Known in the Breaking of Bread Preached on April 26th, 2020 for Wollaston Congregational Church Virtual Worship Scripture: Luke 24:13-35 The midday meal on Sundays, in my husband’s family, as in many English households was a roast. Mum would prepare the meal, calling on assistance from those around her as she needed it. But, carving the roast was my father-in-law’s responsibility. The memory is seared in my mind: he steps up, carving knife in hand, and later with an electrical version, to expertly slice the tender meat for lunch. Similar memories include my mom, pouring tea from the shiny chrome teapot and milk jug. She would pass a carefully arranged selection of home-baked cakes, cookies and other delicacies, from one person to the next. My husband, who expertly pours a glass of wine, turning the bottle just so for a special dinner. Or our church ladies, gathered around the long butcher block in the kitchen, chopping and slicing, for canning or soup preparation. Jack flipping pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. Jonathan turning burgers and Bill serving chowder for the annual fall fair. These are the ways we remember the ones we have broken bread with time and time again. And this is the way, that in our gospel story for today, the disciples remember Jesus. The two disciples we meet today are disappointed. Things did not turn out as they had hoped. They had hoped that their teacher, Jesus, would be the one to redeem Israel. But it did not happen as they had expected. Instead he was crucified and laid in a tomb. Of the five stages of grief, perhaps they have reached depression. They no longer deny that the crucifixion took their beloved from them and they are too exhausted for anger any more. They are walking away from the other disciples, their community and their support system. They walk slowly, one foot in front of the other, heads hanging. They leave the Jerusalem city wall and join the dusty track that leads to Emmaus. It is seven miles away, they have plenty of time to talk and reflect. They tell and retell the story to one another, as bereaved people often do until the truth has sunk in. Their hopes are dashed. Then they meet a stranger, who seems strangely out of it. How can it be possible that this person does not know what has happened in Jerusalem over these past three days? Has he been in another world? They tell him the whole saga, ending by saying that some of the women had found Jesus’ tomb empty and were told by angels that he was alive. The stranger chastises them for being slow of heart to believe! He then reminds them that is was necessary that the Messiah should suffer those things and then enter into his glory. He makes meaning out of these seemingly tragic events. And then he goes on to interpret all the Hebrew scriptures, beginning with Moses and the prophets. The two disciples are captivated by the stranger’s teaching and don’t want to let him go. As they come to Emmaus and the evening is drawing in, they invite him to come and eat, and possibly even to stay with them. They usher him into their small home and begin making a fire and setting bread to rise and then bake, pulling together a simple supper. They set the table, and gather round. He is no longer a stranger. They have invited him into their home, their inner sanctum. He takes the bread with his worn hands, blesses it with gentle eyes turned to heaven, and then gives it to each of them. In this momentary gesture, they finally know him. Memories flood back: meals eaten together in many different homes, bread broken to feed the multitudes on the hillside, and that last supper in the upper room. This is Jesus. This is what the scriptures mean. Jesus is present to them in this humble gathering. He is present in their hospitality, extended to a stranger. Their eyes are opened to this new reality. As soon as they realize it, he disappears from their sight. They don’t wait around, even though it is evening, they run back to Jerusalem to tell the others. Jesus is risen, risen indeed. At the beginning of the story, disciples had thought their hopes had been dashed. Perhaps we have the same feeling right now. Perhaps we, like them, are in one of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, depression, bargaining, acceptance. [1] We do not necessarily experience these stages sequentially. We may be in one stage and they go back to another. There may be stages we revisit many times. There is also a sixth stage of grief, which is particularly important to me as a preacher. This is the stage of “making meaning." This is what I am called to do with you each week. And, I believe this is what Jesus was doing with the two disciples he met on the road to Emmaus. We are in grief, over what has happened during this crisis, to our loved ones and our families, to our communities, and to our world. And our grief is for the loss of many hopes … hopes that the coronavirus would quickly pass through our cities and towns, with minimal casualties … hopes that all healthcare workers and others would have all the protective gear they needed … hopes that the development of a vaccine or treatment would be miraculously quick … hopes that school would restart before summer. What hopes that have been dashed for you? At this stage, we may be tempted to walk away like the two disciples. If we are depressed we may give up on our support systems, like our church our community of faith. Maybe online worship doesn’t seem worth the effort anymore. We may become impatient and frustrated with the technology we need to use to gather in this way. We want to walk away from virtual connections. And perhaps, in our grief and denial we have decided that shelter-in-place hasn’t worked and so why bother? We may be tempted by the spring sunshine to reject physical distancing. The weather and the green grass may invite us to gather for sports, picnics, even protests against the directives. We want to walk away from physical distancing. But we are required to stay the course. And we are called to remain connected in spirit. If we have access to technology we can utilize it, to chat over coffee with friends, break bread and create a virtual family dinner, hold game nights with those who are far away from us, or even birthday parties for children and elders. Thank heaven for phones and for Zoom! An NPR program, Cognoscenti, asked listeners “What’s the first thing you’ll do when all this is over?” [2] They said that “’Hug my mom,’ ‘visit family’ and ‘go out for dinner’ were common replies. So was ‘get a haircut’; But there were also a number of truly surprising — sometimes sad, sometimes funny — responses.” One respondent, who turns out to be the author Anita Diamant, said she sorely misses having guests over for dinner. She says “I enjoy setting the table. I love seeing my guests clean their plates and ask for more. Most of all, I enjoy the conversation, the interruptions, the laughter, and the passionate disagreements that vanish into thin air. I miss the fellowship of the table, which can be a profound kind of connection even if the topic is nothing but binge-worthy TV.” Another listener simply commented “when quarantine is over, don't ask me if i'm free just say when and where.” When quarantine is over … will you be too busy with work on Sundays? Will you be too tired to come out? Will you prefer to stay home with the newspaper than gather in church? I don’t think so. Many of our hopes have been dashed. And yet, memories are being awakened in us, as they were in the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. For now, we have our memories of breaking bread together, whether it is during communion in the sanctuary, or over coffee hour and potlucks in the social hall. We have known the sacred presence in those moments gathered around a table, exchanging conversation, making eye contact, passing the soup or the cake, the burgers or the pancakes. This was always a much more tangible, sacred presence, than we could know sitting in rows, facing the same direction listening to sermons! So let’s make a commitment, even a vow. When “all this” is over, when we have the possibility of gathering in the body again, let’s not make any excuses … let’s be sure to recognize that Jesus is among us in the breaking of bread … May all God’s people say, Amen [1] https://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/ [2] https://www.wbur.org/cognoscenti/2020/04/24/when-quarantine-ends-frannie-carr-toth-cloe-axelson
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The New Normal Preached during Virtual Worship for Wollaston Congregational Church On April 19th, 2020 Scripture: John 20:19-31 The Brick Bible is one of my favorite biblical interpretations, when I’m in the mood for fun. It is a picture book in which each scene in the Bible is presented in Legos … yes, Legos. I would show it to you now, but unfortunately it’s locked away in my office at the church. The creator of this unusual version of the Bible doesn’t gloss over the most lurid and gore-y details, so I don’t recommend the Brick Bible for young children. But, it’s great for teenagers, especially if they begin to yawn at the mere mention of the word Bible. The Brick Bible provides both entertainment and illustrations of many of the great biblical stories. Often it is uncannily spot on. This is the case, for me, in the Brick Bible’s portrayal of our reading today from the gospel of John. The scene is disciples remain in the upper room. Mary Magdalene has told them she has seen the Lord, but they haven’t taken in the news. Or perhaps it doesn’t mean anything to them. They remain locked in the room. They fear the temple authorities who handed Jesus over to be crucified. They fear the patrolling Roman soldiers, who are rooting out possible insurgents. They are waiting in that room, for what … they don’t know. And so, the Brick Bible presents a very familiar scene for us these days. The gang is sheltering in place, aimlessly entertaining themselves. Some are playing cards. Others are taking a nap. They are sloppily dressed. Their hair is unkempt. Empty beer cans litter the floor. There’s not a whole lot going on. They’re a ragtag group … if you were to show someone this scene and say that this portrays the beginning of the global church, they probably would not believe you. In the midst of this … Jesus comes and stands among them and says the words “peace be with you.” He shows them his hands and his side, which are wounded from the ordeal of the cross. He repeats “peace be with you, as the Father has sent me so I send you.” And then he breathes on them, “Receive the Holy Spirit…” Well, you know the rest of the story. Thomas wasn’t there. When he returns and the disciples tell him what happened, he doesn’t believe them. And then … well, they remain locked in again for another week. Nothing much happening. Until Jesus comes back again. He stands among them and again he says “Peace be with you.” Then Thomas is allowed to see Jesus’ wounded body for himself. Fast forward … almost 50 days and the beginning of the book of Acts. We have to be a little careful here. Acts continues Luke’s gospel, not John’s story. And yet, this is point at which all the gospel stories end. And Acts picks up the thread. We find the disciples together again. Now they are organized. They spend much time together in the temple, they break bread at home and eat their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. We’ve heard it said that in the Easter story the tomb becomes a womb. In the fifty days between the resurrection and Pentecost, the Holy Spirit germinates in the disciples. And in that time the community is transformed. In these days, in our COVID-19 world, we have been called to transform too. You might say that something has been germinating these past weeks while many of us have been shut away in our own homes. In the beginning of the crisis I know I was just hoping for it all to be over, and for everything to “get back to normal.” We have heard that expression quite often “when things get back to normal.” It has taken a while, and it will probably take a while longer, for us to accept that things will not be the same again. This feels both scary and comforting. One reason it’s scary is because of the impact on the local and global economy. When I look at the staggering levels of unemployment at this time I wonder: how will we ever recover? And on a personal level, I know that I want to return to what I knew. I want to go out and do the same activities I did before. I want to be able to visit the people I am missing. I want to experience the freedom to go to gatherings like our church services and to get coffee or lunch with friends. Perhaps you are missing sports: children’s and professionals games, the rites of springtime in Boston, Opening Day and the Marathon. And at the same time as I want to get back to normal, I realize that things couldn’t have gone on the way they were. We couldn’t continue to consume and deplete our planetary resources at the rate we were going. Our human bodies and psyches couldn’t keep up with the non-stop busy-ness. Political discourse had descended to an all time low. And there seemed very little will to pay attention to the needs of people for food, shelter, and healthcare. You might say that the pandemic has caused us to hit a huge reset button. Pollution levels in China are estimated to have gone down 25% since the beginning of the lockdown.[1] And air quality has improved in many places. Perhaps the new normal will include better care for the environment. And we have discovered that our bodies and souls need to slow right down. In a time of crisis it takes us time to think, time to process. We are recognizing our bodily need for a daily time outdoors. We are recognizing our need for rest, and our need to heal relationships with our extended families and the people we live with. And we are realizing, on a communal level, that we are all connected. The pandemic cannot be stopped unless we provide food, healthcare and shelter for all members of the community. When the resurrected Jesus appeared to the disciples in the upper room, perhaps they felt both comforted and scared. Perhaps they hoped that things would now return to the way they were, that Jesus would be with them again in the same way. Instead, Jesus prepared them for a new normal. He breathed the Holy Spirit onto them and blessed them with peace. And in the same sentence he sent them out as the Father has sent him. In the early days of the church, being sent out would require a great deal of courage. In order to share “the way” of following Christ, the apostles risked martyrdom and their communities risked persecution. A generation after the coming of Jesus, Palestine looked completely different. Jerusalem and the temple had been destroyed by the Romans and one million Jewish people were killed. The followers of Jesus were a part of that community. The loss of the temple and the city was as devastating to them as to the others. They would need to move their communities beyond the temple. It was just as well that they had already begun to establish home-based churches, where members ate meals, sang hymns, studied and prayed together. The rapid growth of the Christian church had begun. The apostles took Jesus seriously. He had blessed them with a new kind of peace, that would become known as Pax Christi. It was the kind of peace that inspired them to live deeply into who they were called to be. As the Father had sent Jesus, so they were sent. To bring good news to the poor and the outcasts, to forge a new community of peace and love, worship and prayer. Friends, I hope that here in our community we will pay attention to the reset of COVID-19. One vision of that reset has been offered by a former chaplain, and now writer, Kitty O’Meara. [2] O’Meara worked in palliative care in the past. She knows what suffering and grief look like. When the virus hit, she felt anxious and wished there was something she could do for her friends working in healthcare. Her husband advised her to use her gift for writing. The poem she wrote has gone “viral” in a good way, all over the internet. Here is it: “And the people stayed home. and read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced, some met their shadows. “And the people began to think differently. And the people healed. And in the absence of people living in ignorant dangerous, mindless, heartless ways, the earth began to heal. “And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images and created new ways to live and heal the Earth fully, as they had been healed.” [3] My friends, we will continue to pray for safety and healing for all our community, and for the world. We will continue to hope for the day when this danger will be behind us. In this time of shelter-in-place may we allow Jesus’ blessing of peace to germinate in us. May the tomb become the womb from which a new community of peace and love, worship and prayer, will be birthed. May all God’s people say, Amen [1] https://www.businessinsider.com/coronavirus-environment-impact-pollution-climate-quarantine-2020-4 [2] https://www.oprahmag.com/entertainment/a31747557/and-the-people-stayed-home-poem-kitty-omeara-interview/ [3] https://www.crsdop.org/In-The-Time-Of-Pandemic-And-the-People-Stayed-Home-Poem?lang=en A Very Different Easter Preached on Saturday April 11th, 2020 At Quincy Point Congregational Church United Church of Christ for Virtual Easter Worship Scripture: John 20:1-18 It began just a few weeks ago, as I met with Rev. Kim and other pastors to plan our various Holy Week and Easter services. We were hoping to hold our traditional ecumenical Good Friday service, expanding the circle of past years to include several more congregations. And, of course, I had hoped to join with the Quincy Point congregation for the Easter sunrise service on the beach, a tradition that began just last year. But as Lent progressed, it became clear that we would need to practice physical distancing in the face of the coronavirus pandemic. The clergy reflected together, it is going to be a very different Easter this year. Not a usual Easter at all. And so I began to wonder: what do we expect for a usual kind of Easter anyway? And where do these expectations come from? I know that my Easter expectations come from rose-colored memories of childhood. In my mind’s eye, our small Methodist chapel is resplendent with daffodils and tulips, and filled to bursting with people. The joyful Easter hymn “Jesus Christ is Risen Today, Alleluia!” resounds from the organ, and the congregation sings with gusto. In those memories, at least, we spill out at the end of worship into a perfect English spring morning. Not everyone has the same memories, of course. I have noticed, in the weeks leading up to Easter at Wollaston, we’ll receive very specific requests for memorial flowers. Brightly colored tulips, please. Or traditional Easter lilies, please. The ladies who prepare the sanctuary get busy, arranging things as they ought to be. Most weeks I pull out a portable lectern, which is right-sized for our intimate services. But on Easter I go up to the high pulpit and get settled for festival worship. Only, of course it is never the usual Easter. There are always losses and tragedies that tinge our joy. The week before my first Easter at Wollaston one of our beloved older members died. We laid her body to rest on Holy Saturday and I know many congregants were swallowing tears as we proclaimed “Christ is risen, risen indeed” that Easter day. It seems that there is always tragedy around Eastertime both in the United States and overseas. Just last year there was the horrific mass shooting on a mosque in Christ Church New Zealand during Lent, and terror attacks in churches and hotels in Sri Lanka on Easter. In 2018 the tragic shooting on the Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida on Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday cast sadness over the entire Lenten season and beyond. There have been many Easters when things have just not been right, throughout the culture and around the world. During World War II in Britain, church bells were silenced other than to warn people of an invasion or air raid. Congregations were surely grieving or fearing for loved ones fighting in Europe as they proclaimed “Christ is risen, risen indeed, Alleluia!” with trembling voices. It must have been, as the song says, a cold and broken Alleluia. Now, on Easter 2020, the world is in the grip of a terrifying pandemic. We are advised or instructed to remain at home. We are not to venture out even for Easter services. And this is not a usual kind of Easter at all … and it is the same all over the world. Today we read from John’s gospel and heard how Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early in the morning, that first day after the Sabbath. You might say that the first Easter, the day of resurrection, looks nothing like a usual Easter. The terrified disciples had departed the scene of the crucifixion on Friday. Jesus’ body has been cared for by wealthy secret disciples: Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. The tomb had been sealed with a heavy stone. Since then, the disciples have been on self-imposed lockdown, fearing the temple authorities who handed Jesus over to be crucified. That morning, Mary summons the courage to go to the garden alone, while it is still dark. We can only assume that she goes there to be close to Jesus’ body and to grieve. But in the dim light of pre-dawn she realizes that the stone has been rolled away from the tomb. Jesus’ body is gone! She moves from grieving to despair: there is no body for her to tend and hold. When she meets Peter and the other disciple she cries out “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we do not know where they have laid him!” The two men run off to tell the others, and Mary is left alone again in the garden. She stands weeping. Then she steels herself to look into the tomb, to see two angels in there. They ask “Woman, why are you weeping?” And she repeats “they have taken away my Lord and I do not know where they have laid him.” Then she turns and discovers that there is another man behind her, perhaps a gardener. This man repeats the angels’ question: “Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?” She begs him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, please tell me where you have laid him.” “Mary!” … the moment he says her name she knows who he is. He has come to her in a different guise, but this is her Lord and teacher. It is Jesus. “Rabbouni” she responds, moving toward him to hold him. And yet, he cautions her “do not hold onto me.” Instead he sends her away to tell the disciples the good news, she has seen the Lord. This first Easter, there are not flowers, or trumpets, or hymns proclaiming “Jesus Christ is Risen Today!” There are frightened disciples. Mary tells the disciples the news with a trembling voice … “I have seen the Lord!” And even as they hear Mary’s news, they return to the room. They remain locked in. They shelter in place, still afraid. That was what the “good news” of the resurrection looks like for Mary Magdalene and the others. It is a glimmer of hope in a scary world. Something to hold onto, to ease their despair. Until days later, and then days later after that, when Jesus appears to them briefly and mysteriously again and again. He reminds them of his words and his teachings. He breathes the Holy Spirit on them and leaves them with his peace. He sends them out, as the Father sent him. This is the way he will be with them, even when he is gone from them. My friends, this Easter, Easter 2020, there are grieving spouses, sweet hearts, children and grandchildren, siblings, nieces, nephews and parents. They do not have their loved ones’ bodies to tend and hold. The old and the young, the high risk and the seemingly healthy, are dying in locked-down hospitals and nursing homes. All healthcare providers are called to action. Many of them are close to despair as they try to tend to so many failing bodies. And we, we who would love to hug and comfort one another in these times, cannot even do that. Like Mary, we cannot hold on to our teachers, our family members, our neighbors or our friends. This is grief, and it is despair. Over these past weeks, I have been reading daily dispatches from Spain written by Mary Luti. Mary was a professor at the Andover Newton Theological School when I attended. And now that she and her spouse, Anne, are retired they take regular trips to Spain. They stay in an apartment and live like the locals for several weeks at a time. Mary and Anne were in Seville when travel restrictions were imposed and they decided to stay there until it is safe to return home. The Spanish government has imposed a strict lockdown, which is monitored by the police. Mary has been writing daily posts for her Facebook followers and friends. She describes the view from their balcony and how strange it is to see the streets of Seville empty. Usually they would be filled with the elaborate and beloved Holy Week processions and throngs of onlookers. Mary and Anne see their neighbors when they all step out onto their balconies each night at 8 pm to cheer and applaud the healthcare providers. This past Monday, Mary posted Spanish Lockdown Report #24. She reported that the stringent measures were beginning to show signs of results. There were fewer people in the Spanish ICUs and there had been a large reduction in the number of deaths. The weather was poor on Monday, she says, and the lockdown was beginning to wear thin. The fact that Holy Week would not be as usual was sinking in. A news anchor had noted that his neighbors were grumpy that day. And so he gave the citizens a pep talk on the nightly news: “A crappy Monday... Yes, it was. And it’s okay not to be happy about it. These days, when nothing is normal, it feels good to act normal and complain about the things we always complain about, like the weather and the noisy neighbor downstairs and the politicians running the government … "Yes, it was a bad Monday, but it was better than the Monday before, so much better, in fact it was a wonderful Monday. And if you are one of the lucky ones who will see many more Mondays in your life, keep staying home, keep being patient and brave, and keep blessing the day, every day, whether it’s cloudy or clear, whether it’s rain or shine.” Yes, we might add. This is a crappy Easter. And it’s OK not to be happy about it. And yet, we, like Mary Magdalene, have a hint of hope. We have seen the resurrection, even if we cannot hold onto it in this moment. This year it looks like hope in Spain, as the numbers seem to turn the corner, and maybe even trend downward. Hope looks like ICU beds opening up, and the death rate decreasing. Many of us here today are fortunate enough to have a hope of seeing the other side of this crisis. And so we keep staying home, keep being patient and brave. We keep blessing the day. Every day, whether it’s cloudy or clear, whether it’s rain or shine. Even Easter day, even when it just isn’t a usual kind of Easter at all. And so with trembling voices we proclaim “Christ is risen, risen indeed, Alleluia!” It may be a broken Alleluia, but it is still Alleluia. May all God’s people say, Amen Watching and Praying in a Time of Anguish Preached during online worship on 4-5-20 for Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Mark 14:32-52 “They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I pray.’” After Jesus and the disciples had eaten the Passover supper in the upper room, Jesus needs some air. He needs a place where he can pray undisturbed. Gethsemane is a grove of olive trees. It is a quiet, calm place to go for someone who is in anguish. And few would go to an olive grove at night. It is a shadowy place, easy to bump into the low hanging branches and trip over the gnarly roots. Jesus and disciples are out in the cool of the evening after the hot, stuffy room of the supper. They are away from the crowds, giving them a much needed space to be with God, the Father. Jesus asks the group to sit and pray. Then he takes Peter, James and John, his closest disciples, a little way off. He needs them to stay and keep watch while he prays. In his state of anguish he needs their support. We don’t know what they are to keep watch for. We just know he wants the three to watch and pray. The theme of Mark’s gospel continues. Jesus wants the disciples to come with him, to be with him, present to the moment, in this very dire time. He knows that it is only a matter of time now. The authorities are on to him. It will not be long before the crowd arrives, armed with swords and clubs, sent by the temple authorities to arrest him. When they finally arrive, he reminds them that he has taught daily in the temple. He has not hidden away. He has laid it all out there … to his followers, to the people of Jerusalem, to the temple authorities. Henri Nouwen writes “this is the great drama of Jesus’ Passion: he had to wait for their response. What would they do? Betray him or follow him? In a way, his agony is not simply the agony of approaching death. It is also the agony of being out of control and having to wait.” And in the midst of all this Peter, James and John fall asleep. What are they thinking? How could they possibly fall asleep? Do they think Jesus can just go it alone? They have been asked to watch and pray and yet in their present condition that is a very hard thing. They are not up to it. The events of the past days have brought them to their knees. Perhaps they are physically and emotionally exhausted. Perhaps they are overwhelmed to the point of shutdown. I am sure we can identify. In this moment, we are being asked to do some hard things. Many of us are following directives to remain at home, even though we feel lonely and scared. Others, in essential services, are working night and day to the point of exhaustion. In the midst of this, Jesus asks us to stay awake … to remain present to the moment … to tune in wisely and carefully, to remain engaged in watching, waiting and praying … to be aware of needs within our community and to be ready to respond if we can. This may seem too hard at this time. We may not feel up to it. We may feel physically and emotionally exhausted. We may feel overwhelmed to the point of shutdown. Perhaps you have decided that you are going to watch Netflix and eat ice cream for the duration. Perhaps you have drifted off into fantasyland with Disney plus. Honestly, a little escapism is probably very good for us right now. On the other hand, maybe you are tempted, like me, to binge on the news. I’m tempted to spend my days checking and re-checking the coronavirus statistics: how many are infected, how many have died … in our city, in our state, in our nation and in our world. We peruse the lists … is there anyone in our family, our neighborhood, our circle of friends … who has gotten sick? Who is in the hospital? Who has been out shopping? Then perhaps we stop and think of what might happen. That is overwhelming in itself. Tears well up. Our minds go to our loved ones, those near to us and those far away. Will mom be OK? How will she cope, not being able to see me? How will dad manage if he has the go into the hospital? They will be so confused and frightened, and I can’t do anything about it. And then there are our friends and family members who go out daily into danger. Those who are nurses, doctors, eldercare providers, hospital housekeeping staff … those who keep watch, police, firefighters, the first responders … those who are keeping things going, grocery store employees, delivery persons, transit workers. Our minds may be going into overdrive. Who can even think about sleeping at a time like this? When we have tasks to do, our minds work slowly. We find it hard to process information and to make decisions. We are in overload. And so we might ask: how will we find calm and quiet in the midst of this storm? Where is our Gethsemane, our place of calm and quiet on the darkest of nights? Let’s say it out loud … this is anguish. This is the kind of watching and waiting the disciples were expected to do that night. It is waiting and watching for the next shoe to drop. It is waiting and watching for the next directive. Waiting and watching for who will be next to get sick. This is the sort of thing no one should be expected to do alone. And in fact, it is the sort of thing no one is being asked to do alone. Jesus did not go to Gethsemane alone. He went with his closest friends, the disciple community. They are the ones who would become the very early church after he was gone. And so still today, Jesus goes to the quiet place, and he takes us with him. He asks us to remain with him, present with him, witnessing to what will unfold. He asks us to remain in prayer, quietly acknowledging God’s presence in the midst of the storm. We are not expected to weather this crisis alone. And yet we are expected to remain awake, hard though it is. We are expected to keep watch, wisely filtering the news. For our own health and safety we need to monitor how much is enough. We are to determine the best sources of information, and to look to trusted community leaders. We are expected to take care of own bodies and spirits, to rest when we need to rest, to eat when we need to eat. One thing I have learned is that in a time of overload and overwhelm, frequent times of prayer and meditation are necessary. Take the time to listen to music you love or watch something that will make you laugh. Take a daily walk if you can. Check in with you body throughout the day, do I need to pause and breathe? When I heard the news that we could no longer meet as church in person, I immediately went to our snow-day plan. “No problem” I thought “I’ve done it before, I can give the service online.” That was fine for week one. But I soon realized that we would be meeting in this way for many weeks to come. Lent would be disrupted. Easter would be completely different. The UCC and other organizations posted invitations to webinars in which pastors would become online worship experts overnight. We’d learn Zoom, and discuss various online worship strategies with one another. I discovered I could not summon the energy to participate in any of the webinars. Between checking in with members of the congregation, family members and working for the next week’s service, I needed to give myself time. I needed to pray more than ever, check in with my colleagues, rest, and try to adapt to this new reality. This past week I read an article that resonates with my experiences. It says “Our essential mental shifts require humility and patience. Focus on real internal change. These human transformations will be honest, raw, ugly, hopeful, frustrated, beautiful, and divine. And they will be slower than [you] are used to. Be slow. Let this distract you. Let it change how you think and how you see the world. Because the world is our work.” [1] You may have heard the expression: “Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though every depended upon you.” Wise words for a crisis … and yet, we have to be mindful of the words. The “you” is not you-singular, it is you-plural. So long as we try to work alone, as individuals or even as our own small church, we might as well be asleep. We are called upon to remember that we have co-workers in this time … other churches and other faith communities, community groups, and governmental organizations. Humanity will only begin to deal with this global pandemic when we learn to work together. And we may as well begin to do that in the small places we find ourselves right now. We are being called upon to wait on a future that is as uncertain as it possibly can be. Like Jesus, we are in the agony of being out of control and having to wait. And so today we go to a Gethsemane of our own to meet Jesus. And we simply say “here we are … we want to remain with you, watching and praying … help us to do just that.” May all God’s people say Amen. [1] https://www.chronicle.com/article/Why-You-Should-Ignore-All-That/248366/?fbclid=IwAR2CJzsTX8QrZVBBbzAuyDvL2R5G-eQCXF-xU5gjNMApzbgRpAHHVK0x7Ow#.XoIUB9Y7Wu0.facebook Take and Eat, This is My Body Preached to Wollaston Congregational Church by Zoom On March 29th, 2020 Scripture: Mark 14:12-26 It was the first day of Unleavened Bread --- the Passover festival. And it was the fifth day of the week. You will remember, I’m sure, the first day, when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. And the second, when he entered the temple courts and overturned the vendors’ tables. On the third day he responded to tricky questions from the Pharisees and Herodians. And on the day we remembered last week, the fourth day, he dined in Bethany and a woman anointed him with costly nard. Today, the fifth day, we finally come to the event that is the reason Jesus and his disciples came to Jerusalem. It is the great celebration of the liberation of the Jewish people who were enslaved in Egypt. On this night over a celebratory meal, they remember the foods their people ate that night long ago. When the Israelites made a break for freedom in the great Exodus, they could not risk slowing themselves down. Leavened bread would have taken too long to rise. They were to sacrifice a lamb and use its blood to give a sign over their doors. They were to eat the whole lamb, roasted with bitter herbs, as sustenance for the journey. This was their last hearty meal before the 40 years spent wandering the wilderness. This was the meal that was remembered many years later by Jesus and his disciples in Jerusalem. And it is a meal that is still remembered in more elaborate Seders by our Jewish siblings to this day. This is all to say … Jesus and his friends and followers already know the significance of the meal. They understand the reason they eat each item of food shared at the table. This is a meal that they have eaten with family and close friends since they were old enough to chew and swallow. Even when they were too young to grasp the words of the Exodus story, they had ingested the meaning of it. And so, Jesus seizes this moment to share with them the meaning of his life and his sacrifice. They have not been listening, of course. The message that the Son of Man must suffer, die and on the third day rise again … still has not sunk in. In just a few hours their world is going to be turned upside down. They will see their Lord, their beloved, taken away to be crucified. They will feel bereft, broken and powerless. In the days ahead, the trauma of the violence of the cross will blot out Jesus’ words. But the sight of Jesus’ hands raised in prayer for the blessing, the sound of the wine poured into the goblet. The crisp unleavened bread, and the rich red wine. Jesus offering each one a sizeable chunk of bread and a deep satisfying swig. These are things that will stay with them when the dust has settled, these are the ways they will remember him. Some years ago, I was going to serve as an intern in a local church. But, right before I came on board the pastor of the church, who had once been so full of life and spirit, was cut down by cancer. Pastor Jess was beloved of the congregation, she was beloved of the small youth group. The youth felt her absence most keenly. Now there was no settled pastor for me to report to. But the interim minister asked me if I would go ahead with the internship anyway. I felt called by God, and I was supported by a wonderful mentor, so I decided to go to be with this church. I discovered that my responsibilities would include pastoral leadership for the youth group. The group was despondent. Their beloved pastor was gone – the one they trusted to teach them, laugh with them and guide them through the minefield of their teenage years. They felt betrayed by God and by those who had taught them their childhood faith. Some of them had simply left. A decimated little group remained, disappointed in this new “student pastor” leader. Their attitude bounced between normal teen silliness and despondency. They communicated their worries over Pastor Jess, and other events in their lives, via prayer requests written on little slips of paper. Mostly they couldn’t bring themselves to talk out loud about it with me. I realized that my time with this group would be spent ministering to their loss. I’d need to prepare them for what would be the greater loss when either Pastor Jess or one of their family members died. This required the youth making the quantum leap from the faith of childhood to the faith of mature adulthood. This is something few adults achieve. And they would need to do all this in the midst of trauma. I was to be their guide. But … how? Then I learned that the group was responsible for leading the Good Friday worship service for the church. This would be exactly one year after Pastor Jess had been diagnosed. The traumatic memory of the event would be resonating through the whole congregation. And so I began to work with the youth on a dramatization of the Passion narrative. We had the familiar scenes: -the accusations, -Peter’s denial, -Judas’s betrayal -Jesus making his sad and lonely way to the cross. And then the crucifixion. How would we show Jesus body, broken in that violent way, in the midst of our own feelings of loss? How would we express, with respect and devotion, Jesus blood poured out in this great act of love for the world? Of course, there was a 12 year old who was willing to play the gore-y role. But that just didn’t seem right, even to the youths themselves. In the end the story of that Last Supper on that fifth night provided the answer. When the moment came one solitary girl in somber dress came forward in front of the scene of “Jesus” who draped his arms around a wooden cross. She was carrying a beautiful loaf of fresh baked bread on a platter which she placed on a pedestal for all to see. Music played “Bread for the world in mercy broken.” The girl broke the loaf, clean in two. The song continued “Have mercy, have mercy, have mercy, on us.” She processed out carrying the platter. The youth group members followed silently behind. The congregation left the sanctuary in silence each taking a piece of bread as they went. The teens had already gathered in the fellowship hall, excited for an overnight “lock in”. In this moment, I listened to God for what to do next … then I knew … I carried the remaining loaf into the hall and asked the youth to “circle up”. They stood around, itching to be on their way. Yet, I could tell they had been moved by the drama they had just portrayed. I tore off chunks of bread … this is Christ’s body broken for you ---- we ate, hungrily. Then we prayed, “…thank you Jesus for being present with us in worship, be with us as we wait for Sunday and the resurrection morning.” Then they were off. The breaking, the chewing, the swallowing of the fresh baked bread was a memory, stashed away for when they would need it. Friends, in these times we are a bereft body of Christ. We are already broken, in advance of holy week, unable to gather physically in our sacred space. We feel impotent in the face of rapidly changing directives and guidelines. First we were told to wash our hands and avoid touching one another. Then we were told to make physical distance – 6 feet – between one another. Now we are to limit all contact. This is profoundly difficult for everyone. Human social contact is necessary for our wellbeing. It is most difficult for those who live alone. We may also experience the fear and anxiety of the possibility of becoming ill. Nurses, doctors, chaplains, and other healthcare providers have to balance their own wellbeing (and the wellbeing of their families) against the need to care for others. Other essential workers also face risks and have to learn to do their work very differently. And then there are those whose work has been deemed unessential and they have been laid off. Financial worries add to their anxieties. It is so difficult for people of faith to be unable to gather in these times. This is especially true to for those who hold dear our communion services, our remembrances of the Lord’s Supper. Still, we do have this medium … the internet and I hope to utilize it to the best of our ability. On April 9th at 7pm we will observe Maundy Thursday with another Zoom service, to which you are all invited. Holy Thursday is a time when the celebration of communion is most poignant. If you join us, you are invited to bring your own bread and your own cup to the service. You may not have bread or grape juice in the house. That is OK. Bring whatever you have … crackers, cookies, juice, coffee, tea, water etc. We will pray over those elements in front of each of us. We will break our “bread” whatever shape it takes … and we’ll chew and swallow. It will stay with us, fortifying us over the coming days and weeks. When the disciples were no longer able to be with Jesus, to hug him, to look into his eyes, to hear him speak, they had the bread and the cup. They were be physically separated, but spiritually connected. When the temple was destroyed, and their sacred space was gone Followers of Jesus would gather in homes for their communion meal. Even as we remain in our own homes, connected by the invisible link of the internet or telephone, may Jesus become every more present to us, in each morsel of bread, each gulp of the fruit of the vine. May all God’s people say, Amen |
If you enjoy a sermon or have a question, please leave a comment. If you would like to quote any of my material in your own sermons or writings, please use appropriate attribution. I look forward to hearing from you!Archives
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