. And as more people move to this “city,” I believe that more people will choose to stay in this “city.” 

I think that original group of men and women who formed the Order of the Ascension were afraid that “White Flight” to the suburbs was causing cities - and the cities’ churches – to lose their soul. Sprawling suburbia may have a lot to offer folks, but it typically has no soul to speak of. So, this group of faithful Christians that became the Order of the Ascension chose to “stay in the city,” and participate in God’s work and mission there. They intentionally resisted what was trendy, new, and shallow in favor of the denser culture of the city.

And being a novitiate in the Order has helped me see the value in “staying in the city” so to speak. As the Santa Rosa Beach community begins to mature beyond its infant stage as a community, I want more than anything for Christ the King to be a part of the “soul” of our city as we grow into maturity as a parish. One look at the major construction project on our campus right now and it is abundantly clear that we as a parish are planted right here and have no intentions of going anywhere. 

And as we grow our physical plant, I believe that our roots are growing deeper as well. The fairly recent additions of daily Morning and Evening Prayer services as well as a weekly Centering Prayer group are evidence that we are establishing a denser culture here. We are indeed becoming a parish that is more and more “grounded in Anglican pastoral and ascetical theology [and] Benedictine spirituality.”

 As our parish continues to navigate the rapid growth that is happening all around us, if we are not mindful, there are two ways that I think we could begin to “lose our soul” so to speak. 

The first would be to grow scared of how we are changing, and - to use a phrase that our bishop has used before – “sabotage” the great progress that is going on here at Christ the King. 

This coming weekend, Nick Rebbe, our candidate for the newly-created Director of Family Faith Formation position, will be here for a weekend of final interviews getting to know one another. This process is a perfect example of how we as a parish are establishing deeper roots in our life together. By making the commitment to add another full-time, professional program staff member, we are committing to “staying in the city” so to speak. If we want our young families to “stay in the city” with us, we as a parish need to journey alongside them in the formation of their children, just as our baptismal covenant urges us to do. A deeply rooted parish is one that, among many things, commits to forming all of its members in the faith. So, while it may be frightening to turn our part-time position into a full-time, professional position, it will be essential for our life and growth together. It will be essential for our soul as parish.

The second way that we could “lose our soul” as a parish would be to, in our hunger to grow, become just like those sprawling, suburban, entertainment, and program-driven parishes that left the city back in the 80’s and 90’s. Bigger isn’t always better. Newer isn’t always better. Novelty is never better. Through our relatively short life span, Christ the King has done a phenomenal job of not falling prey to the “big box” ethos that plagues so many newer communities, and dare I say, so many churches. I think the people who are drawn to Christ the King are drawn here precisely because we aren’t like everybody else. Our worship is rooted in the ancient Christian tradition. We are simply a little bit different from those around us. And that is one thing that I love about the Episcopal Church in general, and Christ the King in particular. 

One thing I love about being a part of the Order of the Ascension is that everything we do is rooted in Benedictine spirituality and Anglican ascetical practice. The training we receive in the novitiate process isn’t “how to make your church grow larger and faster” type training. Instead, our focus is on “how to help your church grow deeper.” We are being trained to help our parishes “stay in the city” so to speak. We are being trained to help our parishes and parishioners not get anxious and flee the moment we are faced with hardship or change. We are being trained to become nimble, resilient, spiritually mature, and emotionally intelligent leaders in the church. And I feel very blessed to be a part of a group that has so much “soul” so to speak.

And I feel very blessed to be the rector of a parish that has so much soul as well. 

May God grant us the wisdom, courage, and faith to stay grounded in the ancient wisdom and traditions of the Church while remaining timely and relevant in our witness to and participation in the world around us. 

May God grant us the wisdom, courage, and faith to ground all of our growth in disciplines of worship, prayer, outreach, pastoral care, and Christian formation.

And May God grant us the wisdom, courage, and faith to sink our roots even deeper and to stay here in the city while doing our part to make this city a better place to stay.

[1] From www.orderoftheascension.org

[2] www.orderoftheascension.org

[3] ibid

The time had come to say goodbye. Last Saturday, I had the sacred privilege of joining Carole Duncan and Barbara Kaster’s daughter Kimberly as we said goodbye to Barbara as she breathed her last breath. It was a holy time that we experienced with Barbara, and of course, with God, who was palpably present there with us. Thankfully for all of us there, we had the opportunity to experience a good, healthy – albeit teary - goodbye.

Sadly, we are not always given the opportunity to say goodbye when someone we love dies. Tragedy can strike suddenly. And the pain of not having said a last goodbye can remain for a lifetime.

Or, as is the case now during this pandemic, some people are dying alone. I don’t know what would be worse – dying alone, or having someone I love die alone. Either way, the absence of a flesh-and-blood goodbye for the victims of the virus and their families is just heart-wrenching.

So when we are able, it is a sacred, holy, and deeply important privilege to be able to say goodbye to someone we love. And these goodbyes are good, hard, essential work.

Within the parish church context, besides last rites and funerals, another time we are faced with saying difficult goodbyes is when our clergy and lay staff leave, either for a new call or for retirement. Too many times, church staff and their congregations have not done a good job of saying goodbye well, and the effect lingers for both the clergy, staff, and the congregation long after the departure. The importance of making sure that these goodbyes are healthy for all involved is such that a number of books have been written on the subject.

But none of these books are as good at advocating for and modeling a healthy goodbye than Jesus’ Farewell Discourse in the Gospel of John. Spanning the length of four entire chapters– Jesus’ farewell to his disciples takes up one quarter of John’s entire gospel. That is a long goodbye. And that just goes to show how important Jesus felt it was to say goodbye to his disciples. Indeed, the time had come to say goodbye, and not surprisingly, Jesus did it well.

We were introduced to this Farewell Discourse last Sunday, when Jesus began with the comforting words, “Do not let your heart be troubled; have faith in God and have faith in me.” One thing that I find to be remarkable about this discourse is that Jesus, knowing that he was about to be betrayed by one of his very own, and knowing that he was about to suffer a horrific torture and execution, was concerned about the well-being of his disciples. If anyone ever has ever had an excuse to slip out the back door without saying goodbye it would have been Jesus. Yet he wanted to make sure that these betraying and denying friends of his  knew that though he would ultimately leave them to return to his Father in heaven, they would never be alone. So Jesus tells them that he will ask his Father to send them another Advocate – God’s very own Holy Spirit. 

The Greek word that is translated as “advocate” can also be translated as counselor, helper, or comforter. Again - the time had come to say goodbye. And in saying goodbye, Jesus assured the disciples that they would have an Advocate who would guide, comfort, and counsel them in their missionary journeys that would follow. And even when they would eventually die as martyrs for the gospel, they would not die as desolate, comfortless orphans. With the Advocate, they would never live alone, and they would never die alone. 

We must remember that the Advocate – the Holy Spirit – isn’t a living replacement for a dead Jesus. As Easter people, we must always remember that through his resurrection from the dead, Jesus is and always will be alive. The Holy Spirit – the Advocate – the Comforter – is the One through whom we experience the living God here and now. We know this because Jesus said to his disciples, “because I live, you also will live.”  And this line, which I have never really noticed before, just might be what we need to hear most right now.

As a parish church – and as part of the broader Church – most of us didn’t get to say a good, decent “goodbye” on March 15, which happened to be our last Sunday of public worship prior to the pandemic shutdown. We didn’t get to have a four-chapter farewell discourse with one another. And when public worship was temporarily suspended, most of us assumed we’d be back by Easter Sunday.  Yet here we are now, hoping and praying that it might be safe and prudent for us to return on May 31, which just happens to be the Feast of Pentecost.

And the longer we are apart from one another, the longer that we are unable to gather together for worship, the more isolated and alone we are prone to feel. Just as many small – and even very large – businesses are nearing the point of never being able to reopen due to financial hardship, the same goes for many churches. People are afraid. People are heartbroken. People are alone. People are angry. Now more than ever, we need an Advocate; a Counselor; a Helper; a Comforter. We need to know and feel and believe that we are not alone in this crisis. We may be isolated and lonely. But through the power and presence of God’s Holy Spirit, we are never alone. 

How do I know this? Why do I believe this? Because I believe in all my heart that what happened on that Sunday morning after Jesus was crucified is true. I believe that Jesus shattered the chains of death and rose from the dead. I believe that Jesus was alive then and I believe that he is alive today.

“Because I live, you also will live.” This line from the Farewell Discourse – this line that I used to pass right over – is the line that I am leaning most heavily on today, and I invite you to do the same. 

 “Because I live, you also will live.” Jesus is alive. And because Jesus is alive, so are we, and so will we be – now and in the age to come. We are alive, yet for most of us, life has dramatically changed during this pandemic. Some places, things, and even relationships that we treasure might never look or feel the same going forward. Some churches will die. And people are still dying of this virus. 

As such, time has come and will come for us to say some terribly difficult goodbyes. And Jesus has reminded us of the importance of this sacred discipline. 

Our gospel lessons from last week, today, and next week are the comforting story of Jesus reassuring his disciples (and us) that they (and we) - though we will have at some point to say goodbye to people, places, things, and ways of life that we love - will never be alone. We may be isolated and lonely, but we will never be alone. But, when we have the sacred privilege of doing so, we must exercise the discipline of saying our goodbyes in a healthy, intentional way. And we can do so knowing that God’s Advocate will be with us in every moment – the joyful ones and the tearful ones.

Jesus came that we might have life, and have it abundantly. This challenging time has been an opportunity for us to adjust our thinking on what abundant life looks like. But one thing remains constant throughout it all - 

Jesus lives, and we will live also. 

Jesus lives, and we will live also. 

Jesus lives, and we will live also.

The story of Stephen is nothing short of remarkable. Before Stephen became the very first Christian martyr, he – along with six others – became one of the very first Christian deacons. Luke tells us that the apostles were so busy taking care of the widows of their community that they were neglecting their vocation of preaching and prayer. So, they appointed seven “men of good standing, full of Spirit and of wisdom,” to serve as deacons of the church. These deacons had a specific calling to care for the sick, elderly, and poor. That way, the apostles could go about their work of preaching, teaching, and spreading the Gospel. Isn’t it ironic then, that the longest sermon in all of the New Testament was preached by none other than “Deacon” Stephen… right after he was ordained to serve as a pastoral caregiver. 

But Stephen’s first sermon didn’t go so well…so much so that it ended up being his last. It stirred up the faithful, God-loving, religious folks into such a fury that that they ended up dragging Stephen out of town and stoning him to death. All this was over a truth-telling sermon preached by someone who wasn’t even supposed to be preaching in the first place. 

Throughout the history of the Church, it seems like more than anything, Stephen’s martyrdom has served as a badge of honor for Stephen - albeit a well-deserved one – as well as a model for the faithful imitation of Christ. And that makes sense, because we encounter a Stephen who has been so “conformed to Christ”… so “caught up in the life of Christ”[1] that he faithfully, courageously, and even joyfully died for what he believed to be true. And that is a profound thing for us to consider for our own lives. Yes, our primary baptismal calling is to be imitators of Christ – so that “the pattern of Christ’s life and the living reality of Christ are reproduced in the Church’s members.”[2] And Stephen indeed fulfilled that calling, so much so that his death – even his last words – almost exactly mirrors Christ’s death on the cross. 

But if we’re not careful, we run the risk of overly spiritualizing – even glamorizing – Stephen’s horrific death. And Luke doesn’t really help us with this. He tells us that as Stephen was being brutally murdered by a mob, his face was shining and he was filled with the Holy Spirit – so much so that the last words out of his mouth were, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” So the first thing that we feel when we hear today’s lesson is likely to be inspiration, not horror. And so the sermons that follow are usually about how we should strive to emulate Stephen, just as he emulated Christ. We should be bold in our faith, and not be afraid to proclaim the truth, no matter what the consequences. Oftentimes the actual takeaway is that Stephen – and all the Christian martyrs who followed – were called to a higher calling than most of us cannot emulate. We simply aren't as faithful and courageous as Stephen, and so we give thanks for the witness of Stephen and all other martyrs, while we pray for forgiveness for how we fall short of our calling to imitate Christ.

 But rarely do I hear sermons on this day that focus on the mob. That is likely because we cannot see ourselves in the mob. We may not be as faithful and courageous as Stephen, but we certainly aren't as irrational, bloodthirsty, and horrible as the mob that drug him out of town and stoned him to death for preaching an offensive sermon. Some of us may have participated in petitions, email smear campaigns, or clandestine meetings to have a clergyperson removed, but we would never drag him out of town and kill him. We’re just not as violent and barbaric as people used to be. So we quickly pass over wondering what the mob in today’s lesson might have to teach us. Just as we’ll never be as faithful and courageous as Stephen, we’ll never be as bloodthirsty and barbaric as the mob that murdered him.

But then there is Saul. Luke subtly introduces Saul at the end of today’s lesson – almost as if he is an afterthought. But this ends up being the turning point in the Acts of the Apostles, as Saul’s conversion follows shortly thereafter. But before his dramatic conversion experience on the road to Damascus, Saul was a notorious, and perhaps the most feared persecutor of that first generation of Christians. But in today’s lesson, Saul doesn’t appear to be a part of the mob – at least not one of those actually dragging Stephen out of town or throwing stones on him. Instead, Saul is simply there to watch the coats of those who are engaged in the mob. If Saul were to have said something, it easily could have been, “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t throw a stone.” 

But actually, Saul doesn’t say anything - and that is how I am able to connect with our lesson today. I am not as faithful and courageous as Stephen, though I pray that I might become more so as I strive to imitate Christ. I am not as irrational and barbaric as those in the mob, and I pray that I’ll never fall prey to the lack of personal accountability that comes with the “mob mentality.” But sadly, like Saul, I do stand by and keep my mouth shut – far too often. And sometimes, keeping my mouth shut is simply the right thing to do. Lord knows we have enough mediums where people can air their opinions these days – social media, podcasts, blogs, you name it. It is easier now than ever before to broadcast yourself and your opinion, and quite frankly I find it tiresome. 

But I can’t help but to draw a connection between today’s story of the murder of Stephen by a fearful, angry mob and the murder of Ahmaud Aubrey – an African American - by two fearful, angry white men in Brunswick, Georgia last February. And in an effort to not be like Saul, rather than standing by and not saying anything at all, I could comment on how sad this situation is, and wonder why folks do horrible things like that, and ask that we pray for all involved, and leave it at that. And that wouldn’t be terrible… at least I acknowledged it. 

But as I said before, I don’t think today’s lesson from Acts is primarily about the heroism of Stephen or the wickedness of the mob. Heroes and villains are easy to identify – comic books and Hollywood have helped to solidify the “black and white” depiction of good and evil. 

I believe that today’s story is about the subtle-yet-equally-evil sin of silence and apathy that infected Saul on that day. And that same sin infects so many of us who are in a position of power and privilege, myself being a prime example. So I think today’s lesson is calling us to explore how we might actually relate more to Saul than Stephen or the mob that killed him. As such, I think today’s lesson is calling us to explore our tendency to stand by silently and apathetically in the face of injustice.

The sins of racism and hate are what caused the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. But it was the sins of silence and apathy that allowed the murder of Ahmaud Arbery to go relatively unnoticed in the national news for several months. And I believe that it is the sins of silence and apathy that allow the sin of racism to continue to be so prevalent in our country today. 

 At the time of the murder, the two suspects were questioned and released, and no charges were filed. But Arbery’s mother and others wouldn’t let it rest, and demanded justice for Ahmaud. But they were initially met with silence and apathy. Finally, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation got involved once corruption was suspected, and the two suspects have now been arrested. 

Of course it would be easy to say that this was a tragic event, the GBI is now handling it, justice will hopefully be served, and leave it at that. And we could also say that church is not the place to discuss matters like this. I think that is likely how most Episcopalians feel, and I understand that. And at some level, I feel that way too. The fact is, I’m a lousy prophet. I like being liked way too much! 

But the truth is, most of us don’t like for our preachers to discuss topics that might make us feel uncomfortable, or ones that might be divisive. Most of us prefer a pastoral sermon to a prophetic one. This uneasiness with discomfort lies deep within our DNA as Episcopalians. But if talking about the murder of Ahmaud Arbery is too divisive or uncomfortable for us, what does that say about us?

I am not seeking to be a prophet or a martyr. As I said before, I’m lousy at both. What I amseeking to do is to try to faithfully engage our scripture lesson for today. I am trying to help us make sense out of the story of the martyrdom of Stephen – a story that I have always had a difficult time connecting with. I struggle to connect with it because I’ll never be as faithful and courageous as Stephen and I’ll hopefully never be as violent and barbaric as the mob that murdered him. I’m not that good and I’m not that bad.

But I am like Saul, who stood by silently when Stephen was being killed. No, I have never literally been standing around when a person with little power is being killed by persons with a lot of power. But as long as we live in a country where it is still not safe for black men to jog through a predominantly white neighborhood, and I say or do nothing, I am Saul. As long as we live in a country where African American male teenagers are caught in a school to prison pipeline, and I say or do nothing, I am Saul. 

I must admit, I have found it to be much more difficult to “do something about it” since moving here to Santa Rosa Beach. When I lived in Atlanta, I worshipped in a mixed-race church, and served as a chaplain for an inner-city summer camp. When Emily and I lived in Baltimore and Jacksonville, we were involved in community organizing efforts that allowed us to be in relationship and partnerships with predominantly African American colleagues and churches. But there isn’t that sort of diversity here in Santa Rosa Beach. There isn’t a local black neighborhood, black school, or black church where I can go and seek meaningful relationships and partnerships.

So I come to you today with as many or more questions than I do answers. How might I actively participate in God’s desire for us to reconcile the chasm that remains between the black and white communities in our country? How might we as church make a difference? How on earth can we as God’s children – red, yellow, black, and white  - live in harmony with one another? And how can our churches help?

I speak to you today simultaneously aware of and oftentimes completely oblivious of my privilege as an educated white male, and what it affords me in this country. And I come to you as someone who is broken by the human condition of sin as well as my own personal sins. I am not Stephen. And I am not the mob. But I am Saul.  

But the good news is that the Saul that we encounter in today’s lesson isn’t the last that we will hear of Saul. God wasn’t close to being finished with him on that day when Stephen was martyred. After today’s story, Saul heads to Damascus to oversee the persecution of the Christian community there. But on his way, he has a profound, life-changing encounter with the living Christ. Saul the notorious persecutor of Christians became Paul, perhaps the greatest Christian evangelist and theologian of all time. If God can do that with Saul, imagine what he can do with us. I am Saul. Lord, help me to be Paul.

[1] Christian Century Magazine

[2] The Living Church Magazine

Yesterday, I was in my office at the church, working on this sermon. Actually, I was in the kitchen - eating a frozen pizza and brewing some coffee – when I heard some noise near the bathrooms. Having remembered that I had left the doors unlocked, I headed that way to see who or what the commotion was all about. It turned out to be a woman named Natalie and her 12 year old daughter, Samantha. Somebody had told Natalie that we have a terrific children’s choir, and she wanted to know more about it. 

I told her that we no longer have the children’s choir – at least for now – because our director moved away. Natalie was terribly disappointed, as she lives near the church, and was hoping that once we are all able to gather again, Samantha might be able to join our children’s choir.

As we visited, I came to learn that Natalie emigrated to the United States from Russia several years ago. She, her husband, and their daughter Samantha lived in Arizona, but tragedy struck when her husband died unexpectedly. So as is the case with so many folks down here, Natalie and Samantha moved here because of our majestic beaches, and for a new beginning. Samantha is home schooled because they moved here mid-year. Natalie desperately wants Samantha to find and make friends. 

Of course, their feeling of isolation has been amplified significantly since the covid-19 pandemic. They are truly alone and isolated as they grieve the death of Samantha’s father and try to begin again here in Santa Rosa Beach.

Our conversation then turned to the future. Natalie asked when I think that we will open things up here at Christ the King, and whenever that is, what there might be here for Samantha. The honest truth is that up until now, there has been very little here at Christ the King for 12-year-olds like Samantha. We don’t have a youth director or a youth program to speak of. There is not a dedicated space or room for youth to gather and be together. There is not a dedicated staff person to serve as their shepherd. In some ways, we might say that our middle and high school students at Christ the King are wandering like lost sheep, waiting to hear and recognize a voice that might be calling to them. 

But that is about to change. Our Director for Family Faith Formation Search Team has been conducting virtual interviews via Zoom all week with candidates from all over the country. I have spoken and written about this process quite a bit, but as a refresher, a couple of years ago, Christ the King received a gift to serve as the seed money for starting a youth ministry program for our 6th-12th graders. We hired Ministry Architects, formed what we called a “Renovation Team,” and have been working for nearly two years to determine who and what is needed most for our young families at here Christ the King. Once we created our vision statement, core competencies, milestones, and job description, we disbanded our Renovation Team and formed a Search Team.

After this past week’s series of interviews by the team and follow-up interviews with just me, we are nearing the home stretch for hiring our Director of Family Faith Formation. I couldn’t be more excited for our entire church community. The building and nurturing of a Family Faith Formation program will not just enhance the lives of our young people – it will enhance all of our lives here at Christ the King. 

But I even hate to call what we are building a “program” – because it is not about programming…it is about relationships. It is about calling a person who has committed their vocational life to shepherding people. It is about calling a person who will know and call the name of the young sheep in our parish family. It is about calling someone who not only calls the name of our younger sheep, but who then leads and guides them to the gate of the sheepfold, so that they are safe and secure. And it is about calling someone who will lead those same sheep out of the safe confines of the sheepfold into to the more open, adventurous, and yes, even dangerous pasture so that they can do the things that sheep were created to do. And more importantly, so they can have life, and have it abundantly.

But of course, we must be careful not to misuse the shepherd metaphor. Yes, I serve as a shepherd of sorts in my role as rector at Christ the King. All of us who are leaders of people in a ministry setting are shepherds. But the one, true, Good Shepherd is Jesus Christ. And to think of the messiah – our Lord and Savior – as a shepherd is a very comforting image. And there is no better expression of the comfort, security, and protection we as sheep feel from our shepherd than what is described in the 23rd psalm. Our Lord and Savior leading and guiding us through the dangers and difficulties of life is truly an image of abundant life.

But the shepherd isn’t the only image that Jesus uses for himself when he was speaking to the Pharisees in today’s lesson. Jesus also refers to himself as the “gate,” and actually, he seems to land more firmly on this image than even that of a shepherd. 

But throughout the history of the Church, Christians have preferred the shepherd metaphor to the gate metaphor. Just as the 2nd Sunday of Easter is unofficially known as “Doubting Thomas Sunday,” the 4th Sunday of Easter is known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” That has a much better ring to it that “Gate Sunday.” If the 23rd psalm began with. “The Lord is my gate…his hinges are well-oiled and sturdy” do you think that it would be the most beloved of all psalms?

Upon first glance, we might even be offended by the image of Jesus as “the gate.” In this post-modern era, and especially in the liberal mainline Protestant tradition, it seems as if access and inclusion have become our primary values. In our nation and in our denomination, we have spent much of our energy removing barriers of all sorts, and that is a good thing. And rightfully so, we as Americans and we as Episcopalians take great pride in the good, important work of advocating for justice and freedom for all people.

But after having spent quite a few years believing that the most important message of Jesus was inclusivity, I have come to believe that there is more to it than that. Yes, I believe that all may be included in God’s kingdom. But in today’s lesson, Jesus as the shepherd or Jesus as the gate points to a Jesus who recognizes the importance of limits and boundaries. Jesus refers to those who choose not to enter the sheepfold through the gate – those who do not observe limits and boundaries - as thieves and bandits. Of course, in saying this, Jesus was holding up a mirror to the Pharisees as he was speaking to them. And he was boldly, albeit through the use of metaphor, telling them that the only way for them to enter into God’s realm was through him. Indeed, I imagine that they didn’t feel “included” by Jesus’ message. But Jesus held firm to his understanding of how one might come to know and experience God’s abundant life.

We tend to not get offended when Jesus speaks like this to the Pharisees, because we see them as being judgmental, rigid, and generally not very likable. They are the proverbial “bad guys” in the New Testament. But many people do get offended when they are asked to imagine what this story means for people other than the Pharisees. Surely Jesus wouldn’t expect people who are “kind” or “good” to have to use the gate to enter the sheepfold. Surely he wouldn’t think they are thieves and bandits if they simply climbed over the wall or sought some other roundabout way to enter because they were generally “good” people.

The story in today’s gospel lesson foreshadows what will come later in John’s gospel, when Jesus says to Thomas, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.”  For those who believe that the primary message of Jesus is inclusivity, then this passage is one that is particularly awkward and troublesome. They wish that Jesus wasn’t so narrow and specific when he spoke about how one might come to know his Father in heaven. Or they say that these must have been John’s words, not the words of  Jesus. 

What this passage has in common with today’s lesson is that in both of them, we presented with a savior who speaks of limits and boundaries. But in both of them, we also hear an invitation that has no limits as to who may receive and respond to it. It is an invitation to everybody and for everybody to enter through the gate – no exceptions. And I don’t see any evidence of the shepherd or the gate turning away anybody from the entrance to the sheepfold. The problem that Jesus had with the bandits and thieves wasn’t their lack of goodness or kindness. It was their unwillingness to accept his invitation to enter the sheepfold through him - the gate.

Another thing that seems to be true in this story is that the gate of the sheepfold isn’t a one-way gate. It opens to the inside so that the sheep may enter into the sheepfold where they can know that they are safe, secure, and loved. But the gate also opens to the outside, so that the sheep may exit out into the pasture – into the world so to speak – being led by their faithful, loving shepherd. I find this image of Jesus, and this image of God’s kingdom, to be profoundly pastoral, in the literal as well as the spiritual sense of the word. The word pastor literally means shepherd, and thus pastoral means “ relating to a shepherd.” 

When we use the word “pastoral” in the church setting, we usually mean something along the lines of caring, nurturing, and leading. For me, I need a shepherd – a pastor- who cares for and nurtures me by leading me to a particular place. Because if I’m left to my the devices and desires of my own heart, I’m an absolute disaster. I need a shepherd who knows what’s best for me, and who cares enough about me to invite me there and to promise to lead me if I choose to follow. I need a shepherd who is aware of the thieves and bandits in the world, and who will lead me away from them, and protect me from them. I need a shepherd who invites me into the safety of the sheepfold and who also leads me into the freedom of the pasture, but who never abandons me when I am in the there. I don’t need a shepherd who tells me that as long as I’m nice and kind everything will be ok.  

And I think the sort of shepherd that I need is the same sort of shepherd that our children and youth need as well. I believe that they need a shepherd who will point them to the Good Shepherd, who will lead them through the Gate to abundant life in Christ.

My hope and prayer is that the next time someone like Natalie and Samantha come through our doors, instead of telling them that right now, there is no program here for people Samantha’s age, that I will instead direct them down the hall not to a program, but to a shepherd who will lead them to the Gate that leads to abundant life. In the meantime, while countless young people are waiting for it to be safe to gather in large groups, may the Good Shepherd watch over them, protect them, and keep them safe. And once they are able to return to church, may the Good Shepherd lead them to a church that nurtures them, and invites them into the abundant life of Jesus the Gate; Jesus the Good Shepherd; Jesus the Christ.

Many of you likely know that today - the Sunday after Easter Sunday - is known as “Low Sunday” due to its meager attendance.  Low Sunday is a favorite for church copy machines and coffee makers all over the world – both of which worked overtime for the previous Sunday. The irony is, that due to the COVID-19 pandemic, today’s attendance isn’t any “lower” than any of the previous five Sundays. And the amount of work that goes in to preparing for and live streaming this service is equal to that of Easter Sunday. So the odd nature of the situation in which we find ourselves continues to manifest itself in new ways. Easter Sunday felt strange last week. And Low Sunday feels strange today in that it is not any “lower” than any other recent Sunday. Everything continues to feel strange. 

But I refuse to call this the “new normal.” Nothing is normal about this way of being – whether it is from the perspective of the church, work, school, home, or the other aspect of our daily lives. Referring to this way of being as the “new normal” is not a hope-filled statement. It sounds defeatist and despairing to me. And as Christians - especially during this Great Fifty Days of Easter – we are called to be people of hope, as foolish as it may seem to others. And perhaps the Great Fifty Days of Easter is  ten days longer than Lent because we need to keep being reminded of this hope that we are called to embody.

But we must remember that Christian hope isn’t akin to wishful thinking. I hope that this pandemic subsides quickly, so that it is medically safe for churches, schools, restaurants, beaches, and the marketplace to open back up to the public with no restrictions. And that is not a bad or unfaithful thing to hope for  - we can and I do pray for that to happen. But that is not the hope that our scripture lessons are speaking of today.

I hope (and pray) that my family, friends, community, and parish church will thrive spiritually, relationally, emotionally, physically, and economically – now and in the weeks, months, and years to come.  But again, even that is not the sort of hope that our scripture lessons are speaking of today. 

Christian hope is not interested in our being happy, healthy, or successful – or anything else that we wish to happen. Christian hope isn’t about what we hope will happen to us for the sake of us. That is a self-serving, inward-facing hope.

And Christian hope is not grounded in logic, conventional wisdom, or the idol of our day – “feelings.” 

In our Epistle lesson for today, the Apostle who wrote it boldly declares, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.”  So Christian hope is grounded in the belief that Jesus broke the chains of death - not just for himself - but for all who are foolishly wise enough to believe this to be true. And the conquering of sin, death, and evil through Christ’s death and resurrection is the fulcrum upon which Christian hope rests. And in the Apostle’s words, this new era marks

“an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, 

kept in heaven for you, 

who are being protected by the power of God through faith 

for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.” 

Now bear with me here. That is a mouthful and an earful, and only the second half of an incredibly dense, run-on sentence. But the essence of this statement is that what happened on the cross and on the Sunday that followed wasn’t just for Jesus. And it wasn’t something that began and ended during a short 3-day period in history. The great paschal mystery of Christ’s death, descent into Hell, and resurrection is, in the Apostle’s words, never-ending and unfading. And it is just as relevant and effectual today as it was over 2,000 years ago. And thus our basis for being a people of hope rather than despair – in spite of what conventional wisdom may tell us -  is that we as Christians are reborn “into a living hopethrough the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” In other words, this life isn’t all that we are living for…this life isn’t all that there is.

But before you accuse me (or the writer of the epistle) of slipping into a naïve, sentimental brand Christianity that is not grounded in everyday reality, let us continue our examination of today’s letter. Immediately after proclaiming the truth upon which we Christians place our hope, the Apostle pivots from hope to the reality of everyday suffering when he writes, 

“In this you rejoice, 

even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials, 

so that the genuineness of your faith—

being more precious than gold that, though perishable, is tested by fire—

may be found to result in praise and glory and honor 

when Jesus Christ is revealed.” 

Again, another long, dense, run-on sentence. This Apostle would be terrible at keeping his Twitter posts down to 280 characters! But he is acknowledging that his readers have suffered, are suffering, and will continue to suffer the trials and temptations of everyday life. And given the fact that we are in the midst of a global pandemic, that certainly has proven to be true today. 

The Apostle interprets the relationship between suffering and faith as being a means for testing the genuineness of one’s faith. To the Apostle, a faith that hasn’t endured the trials and temptations of everyday life is not a genuine, or as I prefer to call it, a “well-seasoned” faith. Here, he appears to be recalling the third chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon, which says,

“Having been disciplined a little, they will receive great good, 

because God tested them and found them worthy of himself; 

like gold in the furnace, he tried them, 

and like a sacrificial burnt offering he accepted them.” (Wisdom of Solomon 3:5-6)

Now I have said almost every week since this pandemic began, and I will say it again – I do not believe that God sent us the COVID-19 virus to teach us a lesson or test our faith. But I do believe that God is sovereign, and that God has his hand in all things. But I also believe in free will and the implications of The Fall. As such, we find ourselves living “East of Eden,” and subject to all the human suffering that comes as a result of The Fall. And since The Fall, God’s people have always lived in the tension between sin and righteousness, 

hope and despair, 

faith and doubt, 

obedience and disobedience, 

thriving and suffering. 

This existential tension in which we find ourselves – otherwise known as the human condition - is expressed in the Lord’s Prayer, when we pray for God to “Lead us not into temptation...” or “Save us from the time of trial.” These were Christ’s very own words that he instructed his disciples to pray. That is a far cry from a God that instructs us to seek out temptation, trial, or suffering for the sake of refining our faith like gold is refined in fire. And to take it a step further, theologian Pheme Perkins points out that neither does “God set up such trials as an obstacle course or entrance exam” for our faith. She goes on to observe that the next phrase in the Lord’s Prayer -  “But deliver us from evil (or the ‘Evil One’)”  - points to the other side of the process, [when we offer our] confident prayer that God will deliver Christians from such trials.” Therefore, it is not unchristian to pray that God will deliver us from this evil pandemic. But it is unchristian to do so only for the sake of our own material and worldly success and happiness.

Pheme Perkins reminds us that sometimes, “the Christian message is ‘sold’ with the promise that accepting Jesus as Savior will lead to personal peace and prosperity in this life. First Peter insists that such promises are false. All that counts is the ‘faith proved by trials.’” In this letter, the Apostle actually speaks of “rejoicing” in these trials. In other words…yes, we Christians will experience trials, and yes, we believe that God will ultimately deliver us from those same trials. But the true deliverance is our deliverance from the bondage of sin, evil, and death that was made possible through Christ’s resurrection from the dead. All of the hope and deliverance we speak of is grounded in our belief that this life here is not all that there is. The ultimate trial is living our life here, East of Eden. The ultimate hope and deliverance is eternal life. And that is the Christian hope that Peter speaks of in his sermon in today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles, and that the psalmist speaks of in today’s psalm, and that the Apostle speaks of and his letter. These three lessons are all lessons of a hope grounded in the wisdom of God rather than the wisdom of this world. 

Our current experience of the COVID-19 virus is an opportunity for us to prayerfully examine the theological depth of the Christian virtue of hope. And it is an opportunity for us to recognize that as Christians, our suffering as well as our hope isn’t unique to our very own selves. This pandemic has connected and joined humankind in our suffering and our hope – physically, socially, emotionally, spiritually, and economically. And we have the unique opportunity to be in solidarity in our suffering and in our hope with our brothers and sisters throughout the world and throughout the ages. 

But we also have the opportunity to embrace, model, and share the deeper understanding of “a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.”

And we have the opportunity to join the Apostle in proclaiming, 

“Although [we] have not seen [Jesus], [we] love him; 

and even though [we] do not see him now, 

[we] believe in him 

and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy, 

for [we] are receiving the outcome of [our] faith, 

the salvation of [our] souls.” 

The hope that our scriptures speak of is not sentimental or logical. The hope that our scriptures speak of is none other than a matter of salvation. As such, let us join the psalmist in proclaiming “My heart, therefore, is glad, and my spirit rejoices; my body also shall rest in hope.”

Will we ever be the same?  “Will we ever be the same on the other side of an Easter when the churches stood empty, wondering where we’d gone?” This question, posed by the Rt. Rev’d Mark Edington, who serves as the Bishop of the Episcopal Church in Europe, gets at the heart of what I imagine many of us are feeling today. Will we ever be the same?

 Indeed, Easter Sunday is the day when Christians feel most compelled to “gather together and celebrate” in our churches. Christmas Eve is # 2. Mother’s Day – even though it is not a religious holiday – is # 3. Church attendance records all over the world prove this to be true. Easter Sunday is THE most-attended worship service of the year. 

If we’re honest with ourselves, for most Christians today, the lack of Sunday worship attendance over the past month has not been that disorienting. Again, statistics tell us that only a very small percentage of Christians attend worship every week, or even every other week. The average worship attendance for active Christians today is somewhere around once a month. So the shutting down of public worship over the past month has not been an inconvenience for most Christians. If anything, it might even be serving as a sort of relief - those who don’t attend church, but feel sort of guilty about that, don’t have to feel that way anymore. 

But Easter changes everything. Today, many are suddenly feeling the gravity of not being able to gather and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Dare I say that for many of us, today actually feels a bit more like Good Friday than Easter Sunday? Dare I say that today is the day when many of us are finally coming to terms with the reality of not being able to gather and celebrate? 

We must remember… that first Easter morning, Mary Magdalene’s first emotion was a combination of profound grief and fear. The first words out her mouth on that day were not “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” Her first words to Peter and John were, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” When they returned to the empty tomb, Peter and John went inside to investigate. But St. John tells us that “Mary stood weeping outside the tomb.” Before there was rejoicing on that first Easter Sunday, there was weeping. 

I imagine that today, for many of us, before there will rejoicing, there will be weeping. Maybe that is a little dramatic. As Anglicans, we tend to prefer subdued grief over weeping and wailing. But where there is not weeping, there will still be the feeling of emptiness. However we express ourselves, I believe that Christians all over the world today are grieving - grieving over not being able to gather together at church to worship, praise, and celebrate on the most holy, joyful, festive day of the year. I know that my grief has been subtle-yet-profound over the past few weeks. And I am grieving today as I look out at an empty church.

If and when we get through that first pang of grief this morning and are able to turn the corner and joyfully offer our response - “The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!” – the question remains… “Will we ever be the same on the other side of an Easter when the churches stood empty, wondering where we’d gone?”

The most anxious Christians – whether they be clergy, lay people, scholars, or bloggers - are beginning to wonder if Christ’s Church will be able to survive being “closed” for this long of a time period. How will the Church be able to recover? Won’t most people simply forget about the Church in the midst of all the other worries they may have? Even when this pandemic subsides, will the “habit” of churchgoing and supporting churches with our time, talent, and treasure ever return? Will we ever be the same?

My answer is “no.” We will not be the same – as individuals, communities, a nation, or a Church. We will never be the same. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. One of the most prominent themes of the Bible – and certainly of the New Testament – is change. God’s people are always being called to transformation. Humankind was never the same after the Fall. God’s people were never the same after they experienced slavery in Egypt or exile in Babylon. And the world was never the same after God became incarnate in Jesus Christ and suffered death on the cross for our redemption. And the world was never the same after Jesus rose from the dead, asserting his dominion over the powers and principalities of the world; asserting his dominion over sin, death, and evil; asserting his dominion over the cosmos. Time and time again our scriptures tell stories of new, transformed life emerging from catastrophe.

Bp. Edington – who I quoted earlier – responds to his own question of whether or not we will ever be the same on the other side of Easter. He points out that “At the very center of the meaning of this day is the story of another empty structure – an empty tomb. From that emptiness emerged a set of ideas of incalculable influence on human life, culture, and thought.” 

When framed this way, we are being invited to remember that the emptiness of the tomb leads to the abundance of new, transformed, eternal life. As an Easter people, our alleluiasare proclaimed just as the echoes of weeping are fading. The empty tomb doesn’t mean that Jesus is dead and his body has been stolen. The empty tomb means that Jesus is alive, and everything has been changed forever.

In our Psalm today, the psalmist proclaims “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.” Mary Magdalene lived into these words boldly and faithfully. She was never the same when she encountered her Risen Lord. She became Christ’s first preacher; Christ’s first evangelist; the first bearer of the Good News of the Risen Lord to the world.

The Christian Church has faced persecutions, plagues, economic recessions, scandals, and countless other hardships. But the Church has steadfastly persisted through the ages. The Church, like the psalmist, has declared, “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.” Our foundational story – the truth upon which we stand and shout “Alleluia!” – is a story about death being overcome by life; evil being overcome by good; injustice being overcome by justice; hate being overcome by love.

As Bp. Edington said, “From [the] emptiness [of the tomb] emerged a set of ideas of incalculable influence on human life, culture, and thought.” But not only did influential ideas emerge from the empty tomb. Jesus Christ – the light and savior of the world - emerged from the tomb. Sin, death, and evil no longer had dominion over him. And not just the world, but the entire cosmos was changed forever. And this is our Easter story. 

“Will we ever be the same on the other side of an Easter when the churches stood empty, wondering where we’d gone?” I don’t think so. I believe that the gravity of the COVID-19 pandemic will change us forever – as individuals, as well as local, national, and global communities. And our churches won’t be the same either. But that to me isn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

We must remember that the Christian story tells us that no earthly power will ever have the last word with us. But that does not mean that there will never be suffering. Jesus underwent unimaginable suffering when he was mocked, beaten, and crucified on the cross. To be an Easter people does not make us immune to suffering, or even death. Many people all over the world have already died of the COVID-19 virus, and many more will before it is over. And for that we grieve. But to be an Easter people also means that even this harrowing truth does not have the last word. In the Proper Preface for the Commemoration of the Dead in the Book of Common Prayer, the celebrant prays, “Through Jesus Christ our Lord; who rose victorious from the dead, and comforts us with the blessed hope of everlasting life. For to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended; and when our mortal body lies in death, there is prepared for us a dwelling place eternal in the heavens.”

Should we ever be the same after hearing such Good News as this? I think not. No matter how many times we hear the story – no matter where we are and how many people we are with – we should be open to being profoundly changed by the Good News of Easter; the Good News that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead. And we should be open to what that Good News means for us as individuals as well as us as the human race. Alleluia. Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Good Friday Sermon – April 10, 2020

by Emily Rose Proctor

Although they come for Jesus armed with their weapons, it is Jesus who first interrogates them.  Whom are you looking for?  

It is such an important question that he asks it a second time.  Whom are you looking for?

One gets the sense that Jesus is asking a more profound question than the one they hear.  

I also get the sense that Jesus is not just asking his captors; he is also asking us, “Whom are you looking for?”

A lot of people, then and now, were looking for a warrior king, a commander in chief, poised and ready to unleash the wrath of God on their enemies and restore God’s people to greatness…or at least independence.  They wanted a new King David to lead them in driving out the Roman army and restoring Jewish self-rule.

Peter, eager as always to lead the way, went so far as to draw his sword and cut off the ear of the high priest’s slave, Malchus. 

I think most Americans can identify with this vision of a savior.  How many of us would willingly cede our nation’s title as chief global super power to China or Russia?  How many of us would really be comfortable with another nation having a bigger, stronger, better-equipped military than we have?  

How many of us would vote for a commander-in-chief whose military strategy was to love our enemies?  Or to forgive seventy times seventy? Jesus for President?  Don’t make me laugh.  Jesus wouldn’t even win an election in this country in a million years.  He probably wouldn’t even make the televised debates. 

I know that I, for one, would appreciate a savior skilled in the art of biological warfare right about now—one who could just wipe this Corona Virus off the face of the planet and be done with it. 

“Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus says to Peter.  “Am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?”

Later, he says to Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world. If [it were], my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over.”

So if Jesus is not a warrior king, here to lead armed soldiers to victory and wipe all our enemies off the face of the planet, who is he?

Whom are you looking for?  Jesus asks us again.

Well, if I’m really honest, I’d like someone who could guarantee me a comfortable life.  I’d like to never have to worry about money or being in pain or grieving a significant loss.  I’d like to always feel safe and affirmed.  I’d like to have permission to do all the things I want to do and never be asked to do things that I don’t really want to do, like, for instance, love my neighbor as much as I love myself.  Or be last instead of first.  Or wash anyone’s feet, literally or metaphorically.  

No, thank you, I’d rather have a savior who focuses on the positive and promises me wealth, health, and happiness in exchange for coming to church once or twice a week, tithing, and not committing a felony.

I’d like a savior who could guarantee that neither I nor my loved ones would get the Corona virus because we are faithful and pray sincere prayers.  I’d like a savior who would say that social distancing wasn’t all that important—that just believing in him could keep me safe.  I’d like a savior who told me not to feel at all guilty about my own relative comfort and privilege at time when so many are suffering.

But Jesus answered, “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.”  

The truth?  The truth?  I’m right there with Pilate most days, laughing cynically.  What in the world is truth?  I’m not sure any of us knows any more.  Truth.  If it isn’t downright ridiculous, then it starts to sound uncomfortable.  Perhaps even painful.

Whom are you looking for?  Jesus asks us.

Ok, I’ll admit it, I’d like a superhero, please.  If Jesus won’t wipe out the Corona Virus or at least all the potentially infected people from Corona hotspots who, I hear from a Publix cashier, are still flying into Florida on their private planes or sneaking in from Texas or Tennessee “the back way,” then the least he could do would be to protect those of us who are doing our part to social distance.  Couldn’t God, if God really wanted to, create a force field around Walton County that couldn’t be penetrated.  Turn some stones into masks and ventilators? Heal all the sick people, NOW.  Or at least all the sick people that we know and love and are praying for?

But Jesus doesn’t protect his own loved ones from suffering and loss.  His mother has to watch him hanging from the cross, struggling to breathe.  The best he can do is ask one of his disciples to look after her, and her to look after him.  “Woman, here is your son,” he says, as if those very words were not a sword to pierce Mary’s heart straight through.

Whom are you looking for?  Have we really confessed the whole truth of it yet?

A lot of times, when I think about God.  Who God is.  Who I want God to be, I think I am looking for perfection.  And by perfection, I think I mean no mistakes.  No failures.  And probably also no suffering.  You know, all the omni’s.  Omniscient. Omnipotent.  All knowing.  All powerful.  All perfect. And when I think about God like that…inevitably God begins to feel abstract and far away.  But that’s a small price to pay for a God who can save you from anything and everything.  Isn’t it?

So what do I do with a Savior who comes into the world through a birth canal?  Who has a body that can be and is tortured?  What do I do with a savior, with a God, who says, “I am thirsty.”  And finally, “It is finished.”

What do I do with a savior whose ministry ends in failure?  Humiliation.  Conviction.  Suffering.  Death.

I praise God.  I thank God with everything that I am.  Because the God revealed to us in Jesus Christ is so much better than what I was looking for.

The God revealed to us in Jesus Christ, crucified, is God with us, Emmanuel.

A God whose own insides have churned with grief and anger.

A God who knows what it is to thirst in his own parched throat.

A God who knows vulnerability and exposure in his own naked body.

A God who knows disappointment, abandonment, and betrayal in his own broken heart.

A God who knows the valley of the shadow of death, not abstractly, not theoretically, but in his excruciating gasping for breath.

 Jesus told us who he is.  God told us who God is.  

I am, they said.  I am.  

Not a warrior.  Not a king.  Not a super hero.  Not abstract perfection.

I am.

The name that God gave to Moses from the burning bush.  I am.

And in John, Jesus fleshes that out for us—in seven “I am” statements—but also literally as “The Word Made Flesh.”

Whatever we might have been looking for, what we have is 

“I am.”

I am the bread of life (John 6:35).  

I am the light of the world (John 8:12).

I am the gate (John 10:9)

I am the good shepherd (John 10:11).

I am the resurrection and the life (John 11:25).

I am the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6).

I am the true vine (John 15:1).

But all of these “I am” statements must be understood in light of the cross.  The cross, you might say, is Jesus’ final and most profound “I am” statement.  

And it makes no promises.  It just is.  Here.  With us.

I am, Jesus says.  Here.  Now.  Nailed to the present moment[1] with you, whatever that is. Even if it is betrayal.  Even if it is failure.  Even if it is grief.  Even if it is thirst.  Even if it is unendurable suffering.  Even if it is death.  I am here with you.

And that is a love that is so much more than what I was looking for.  A love that, it turns out, IS stronger than death.  Than enmity.  Than sin or failure.

When we cry out to God, “Where were you when I needed you?” or “Where are you now?” the God revealed to us in Jesus Christ cries back to us from the cross, right there with you.  I am nailed to whatever your present moment is, with you.  Wherever you are, I am.  

Laid off, without any idea of how you are going to make ends meet?  I am with you, God says.

Beside yourself with grief?  I am with you, God says.

Feeling trapped, like you can hardly breathe?  I am with you, God says.

Overwhelmed by the needs that surround you?  I am with you, God says.

And there is nothing—neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, that can separate you from my love.[2]

Whatever you thought you were looking for, I am, says the God revealed to us in Jesus Christ. And before all this, I was.  

And after all this, I will be.  Still with you.  Forever and ever.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[1] This phrase “nailed to the present moment” is one that struck me over fifteen ago when I read Buddhist author Pema Chödrön’s book, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times.  I don’t think she related it to Jesus’ crucifixion, but I did.

[2] Romans 8:38.

If I only knew. If I only knew that Sunday, March 8 would be the last time that we’d gather here as a congregation to celebrate the Holy Eucharist as a parish family.  And for me, it was Sunday, March 1, because I was at home and terribly sick on Sunday March 8. If I only knew, I might have savored Christ’s body and blood just a little more. I am sure that many people throughout the world, in the midst of the covid-19 pandemic, are now saying, “If I only knew.”

In our gospel lesson for this evening, Jesus knew. “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father.” Jesus knew. He fully understood the profound significance of this occasion. He knew that this would be his final meal with his disciples, and that he would experience a horrific death by crucifixion the following day. But his disciples did not know or fully understand.  But “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father.” 

Given this knowledge, Jesus had a choice to make: How would he spend his last moments with those whom he loved the most? How would he savor this last Passover meal? What might he say or do to make them truly know what he already knew about what perfect love is, what it looks and acts like, and from Whom it comes? 

Roman Catholic biblical scholar Francis Moloney remarks that, “Jesus loved [his disciples] until the end of his life, and he loved them in a way that surpasses all imaginable loving. The marriage of these two meanings of “to the end” produces one of the major themes for the rest of the story: the death of Jesus makes known his love for his own, and thus makes God known.” 

In other words, Jesus’ actions that evening – the washing of his disciples’ feet and the institution of the Last Supper – weren’t for his own sake, or even for his disciples’ sake. Jesus’ actions were a means for pointing to and glorifying his Father in Heaven, who was and is perfect love. Such was the case for all of Jesus’ earthly ministry – the miracles and healings he performed were always grounded in a deeper meaning and purpose. They were never only for the sake of feeding or healing. And they were never for the sake of proving his doubters wrong. The mission of Jesus’ earthly ministry was first and foremost to point to his Father in Heaven – to show the world who God was and what God was like. It was to embody God’s love. “The death of Jesus makes known his love for his own, and thus makes God known.” 

The role of Judas Iscariot in this narrative serves as a counterpoint to Jesus. Judas – the betrayer – is an embodiment of the evil that infects us all. That last evening that they had together, the disciples had - and we have - the incarnate manifestations of Good and Evil set before us. What we have that the disciples didn’t have is the benefit of hindsight. Of course we would choose the good of Jesus over the evil of Judas! Of course we would choose God over the Adversary!

Yet, even with the benefit of hindsight, is that always the case? Do we always choose what is right and good, even if doing so causes us great sacrifice? Speaking for myself, the answer is no. 

Through the witness of Holy Scripture and the tradition of the Church, we know about Jesus and his love for his disciples and for the whole world. And we know what that looked like for Jesus in his earthly life. As St. John points out, Jesus knew. And Jesus’ knowing is very different from our knowing. Francis Moloney points out that Jesus’ knowledge always led to love and action. Jesus knew, Jesus loved, and Jesus acted. And on this last evening of his earthly life – this last opportunity for fellowship with his disciples – his knowledge, love, and action were embodied by taking the role of a servant, and washing his disciples’ feet. 

As such, as followers of Jesus Christ, our calling is to know, love, and act as was taught to the disciples and to us by Jesus. And if there was ever a time in our lifetime to embody this calling of knowledge, love, and action, it is now. As we find ourselves in the midst of a global pandemic, there is so much that we do not know. We do not know how long it will last, or if, or when we will find a vaccination or cure. We do not know how many lives will be ultimately lost. We do not know what the lasting effects on the economy will be. There is simply so much that we do not know. And for those of us who like to know things – and I am one of them -  that is terribly stressful.

So what I am trying to do is to fall back on what I do know. And thanks be to God for the Church. Because it is through the Church that I have come to know and experience a love that is like no other love imaginable. This love – made manifest in Jesus Christ – is what is sustaining me during this crisis. While I am doing my best to stay informed and educated on the covid-19 virus, I am spending much more time reading scripture and praying the prayers of the Church. Without the weekly sustenance of the Holy Eucharist, we need other sources of communion with God. During the temporary closing of public worship and fellowship, praying the Daily Office and devotional reading – the gifts of the Church, by the Church, and for the Church – have been my primary sources of spiritual sustenance. Indeed, even though we are not able to meet and worship together in person, the Church is still alive, and it is still feeding me. By the grace of God, I have come to truly know this, and for that I am eternally grateful. 

Jesus’ knowledge – his deep knowing – always led to love and action. Hence, the washing of his disciples’ feet and the institution of the Last Supper. Pope John Paul II commented that “[Maundy Thursday] is sadder than Good Friday. This is the time when Jesus offered himself as the lamb at the last supper. The washing of the feet and the sacrament of the Eucharist: two expressions of one and the same mystery of love entrusted to the disciples, so that, Jesus says, “as I have done…so also must you do.” So while we navigate this pandemic, are called to love and action. And over the past couple of weeks, I have encountered love and action in ways that are truly humbling and inspiring. 

Last week, I took a person to the Point Washington Medical Clinic to get a checkup. That morning, I was able to catch a glimpse of how some of our very own parishioners are embodying Christ’s love and action. Mimi Gavigan was volunteering at the check-in table because most of the regular volunteers are too old to safely do that job. And parishioner Kate Smith was the nurse who did the check up on the person I brought to the clinic. The two of them, along with the others who were volunteering there, were embodiments of Christ’s love in a time when the most vulnerable among us need it the most.

Mimi is also putting her gift for sewing to work by making face masks and donating them to whoever needs them.

If you shop at the South Walton Publix, you are likely to see two of our parishioners working there – Mary Blocher and Brewer McCarty. As is the case with Mimi and Kate, they are providing essential services during a time when it is needed the most. Though they are following the protocol for safety and sanitation, they are still putting themselves at risk simply by being there. Yet they always have a warm, hospitable smile when they are working. When I thank them, they always say how grateful they are to be able to work. 

By virtue of the fact that I am married to Emily – who serves as the Director of Outreach for Caring & Sharing of South Walton – I get to see how she continues to serve the most vulnerable people of our community. As is the case with the volunteers at the Point Washington Medical Clinic, she and her colleagues are not literally washing feet, but they are embodying that sort of self-emptying love, care, and service to others. Those who need medical care, food, supplies, and emergency relief haven’t stopped needing those things during this pandemic. And folks like Mimi, Kate, Mary, Brewer, Emily, and their colleagues are providing these essential services to all of us. They are embodiments of Christ’s love in the world right now. 

Parishioners Lance and Lauren Stokes recently learned that students in South Walton Schools will still have to pay off lunch debt that they incurred prior to schools being cancelled due to covid-19. So they designed a shirt that says “SoWal Strong” and are donating 100% of the proceeds to South Walton schools to pay off lunch debt for students. Lauren said that they “don’t want parents to have to worry about paying an overdue lunch bill when they get back to school.” 

And the Stokes are also about to launch a brand new wine company called “Hey Mama Wines.” Rather than panicking about the fact that the launch of their new business is going to coincide with a global pandemic, they instead chose to respond with love and action instead of fear. So against the worldly wisdom that they might have received from some, they chose the foolish wisdom of Christ and are donating the proceeds from the first week of their launch to covid19 relief efforts around the country. 

What is interesting – and this is the first time I have noticed this – is that after Jesus washed his disciples’ feet and ate his last meal with them, he said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him.” Of the four gospel writers, St. John has always been the one who emphasized that the crucifixion was the ultimate glorification of God through Jesus. John downplays the forsakenness of the cross in favor of the glory of the cross. Yet, our lesson today reminds us that while the cross is the ultimate source of God’s glorification, it is not the only source or means of God’s glorification through the actions of Jesus. After the foot washing and Last Supper, Jesus says it himself, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him.”

Jesus’ knowledge led to love and action. Jesus’ deep knowledge of who he was and who his Father in heaven was – and what that meant for the world that God created – led to, among many things, foot washing and an intimate meal with his friends, even when he knew that those same friends would betray and desert him. 

Such is our calling as followers of Jesus today, especially during these trying times. May we come to know and be reminded of God’s love in Jesus Christ through the mission and ministries and witness of Christ’s body, the Church. And may we, empowered by that knowledge, respond with love and action. But not for our own sake, but for the purpose of making God known to the world.

The Sunday of the Passion:Palm Sunday Sermon - April 5, 2020

by The Rev’dEmily Rose Proctor

 The triumphal entry into Jerusalem has always been a challenge for me to get into emotionally – I think because I can never hear it without thinking about what is coming next—Jesus’ betrayal and crucifixion.  The Hosannas just seem to fall a little flat.

I get the same feeling now looking back at Julian and Madeleine’s birthday pictures from three weeks ago.  I think we were probably the last birthday party to be held in Santa Rosa Beach.  The reality of the Corona virus hadn’t fully hit us yet.  My mother was visiting from out of town, and we were more worried about finding enough babysitters to get us through spring break than anything else.

But already there were signs of what was to come.  Richard’s parents decided at the last minute not to come because of advisory notices against air plane travel that were starting to come through their retirement village administration.  My dad’s family decided to hold off too.  Still, the grocery stores had toilet paper, spring breakers still covered the beaches, and we hadn’t yet heard that schools would be closed for the next six weeks.  We had some hand sanitizer out, but we still played on the park equipment, opened presents, had cupcakes, and no one seemed that afraid.  But now I look back and it just seems weird, all of us there together, blowing bubbles and singing Happy Birthday.  We had no idea, really, what was coming.

In the reading from Matthew 21, the disciples obediently follow Jesus’ instructions about the donkey, and the crowds are ecstatic, waving palm branches and hailing Jesus as the Son of David, filling the air with echoes of Psalm 118, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, Hosanna in the highest Heaven!”

But just a few chapters later, those same disciples are betraying, denying, falling asleep and abandoning Jesus at the lowest point of his life.  The crowds’ Hosannas have changed to shouts of “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

 And as much as I would like to distance myself from these events, these sinners… I find myself instead identifying with them.  Even Judas, the betrayer.

I don’t know, maybe it was the kiss that did it.  This pandemic has me hearing everything in the Bible differently.  The other day I was out for a walk with the kids, and all of a sudden one of our neighbors came out of their house and started yelling at us for being too close to their car and mailbox.  Someone in her household was in poor health and highly vulnerable, and she was scared that somehow our being at the top of her driveway was a threat.  We have since smoothed things over, but it was a startling reminder how this virus has made potential Judas’s of all of us.  Every kiss, every hand off, every hug, a potential harbinger of illness and death.  Every person a potential carrier, even if we show no symptoms of illness.

A friend recently got an email from her bank notifying her that she was in the branch when one of their staff, who has since tested positive for Covid-19 was working and probably contagious. Everyone who got that email now has to look at themselves and wonder – have I been a carrier all this time?  Who have I unwittingly betrayed with a kiss?  Surely not I? we all say.  And yet the numbers of those infected keep rising every day.

Then there are the sleepers, those who just don’t seem to be awake yet to the seriousness of the situation we are in.  Every day we are open for assistance at Caring and Sharing, people come by wanting to shop in the thrift store, which is closed, or donate their used items. 

And I go back and forth between being shocked at their lack of concern, and fighting the urge to sneak into the sorting room my own box of toys we are ready to get rid of.  I mean, what better time to do some cleaning out right?  Surely, I wouldn’t be infected, right?

Or some of us ARE aware of how serious this is—too aware, in fact—and we’re so overwhelmed by the magnitude of it that we just want to pull the covers over our head or watch Netflix movies all day so we don’t have to think about it. 

Or we have children who demand our attention 24/7 or others we are caring for, and we are literally so exhausted that we CAN’T keep our eyes open for late night prayer vigils or blog posts or webinars or text message check ins with friends and family or all the other ten thousand things we can think of that we could be doing if only we didn’t have kids.

And then there’s Peter, so sure that he will do the right thing.  “Though all become deserters because of you, I will never desert you.”  

But when the moment of testing comes—when bearing witness to the truth will come at a high cost, what does Peter do?  He acts out of fear and self-preservation.  “I do not know the man.”  

Jesus says, “You will all become deserters because of me this night.”

And I think there are probably a lot of people who feel deserted right about now.  They may be new to their community or living alone.  They may not have the resources to video chat.  They may be incarcerated or in a nursing home unable to see their family.  

They may have been let go from the jobs they depended on for their identity or their survival.  Their loss of access to mental health services or recovery support may have left them doubly vulnerable.

Maybe, like Peter, we had a fantasy of being a hero in a time of crisis, but now that we’re in one, we find ourselves hunkering down and just trying to survive.  

Or if we are honest, perhaps we can admit that there are a lot of people whom we abandoned and deserted long before this crisis.  Now that their lives depend on us, we don’t even have their phone numbers or addresses.  They may not be on our radar at all.  Unlike Peter, when we say, “I do not know the man,” we are right, and yet it is no less shameful.

Both Peter and Judas have a lot of shame and regret about how they handled things.  Peter weeps bitterly.  And after Jesus is condemned, Judas goes back to the chief priests and elders and tries to give back his 30 pieces of silver.  Either he changed his mind about who Jesus was or things didn’t go as he had planned.  

It’s possible that Judas thought that once the Jesus was directly confronted with hostile Roman power, he would show his real power, fight back, lead the people in a revolution. Instead Jesus says, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.”  Instead Jesus allows himself to be insulted, beaten, spat upon.  He lives by the great commandments to love God and love your neighbor as yourself, even when that seems pointless or stupid, if not impossible.

If Jesus were walking among us today, might we not be tempted to put him in the middle of New York City, expecting him to work his magic and just heal everyone? Send the virus into a herd of pigs and let them run off a cliff into the Atlantic Ocean?  

How shocked and scandalized and guilty we would feel if Jesus just got sick like everyone else and then died.  Might we not think, “If he is the son of God, let him save himself and us!”  Isn’t what we want?  A miracle worker. A cure. Someone or something to stop or prevent our suffering and death?  

Even those leaders who condemned Jesus to death may have thought they were doing the right thing, keeping the majority of the Jewish people safe from a Roman crackdown by condemning anyone who might stir people to rebellion.

It is possible that in our own efforts to do the right thing or, like Judas, to take action and do “something,” we will do more harm than good.  Perhaps our social isolation will in some cases be a cure that is worse than the disease.  Or perhaps our efforts to help someone in need or to meet our own legitimate needs will result in someone unnecessarily getting infected or even dying.  

The good news is not that some of us may be able to do everything right during this difficult time and escape suffering or survive the hardship with clear consciences.  

The good news is that Jesus knew that he would be betrayed, denied, abandoned, disappointed, condemned by all—including his disciples—he told them so himself.  “You will all become deserters,” he said.  And yet he took the bread, broke it and gave it to them, saying, “Take, eat, this is my body given for you.”  He took the cup and said, “This is my blood of the covenant, poured out for the forgiveness of sins.”  His love, God’s love, isn’t dependent on anyone’s deserving it.  

I feel so sorry for Judas because he gave into guilt and despair before the end of the story.  He didn’t get to experience in the flesh, like Peter, the reality of that promised forgiveness for himself.  

He didn’t get to look back on the darkness of Holy Week as a terrible but finite precursor to the dawn of Easter morning, with its infinite and eternal implications.  Not that Jesus or anyone else was spared suffering or death, but that there was life on the other side.

Judas didn’t get to experience that in his earthly lifetime.  But through the gift of Holy Scripture, we do.  If our knowledge of Jesus’ pending crucifixion makes Palm Sunday’s Hosanna’s fall flat, then may our ancestors’ testimonies about Easter morning save us from despair in this present darkness.  Not that we might deny or turn away from or minimize the darkness of sin and suffering and death.  

But that we might be present with it in a compassion that wins out over fear.  Compassion for ourselves and our inevitable mistakes and fumbling and betrayals.  Compassion for one another.  

When we are at a loss for the right words to pray at a time such as this, perhaps all that is necessary is that we remember to breathe.  As scared as we may be of contagion, we have to breathe.  So let us breathe in God’s mercy, that we may breathe out God’s mercy to others.  Breathe in God’s mercy, that we may breathe out God’s mercy to others.[1]

When we feel overwhelmed with worry about the future or the burdens of caring for others, breathe in God’s mercy, and breathe out God’s mercy to others.

When we are searching for someone to blame—a leader, boss, company, family member, political party—even God himself, breathe in God’s mercy, and breathe out God’s mercy to others.

When we feel helpless to act or realize that we have been acting mostly to benefit our own egos, agendas, or careers, breathe in God’s mercy, and breathe out God’s mercy to others.

When we fear that we have said or done the wrong thing or are disgusted by someone who has, breathe in God’s mercy, and breathe out God’s mercy to others.

When our faith falters or we realize we have been using it as an opioid or a weapon, breathe in God’s mercy and breathe out God’s mercy to others.

Whatever comes, hang in there and keep breathing.  Keep reaching out in love.  None of us will do this perfectly.  So, in the spirit of Christ our Savior, let’s covenant with one another to err on the side of compassion, trusting that Love is stronger than sin, than suffering, stronger even than death.  

Hosanna in the highest Heaven!

[1] This breath prayer was taught to me by one of my seminary professors, Rodger Nishioka.

“Mortal, can these bones live?” This question posed by God to the prophet Ezekiel when he had the vision of the Valley of Dry Bones couldn’t be more timely for us today. Indeed, many of us around the world are feeling more and more dry and lifeless due to the covid19-related social distancing and isolation. Ezekiel’s brief answer gives us a glimpse of his prophetic wisdom – “O Lord God, you know.” 

And such is the case now. God only knows when this pandemic will subside. God only knows when breath, sinews, flesh, and skin will be added to our socially distanced, isolated, and even covid19-infected dry bones. 

Ezekiel prophesied the Valley of Dry Bones when Israel was in Babylonian exile. They were not free to worship God in the space and in the ways to which they were accustomed. Their rituals, routines, relationships, and religious life had been eradicated during their exile. As such, the people Israel were akin to the prophetic valley of bones that were crying out, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” And they are akin to us as well.

This passage from Ezekiel is assigned to us on the 5th Sunday of Lent for good reason. In a “normal” year, the Valley of Dry Bones prophecy comes to us nearly five weeks into our Lenten fast. By the 5th Sunday in Lent, if we have been holding to the discipline of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, we should be feeling the pangs of a long penitential season. We should be feeling dry… and longing for the new life of Easter. 

But this is no “normal” year. As our parishioner and Nursery Director Christina Akers posted on Facebook yesterday, “This Lent will go down as the Lentiest Lent ever Lented!” The ancient cry of “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely” isn’t just symbolic for us. It is profoundly real. On Friday night, I remarked to Emily that at this point, I don’t know anybody who has been diagnosed with covid19, but that I’m sure that I will sooner or later. Well, yesterday, Bishop Russell sent us news that Tim Gaston, a parishioner at St. Paul’s, Mobile, died Friday night from complications associated with covid19. Tim was a faithful and beloved member of his parish as well as the diocese. I didn’t know Tim personally, but I knew his face when I saw the picture. People who were close to Tim throughout the diocese are devastated. They join Martha, Mary, and Jesus, who wept at the death of Lazarus. 

In our gospel lesson today, when Jesus learned of Lazarus’ grave illness, he practiced his own form of social distancing. Why did he stay away? Was he tired? Overwhelmed? Did he have compassion fatigue? Was he paralyzed by fear and anticipatory grief? Much has been written about Jesus’ refusal to rush to Lazarus right away. Of course, St. John, who had the benefit of hindsight, quotes Jesus as saying, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” And then St. John goes on to say, “Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.” 

Today, family members, friends, and clergy are being forced to stay away from their loved ones and parishioners who are sick and dying from covid19. One of my other diocesan clergy colleagues had to administer Last Rites over the phone to her elderly parishioner who died last week in the hospital. Family, friends, and clergy are staying away from hospitals now because we are required to. We are not doing it to glorify God. And I don’t believe that the covid19 virus is something God is using to glorify himself. We all join Mary, Martha, and Jesus, in our sorrow and lament for those who are dying and have died. 

The prophecy of the Valley of Dry Bones and the raising of Lazarus from the dead are profoundly powerful texts to have paired together as we draw closer to Easter Sunday. As I mentioned before, on any typical 5th Sunday and Lent, they would both speak to the effects of our own Lenten journeys as we long for the new life that awaits us at Easter. 

But this year, these two texts take on an extra layer of profound meaning for us. Even those who don’t engage in the spiritual discipline of a Lenten fast have now been forced to give up many things. Others who gave up things like chocolate, caffeine, and alcohol have said, “Enough of that nonsense. Those are the only things that will get me through being home all day with my spouse and children!” Wherever we found ourselves prior to the covid19 pandemic, we now find ourselves bound together in our fear, anxiety, grief, restlessness, and despair. Protestants and Catholics, megachurches and neighborhood churches, young and elderly, rich and poor, Democrats and Republicans …. We are all being asked or required to stay home from school, church, work, and other public places. We are all capable of being infected by the virus. And we are all capable of carrying and spreading the virus. We are all worried for ourselves, our loved ones, our churches, our communities, our nation, and our world. In many ways, we have an opportunity to be more unified that we have been in a long time – as a community, as a nation and as a global community. I know that Episcopal Church feels more connected and unified to me than it has in a long time. We are rallying around each other to help out, sharing ideas and resources, and  connecting in ways that we have never connected before.

In the midst of our coming together for the common good – as a community, as a nation, and as a global community – our psalm this morning gives us the language for our waiting for this pandemic to end: “I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him; in his word is my hope. My soul waits for the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.”

The writers at The Living Church magazine remind us that “Lent tells us about dried bones, hope that is lost, flesh that is going to death. We know all this, and yet do everything to turn away. To be sure, there is also happiness in our lives, joys common and daily and occasionally unspeakably intense and beautiful. Still, a pall is cast over these precisely because they will not last and because they may, at any moment, be taken away.” 

It certainly feels like much of the joy and happiness have been taken away this Lenten season due to this covid19 pandemic. But these same writers from The Living Church point out that in our gospel lesson, Jesus Christ has come among us, even though it is not yet Easter. “[Jesus] is the one who pours Spirit into flesh to make a new creation…He makes alive by calling the dead to new life, and this pertains both to the promise of the general resurrection and to the life we are living now. We are living in the Spirit. The body as ‘flesh’ which opposes God is headed toward death (as we heard from Paul’s letter to the Romans this morning), and, preemptively, is already dead in the sacrificial death of Jesus. That ‘mortal body,’ however, is being raised from death and transformed by Christ’s indwelling Spirit. Though dying, yet shall we live; for the life of Christ is our life.” 

Taken in light of our current context, this pandemic has served as a potent reminder of our immortality, as well as just how little we are in control. Covid19 just might be the most Lenten pandemic ever! To riff off of Christina’s Lenten observation mentioned earlier, we will soon have the opportunity to have the Easteriest Easter ever Eastered. While we join the psalmist in waiting like watchmen in the morning for this pandemic to end and for our Lord to come, we are being transformed by Christ’s indwelling Spirit. 

In terms of prayer triage, my first prayer is for this pandemic to end now and for no more lives to be lost. And my second prayer is that, regardless of how long this pandemic lasts, we Christians will allow God to continue to work on, in, and through us – laying sinews on us, causing flesh to come upon us, covering us with skin, and putting breath in us, so that we shall live and know that he is the Lord who can go into a Valley of Dry Bones, or a four-day-old grave, and make all things new.