This morning’s Gospel text from St. Luke is a story of how Jesus went out of his way for the “small people” — intentionally seeking out those who were the least, the outcast, and the most marginalized.   This intentionality on the part of Jesus is actually set up in his mother Mary’s song of praise at the very beginning of the gospel.  Mary, when she learns that she would bear in her womb the Son of God, sings of a Mighty God who “looks with favor on the lowliness” of his servant, a strong One who brings down the powerful from their thrones and lifts up the lowly.   Perhaps little did Mary know that she was also singing of the mission of her son Jesus in the world:  feeding the hungry with good things, granting mercy to the humble and meek, and lifting up the lowly.

In this morning’s Gospel text, opposites attract and the lowliest is lifted up.

In crossing the lake known as Galilee, Jesus leaves behind the familiar for what is unfamiliar, he leaves behind those who are most like him for those who are most different from him, he leaves behind what his tradition considered ceremonially pure and undefiled for that which was considered ceremonially defiled and unclean.

In crossing the lake, Jesus crosses boundaries of culture and class to the country of Gerasa, or of the Gerasenes, “which,” according to St. Luke, “is opposite Galilee.”  Opposite: which is to say, opposing, completely different from, separated.   Jesus is in territory which, for Jews like him, is unclean and where he will encounter the unclean such as demons, the demon-possessed, pigs, and the tombs of the dead.  To the Jews in Galilee, the Gerasenes were “those people, over there” — the people who didn’t matter;  if you will, the “small people.”

For the first time in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is taking his mission of healing and freedom beyond the boundaries of his home territory, his familiar turf of Israel.  Here on this alien turf on the other side, Jesus is encountered by “a man of the city” who embodies everything opposite, everything contrary, everything opposing to what is familiar to Jesus.

The man of the city is naked, signifying shame; he is cut off from community; he is living among the tombs as a dead man and has clearly been in bondage for a long time; he has lost all social and religious status and is truly a non-entity, even among his own people the Gerasenes.   And so in all his shame, in all his isolation, in all his torment, he shouts at the top of his voice, “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?”  What, if anything??

It is the question all of us ask when we are feeling most cut off, most ashamed, most distant, most opposite from the presence of God:  “What do you have to do with me, Jesus?”

It is the question of the lowly, the powerless, the small people.

For this man of the city, one who struggled with a legion or a mob of his own personal demons, feeling as opposite from the Son of the Most High God as one could, truly wondered why anyone like Jesus would want anything to do with anyone like him.

Martin Luther was known to struggle with demons of his own.  A product of medieval thought and spirituality, Luther believed in them literally and even threw an ink bottle at the shadow of one he thought he saw while he was hiding out in the Wartburg castle.  But belief in demons literal or figurative is really beside the point.  What Luther did when he felt oppressed by his own inner spiritual struggles was to boldly say whether shouting out loud or using his interior voice (but I suspect the former rather than the latter):  “I am baptized!”   Yes, Luther claimed the waters of baptism as his refuge from all evil within and without even as we, whenever we claim the promises of baptism for ourselves or for one whom we are to baptize, take a moment just before baptizing to renounce not once, not twice, but three times the power of evil.

“Do you renounce the devil and all the forces that defy God?” we are asked.  And with God’s help we say “I renounce them.”

Or, putting it another way, we are asked “Do you renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God?”   And in God’s strength we say, “I renounce them.”

And finally, putting it yet another and final way, we are asked “Do you renounce the ways of sin that draw you from God?”  And by God’s grace we say, “I renounce them.”

Middle Eastern demonology believed that evil spirits could not survive in water.   Later in the gospel of Luke, Jesus describes how demons inhabit “waterless regions” — and so it is not surprising that when Jesus commands the legion of demons to depart from the man, they do so by way of ritually unclean swine which then jump off the steep embankment and into the lake — a symbol of the abyss, the primeval depths — into which they begged Jesus not to send them.

My sisters and brothers, our brother Martin Luther had it right.  The powers of evil are indeed sent reeling by the waters of holy baptism, and we who are washed by them are given the promise that there is no pit so deep that God’s grace is not deeper still.

Jesus, the one who saves small ones — Jesus, the one who heals small ones — Jesus, the one who delivers small ones — Jesus still crosses over to our side, still undemonizes those who oppose him, and still answers that ancient questions “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God” with one simple word:   everything.

And that shouldn’t get lost in translation.

Bernstein’s whimsical understanding of God as creator perhaps can set the tone for our reflection on the Holy Trinity on this festival day celebrating pure mystery.

Perhaps you found your head spinning from the get-go this morning, as the prayer of the day ushered us into the scripture readings: “we worship your glory, eternal Three-in-One, and we praise your power, majestic One-in-Three.” Three-in-One and One-in-Three. All we have is language and most of the time our words for God, our logoi theoi, our theology, our words don’t quite measure up.

But before we prayed that prayer of the day, there was the gathering hymn which seems to have captured the same sort of playful, whimsical notion of the Triune God as Bernstein used in his Harvard talks as he described the Creator. Hymn writer Richard Leach uses imagery of a dance to describe the relationship between the three persons of the Trinity: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun — the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope made room within their dance.” © 2001 Selah Publishing Co. Inc.

But our hymnwriter isn’t the first one to imagine the Trinity as the interplay, interweaving, intertwining of the 3 in a divine dance. In a few moments, we will use the ancient words of the Nicene Creed in our communal attempt, feeble as it may be, to ascribe some verbiage to our belief in the Triune One who transcends all language and all thought. Those words, written in 325 of the Common Era, say in part, “We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son…”

The Greek word used in the Nicene Creed for this word “proceeds from” is perichoresis which can literally be translated “to dance around, or in a circle.” So one could argue that, since the earliest centuries of the church, the notion of a God-in-Three-Persons-Blessed Trinity, so layered and laden and encumbered with words over the centuries-turned-millennia, has really been confessed all along as a circular dance.

Now that can either be something of a relief, or perhaps be even more disturbing to us. Do we have a God who suffers from multiple personality disorder and dances alone in a circle with two other self-manifestations? Or can we, with holy imaginations sparked by the Spirit, envision a triad relationship which moves and flows and, yes, dances in and through and among one identity? Such words and such a dance still invite us into mystery. God is beyond our descriptions and yet we believe God has given us the capacity to wonder and to adore, though as yet — in the words of St. Paul - “we see in a mirror dimly.” (1 Cor. 13:12)

Our own identities can be rather complicated, so perhaps we should permit God’s identity to dwell in that realm as well. To our parents, we are ever the child — adult or no. To those who experience us through our career, we are what we do: administrator, manager, legal expert, medical professional. To our children, we are mother or father, the parent. To our spouse, we are partner, lover, friend. We are the same person and yet we function in different roles according to our relationships in the dance of life. And, at times, that dance can get very complicated!

As Jesus was preparing his disciples for his departure on the night before his death, we hear his words to them in the opening lines of today’s Gospel: “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear to hear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, the Spirit will guide you into all the truth.” (John 16:12) That same Spirit — the Spirit of truth whose wind filled the disciples on the Day of Pentecost with the very breath of God, is the Spirit of wisdom and truth and understanding who speaks to us from the proverbial words of the first reading: “When there were no depths I was brought forth, when there were no springs abounding with water. Before the mountains had been shaped, before the hills, I was brought forth — when God established the heavens, I was there, when God drew a circle on the face of the deep… then I was beside God… and I was daily God’s delight, rejoicing before God always, rejoicing in God’s inhabited world and delighting in the human race.”

Sisters and brothers, this Spirit of wisdom which accompanied God in creating the heavens and the earth, the Spirit of the Risen Jesus whose powerful presence we celebrated in community last week, this same Spirit so also now delights in creation and so delights in us, that we cannot help but be drawn into the delight of the divine dance ourselves.

And yet, as the ecosystem in the Gulf of Mexico becomes increasingly drenched and darkened by the BP oil spill on this day 41, and as all attempts to repair the leak systematically fail, we must acknowledge that the mystery deepens further and the plot thickens all-the-more as humanity destroys the creation in which the Divine Dance takes such delight. As we continue to be drawn into the dance, may the Spirit of wisdom show us the way to wholeness and restoration of all creation whose primordial groans are increasing in volume.

God did not create the world in isolation. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the word was God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. And the Word who was and is God sent forth the Spirit to renew the face of the earth.
May that Spirit — the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, the Spirit of Jesus crucified and risen, the Spirit of the creative God of all — may that Spirit of the Holy Trio sing us into the dance of all things now living — so that we, in relationship with the Thrice-Holy, may continue (in the words of Bernstein) to sing into being the renewal of all creation. Amen.

Actually, you don’t need to take notes this morning. It’s true, none of you quite fulfilled your pastor’s expectation for completing 2 of these sheets per month for the past two years because I don’t have anywhere near 48 sheets from any of you. But here is the first and primary lesson we have learned in our confirmation studies: it’s all grace. None of us could ever meet all of God’s expectations of us, none of us could ever keep every commandment perfectly, and none of us could ever be flawless enough to fulfill all the requirements for salvation. Which is precisely why God sent us Jesus, the Word made flesh who dwelt among us, full of grace and truth, to save us from sin and to save us from ourselves. We don’t get it right. But Jesus gets it right for us and makes it right for God on our behalf.  It’s all grace. And the Holy Spirit, whose fiery presence and power we celebrate this day, will see to it that you keep living by grace and in grace and with grace every day of the rest of your lives.

The Holy Spirit enabled the 5 of you to hear some amazing truths over the past two years: and here are some of the things you said you got out of worship over the past couple of years. When asked to summarize the main point of the sermon, here’s what I think is “the best of” what your notes indicated: James noted: “It’s not my good works that will get me to heaven, it’s accepting God’s grace, God’s invitation.” Kevin asserted: “Jesus was inclusive.” Jack reflected: “We don’t only pray to God, but Jesus prays back.”  Steven proclaimed: “God’s Spirit will lead us through the forest.” Lars declared: “We all sin, let’s just get over it.”

Some of you also asked some mighty probing questions and made some pretty astute observations. Here are a few: Why didn’t Jesus write any of this down?  Today, the bread and wine gave me strength to be a better son. Today I heard that we become the human face of Jesus in the world.  One of you, upon hearing the parable of the widow who gave away everything she had, asked, “If we give all our money to the poor, we become poor. Can I just cut out the middle man and just give my money to the future poor me?  Today worship made me think about the environment and what I can do to help, and who were the quilts going to?  Another of you said this of our communal prayers: During the quiet time, I prayed for the people of Haiti and thought about how lucky I am to have food. And finally: worship led one of you to create this very Lutheran equation: Martin Luther = Jesus minus the miracles.

Indeed, as the prophet Joel was quoted in the first reading today from Acts chapter 2: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your youth shall see visions…”

During our interviews this week, you each had an opportunity to tell me something about what arriving at this day in your lives meant to you. You each wrote a personal statement of belief, and without fail each one of you acknowledged that you have experienced God’s grace in Jesus through this community of faith. Whether it has been in our time together in the classroom, or on a retreat at Cal Lutheran, or giving God praise and offering prayer here in this worship space, or serving on the ground in New Orleans last summer, you have each come to experience grace in community as we have studied together, prayed together, read the scriptures together, received Holy Communion together, helped to paint a school together in New Orleans or assemble health kits together for the people of Haiti.

Today is the Day of Pentecost, the 50th day of Easter and a day when we remember the story of how the Spirit of Jesus filled the very first fearful disciples with the very breath of God, enabling them to speak in the languages of all the people who lived in Jerusalem at the time, even though they had never learned the language.  But if you look at the first sentence of the first reading, there’s a very important detail about how the Holy Spirit worked on that first day of Pentecost, and how the Holy Spirit still comes to us today. The reading begins: “When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place.” You see, something powerful happens when we gather as people of the cross and empty tomb: with simple water, the Spirit of that crucified and risen Jesus comes and washes away our sins, with simple wine and bread, the Spirit prepares for us a meal of forgiveness and inclusion and transformation. And in one breath, the Holy Spirit makes us into one body, although we are many and as different from each other as our skin color, our gender, our primary language, our immigration status, our age, our sexual orientation, our spirituality or our nationality or our physical abilities or disabilities.  Whenever and wherever we gather, the Holy Spirit of God and of the Risen Christ is poured out on everybody, no exceptions.

The five of you began learning this lesson about being together from the very first time we gathered together as a class. Do you remember? That very first day, for our first lesson, we took a long stroll around the neighborhood in an exercise called a “faith walk” — looking for things in nature and in the world around us that spoke to us in our journey of faith. We were almost back at the church, coming up the alley in the back having walked about a 3-block radius around the whole neighborhood when all of a sudden we heard Steven let out a yelp and then a cry for help. He was having a close encounter with a bee out back, and had managed to get himself stung for the first time in his life. It brought us together as a class as we suffered together in community right then and there for the very first time as well. We learned the truth that “none of us are free if one of us is bound,” bound in suffering, bound in pain, bound in prejudice, bigotry or intolerance.

Yesterday for the first time in our state’s history, California (with the exception of Kern Co. Public Schools) observed Harvey Milk Day, remembering the very first gay publicly-elected official in the nation, a man who had a vision of equality for all people and who had the courage to speak out for all who suffered from oppression, resulting in his murder along with San Francisco mayor George Moscone. As he would often begin his political speeches, “I’m Harvey Milk, and I’m here to recruit you.” More than recruiting volunteers for his campaign or the programs he was advocating, he was recruiting people to give others hope by being authentically human beings — being who they were — created in the glorious and fabulous image of God. To offer anyone hope who had ever suffered any sort of oppression due to being different in anyway — be it racial, gender, economic, sexual orientation, age or ability. “And you, and you, and you,” Milk said, “you have to give people hope.”

My brothers and sisters, when we give people hope, we are prophesying in the Spirit: speaking a word on behalf of the Living God, and living in the power of God’s holy and life-giving Spirit which promises to be poured out upon all flesh.

So guys, I’m here to recruit you this morning: to live in grace, to give people hope, and to trust in God’s promise — a promise which says you are God’s beloved sons and with you God is well pleased.

You can bet your sweet baptism on it.

Amen.

And now, as of this weekend if you happen to be passing through the state of Arizona, and if you happen to show some sign of being an undocumented resident of these United States, law enforcement now has the legal right to snatch you out of your car or off the street, snatch you away from your home and family and children, if you are unable to produce papers proving your legitimacy and worthiness of being present on the ground — in Arizona.  I hear they’ve already renamed the city of Carefree, Arizona, “Be Careful”, Arizona. To be sure, Governor Jan Brewer is convinced that undocumented Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Finnish, British, and most especially those wretched German illegals are just as much in danger of deportation as those with more pigmentation-than-thou, but stay tuned because other than by brown skin it isn’t altogether clear as yet how they will identify the undocumented Europeans.  But rest assured, all will be snatched out of the tenacious clutches of Lady Liberty whose mouth for the moment has been taped shut so she no longer needs to sing “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse…”

Yes, we know all-too-well of the threat of snatchings in our world and right here in our very country for whom we pray “God mend our every flaw.”

So, what joy and frankly what a blessed relief this morning to have our worries and our cares and our burdens and our disappointments confronted and our troubled lives intersected by the promise of the very words of Jesus which assure us amid all that can be so quickly and cruelly snatched away in life that “no one can snatch them out of my hand.”     

“Them” being us — the wandering sheep of Jesus’ fold, the lost lambs of Christ’s flock, the beloved sinners of Lamb’s redeeming.  What joy to come to the 4th Sunday of Easter and once again be reminded that we have a Good Shepherd, one that leaves 99 good and obedient sheep behind to go and bring back that one lost and head-strong little lamb that insists on going its own way.  But lest we think we for the most part belong to that good flock of 99, the words of the prophet Isaiah remind us that “we all, like sheep, have gone astray,” and that “we have all turned to our own way.”

After all, this is Good Shepherd Sunday — not good sheep Sunday. In the gospel this morning, Jesus is confronted by some suspenseful sheep. The gospel of John refers to them simply as “the Jews” — not a very helpful statement because Jesus was a Jew and his followers were Jews. “How long will you keep us in suspense?” they asked Jesus. “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”

“I have told you,” Jesus answered, “and you do not believe.” He goes on to say that everything he had been doing in his Father’s name — all his works of healing, blessing, feeding, delivering — everything pointed to his identity.

Jesus has harsh words this morning for all who hear his words and witness his works but in stubbornness refuse to follow him. “We all like sheep have gone astray. We have all turned to our own way.” They are words of a shepherd who refuses to let any sheep stray away despite their most ardent efforts to do so. 

We are a congregation blessed with a growing number of young families, one of whom is Maggie and Nathan who will be bringing their little one, Scout Violet, to the waters of baptism in a few moments. As a pastor, I delight in watching parents shepherding their wandering toddlers in worship but also out on the green pastures of our front lawn during coffee hour.  Often times, the more the parent calls out after the child by name, the further and the faster the child runs in the opposite direction of the voice calling after them. It is the human condition being played out before our very eyes. Parents, the pretty-good-shepherds, protecting, providing, preventing, being pro-active, and mirroring the Good Shepherd whose goodness and mercy follows us all the days of our lives, even when we don’t follow in return.

Today, the great Shepherd of the Sheep who follow and of the sheep who wander, comes and gathers us again. From the second reading we are shown a vision with St. John of that time and place where there will be no more hunger, no more thirst, and no more tears, “for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life.”

As Maggie and Nathan brought Penelope and now return to bring their newest little lamb Scout Violet to the baptismal waters, it is a picture of the Good Shepherd among us — persistent, unrelenting, faithful, guiding along right pathways, wiping away tears, leading beside still waters, calling out our name, calling us back, keeping us close, holding us forever. A Good Shepherd whose promise makes it Easter all over again for us this day: “My sheep hear my voice. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. ”

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed. Alleluia!  
“It’s all grace.” - Ben Larson

Christ is risen – even if you were here on Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and were among the Holy Saturday decorating crew yesterday, don’t think by your being here you had a hand in helping him rise. Alleluia?! Alleluia!

Christ is risen – even if you’re only here because you thought it might be nice to go to an Easter service before that brunch with the bottomless mimosas over at the hotel.  Alleluia?!  Alleluia!

Christ is risen – even if you’d rather still be in bed, or are already back to sleep during this portion of the service. Ahhhhhh-leluia?!

Christ is risen – even if you’re still P.O.’d about the traffic on Lincoln Blvd or had to park on Montana Ave and hike in on a nippy Easter morning. Grrrrrowl-elluia?!

But all kidding aside:

Christ is risen – even if your situation in life has got you lingering in the Good Friday mode, unable to utter the A-word with most everyone else.

Christ is risen – even if you feel something in you has died and you’d rather roll the stone back into place and be left alone in the dark tomb to grieve.

Christ is risen – even if you think the whole story is a big ol’ crock of sssshhh-iny jelly beans and even if you cross your fingers behind your back every time you come to those parts in the Apostles’ Creed where we say “I believe… on the third day he rose again,” and “I believe in the resurrection of the body…”

Because — especially if any of those last three even come close to being you — you’d be in fairly-fine apostolic company, at least according to St Luke’s version of the resurrection story.

Luke tells us that “the women” — namely Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James and “the other women with them” — went to the tomb at early dawn that morning only to discover that the body they were going to prepare for burial was missing.  The tomb wasn’t exactly empty — first of all because they themselves were standing in it, and then there were these two fabulously-dressed men (okay Luke’s words are “two men in dazzling clothes”), who asked the women that haunting, mysteriously Easter-y question:  “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” which makes you wonder if some brave soul among them might have considered blurting out with some grief-laden anger, “Because he died.”

Well, if one of the women did, Luke doesn’t tell us that part. Instead, we’re told that they are reminded (by the two fabulously-dressed gentlemen) how Jesus had told them while he was still in Galilee that he “must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” And apparently that did the trick, because as soon as they remembered Jesus’ words, the women then were off to see the apostles, and to proclaim to them the very first Easter message “He is not here, but has risen.”

And according to Luke, the apostles didn’t believe a word of it. In fact, they — like some of us — thought it all seemed like an idle tale. The Greek word for idle tale is leros, the root of the word delirious. Yes, the apostles’ misogynistic response to the first-ever proclamation of Christ’s resurrection was that it was a bunch of jibberish, coming from a group of hysterical women who had gotten up too early.

But the thing is: everyone was grieving. Death will do that to you. Just ask anyone who is sitting here this morning having lost their beloved — whether it was a spouse or a friend or a lover or a pet or a parent or sibling or mentor or family member. Resurrection hope doesn’t make a lot of sense when you’re in the throes of grief, and it’s not always that much easier when you’re on top of the world either, I might add. Resurrection hope — after all — can seem an awful lot like whistling in the dark. Maybe because that’s how it all started.

St Luke writes that the best any of the eleven could do was Peter, that apostolic gadfly, who “got up and ran to the tomb” to have a look for himself. And there they were: the burial linens. And then he went home, amazed but not enough to tell anyone else. Quite yet.

A few of us were gathered outside the church on the front sidewalk on Good Friday night, after the service had ended. The newly-installed and freshly-dedicated crucifixion windows were being illuminated from the inside out for the very first time that night, and a we were huddled out in the darkness to see how well-lit and visible the windows would be with the three 1500-watt lamps that had just been installed during Holy Week. No one was prepared for the piercing beams of light that came exploding through the glass, illuminating the body of Jesus hanging on the cross, his grieving mother Mary and his beloved John and Mary Magdalene sorrowing on either side of him.

I think the hope of resurrection is like that — amid our darkness, in our pain, in our brokenness, in spite of all that is unjust and so not right in the world and in our lives, in the darkness of war and poverty and disaster, in the abyss of corruption and abuse in institutional religion, in the political and economic arenas and in society at large, in the pit of racial and sexist and gender prejudice comes the explosive ray of resurrection promise bursting through all that is death and darkness within and around us.

Martin Luther put it this way:

This life, therefore,
is not godliness but the process of becoming godly,
not health but getting well,
not being but becoming,
not rest but exercise.
We are not now what we shall be, but we are on the way.
The process is not yet finished, but it is actively going on.
This is not the goal, but it is the right road.
At present, everything does not gleam and sparkle,
but everything is being cleansed.

Through our baptism into his death and resurrection, Jesus, the Life and the Light of the world, illumines our darkness and sets us free — despite our selves. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” proclaims today’s second reading from St Paul’s letter. But meanwhile, that piercing light sometimes seems only to illuminate our pain and emptiness.

“The symbol of Easter is the empty tomb” writes beloved author and minister Frederick Buechner. “(But) you can’t depict or domesticate emptiness. You can’t make it into pageants or string it with lights. It doesn’t move people to give presents to each other or sing old songs. It ebbs and flows all around us, the Eastertide… He rose. A few saw him briefly and talked to him. If it’s true, there is nothing left to say. If it is not true, there is nothing left to say. For believers and unbelievers both, life has never been the same again. For some, neither has death.”

Christ is risen — even if all this seems a bit delirious.

Amen.

Tonight, as they usually do, actions speak louder than words.

We gather on this night after a day of being bombarded with words.

We have been hearing words all day, perhaps from the moment the clock radio went off.

Even since this service has begun, there have been plentiful words. Printed words, words of confession, words of absolution, silent prayerful words, spoken scriptural words, words of proclamation. Soon there will be words of a hymn, words of instruction and words of institution, sung and spoken words, words of invitation and blessing and thanksgiving.

But tonight, as they usually do, actions speak louder than words.

“In obedience to the command of our Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins.” Those were the words we heard over and over as this liturgy began. You might have remained seated and listened. But instead most of you engaged in action: movement, kneeling or standing, permitting your head to be touched by very human hands which signified those of Another, the one who commands us to forgive others, the one who this night gives us a new commandment: to love one another.

The people of Israel might have stayed seated around their tables eating the Passover lamb, and the unleavened bread, and the bitter herbs, and thinking about the God who promised to pass through the land of Egypt that night and pass over over their houses. But their actions mattered: sprinkling the blood of the lamb on their doorposts, making everything about their meal “take out” or “to go” – with sandals on their feet, staff in their hand, and loins girded. Ready for action. No staying put.

St. Paul’s words from the second reading recall the night when Jesus was betrayed — this very night on which we gather to remember the same — how Jesus took a loaf of bread and a cup of wine and blessed it and shared it with his friends. Paul recalls the words of Jesus which command action: “Do this.” Eat the bread — do it. Drink the cup — do it. Do it to remember me. And then Paul’s extra words: “For as often as you do it, as often as you eat the bread and as often as you drink the cup, as often as you do it you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes. And so tonight, our actions speak louder than our words.

You can either sit there and think stained glass thoughts about “how God so loved the world that God gave the only begotten Son,” and think about his broken body and blood spilled/poured out, or by your actions you can become his body and blood. For in the eating and in the drinking, we become what we receive and we proclaim it by eating the bread and drinking the cup.

So far so good. Comfort zones fairly intact. For the most part. But guess what: there’s one more action which is way more out there than the first two. It has to do with the reason we call this Thursday “maundy” — it’s the Middle English word for mandate — a commandment — what Jesus calls a “new commandment.” “I give you a new commandment,” Jesus says, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

“Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” And how was that again, Jesus?!

The story that precedes these words of Jesus are the actions which Jesus tells us we “ought” to do. “So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”

Sisters and brothers, I can’t tell you it will be my pleasure to wash your feet, nor can I tell you it will be your pleasure to bathe mine, or your sister’s or your brother’s. I can’t tell you it will make your holy week complete, or your Easter more joyful. I can only repeat Jesus’ words spoken on this night: “If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.”

So you can sit there and think about loving one another. Or, you can be the April fool, take the towel, and take matters — namely feet — into your own hands. But don’t do as I say, do as I do. For tonight, as they usually do, actions speak louder than words.

Those words of St Paul echoed by Dr. Satre could not be more appropriately-timed for us who this morning are witnesses (albeit indirect) of the Los Angeles Marathon, that great race from the stadium to the sea: “I press on” St. Paul writes, not once but twice. “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” “Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.”

Perhaps you know something this morning of “pressing on”. Perhaps in order simply to get here this morning you had to “press on” through the traffic of those coming to Santa Monica to be at the finish line to cheer on the race-runners. Perhaps you have had one of those weeks, or one of those months, or perhaps 2010 has already proven to be one of those years through which you have had to push forward despite every challenging and unexpected roadblock and detour. Perhaps like the thousands of runners this morning, you too have a goal, a destination, a finish line for which you have been intently focused, with your “eyes on the prize” of accomplishing a task, making it through a a time of personal challenge or hardship, just getting through it.  Against the grain, up against a wall, against all odds, in the face of adversity, suffering, and even death: we press on.

It was a dinner party.

Jesus was the guest of honor, and the hosts were his dear friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus — three siblings who lived together in their home in Bethany, just outside of Jerusalem. Besides the twelve disciples, these three were Jesus’ nearest and dearest. With them, Jesus was at home. It was as if their home was a home base for Jesus, where he could get away from the crowds, have a quiet meal, get some rest, let down his hair.

It was a bittersweet dinner party. There was some celebration still lingering in the air after Jesus had raised from the dead his friend Lazarus who was now sitting beside him at the table and in whose home the dinner party was being held.  The festival of the Passover was just six days away, and as is our custom during our holidays and holy times, Jewish families and friends gathered — then as now - for Passover meals and dinner parties. But at the same time there was a subtle heaviness in the room, a tension in the air, a sense of foreboding.

While the ever-busy Martha poured the wine and dished up the meal, and while the freshly-resurrected Lazarus sat down at the table with Jesus and the twelve, Mary had something else in mind.  “Pressing on” past the plates and the persons gathered in her home and around her table, her goal is to get to the feet of Jesus. Don’t forget: she’d gotten in trouble with her busy sister Martha at one other dinner party for doing the same thing. While Martha served dinner, Mary the mystic sat at Jesus’ feet listening to his words. But this night, Mary pressed on further than simply being there at Jesus’ feet. With plates of food being passed, with glasses of wine being consumed, with at least fourteen men sitting there having a meal at her table, Mary takes Jesus’ feet into her hands, and with both her hands and her hair applies a pound of costly perfume onto Jesus’ feet. It was a ritual act expressly-reserved for dead bodies being prepared for burial, and I’m nearly certain it must have been a buzz-kill at the pre-Passover dinner party. It was also doubtlessly something she’d done not long ago with her dead brother Lazarus who — clearly - was now back on his feet and sitting there right beside Jesus at the table.

Not only the room but the entire house soon became thick with the fragrance of the perfume, a fragrance that was meant to cover up the stench of a dead body laying in a tomb. Instead, it was covering up the wafting aromas of whatever delicious Middle Eastern cuisine had been cooked up in Martha’s kitchen, making a festive dinner party smell more like a funeral parlor.

Mary was in trouble again. Not with Martha her busy-serving sister but this time by one of Jesus’ disciples, Judas — the group sticky-fingered treasurer.  Distracted by her act of extravagance, angry that all that expensive perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor and presumably some for his own pocket as well, Judas defies Mary’s discipleship, her very act of love and devotion.

At Jesus’ command, Mary pressed on. “Leave her alone,” Jesus said to Judas. “She bought it so she might keep it for the day of my burial.”

The very next day, Jesus himself pressed on into the city of Jerusalem. Riding on the back of a borrowed mule, triumphally entering through the gates and being hailed with palm branches and acclaimed as the king of Israel, Jesus presses on to Passover. Mary’s extravagant and fragrant act prepared him for what was to come: his most extravagant act of love on the darkest of Fridays we have come to call good.

Sisters and brothers, as we press on through Lent to Passion Sunday and Holy Week, we do so with a God whose extravagant promise — in the words of the prophet Isaiah — is to make all things new, to make a way to water in the wilderness, and streams in the desert.

Today we press on to these waters with Cooper Gregory Emerson, waters that will wash him in Jesus’ life and waters that will drown him in Jesus’ death.  St. Paul wrote to the church in Rome that we are buried with Jesus by our baptism into his death.  Today, just shy of his 1st birthday, Cooper dies with Jesus. But Jesus will not linger in death.  Nor will he let Cooper linger there. He will press on beyond his burial.

And we, with Cooper, will follow Jesus. To the cross.  To the grave. And beyond.

Press on.

Dear People of St. Paul’s,

Welcome to the holiest of weeks in the life of the church, which begins on Palm Sunday, March 28. As we observe these holy days at St Paul’s this year, we do so with an amazingly gracious addition to our sanctuary which will be relished for generations to come: the newly-installed stained glass depiction of the crucifixion of Jesus, given by the estate of Gertrude F. “Gertie” Miles.

With the addition of this set of three windows in the balcony, our sanctuary will now be complete with the two major redemptive scenes from the life of Jesus – his saving death and resurrection — serving as “book-ends” to the east and west, behind and before us. Flanking those depictions on our right and left are other scenes from the life of Jesus: his nativity, teaching in the temple, blessing the children, healing the sick and blind, feeding the multitude, walking on water, knocking on the door, carrying the lambs, praying in the garden, and ascending into the clouds. But chiefly in these days to come, we are remembering the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus for us and for our salvation. Blessings to you as you come to worship and go to serve Christ crucified and risen!

Palm / Passion Sunday, March 28: We gather outside the front doors of the church to begin our great procession into Holy Week, remembering Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem which ushered in the last week of his life on earth. Everyone receives a palm branch as we shout our “Hosannas in the highest” and read the story of the passion of our Lord according to St. Luke in a congregational “reader’s theater.”

And then, as we arrive at the crucifixion portion of the story, our attention will turn to the new windows in the balcony which for the very first time will illustrate our communal hearing of the crucifixion narrative. We will celebrate the installation of the windows with a solemn rite of dedication, and following the Palm Sunday service, we will gather for a festive catered luncheon in the Parish Hall, with our special guests David Judson of Judson Studios and Tim Carey, the artist who designed the windows. If you plan to attend the luncheon, please indicate your intention by calling the parish office or making a note on the back of an attendance card so we might have an accurate count. There is no charge for the luncheon.

Maundy Thursday, April 1: We gather at 7:30 p.m. to remember the night Jesus had a last meal together with his friends, the same evening on which he also took a towel and a basin of water and washed the feet of his followers, the night he gave a mandatum (a new “mandate” and thus the word maundy): to love one another. On this night, the night of his betrayal and arrest, we remember and do likewise as we wash one another’s feet and gather around the Lord’s table in a more intimate way. The liturgy concludes with the stripping of the altar, a reminder of our Lord’s humiliation at the hands of his enemies.

Good Friday, April 2: At 12 noon, we gather for a simple liturgy of the “stations of the cross” in the sanctuary, as we walk the via dolorosa — the way of suffering — with Jesus at the hour of his crucifixion. This service is intentionally short (approximately 30 minutes in length) to accommodate lunchtime schedules. Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, the sanctuary will be open for prayer and reflection as we keep our Good Friday vigil beneath the cross of Jesus. At 1:00, 2:00, and 3:00 p.m., a brief interlude of scripture, prayer, and song will punctuate our silent vigil-keeping at the cross. We will gather in the balcony for those brief, five-minute interludes. At 7:30 p.m., a service of tenebrae (shadows) and adoration of the crucified one will be held in the sanctuary, with scripture, hymns, and growing darkness as we commemorate the saving death of Jesus. It was a very good Friday indeed, “for God so loved the world.”

Holy Saturday, April 3: We prepare the sanctuary for the celebration of Christ’s resurrection, beginning with a continental breakfast in the parish hall at 9:00 a.m. The decorating and fellowship continues through the morning, with lunch on-the-go for all worker-bees around noon.

Easter Sunday, April 4: Jesus Christ is ris’n today, Alleluia! our triumphant, holy day, Alleluia! who did once upon the cross, Alleluia! suffer to redeem our loss, Alleluia! A warm and welcoming Easter brunch is served in the parish hall beginning at 8:30 a.m. and continues until 9:30. A children’s Easter egg hunt is planned for the morning as well. Festival Holy Communion is celebrated in the sanctuary at 10:00 a.m. Our parking lot is always particularly crowded on Easter. If you are able to arrive early and find neighborhood street parking so that our many visitors may be accommodated, this would be most helpful and welcoming.

A variety of opportunities for service abound in these upcoming days. Passion story readers will be recruited “on-the-spot” on Palm Sunday morning; those willing to wash feet and have their feet washed in the rite of footwashing on Thursday night are invited to do so; Good Friday prayer vigilers are invited to stay and pray in the sanctuary that afternoon; many hands are needed on Holy Saturday (Apr. 3) to decorate and prepare the sanctuary for Easter; a wide variety of foods are needed for the Easter brunch: egg dishes, coffee cakes, muffins, fresh fruit. Help will be needed with set-up, serving, and clean-up on Easter morning. Parking lot greeters/attendants are needed on Easter morning to assist worshippers to maximize our parking lot space. If you are able to help in any of these ways, please complete a salmon-colored Holy Week/Easter participation insert in this Sunday’s bulletin, or call the parish office (310) 451-1346. Thank you!

Easter morning flowers may be purchased directly through our florist ($12 per plant), or you may provide your own plant and deliver it yourself to the church between 10:00 a.m. and 12:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 3. The deadline to sponsor a plant through the church’s florist is Palm Sunday.

A special Easter offering envelope is provided for an Easter gift to support the ongoing mission and ministry of St. Paul’s. Thank you for your generous spirit in this season of newness and renewal.

May Christ crucified and risen continue to walk the way with us and remain the center of our life together as a community of his followers.

Give God the glory! Alleluia!

Pastor James Boline

By that he didn’t mean we need to beg and grovel for God’s mercy and forgiveness. But rather, at the end of his lifetime of shining the spotlight on the riches of God’s amazing grace, he recognized that, like beggars with empty hands outstretched, all we can truly do is receive what God freely gives us.  God’s heart does not need to be inclined toward us by our begging or asking or pleading. Instead, God’s heart is so overflowing in love for us that before we can even stretch out our needy and empty hands, God is there with hands outstretched, reaching toward us first.

“We are beggars, this is true.”

This morning, I’d like to propose a corollary to Luther’s dying words: “We are wanderers, this is true.”

From the time we are toddlers, we just love to take off in our own direction. Just watch a little one who has recently gained use of their little legs and achieved the ability to walk. Proud parents become constantly burdened by the ever-wandering one who, when opportunity knocks, high tails off in whatever direction possible — away from the watchful eye of momma or poppa.

Lutherans never really picked up on brother Martin’s dying words about being beggars in our hymns, but we sure did get the wandering thing down.

I don’t know how many of you sang this one in Sunday School: but if you did, sing with me: “O be careful little feet where you go, O be careful little feet where you go. For the Father up above is looking down in love, so be careful little feet where you go.”

That was always a fun one, because we also got to tell our little tongues to be careful what they said, our little hands to be careful what they did, and then as we got a little older and mischievous, we started adding a few verses that told other body parts to be careful what they did as well. But the best line was always “For the Father up above is looking down in love. ” Not with lightning bolts. Not poised with a paddle. Not armed with a stern and ready punishment. But looking at us-and-our-wandering-feet in love.

We sing of wandering in hymn 807 if you want to take a look. We won’t sing it this moment, but check out stanza 3 of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing, hymn 807.

Oh, to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be; let that grace now like a fetter bind my wand’ring heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it; prone to leave the God I love.  Here’s my heart, oh take and seal it; seal it for thy courts above.  Robert Robinson (1735-1790)

We are wanderers, this is true.

A few years ago, we sang #732 a bit more often than we do now, but it also tells it like it is. The song Borning Cry puts God’s words in our mouths, reminding us that God is there and will be there throughout every season in our life — even when we wander. Again, we won’t sing it this moment but check out the first stanza:

I was there to hear your borning cry, I’ll be there when you are old.  I rejoiced the day you were baptized to see your life unfold. I was there when you were but a child, with a faith to suit you well;    in a blaze of light you wandered off to find where demons dwell…
© 1985 John Ylvisaker (b.1937)

The closer I get to 50, the more I resonate with that third stanza about the middle ages of your life, but that’s another sermon…

Finally, wandering sheep that we are, we often turn to images of Jesus as our good shepherd, and even enshrine those images in stained glass to remind us that Jesus will leave the flock of 99 well-behaved sheep to go and bring back the wandering little critter who thought it had a better idea. And so we sing, in hymn 502,of this shepherd of wandering sheep. We won’t sing this one either, but check out stanza 3 of #502, The King of Love My Shepherd Is:

Perverse and foolish oft I strayed,     but yet in love he sought me,
and on his shoulder gently laid,     and home, rejoicing, brought me.
Henry Baker (1821-1877)

We are wanderers, this is true.  “Perverse and foolish oft we stray……but yet……but yet…….but yet in love HE sought ME.”

This is the truth of this morning’s tender gospel parable: God is an equal opportunity lover at all times and to all God’s beloved and wandering children.  It has been called the parable of the prodigal son, but it could be argued that a better title would be the parable of the prodigal father. The New Oxford Dictionary defines the adjective prodigal as “spending money or resources freely and recklessly, wastefully extravagant”, and as “having or giving something on a lavish scale”. As reckless and wasteful as the wandering son was, the lavish scale of the father’s compassion and love is beyond imagination.  Not only does he take the wandering son back — the son for whom the father sold off his share of the property, the son who publicly disowned his father, the son who had brought such disgrace upon himself — not only does this prodigal father take the son back, but seeing the son coming home on the distant horizon, “while he was still far off” as St. Luke writes, “his father saw him and was filled with compassion.” And not waiting for the son to reach him, the father runs — doesn’t walk — and puts his arms around him and kissed him.

It is all embrace. As the artwork on the cover of this morning’s bulletin portrays, the wandering one has returned to the enveloping arms of the father, whose reckless and wastefully extravagant love seeks out both of his sons — not just the wandering one who comes home, but also the son who in wandering off himself into self-righteous pity could found no joy in his own obedience nor in his brother’s return nor in his father’s grace.

We are wanderers, this is true.

But with the best robe, with finest ring, with softest sandals, and with fatted calf, God waits with eager longing for our wandering feet to return. No more fear. No more shame. Only a father with a penchant for party-planning whose hands are swift to welcome and whose arms to embrace. Only lavishly reckless, abundantly wasteful, extravagantly prodigal grace for the wandering likes of us.

The table is set. Welcome home.

I want Jesus to walk with me, all along my pilgrim journey,
Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

Our Lenten journey brings us face to face with the age-old question, “Why does evil happen?” and our all-too-human-and-feeble responses to that question.  I want Jesus to walk with me, but will he stay by my side if I screw up?

Some folks report some breaking news to Jesus in today’s Gospel text. Jesus is told that while some devout Galileans were in the temple praying, worshipping and humbly offering their sacrifices, they had been slain – murdered in cold blood right there in the temple - by the order of Pontius Pilate. Good people doing good – struck down, wiped out.

Upon hearing the news, Jesus asks those who have brought him this news a rhetorical question: “Do you think this suffering came upon them because they were ‘worse sinners’ in the eyes of God?”

Before they can offer him any glib answers, Jesus brings up another recent tragedy, this time an architectural disaster. A wall tower had fallen in Siloam, a pool-side district in the southeast corner of Jerusalem, and 18 people were killed by the falling debris.  “Were they worse offenders than all the rest of the residents of Jerusalem?” Jesus asks.

Jesus’ rhetorical question in both cases reflect common human misbeliefs about God: a God of meticulous recordkeeping who measures out degrees of sin and punishes accordingly, a God of retribution who causes really bad things to happen to people who do bad things; a “getting even” God who walks away from us when we wander away from him.

We might ask the same questions today with our own set of current events in our own Jerusalem world:

Were those 600-800 people wiped out in the earthquake in Chili worse sinners than all the other Chileans who survived, that such a thing should happen to them?

Don’t you suppose that loved ones of those who died or any of the wounded are wondering, “What have I done (or what did they do, or what did our family do) to deserve this? Is God angry with me? Is God angry with us?”

Or are we to assume that because that the city of Port au Prince in Haiti was devastated in January by an earthquake killing hundreds of thousands that they were worse sinners than the rest of us in the same hemisphere who have not endured such widespread devastation? That hideously-false prophet, quack TV evangelist, and total crock by the name of Pat Robertson thinks so, having blamed the Haitians for having made a pact with the devil and thus having brought the earthquake upon themselves.

What shall we say to April and Judd Larson, beloved parents of Ben Larson, or to Ben’s wife of 3 years, Renee, of Ben’s instant burial in the rubble of the Haitian orphanage where Ben and Renee were working to spread the good news of Jesus and his love?

What kind of a God do we worship and believe in?  The kind whose good graces may turn away from us in one moment of human failing? Or, whose grace is doled-out whilly-nilly on some but not on others, as reflected in that misguided motto: “There but for the grace of God go I?”  Rubbish.

What a steaming pile of pious theological manure that statement is!

How could God — would God ever — leave anyone in such a spot? I have the grace, and you don’t. You got the grace, but I missed out on it.

Where is God when we need God?

Even Jesus — from the cross — cried out into what seemed like God’s glaring absence, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Yet evenso, take not to whom that prayer is addressed.

As we keep some Lenten silence for the next few moments, let us sit quietly with Jesus and ask our tough questions, be they theologically rhetorical or humanly desperate.

God, where are you in all my struggle, pain and sadness?

Silence

In my trials, Lord, walk with me; when my heart is almost breaking, Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

This past week I sat with a friend whose husband died suddenly of heart failure at the age of 55 on Monday night, at home, while getting ready for bed.  As we planned the funeral service, and read scripture, and reminded ourselves of the promises of God’s Word, my friend asked me through eyes swollen and brimming with tears, “Are you going to say something about how unfair this is? Will you talk how out of order this is? Will you say something about how not right this is?”

Martin Luther once said, “In adversity, the soul thinks God is angry. Therefore words of comfort can never be spoken enough.”

In other words, we immediately “go there” in our heads when we are faced with tragedy, illness, loss, or hardship: Is God angry with me? A death occurs, a catastrophic illness befalls us or a loved one, unemployment persists, a relationship crumbles. Does God think I am deserving of this? Have I done something to force God’s wrathful hand?

Jesus says to that way of thinking in today’s Gospel text, “No, I tell you” and then adds “but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.” In other words, “No — God doesn’t work that way; No — God doesn’t categorize us into “better” sinners and “worse” sinners; No — God doesn’t do the ‘divine retribution thing’ AND YES! Yes — God allows you to make an about face and reorient yourself away from your wayward ways; Yes — God permits U–turns. And Yes — God invites you to return over and over again to God and always–always–always takes you back.

Prior to hearing the Gospel today and every Sunday during this Lenten season we sing words which remind us of how God is with us.  “We are turning, Lord, to hear you; you are merciful and kind — slow to anger, rich in blessing, and with love to us inclined.”  Those words are a paraphrase of a passage from the prophet Joel, words which we heard read on Ash Wednesday. “Return to the Lord your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. Now there are some words that suffering souls long to hear. Now there’s a promise that fearful souls yearn to hear. Words that sorrowing souls crave to have spoken.  God is gracious, yes — merciful, yes — slow to anger, yes — abounds in steadfast love, yes — and relents from punishing, oh yes.  Words of absolution our ears long to hear. Isaiah echoes this promise in today’s first reading: “let them return to the Lord, that God may have mercy on them, and to our God, for God will abundantly pardon.”

As we keep another moment of Lenten silence, let us rest in the promise of the myriad ways in which God in Christ is gracious and merciful with us, slow to anger with us, abounding in steadfast love with us, and relents from punishing … “for as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

Silence

When I’m in trouble, Lord, walk with me; when my head is bowed in sorrow, Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.

A God who relents from punishing.  We’re not just whistling Dixie here. This is no steaming pile of pious theological manure.

Rather, it is the moral of the story Jesus tells about the fig tree that wouldn’t bear fruit and needed a good steaming pile of the real stuff to get it going again.  The owner of the vineyard wanted the fruitless fig tree cut down, but the gardener is gracious and merciful with the tree; the gardener is slow to anger about its lack of fruit; the gardener abounds in steadfast love for what that tree was and what it could be, and so the gardener asks for more time. The gardener who relents from punishing and fertilizes the fig tree with merciful manure is a picture of Jesus, whose ways with us are not our ways with each other, and whose thoughts of us are not the way we think about ourselves or one another.

And so it is that we continue our 40–day Lenten journey to a celebration of new life called Easter. As we journey amid life’s barren and fruitless moments, we yearn for the waters. While we thirst here in this Lenten wilderness, we long for the promised rivers in the desert. While we struggle with the seeming silence of God in our suffering, we crave the bread of his presence.

Today, here, now. In the desert. In the wilderness. In your struggle. With your questions. Amid your doubts. Under the cloud of what feels like God’s absence comes the Word you long to hear:

God is present with, not absent from you.

In Jesus’ death and resurrection, you have God’s Word that you are never alone, never abandoned, never forsaken, never punished. Only accompanied. Jesus walks with you. Weeps with you. Wonders why with you. Never keeps a distance, but goes the distance. With you. With you. With you.