Easter 4C

April 21, 2013

Today is often called Good Shepherd Sunday, and it’s not hard to figure out why.  Nearly every reading mentions or alludes to shepherds or sheep.  Some references are subtle, like the multitudes clothed in white robes from the reading in revelation.  Then there’s Psalm 23,  one of the most memorized piece of scripture, second only to the Lord’s Prayer.  We all know how it begins.  “The Lord is my Shepherd.”  Direct.  Not so subtle.   Good Shepherd Sunday. 

The first reading today is about Tabitha.  This reading doesn’t tell us directly so much about shepherds, but it does illustrate what shepherds do.  Interestingly, Tabitha is the only female in all of Scripture to be referred to as a disciple, because of her belief and her actions.  She was pretty valuable to the other women of the time.  

As you can imagine, in Tabitha’s time, the world was very patriarchal.  A daughter’s worth was measured by her father until she married, and then it was measured by her husband.  Widows who no longer were protected or funded or defined by their husbands were at the absolute bottom of the pecking order.  Even today, women are often left with little, when marriages end due to death or divorce.  But back then, the women were disposable; there was no to care for them.  Except Tabitha.  She took care of the widows.  Now, with the social stigmas surrounding widows lessened, this seems like noble and defensible work.  But worldwide women still constitute a disproportionately high number of people in poverty – 70-% of the world’s most impoverished are women.  And only 1% of all land is owned by women.  But back then, Tabitha was bucking the system and had the audacity to care for those the rest of society had dismissed.  And she was called a disciple.  

When Tabitha died, the widows are horrified.  Again, there will be no one, and they will be nothing.  They call for Peter.   And Peter raises her from the dead.   Of course everyone is extremely grateful, as their Tabitha is back.  But more than that, they realize that God will take care of them.  Before Tabitha’s death, through this lone female disciple, God cares for the widows, and through Peter, God will not let them be snatched. God shows his care and concern for the “least of these”.   

In the Gospel reading, we see Jesus at the festival for the dedication of the Temple.  The Jews press Jesus to answer if he’s the Messiah.  He answers that My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me.  To understand this, you need to know a little about shepherding back then, and here’s what little I know.    Shepherds used to put their flocks together to graze. Many shepherds with many flocks, all mixed together.  At the end of the day, each shepherd would call his sheep, and they, knowing their shepherd’s voice and unique call, would leave the collective grazing and follow their shepherd.  

We’re all thrown together on this earth to graze together.  And Christ has a unique call.  Those who know his voice and his call, follow him.   And Psalm 23 gives us a great image about us collectively grazing, hearing the voice, and following the lord.  

I think Psalm 23 is a lot like a Disney movie.  I saw Disney movies as a kid and they were really funny.   I brought my kids when they were little, and my kids thought the movies were funny.  But I realized that when I was taking my kids, I thought the movies were funny too.  For an entirely different reason.  Disney movies enchant children, amuse teens and often make adults giggle, as they masterfully speak truths to many diverse audiences at the same time. I remember seeing Aladdin as an adult, and chortling at Robin Williams’ near raunchy and yet perfectly kid-friendly Genie.  

 As adults who’ve repeatedly heard Psalm 23 and perhaps memorized it as a child,  we still hear it with a child’s ears.  But as adults, we owe it to the psalmist to listen with fresh ears, to hear it as adults, to hear it today.   Like a good Disney movie, Psalm 23 will speak to us where we are, now as adults.  

The Psalm starts as light and wonderful.  Lie down in green pastures, lead me beside still waters.   All really great things.  I remember thinking this was a sunshine and happiness psalm.  Mostly. 

But after the lovely pastures and calm waters, we travel through those dark verses.  Walking through the darkest valley.  The version I memorized had me walking through the valley of the shadow of death.  I didn’t like that part, and I still don’t. Luckily that was a brief walk, for the next line assured me that I shall fear no evil, for you are with me.  Whew. That was close.  I walk scary places, true. But I’m immediately told not to fear.  I remember thinking as a child that that one line, the valley of the shadow of death, was entirely out of place.  It didn’t fit in the otherwise bucolic, pastoral, lovely setting. 

After that quick walk through the dark places, the rest of the psalm contained more lovely promises.  You prepare a table for me.  My cup overflows with your mercy.  Surely goodness shall follow me all the days of my life.   OK.  That was great.   Lots of nice promises.   We have only that one scary but brief walk through the valley.   That’s what I remember as a kid.  

But look again. Darkness is peppered throughout this psalm, not just in valley.  

Sure, God leads me beside still waters, but that’s because he’s restoring my soul.   This psalm is speaking to a people and a time where their souls did need restoring.  As grown-ups this week, we might too.  

And later in the psalm, that lovely table that’s laid before me?  It’s in the presence of my enemies.   So I’m supposed to enjoy this lush table and overflowing cup not in the absence of my enemies, but in the midst of them.  That’s not as lovely and bucolic of an image as the one I conjured up when I was younger. 

I don’t really like the idea of my soul needing restored.  I like it just the way it is.  The events of this week have been horrible and stressful on people throughout country and world. As I thought about the events in Boston and Texas and the impact on all the people directly affected, the people who know, love and worry for them, and the rest of us who sit by with a mix of grief, shock and confusion, I realized my soul did need a little refreshing after all.   

And it’s clear that we are not fed at this lush banquet, weekly at our Eucharistic Feast, in the absence of people who do bad things.  People who do bad things are all around.   And God lays a table before us, and we feast surrounded.  

But still we are asked to feast.    

The promise of this Shepherd.  Apparently, it’s not what I thought it was.  It’s not that I simply need to follow and all trouble goes away.  All cares cease.  All worries disappear.  But we are encouraged to “fear no evil”.  Not because the evil is removed.  Not because we’re protected or indemnified.  I shall fear no evil for you are with me.  
If left to my own devices, like a little lost sheep, I would fear the valley, my thirst, my enemies.  But because we have a good shepherd who always  calls us, we can choose to follow that shepherd.   In the midst of our communal grazing, we hear and follow our shepherd.  God is with us, and we can get to the place of fearing no evil.  

So what about that communal grazing?   Who’s in there?  All of us.  All of humanity.  You and me.  The widows, the orphans, the confused. The mean.  The bombers. The unlovable.   

God is trying to call us all – all of humanity, to follow his shepherd, to be loved and tended, and protected.  Revelations talks about the multitudes from all nations, clothed in white robes.   God’s vision is that all of us feast, all of us are loved, all of us are shepherded.  

Yes, we have recognized our shepherd’s voice  - to varying degrees on varying days.  We have mercy overflowing.  Until the vision of Revelation occurs, we should do everything we can to share God’s vision and love and care with the multitudes from all nations.  The widows. The orphans.  The confused.  The mean.  The bombers.  The unlovable.   We are, after all, stuck grazing with them in this life.  And it’s because of God’s overflowing mercy that we have the capacity – we are asked to do this.    

So thinking about this week, about the victims and the bombers. About their families.  About the people in Texas.  Let’s finish by reading Psalm 23 together, with grown up eyes.  And pray that we all, as we graze together,  know or come to know and follow the voice of the Good Shepherd. 

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. 
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;* 
he restores my soul.*
He leads me in right paths*
   for his name’s sake. 
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,*
   I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
   your rod and your staff—
   they comfort me. 
You prepare a table before me
   in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
   my cup overflows. 
Surely* goodness and mercy* shall follow me
   all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
   my whole life long.*


Amen.  

Good Friday. March 29, 2013

Good Friday, 2013

Today is a hard day.  The symbols we have all around us at church, and what we’re doing are designed to remind us about the solemnity of the day, and deep grief and sorrow.  More than remind us, we are put right in the middle of ambiguity, grief and sorrow.

Today’s service is the second in the three-part Triduum, the service that begins on Maundy Thursday, continues today and doesn’t conclude until the Easter Vigil.  Normally, our services begin with a beginning – a processional.   Then, we go through the liturgy of the word, and the liturgy of the sacrament, where at the Eucharist, Christ is actively made present.  We end with a recessional, and my favorite, a dismissal, sending God’s people out to do God’s work in the world.  

But not today.  Today, we enter in the middle of an extended three day service.  Yesterday it began, with the processional.  Tomorrow it will end with a joyous dismissal.  But today, we don’t really have a beginning or an ending.  We enter the service as if it’s already started (which it has) and we’ll leave without a proper ending, which there isn’t.  For us liturgical worshippers, this is unsettling.  I think it’s designed to be.

It’s more than just the structure of the service that is unsettling.  We don’t get to celebrate the Eucharist with the active part of making God’s presence real in the bread and wine.  We do get communion, but it’s with bread that’s already been consecrated, it’s from the reserve sacrament.  Christ is not invoked and made present in the same way as a full Eucharistic celebration.

We cover the crosses in black and wear black.

This is one of the few times in the Church year we are left to sit in the darkness, with all the familiar comforts stripped away.

At St Thomas’ and throughout the world, Christians walk the way of the stations of the cross, marking Christ’s tortuous death, step by step.  We witness the terror of his companions as they watch him go through this.  We watch as Mary’s side is pierced, and feel that pain too, as she watches her son go through unspeakable horrors.   We suffer through remembering and praying about Christ’s passion.

And here we sit in the midst of that. 

But Good Friday is about more than just feeling the pain of the Passion once again.  This year, there are horrible things occurring throughout the world.  As of February, armed lethal conflict was underway in Afghanistan, Burma Columbia Congo India Iraq, Israel Mali Nigeria Pakistan, Palestine Somalia, Sudan Syria, Thailand Turkey Yemen.  People die.  Families are destroyed. 

Last year, over 400 soldiers were killed in the conflict in Afghanistan and Iraq, with over 4000 Iraqi deaths during same period. 

In 2010, 20 million Americans were living in extreme poverty, with an income of $10,000 or less – for a family of four. 

Oregon has the highest child hunger rate in the nation.

There are very real things out there currently happening that should grieve us.  These are the horrors of our current world. And regardless of your politics or morals, real people – real children of God – are suffering.  We suffer when we remember all that’s wrong in the world. 

And today we sit in darkness and grieve. 

And the darkness and grief isn’t just sympathizing with Christ, or mourning atrocities throughout our world, although that’s a lot.  Today we sit with all the grief and sadness deep in our souls.  There is always grief and sadness deep within each of us.  Loved ones die.  Family members get sick and suffer.  Families are broken apart.    Bad things happen.  And sometimes we get caught up in the turmoil of it all, and we end up sad or anxious.  We lead busy crazy lives, and sometimes it’s too much.  Sad, anxious, fearful thoughts can flood us.  We suffer because of what’s going on in our own heads, unbeknownst to anyone but us.

Whether it’s thinking about Christ’s passion, the horrors in the world, or the trouble in our lives or our soul, this is real pain. This is real suffering.

And here we sit in the midst of that darkness and grieve. 

And yet, this is Good Friday. I know the rest of the story.  I know the story gets good. I know this is the necessary hard part before the good part. But Good?  It feels sometimes like we’re trying to make this horror-filled day all about sunshine and roses. Look on the bright side.  And normally, I’m all about looking at the bright side.  But today, we are supposed to grieve. This grief at Christ’s death, our world or our lives is real and should be honored. 

So where is the good in that?

In 1373, a young woman lay sick with the plague.  She had a series of visions of Jesus, one which focused largely on the events we honor today in his life.  Julian of Norwich thought about the pain and suffering of Christ, someone whom she’d given her life to.  She thought about the system and people and conditions that resulted in his murder.   She thought about the pain and suffering of those around him, the people he loved, his family.  Unbelievable sorrow.   And on that day, all those griefs and sorrows came together. 

The suffering in the world with government sanctioned torture and killing of Jesus and others. The suffering in the hearts and souls of the people involved, and the suffering of Jesus. All of these things are still with us today. 

And all those years ago, Julian of Norwich she saw them all coming together.  Her resulting insight about that is beautiful. She called it Oneing, which I suppose is the verb of becoming one.  She thought of that Oneing as our complete unity with God, and God’s complete unity with us.  

You see, as Christians, we believe in a God who was made man.  Through the man Jesus and in particularly through all of suffering from this day, God shared in the world’s collective grief and sorrow.  Through that moment of shared grief and sorrow, Christ cemented his humanity with ours.With that day, Jesus absolutely experienced all the human horrors we put each other through and the horrors we are put through. And because Jesus experienced this moment and knew the pain, God shared the moment and knew the pain.  This was the moment of Christ’s Oneing with us.   Christ suffered with the people at that moment. They shared their grief.  And because of that, God shares with you your grief, the world’s grief today.

So part of the Good of today is that through the events of Christ’s passion, God knows, God has experienced as a human, that grief and darkness in which we sit today.
Without any shared humanity, God could feel bad for us, but wouldn’t know.  But God does know. 

It’s not that today is really that great of a day.  But through the brilliance of a God-made-man, and what that man went through today, God is with us in our grief.  Today and whenever it hits.  That is good. 

And it is true.  We are in the middle of a three day liturgy.  We do know the service will end.  And we’ll have glorious music and a joy-filled dismissal.  

I am reminded of a quote from that theologian or at least the great actress, Dame Judy Dench from the movie The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, of a quintessential quote for Good Friday, worthy of framing.  It highlights the Good part of today. It’s not that today is any less bad or hard.  It doesn’t attempt to lighten the gravity of what’s happening with platitudes.  It does highlight however, the Good part of today, and what we as Christians believe about sin, evil and death.

“Everything will be all right in the end.  If it's not all right, then it's not the end.”

Amen.