Genesis 37 - 45 (sel.) God’s faithfulness is hidden in the mystery of providence
Joseph, being seventeen years old, was shepherding the flock with his brothers … 3 Now Israel loved Joseph more than any other of his children, because he was the son of his old age; and he had made him a long robe with sleeves.[a] 4 But when his brothers saw that their father loved him more than all his brothers, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably to him.
[a Traditional rendering (compare Gk): a coat of many colors; Meaning of Heb uncertain]
12 Now his brothers went to pasture their father’s flock near Shechem. 13 And Israel said to Joseph, “Are not your brothers pasturing the flock at Shechem? Come, I will send you to them.” He answered, “Here I am.” 14 So he said to him, “Go now, see if it is well with your brothers and with the flock; and bring word back to me.” So he sent him from the valley of Hebron. …. So Joseph went after his brothers, and found them at Dothan. 18 They saw him from a distance, and before he came near to them, they conspired to kill him. 19 They said to one another, “Here comes this dreamer. 20 Come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; then we shall say that a wild animal has devoured him, and we shall see what will become of his dreams.” 21 But when Reuben heard it, he delivered him out of their hands, saying, “Let us not take his life.” 22 Reuben said to them, “Shed no blood; throw him into this pit here in the wilderness, but lay no hand on him”—that he might rescue him out of their hand and restore him to his father. 23 So when Joseph came to his brothers, they stripped him of his robe, the long robe with sleevesb that he wore; 24 and they took him and threw him into a pit. The pit was empty; there was no water in it. 25 Then they sat down to eat; and looking up they saw a caravan of Ishmaelites coming from Gilead, with their camels carrying gum, balm, and resin, on their way to carry it down to Egypt. 26 Then Judah said to his brothers, “What profit is it if we kill our brother and conceal his blood? 27 Come, let us sell him to the Ishmaelites, and not lay our hands on him, for he is our brother, our own flesh.” And his brothers agreed. 28 When some Midianite traders passed by, they drew Joseph up, lifting him out of the pit, and sold him to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver. And they took Joseph to Egypt.
Many years later, Jospeh has found favor in the court of the Pharaoh of Egypt and is governor of the land. In a time of famine his brothers (not knowing it is Joseph) have gone to Egypt seeking help. After much drama they are reunited …
4 Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come closer to me.” And they came closer. He said, “I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. 5 And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. 6 For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. 7 God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. 8 So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt. 9 Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, ‘Thus says your son Joseph, God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not delay. 10 You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children’s children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have.
Romans 8:18-28 God’s faithfulness is ever-present hope in the midst of suffering
18 I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? 25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. 26 Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. 27 And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirits intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. 28 We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.
One of the things I learned as a musician is that one begins by imitating the masters. The following sermon has evolved over the years as such an example. The late Fred Craddock was one of the most acclaimed American preachers of the 20th century. This sermon takes its form and inspiration from one of his sermons.
We don’t study the bible only to look into the witness of the past for truth; we study the bible to look through it into our present with new vision. I hope that is what you hear me trying to do each week. It is not easy. The ways of God are not obvious.
I confess, as well, that I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, especially bad things. I wouldn't begin to suggest that this pandemic is the work of God. I don’t believe that Bible says that either; but the Bible does suggest God has more of a hand in encouraging our lives than we know. Some of you are better readers of your bible and your lives than I. I have heard stories, moving stories of coincidences that you connect to God’s unseen hand: random happenings that led you to this church or to that fateful first date. Just a coincidence? Of course.
It was just a coincidence that a caravan of merchants passed by at the moment Joseph’s brothers were working out how to kill him. Joseph was the favorite son of Jacob. Dad had given him a fancy coat with long sleeves, unsuitable for real work. The coat of many colors is an older translation — sometimes ancient Hebrew itself is ambiguous; the point is that this isn’t a coat for field work. Jacob was that annoying favorite son who passed along every bad thing his brothers did on to dad. He was the informant in the family. After some debate his brothers decided to be done with it and tossed him in a pit; but, at just that moment, a caravan of traders passed by on their way to Egypt. “Let’s at least get some money out of this.” A coincidence? Sure it was.
In the moment, the text doesn’t mention God at all. This is interesting. To this point the Bible has not been embarrassed about God talk. In the beginning God said and it was so. The command to Adam and Eve was unambiguous, “Don’t eat that!” To Abraham and Sarah, “Go!” and they went. The Joseph story is different. It is realistic. We don’t hear God talking to us like that today. If we do it is a whispered hope, easily mistaken for something else. The story of Joseph is one long sustained piece of writing, filled with coincidences, where the word God is rarely spoken. Yet the entire future of ancient promises hang by a thread at every turn.
There are other coincidences in the bible. I heard Fred Craddock preach on this once. He gave the example of Rufus and Alexander’s father, Simon of Cyrene. Simon of Cyrene just happened to be in Jerusalem on a certain Passover. He was crossing along the side of the road at the very moment a Galilean on the way to be executed fell beneath the weight of the cross he was carrying. A solider looked to the side, saw Simon, and pulled him out of the crowd to carry Jesus’ cross to Golgotha. A coincidence? Of course it was.
Stranger things have happened without calling them an act of God. They happen all the time. When I was in seminary, a couple of times a year I would drive from Austin Texas to Kansas City to visit my family. It was a long day’s drive: up the middle of Oklahoma; hang a right at Oklahoma City; over to the lower corner of Missouri; then up to I-70. (On the map the shortest way from Texas to Missouri looks to be through Arkansas — take my word for it, there is no short-cut through Arkansas). At the six hour mark or so, I pulled into McDonalds — a famous McDonalds as far as Oklahomans are concerned — Double arches over the interstate. The largest McDonalds in the world they brag.
As I unbuckled and opened the door, another car pulled to the left beside me. I thought the car looked familiar. The man getting out of the car looked even more familiar. He looked at me in the same odd way I was looking at him. It was my brother! We had pulled into the same McDonalds, at precisely the same moment, into the exact same spot in a gigantic parking lot in the middle of Oklahoma. He was returning from a business trip. Was that a coincidence? Of course it was!
On his next trip my brother stopped there again and bought two souvenir shot glasses and gave one to me for Christmas. Neither of us have played the lottery since. We figure that we spent all our luck on that moment. It was only an unlikely occurrence to me until a far more significant moment several years later. It was an extremely difficult time, filled with feelings of personal failure and regret. I was packing. On the back of a forgotten shelf I discovered one dusty souvenir glass from the largest McDonalds in the world. You see, in that moment, that glass and that event became a symbol of something else: family, an unexpected blessing, the hidden grace of God made visible as surely as I write this today. A coincidence? Sure.
If you are patient with me, for just a moment, I will try to say it differently. It was a coincidence that God intended for the good. Joseph will say something similar after the long sequence of events in Genesis plays out. I paraphrase: “Even though you intended me harm, God intended it for the good in order to preserve a numerous people.” Whoever wrote the final version of the Joseph tale was wiser about life than I am. Some scholars think that the text belongs to a generation of enlightened faithful for whom the God talk of their ancestors was embarrassing. The author answers with a story that is modest in God talk, but pregnant with hope.
Joseph spoke more than he knew. The twelve of them and their wives, will multiply into the people we call Israel, and from their lineage will come Joseph and Mary, and the one we call Jesus, whose cross Simon of Cyrene was enlisted to carry along the way. From that old heavy cross and Christ’s broken life, forgiveness and love will flow into our history and set in motion a cascade of random occurrences that extend to this very day to you reading or hearing these words.
If you spend a little time at it, I am sure that you can point to some random circumstance in your life that might also be seen as grace, the faithfulness of God. It’s about looking at your life differently. Yes, our lives do evolve out of cascades of random events, but these occurrences might also be the work of whatever it is that we gesture at with the word God. I’m not above saying both are true, well let me just say it. Both are true. To the old debate about free will or predestination. I say yes. Serendipities are happy, random coincidences, but they may also be the work of God when they shape our lives toward the good.
I was on vacation, back in my 20’s and my roommates picked out a new apartment without me. I was angry; I wasn’t happy about it, but we moved. At the time I was a fine Presbyterian, but the big Methodist church across the street had good music and it was close. Dr. David Wilson was choir director at that church. He invited me to sing in a community chorus he conducted in Long Beach. Every Tuesday, for years, long before I thought of being a preacher, let alone a Methodist, I rehearsed in the Los Altos lounge. A room we will shortly rededicate as Heritage Hall. Serendipity.
I bet you have a story too. You found Los Altos on the Internet and decided to give us a try. You were going through a difficult season in life and friend invited you. You moved into town and had the wrong time for the first church you tried, and found the next service at Los Altos. One for mother's day: a friend invited you to a dance one night and along the way you met someone with whom you would spend your life with. Now, was that really just a coincidence?
-- Pastor Mark Sturgess
It has been a while since I shared an extended reflection. The last week or so has not been as theologically productive for me as the weeks before. Like you, I am contending with the fatigue and stress of such a dramatic change in day to day life. We owe ourselves the grace to admit this is difficult terrain. It is a dark valley, but God is with us (Psalm 23).
I have shared with a number of people my deep gratitude for the cards and good wishes I received after the passing of my father. In a time of disorientation and disconnection it is small signs of kindness that make grace visible and give us strength. The grace of God -- or whatever it is we gesture at with the word God -- is always here. It is, at times, obscured by that which is not graceful. The social isolation that we are all experiencing is one of the most painful things in life which obscures grace and discourages hope. As Wesley said, there is no religion, but social religion.
We call those experiences which open our soul in the present moment to the presence of God, sacraments. From last Sunday’s scripture: “It was then that their eyes were opened and they recognized him” (Luke 24:31). Two disciples were lost, hopeless, isolated. In a moment of compassion they issued an invitation of kindness, “It is getting late, join us for dinner.” Throughout their long walk the Living One was present but obscured; it was only when they invited a hungry traveler to share a meal with them that their eyes were opened. The dinner became sacrament: an act that made visible the reality of God with us and for us. It changed their lives, as it does ours when we do the same.
I would like to take a moment with you to reflect on a sacramental spiritual dimension of faith that is important to me. I hope it might be of help to you too. The formal Sacraments of gathering together physically for the Lord’s Supper or Baptism are not available to us at the moment. Neither is the simple invitation to share one another’s company in person. This does not mean that God is more distant. By no means. The heart of scripture (in both Judaic and Christian reading) is the witness that God is with us. A sacramental life celebrates the mystery of God’s presence in midst of the common stuff of human life. In fellowship with this Spirit we can be with each other in other ways.
The church tradition we inherit defines sacrament as the outward and visible sign of an invisible and spiritual grace. I hope from what I’ve said so far that you might begin to think about an experience of God in common life that is more commonplace than simply Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. In Baptism and the Lord’s Supper we speak of the “elements” of the sacrament. The elements of our formal Sacraments are among the most basic human needs: water, food, cup. In our rituals, this stuff of common life becomes deeply meaningful, layered with the Christian story in order that our eyes may be opened to the presence of God’s grace in the moment.
This sounds mysterious. It is. It is also common — our lives are enfolded within an astounding surplus of meaning if we slow down enough to notice. The sympathy cards I received are an example. The cards began their lives as paper: a human creation taken from God’s gift of the earth. From paper, either by personal craft or industry they became greeting cards, just as wheat or non-gluten grain is crafted into bread for a feast. As yet these elements are meaningless, other than as a sign of God’s abundant earth and human ingenuity —- gifts that should not be taken for granted. Next, however, they were selected and signed with thoughtful personal intent. Now, this common stuff of the earth is no longer simply paper or greeting card; their substance hasn’t changed, of course, but they have changed, indeed. To the giver and the gifted they are infused with deep meaning. In a simple signature or written note, stamp and the act of mailing they have become something other than they were before. They now sit on my desk as symbols which open my eyes to the presence of kindness, a remarkable gift in times of loneliness. They are sacraments with a small “s”; but deeply powerful ones nonetheless. They make kindness visible.
I’m using the word “symbol” here in a technical sense. When reflecting on human ritual, we speak of symbol as a thing that participates in the reality that it re-presents. I know ... it is a fancy definition. My favorite teaching example of this is an often repeated scene on Friday night in Trader Joe’s.
With some regularity, shopping in the twilight of the work week I have watched a person swing into a store dressed from work to pick out flowers, sometimes wine or chocolate too. It is poignant for me, as I am often lonely, now, at this moment in a week. I have learned to appreciate the serendipity of witnessing it with deep gratitude, for I have been on the receiving and the giving end myself. Those memories make me smile, grateful for the joys I have known. I like to imagine the story that is playing out: are the flowers a first date, an apology, or a simple act of kindness for a friend or dinner host? Will the gift be received?
As the flowers are bought and the gift given, something about them has been truly changed; simple dead plant matter becomes a symbol of much more. They are now elements, symbols of a sacrament that makes love known. They in fact become love made visible, while yet remaining simply flowers. Perhaps some moment decades later after one of the lovers has been lost, a book will be pulled from the shelves and petals pressed and dried from a moment so long ago will fall from its pages. Yes, those flowers are only dead roses, but they are also a reminder of love that is as least as real than the matter itself. In precisely the same way, the body of Christ, the church gathered and the bread and cup that is shared, remain, of course, just a collection of human beings, bread and fruit of the vine; but they, we, have been changed in the ritual nonetheless. Though our formal gathering must be set aside, for a time, I am confident that you have in your homes, simple things, keepsakes, memories of little value to others, but to you they are everything. If you give them thought, they are the outward and visible signs of extraordinary blessing. My father began many of his table prayers with a quote from scripture, “O God, source of every good and perfect gift, we give you thanks.”
I encourage you in the days ahead, when you are feeling lost and alone to consider your keepsakes and symbols of your memory as sacraments of the God of every blessing who is, even now, closer to you than your own breath. And better yet you, yourself, through an encouraging email, or a simple phone call or note, can become a sacrament of God’s presence for someone else.
Our faith in this pandemic is a time for encouragement and nothing else. It is not the time for suggestion or criticism; we often think we are helping when we communicate to those we love or work with what we think they should be doing. It is rarely if ever true. Grace is communicated through acts of kindness and encouragement — then silence, not suggestion. It is remarkable, when we do that, that which we thought was important is resolved or rendered meaningless along the way. Graceful people of Christ’s perfect love have taught me this. I am still learning the discipline myself.
So, friends, be at peace. The Lord is near. Consider well the gifts or symbols of God’s blessing you have around you, and in whatever way you can, extend an encouraging word to one another. For it is said they will know we are Christians by our love. We are the sacrament. You are the symbol. Be a blessing. It is for this purpose the church was made. Thank you, so very much, for the gift of serving you.
— Peace, Pastor Mark
Jesus Appears to the Disciples
(Lk 24:36–43; 1 Cor 15:5)
19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the authorities , Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”
Jesus and Thomas
24 But Thomas (who was called the Twinc), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” 26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”
The Purpose of This Book
30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may come to believed that Jesus is the Messiah,e the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.
 in the text: Jews; see discussion below.
c Gk Didymus
d Other ancient authorities read may continue to believe
e Or the Christ
The Holy Bible: New Revised Standard Version (Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1989), Jn 20:19–31.
Thoughts on John 20:19-31
Rather than a sermon tomorrow and the next few Sundays, I will offer several brief reflections on the scripture for the day (as assigned in the Revised Common Lectionary). The comments are intended to generate faithful questions and convåersation. In our Sunday worship group via Zoom, I will be sharing these thoughts and we will discuss them together. Whether or not you join the conversation on Sunday, they should prove helpful in your own reading and study at home.
When I began my career, I was bit of a purist with respect to reading scripture in worship. Even today, I cringe when I hear United Methodist clergy read The Message by Eugene Peterson from the place of preaching. The Message isn’t Scripture; it is a paraphrase of Scripture — a good one — but an interpretation at some distance from the text itself. An earlier example, that I grew up with, was The Living Bible which is also a freely rendered paraphrase (Note, when pressed, this opens another can of worms, as every translation, even a word for word one, is an interpretation).
[Aside: there are commonly two types of translations properly read in worship — these are also typically done by a community of scholars working toward consensus, not an individual (though remarkably good translations are available by individual scholars). These are ‘word for word’ translations from the best texts available in the original languages — KJV, RSV, NRSV — and ‘thought for thought’ — NIV, Good News, The New Living Bible. Single author paraphrases are freely adapted from translations of the original languages. Modern mainstream translations, in particular the NRSV, take care to use gender inclusive language when that is appropriate. For example: “brothers and sisters in Christ,” instead of only “brothers.” Translations from the evangelical Christian tradition (namely the NIV, ESV, and others) take pains to keep traditional Christian readings where the original Hebrew may be ambiguous or carry multiple meanings.
In the course of my career, I have become aware how public reading of the Bible, when done from positions of authority, can do and has done immense harm. In my opinion, texts that could be read as antisemitic, derogatory, or any text that could be taken as advocating violence should not be read in public worship. Criticisms of “Jews,” Pharisees and other groups in the New Testament, are rightly turned inward toward our own faith practices. As one of my teachers said, “You will read the NT rightly, if wherever you see the word Pharisee, insert Presbyterian!” (he was speaking to graduating Presbyterians). We must remember that nearly every follower of Jesus we meet in the NT including its first hearers were members of Judaism. And of course, Jesus was Jewish!
The Gospel of John is a human text. All writing is inevitably shaped — biased — by the limitations, world view, hurts and hopes of its authors. No text is innocent. Most modern scholars agree that at least part of the community to whom this gospel is addressed, including its author(s), had experienced a schism with their fellow jews over their beliefs about Jesus and had been banned from their local synagogue. This wound is fresh in the text at its writing and their resentment is bitter. Should we take this as gospel? No. I believe that we must hold even the text of the bible to account for the gospel of Jesus Christ as our knowledge of the human condition advances. John Wesley would have never criticized or altered the text of Scripture; he would, however, have only consented to an interpretation of it that built up the double love of God and every creature that has breath (which he declared was the intention, ‘scope and tenor’ of the whole).
What questions does this raise for you about scripture, bible translations, or reading the Bible in public worship?
On antisemitism in the New Testament and the Revised Common Lectionary:
The deep tradition of the church — guided by the 4th gospel especially — understands the Word of God to be a living reality, not the dead letter on the page. Jesus Christ of Scripture is the Word made flesh (see John 1).
From the United Methodist Book of Worship: “Our worship in both its diversity and its unity is an encounter with the living God through the risen Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit.”
What does this statement about worship mean to you? In today’s text, how are the disciples encountering the Living Word of God? What is the result? Where or who is the living Word of God in our world today? How do we meet it? How do we know we have met the Word of God and not our own happy feelings or opinions?
Matthew 27:62 The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, [faith leaders] gathered before Pilate 63 and said, “Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, ‘After three days I will rise again.’ 64 Therefore command the tomb to be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, ‘He has been raised from the dead,’ and the last deception would be worse than the first.” 65 Pilate said to them, “You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can.” 66 So they went with the guard and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone.
28 After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. 2 And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. 3 His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. 4 For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. 5 But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. 6 He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. 7 Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.” 8 So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. 9 Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. 10 Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”
I have a secret. Easter annoys me a little. I’m not a fan of the early morning. I don’t like surprises (okay, maybe that’s not a secret). So we have Easter. Big Surprise. At Dawn. It’s a problem.
I read today before what is typical for Easter, because I like that Holy Saturday scene in Matthew. By now, Pilate is tired of this whole business. Some folks come to him worried that Jesus hasn’t been buried well enough. Pilate snaps: “Why don’t you go check. You have guards. Make the tomb as secure as you can.”
It may be that this moment in Matthew is a foil for a kind of locked down believing. You see, it is faith leaders who are really worried about the outcome of Jesus’ story. It is people like me who want Pilate to be sure that there is no surprise in the morning. Frankly, I do like my world to be controllable and predictable. Who doesn’t? That’s why preaching Easter during a pandemic is tricky: we are looking to faith to center ourselves and give us a sense of security and purpose. I am there with you today; let us make it as secure as we can!
In one my favorite Easter sermons, however, Frederick Buechner accuses preachers and pew sitters all over the world of doing just that: securing ourselves against the power of a miracle. “Oh, the resurrection is really just a spiritual metaphor, a metaphor for saying that Jesus’ life lives on in us.” “The resurrection is a symbol of the renewal of life like, butterflies emerging from their cocoons, tulips blooming after a long winter.” All nice. It will preach — I’ve done it myself a time or two. The trouble is that it has nothing whatsoever to do with what the bible says about Resurrection.
The bible doesn’t pretend that Easter is explainable or even believable. There is no metaphor for it. No one saw it happen. Jesus was dead. Three days in a tomb dead. The disciples themselves were are as good as dead; wandering on their own, they won’t last for long. But three days later, on Sunday morning a surprise, the breaking dawn of an impossible possibility. The tomb is empty.
In the days ahead the disciples will meet their Risen Lord; it will change their lives and ours forever. You are reading or hearing this message because of what happened to them so long age. There is an unbroken line from their experience and to you today. All we are told in Scripture is that it is true. And now you have a choice to make on his great gettin’ up morning: put your trust in Easter, or go make your world as comfortable and secure as you can. It is probably best to put off letting Easter loose until after this lockdown is over.
Easter is beyond surprising; it is ludicrous. I am not going to pretend otherwise. I certainly don’t want you to be comfortable with the idea of Resurrection. To accept it would mean that your world is not what you have been led to believe. An empty tomb at the center of our being would mean that ultimately reality is beyond our control and beyond our power to fully comprehend. At the center is mystery and eternal life.
Worse yet, trusting Easter would require you to rethink your life.To join your story to the resurrection of a poor, shamed Rabbi who ate with outcasts and hung from a cross as a loser among thieves, would mean that power, privilege and success, have nothing whatsoever to do with life, Living with a capital L. Secure your life against Easter as best you can. Where’s the duct tape? I want be sure that tomb is sealed up tightly.
And we haven’t yet faced the biggest obstacle to resurrection faith. In order to make it to Easter we must look death squarely in the eye. The power of death over this world, today, is overwhelmingly persuasive: virus, disease, hatred, prejudice, suffering, injustice. There are some tulips that will never bloom, and all it takes are the tears of a single suffering child to devastate hope. The question before us is will we let that fear defeat us.
Shortly before Easter in 2010, an Earthquake in Haiti killed over 233,000 people. During the lightless and terrifying night after the quake, alongside cries of help, there were other voices. Six Methodist aid workers were trapped beneath the rubble. With each breath a struggle, someone began to sing. I’ve got peace like a river. I’ve got peace like a river. And like good Methodists, others joined. I’ve got peace like a river in my soul. I’ve got joy like a fountain ... A tomb became a church. Life was the victor, at least for a moment. When I am afraid, I sing that song.
Friends, choose life. Life eternal with a capital L. This is the core of what I have come to believe: death may be the loudest voice in our world, but it is not the most defiant, and it never, ever the last word. The last Word is God’s. On Good Friday we remember that old story of love’s defeat by human hands. It is repeated, in kind, every day; but, today we hear something surprising. Though as delicate as gossamer and as vulnerable as a child’s tears, God’s love for us is persistent, unthinkable. There is no power that can defeat it. Whatever else I may or may not believe, I firmly trust that there is nothing, nothing in life and or in death or in all creation that can separate you from love of God, in Christ Jesus our Lord. That is enough. It is enough to give me courage. It is more than enough to face this day.
Christ is Risen. Alleluia. There is something we know that the powers of the hatred and death do not. Though painfully vulnerable — to our eyes, defeated — the love of God is raising creation in the midst of us. In every moment calling humanity to life … to love Eternal. I can’t explain it. I can’t give you the evidence. Like the existence of black holes in the universe, or an empty tomb at center of our faith, all I can do is point to the places in the world where I behold it, though I do not understand.
Just a few hours after the devastation of the 2010 earthquake, in the darkness of the first powerless night, Haitian Christians gathered in the streets and began to sing. This year, I hear that song in their voices, from Italians reaching out with music to support one another across balconies of isolation; in locked down spirits cheering doctors, nurses and essential workers as their shifts change. In the midst of darkness, a song sung since the first morning of world is heard: Alleluia! alleluia! For some reporters it was unbelievable. In that Haitian night, Anderson Cooper was incredulous: how could they sing and dance at a time like that. Unbelievable, unless …
Unless there is a surprise on Easter morning. The Spirit of God, present in us — vulnerable and delicate to be sure — will not be silenced. In such moments the veil between heaven and earth is lifted, and the one who does not will suffering and evil is revealed, standing defiantly in the midst of it to save us. Light shines in the darkness and the darkness will never, ever overcome it. Christ is risen. Alleluia! Alleluia!
Each of one us will die one day, that is not in question. There may be a corner of our hearts dead already, just waiting for someone or something to reach in and call it to life. This can happen no matter how old your, no matter how spent you feel. Open your hearts to the impossible possibility that there is power in the world that can accomplish in you far more than you can ask or imagine. The question before us today is have we lived? Let us make our lives count for the good.
As we spend these weeks in social isolation, we have some time to reflect on that question. I have been. We are called to walk in the morning light of God’s limitless compassion for the world. On this great gettin’ up morning. You have a choice to make. Make your life as secure as can; or you can throw your soul, your life, your all, into the triumphant dawn of God’s undefeatable love for the world. I have my own doubts to be sure, but in the midst of them, as best I can, I have decided to choose life. Christ is risen. Alleluia. Alleluia. Amen.
-- Pastor Mark Sturgess
I do not pretend today to offer you something adequate to the church’s celebration of Good Friday, Holy Week or Easter. Those worship services are among the most rich and personally rewarding for me on the Christian calendar. We are — or at least I am — going to use the Christian freedom God has given us, at great cost in Christ, and forgive ourselves for that. On this Good Friday we punt, stay safely at home or socially distant, as we pray for those who labor and suffer.
Christian worship is a community act, not a performance or consumer product. I recall complaining to one of my seminary professors that our chapel worship was boring. He, rightly replied, “Mark, worship is not about you.” It’s center isn’t what I get out of it, but rather, what, together, we bring before God. At the foot of the cross, Christ created a new community of compassion for the world which later will be called the church. Perhaps this is a good place to begin today: at least we can say this, today we are all living in the shadow of a cross of immense human suffering.
This Good Friday let us pray: Lord, we pray for those who keep us fed and governed; for those who risk their lives to care for the sick and keep us safe; for those who mourn the dead; for all of us who are afraid; for those who labor through this long night. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.
John 19:25 Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 26 When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” 27 Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. 28 After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” 29 A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. 30 When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
This is a remarkable, human moment recorded in John. Here, Jesus gives the care of his mother over to his most beloved friend and disciple. In his last breath, Jesus creates the new community of Christ’s family: he gives his spirit. Like so many double meanings in this text, this breath is both, literally, Jesus' last breath and the giving of the Holy Spirit: the advocate promised, the one who brings comfort and speaks through the words of Scripture: “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” Here in John’s gospel, within the shadow of great human suffering is pentecost, the church is born, empowered to be an intimate family of God’s love for the world ... for God so loved the world.
It is becoming clearer to me each day, that we are witnessing a transformative moment in our culture and church, church local and church global. Los Altos UMC has in some sense been a community divided by memory. A part of the church remembers legendary pastors and music making and they have also experienced deep institutional and personal trauma; another segment of the church is new; without this memory, they have a different experience of vitality. Much of my challenge in the last four years has been learning to lead this complex entity. It occurs to me that this pandemic is the end of the church we knew. As we begin to gather again, in whatever ways that looks like, we will be a new community, a community united by the common trauma of this pandemic of human suffering. Perhaps, now have an opportunity to become something new together, renewed by the Spirit of God’s great compassion for the world.
On the cross Jesus is thirsty. The world reborn will be one thirsty for the compassion that God has given us to offer. For the first time, in my memory, we will be a planet united by a common trauma that all humanity shares. With Gods help, we will also will be a church reborn in God’s love for the world. Jesus bowed his head, looked at us, and gave. Lord, give us the Spirit that is yours.
On this Good Friday let us pray: O Lord we thank you for the gift of your Spirit, we thank you for one another, for the blessing of being your church. May we in the shadow of human suffering, learn together to be a healing people for the world’s great need. Lord, remember us, when you come into your Kingdom. Amen.
-- Pastor Mark Sturgess
Today is the end of my rope in this gospel: the raising of Lazarus ... four days rotting in the tomb Lazarus. I’m fond of the King James Version here. “Take ye, away the stone!” Martha replies, “But Lord, he stinketh.” “Now you will see the glory of God. Lazarus, come forth!” He does, grave clothes and all. Mummy style. “Unbind him and let him go.” Lazarus is free and I am lost. It is not a miracle that I comprehend. I can’t imagine being at table with Lazarus for the rest of this gospel: risen from the dead, four days decomposed. I also can’t get over the fact that Jesus could have stopped this whole charade before it got started.
Everyone in this text knows that Jesus could have saved Lazarus while he was sick. After all, Jesus healed a random beggar, blind from birth. Mary and Martha send for Jesus. Jesus replies, “No, it is for the glory of God.” Jesus returns to his meal. “Lazarus is dead.” “Now let’s go.” This passage doesn’t help me to believe. It makes me angry. This isn’t glory; it is a journey into darkness. Today many are sick. Many have died and there is much darkness that threatens us all.
Jesus loved his friend Lazarus the texts says. Mary and Martha love their brother. I have always imagined Mary and Martha angry confronting Jesus. Anger is a part of grief. Martha wants to have a little talk with her friend before he gets to the funeral home. Mary repeats the same words later: “Lord if you had been here, my brother, would not have died.” Those are the sort of words uttered in the heat of emotion that you later wish you could take back.
I want to pause here, for a moment, and point out an important fact about love. It is not possible to love without suffering, at least on this side of the last day. To love someone means, in part, to be subject to their suffering. It means to open our hearts to the sinking of their hearts. It means to sit beside them when they weep. And yes, sometimes it means to walk away to protect ourselves: our self whom we are also called to love as a sacred gift of God. One can choose not to love, I suppose; but if God is love, as this gospel and the whole of the Bible seem to imply, then God is not omnipotent, God is vulnerable, vulnerable to us.
Jesus arrives and sees everyone weeping. It is the moment when many of us cry at a funeral or visitation. I have seen it many times. A family member greets a friend just arriving as she enters to the door. The narrow viewing room is lined with chairs; a few of them now are filled and gentle music is playing in the background; the lilies and roses and air-conditioning not quite mask the sharp chemical smell of embalming. It is such a long walk from that door to the casket. “Lord, come and see.” Jesus wept.
It is interesting to me, that this verse, lies at the very center of this long chapter. The revelation of the divine presence in Jesus occurs before this verse, nearer to the beginning. This verse now sits within it, like a wounded lamb embedded in the throne of God. We have been assured, much more directly than in the other gospels that Jesus is the presence of God with us. Almost literally in John, Jesus is Easter walking around the open pages of Scripture. “I am the resurrection and I am life. Those who believe in me, even though they die will live, and everyone who lives and believe in me will never die.”
I find it to be an odd twist in this story, that after we place our trust in Jesus, we are led back into darkness. We would prefer faith that dwells in the light. A faith that is Easter only. Largely this has been the faith of the church in Christian history, a faith in the church triumphant. It is not the faith of the Bible, Old Testament or New. In both testaments God suffers because God chooses to love ... and love is vulnerable. When the church has been in a position of power, our God has been unmoving and omnipotent, and our love masquerades as certainty, victory, and control.
Douglas John Hall has said: “As it has turns out, a faith that is accessible only in the night is not the religion that the world wants. But if darkness is indeed humanity's real situation, then a religion that leads us away from it into realms of light is nothing but a deception. The only light worth having is light that illuminates the darkness.” The church that follows its God is a church that lives in solidarity with the suffering of the world. God choses not to be God without the cross. Jesus wept.
Following this God is not easy. I’m not sure I want to. My experience in these texts these last four weeks is of being relentlessly pursued by Jesus, God’s light-giving Word. Wherever you are on your journey in faith, know that God is after you, relentlessly pursuing you, calling you to new life, whether you want it or not. Francis Thompson, a 19th century poet, describes the experience of being chased by God in his poem, The Hound of Heaven: “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the midst of tears I hid from Him.” Lazarus has found a way to escape; he is sealed behind the stone cold door of a tomb.
If you have been following John closely, we have been hunted by the living God on every page. Nicodemus hid in the shadows; he was almost a believer, but afraid of what the world might think of him. Jesus called him to be born from above, to step into the light of life. The Samaritan woman at the well, to avoid the ridicule of her peers sought water at a time of day when she knew she could be alone; Jesus met her and gave her the eternal water of God’s acceptance. The blind beggar was minding his own business, not asking to be healed or for the consequences; Jesus made him whole.
Now. Lazarus. Lazarus, finally finds an escape from the relentless pursuit of God. He’s dead, four days in the grave. Dead to Life. Hiding from the hurt of the world, hiding from the demands of loving. Whatever else it may be. This is spiritual death. Locked away from God. All of us have been there. Friends, not even the grave itself can stop Jesus from finding you. This is the promise of the gospel. Come out of your tomb and live. The Christ is that force in the world before whom you are called to life in all it’s fullness. On the last day surely, but just as surely today. Now. Awake your souls! Dead bones live! Be light for the world!
Each of us will die one day. And I know in the face of this pandemic that is our deepest fear. But that’s not the point of today’s text for me: the question before me today is have I lived? Have we made our lives count for the good? New every morning is your love, great God of light. Jesus is that presence in the world before whom we are called to life, life in service to God’s steadfast loving of the world. Surrender to it. Lazarus, come forth!
Whoever you are, wherever you are on your journey in faith today, no matter what you have done, no matter what you have left undone, no matter what private burden you carry. Jesus is here, calling you to come out of that tomb of self loathing to new life. When I was young, it bothered me that Lazarus for the rest of this gospel would live with the signs of his death on his hands, his feet. Then, Jesus called me out of my death to new life. At 43, I came out as a fully alive human being well past the age our glamorous culture values. When I did, my friends can tell you, I looked like a wasted away man. Skin and bones. On the other side of this pandemic the church will look different; our world will be forever changed. My well washed hands already look like 50 year old sandpaper. Friends, don’t worry about your scars, your imperfections, your age. For heaven’s sake, Lazarus was four days decomposed. Can these bones live? In the presence of a Lord like this who can keep them in the grave!
-- Pastor Mark
A Man Born Blind Receives Sight (John 9:1-39)
9 As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” 3 Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. 4 We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” 6 When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, 7 saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. 8 The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” 9 Some were saying, “It is he.” Others were saying, “No, but it is someone like him.” He kept saying, “I am the man.” 10 But they kept asking him, “Then how were your eyes opened?” 11 He answered, “The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, ‘Go to Siloam and wash.’ Then I went and washed and received my sight.” 12 They said to him, “Where is he?” He said, “I do not know.”
13 They brought to the Pharisees the man who had formerly been blind. 14 Now it was a sabbath day when Jesus made the mud and opened his eyes. 15 Then the Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.” 16 Some of the Pharisees said, “This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath.” But others said, “How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?” And they were divided. 17 So they said again to the blind man, “What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened.” He said, “He is a prophet.”
18 The [leaders] did not believe that he had been blind and had received his sight until they called the parents of the man who had received his sight 19 and asked them, “Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?” 20 His parents answered, “We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; 21 but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself.” 22 His parents said this because they were afraid … for the [leaders] had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of their [community]. 23 Therefore his parents said, “He is of age; ask him.”
24 So for the second time they called the man who had been blind, and they said to him, “Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner.” 25 He answered, “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” 26 They said to him, “What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?” 27 He answered them, “I have told you already, and you would not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?” 28 Then they reviled him, saying, “You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. 29 We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from.” 30 The man answered, “Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. 31 We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. 32 Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. 33 If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” 34 They answered him, “You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us?” And they drove him out.
35 Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” 36 He answered, “And who is he, sir?f Tell me, so that I may believe in him.” 37 Jesus said to him, “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he.” 38 He said, “Lord, I believe.” And he worshiped him. 39 Jesus said, “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.”
Now I See
It is safe to say Southern California is “on brand” for an apocalyptic weekend. For once, the world can’t blame California. It is not only our earthquake, fire, or flood; we are all in this together. My hope is that we will emerge from the novel coronavirus crises a stronger humanity, more cooperative and compassionate with one another. Our base instinct is to assign blame and refuse to see.
In my last church, the morning after the devastating earthquake off the coast of Japan, I was awakened by a phone call from my sister (in Missouri) at 6:30 AM. She asked if I was in tsunami danger. I assured her, miles from the coast, that I was not. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep. I could not, of course, so I checked the news. At 8:30 AM a two meter swell was expected in Redondo; naturally, I pulled on some warm clothes and went to watch ... with many others as it turns out.
There were several hundred people gathered along the strand; news helicopters circling overhead. It was a scene. The young woman standing close by had a similar phone call with her mother from Florida. After a bit of small talk she said, “Yeah, mom said the quake was because of the gays.” We laughed, awkwardly. I wasn’t clear about the logic; but, fortunately, I had a newspaper to defend myself. I turned to it, quickly, to read the morning news. The tsunami never appeared and I certainly didn’t mention that I was the pastor of that big church up the hill. Few people in the world at that moment knew the deeper irony of the conversation. I had just come to the hard fought conclusion that I was gay from birth.
The fourth gospel enjoys irony. Today’s passage begins in the reality of physical blindness and by end we understand that we are actually speaking of religion and a new way of seeing. This one thing I know, once I was blind, now I see.
Our text today begins with a search for an explanation to a remarkable thing. Jesus brings a man born blind to sight. There is a problem. Our ancestors believed that blindness was blamed on sin. By that logic, this man was conceived a sinner because he was blind; not only that, Jesus cured the man on the Sabbath. It is not an uncommon parallel with some Christians today: we hate the sin, love the sinner. Jesus was a sinner. He broke sabbath law to heal the beggar on the day of rest. It was an act of compassion outside the box. A sinner was healed by a sinner. It didn’t fit their understanding of the world. It never occurred to them that they could be wrong. Instead of responding in religious awe and genuine humility at such a fact we ridicule and humiliate him.
Human beings search for explanations to things. In my way of looking at the world, that is what science is for. It is one of our most astonishing gifts: intellectual curiosity, to be able to seek, predict, explore and understand. I remember as a kid watching, awestruck, Carl Sagan’s science series “Cosmos.” The proper religious response to our discoveries about the universe is awe. Sagan once said that human beings are the universe’s way to think about itself. I like that. It fills me with wonder.
Unfortunately, our human search for explanation often morphs into the quest for certainty, power and control. When those temptations become confused with religion, faith becomes at best a dead end, at worst, deadly. When something happens outside our world view, instead of thinking to revise our faith, folks become unhinged. We blame our plight on the gays, the jews, the outsiders, immigrants, or the poor in our midst. The best scientists work to revise their theories in the face of overwhelming facts. Faithful Christians seek God with awe and humility grounded in wonderment for the sanctity of life. We celebrate with gratitude the vast surplus of meaning given in our cosmos (the Greek word translated world, as in “God so loved the world.”).
In today’s text, Jesus is calling the religious to witness a reality we should see: that the God who walks the earth is a God who loves the world, even this blind beggar, a supposed sinner from birth, even me. I altered the translation of the word “the Jews” in today’s text, because of the horrific history of “Christian” bigots using John’s text as an excuse to hate. It is easy to understand why so many see religion as the problem. It can be. And I hope you understand, and forgive me, for burying my head in the paper that morning instead of standing up for myself and my faith. No longer. For there is one thing I know, once I was blind, now see!
In today’s text, the blind beggar doesn’t have a choice. Jesus just walks by and heals him and there is nowhere to hide. His new life is obvious to everyone. He was minding his own business reading the Braille edition of the Jerusalem times. Jesus mutters something about “I am the light of the world,” rubs mud in his eye, and wham, new life, hope. Poor guy, he didn’t ask for the healing, or for the consequences; he has nowhere to hide. He is put on trial. He is a violation of the Book of Discipline. His mere existence is a prophetic word. He is called in. His parents are called in. He is called in again. Finally, the newly made witness to grace is driven out for his faith. I can’t explain it. There is only one thing I know: once I was blind, now I see.
Faith is testimony to the astonishing reality of the love of God for the wold, unexplainable, unearned. Jesus and the healed, these seeing sinners should not exist, but they do. In fact, they aren’t sinners at all: they are light. We are called to be light. The pool where the man was healed is called “sent.” Here I am, Lord. Send me. We are sent to be love by the love which funds the cosmos. Wherever you began, we are now in a text about seeing God, honoring one another, humbled in the face of mystery. I’ll paraphrase Jesus’ words to make the matter clear: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who cannot see may see, and those who think they see, become blind.”
If you spend some time thinking back over the course of your life, I’m confident that you can find at least one moment of underserved, unearned, unexplained kindness, forgiveness, love in which you were healed in body or mind. If not, may your time in this text this morning be that moment for you. Jesus is here, slapping mud in your eyes too.
My friend Jim was a second career seminary student, a former security guard in Dallas, Texas. As he tells the story he was a hater: homosexuals, long-haired punks, anyone different from his peers, then one day the Lord walked by him and healed him. Jim went to seminary. I met him in the seminary choir. He’d spent quite bit of time running security at arena rock concerts. He couldn’t hear very well or match a pitch to save his life, but he wanted to sing and he wanted to preach. So I sang into his one good ear and he taught me see. He preached with his life.
He would enter into campus debates that I didn’t have the courage to; he defended gays, folks others thought the bible condemned — including yoga teachers. He had a heart as big and wide as his Texas shoulders. I asked him for an explanation. He told me he had gone to an Emmaus walk: an intentionally shaped retreat that I had dismissed as manipulative religion. Jim met God there; Jesus put mud in his eye there and taught him to see. He didn’t have much in the way of explanation, and I was hard pressed to figure it out. All he had was this one thing: “Once I was blind, now I see!”
This is my suggestion: take your religion, take your faith like Jim, like Jesus, like the once blind beggar — as Luther once said we are all beggars at God’s table of grace. Use your life to bear witness to the unexpected and unexplainable reality of the love of God for the world. It may be that we are the way the universe thinks about itself, but I also believe that we are sent to be the way the universe loves itself. It is up to you. You can bury your noses in your morning papers, iPads, and nooks, or we can shout and protest and stand together for what we believe in the light of day. Do what you want, but I can no longer hide. For there is one thing, only one thing I know for: once I was blind, now I see. Oh Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me! And to God alone be the glory, now and forever. Amen.
First read: John 4:1-30
There was a phone call. The young girl’s voice on the other end of the line said, “This is Mary, is John home?” John was in second grade. It was the first call she had taken for him from a girl; curious, she stayed on the line — silently. “John, you have a phone call!” He picked up the phone upstairs, ‘Hello?’”
Mary had been in his class, but had recently moved to another town. His was one of the few names she remembered. She had asked her parents to look up the number. Their conversation was awkward and halting, but then she made the comment that went to the heart of the matter. She said, “‘Nobody knows me anymore.’”
John didn’t know what to say. He quickly brushed her off and hung up the phone. She was calling to hear a familiar voice – someone she knew and whom she believed knew her. He was just seven years old. His mother was devastated. She knew what that little girl needed, but couldn’t say a word. (1)
No one knows me anymore. We have all been there; sometimes we’ve spent whole periods of our life there. A new school, a new job, a new city. We may be at a party and the only person we know is the host. Then there are the more painful crises in life: a trauma, a death, or a shameful secret we feel we must keep. Even those closest to us don’t know who we are. Today we are all contending with fear. It is okay to admit you are afraid. We are afraid. That admission, in the open, can draw us together.
As much as we long to be known, for a knowing that makes us whole, we spend a good part of the energy of our lives hiding, hiding the most personal part of ourselves from others. For good reason: it can be an unforgiving world, a world constantly trying to make us into someone else. You can usually find the current vision of who that is by watching television commercials, scrolling though instagram, or carefully observing high school cafeterias. Where I grew up that was pretty well defined: athletic, popular, pretty as the movies define pretty, or friends of any of the above. We gather as human beings often to the exclusion of “others.”
It is about noon, and a Samaritan woman has arrived to draw water. The fact that she is here alone tells us something. She is an outsider. The event of drawing the day’s water in the cool of the morning is a social activity for women in the ancient world. She comes at time when she is sure to be alone. For me, the bucket she brings has become a symbol of some quiet burden she carries — guilt, rejection, grief, shame — whatever it is that makes her feel different or excluded.
When I was first coming to myself as a gay man, I drove every Monday an hour to a Starbucks in West Hollywood, mid-morning, when most people were at work and I was assured to meet no one who knew me. The first two times I just circled the block and drove the hour home. That was enough. The third week I finally had the courage to enter a coffee shop — patronized by a gay male majority — to sit and read. Eventually I would feel more at home there than at home. My bucket, the burden I carried, was fear of being truly known. What is it for you? [Fear of the unknown might do well enough for today.]
Jesus is here, sitting by the well, thirsty and without a bucket. The disciples have gone for food. Jesus does the unthinkable for a male teacher in the ancient world: he speaks to her directly in a public place. He asks for a drink. I think she is a strong woman … and bitter. She speaks frankly. Centuries of hatred between Samaritans and Jews stand between them. “How is it that you, a Jew, asks a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” It is a question with an edge.
“If you knew who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” It is an unusual answer; seemingly not an answer to the question asked. “If you knew me, you would have asked and I would have given you living water.” This will be a conversation about knowing.
In ancient Greek “Living water” is fresh running water, a step up from the kind she expects to draw from this well. It is a strange offer from someone without bucket. She tells him so. Jesus’ response is even more intriguing. “Those who drink the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
Friends, what is it that you thirst for? Deep in your soul. What burden do you carry that you would like to be rid of, or at least share with someone so that you do not feel alone. It is hard to tell exactly what she hears in these strange words, but it is something she needs. “Sir, give me this water,” she pleads, “so that I will never be thirsty … or to keep having to come here.”
A step closer. Jesus says, “Go, call your husband, and come back.” She has had five and currently lives with another. We don’t know the circumstances. We may now understand why she is here alone. She is avoiding the judgment of her peers. That is how centuries of male interpreters have judged her. Patriarchal men of influence that stood in pulpits as I do. In fact she could be trapped. According to custom when a brother died, the next eldest was to marry his spouse. Perhaps she has existed in a life strung with tragedy and the last man has finally refused her. Perhaps this is her shame. We do not know. Before you judge her too, there is no condemnation from Jesus, only the refusal to turn from her.
“I have no husband.” Jesus lays open the story of her life. He knows her. Her whole self, her authentic self, not the mask she wears to pacify the world around her. Friends this is the gift: the living water of God’s life giving acceptance. It is an awkward moment for her; she changes the subject. “I know that the Messiah is coming,” she says. “I am,” Jesus replies, “the one who is speaking to you.” “I am” That is what God answered, when a stuttering shepherd encountered a burning bush. Tell them: “I am.”
The gift of God knows us just as we are, knows you just as you are and doesn’t turn away. For the first time in her life, this woman is touched by Grace. She is born again, born from above. As are each of us, each time we encounter such a moment in our lives. Whether it be by religion, or through the simple kindness of a friend; whether we have called that grace by the name Jesus or not. If you have not known this gift before, let today be that day. Here, now, quench your thirst. In this church find home.
Paul Tillich, one of the great theologians of the last century, wrote this. "Grace strikes us when … we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life. It strikes us when, year after year, the longed-for perfection of life does not appear …. Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks our darkness, and it is as though a voice were crying: “You are accepted.”(2)
After such an experience we may not be better than before and you may not believe more than before, but everything is changed. Nicodemus, the faithful, stayed in the darkness, fearing to be known. The Samaritan woman accepts God’s gift: she lays her bucket aside and walks into the glorious light of a new life. Hear me. Jesus is here, patiently waiting for you. Won’t you accept him today. You are beloved!
I have felt the searing light of day myself. I have carried a burden and in the face of Jesus quenched my thirst from the well of waters of life. Oh, it is well with my soul! Dare to be known just as you are. No matter who you are, no matter what you have done, no matter how far short you fall from that person the world would like you to be, drink from this well and you will be changed. You may not look any different, you will still mistakes, but you will be free. And to God alone will be the glory, now and forever. Amen.
(1) Thomas K. Watson, adapted from the author’s personal anecdote in “As We Are Known,” The Clergy Journal, February 2005.
(2) Paul Tillich, “You are Accepted,” in A Chorus of Witnesses (ed. Thomas G. Long and Cornelius Plantinga; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 99-100. Paraphrased for context.
I See A New Church
Rev. Mark F. Sturgess, June 2019
The following is the text of my brief part in the LGBTQ led worship service at the 2019 session of the California-Pacific Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. I was grateful to be there. Many others could have offered testimony longer fought and much more deserving to be heard than mine.
The humor in the moment was intended to disarm fear, namely mine. There was, however, strong intentionality to the sermon. My concern is that wesleyans will continue to argue polity when the primary need is to return to the Bible with renewed theological vision and rigor. Without this, I fear, our conferencing is futile.
“Witness” is, I believe, the primary genre of the Bible. My own witness here was intended to be an example of a gay man taking scripture very seriously. As John Wesley admonished his preachers — “speak as the oracles of God” — in a brief space I make a number of allusions to the speech and stories of the Bible, both obliquely and directly. In order to read the biblical witness well, one must also be aware of the way the ancients pulled the stories of their ancestors into their present in order to comprehend and interpret God’s action in their lives. I conclude by doing the same: interpreting my own story of “coming out” to renewed vision told through the lens of Jesus’ encounter with the beggar born blind (John 9).
I have come to believe that the original sin of the Western Christian tradition — so deeply imbedded as to be indistinguishable from the way we do theology — is our obsession with universal truths which in the end are the universals imposed by those with power. Universal truth is God. God created a world of astonishing plurality. The incarnate Jesus was not a universal human being, but a particular one. Unique. In becoming this Word made flesh God hallows the peculiar dignity of each and every one of us. We are being called, today, to a conversion of sorts: from seeking purity in conformity to beholding the holy in the astonishing beautify of otherness and in the universal God who greets us hidden beneath the face of each and every human soul.
As noted in the text, I am significantly indebted to several authors who have guided me to these thoughts: Emmanuel Levinas as read through my teacher Dr. William Greenway, The Reasonableness of Belief: Why God and Faith Make Sense (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2015); and the brilliant commentary of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks who has essentially retaught me how to read the Torah, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, revised (London: Continum, 2003). I am confident that Jesus had something to do with it too.
I See A New Church
I see a new church. A new church must be built upon a renewed biblical, theological foundation. God gathers us.
After my first Annual Conference 17 years ago, my plan was to not speak on the floor of Annual Conference until my retirement. I’m here early, unless this goes badly. I am grateful to be here — and grateful to that generation of queers who came before me who made this possible — but this was not the plan.
I am a Presbyterian preacher’s kid from rural Missouri — note, Methodist not the plan; preacher, by no means! When I completed my undergraduate study in Chicago, my plan was a lucrative tech job, loving wife, nice house in a tree lined suburb, and two and a half kids. I remember saying to self, “Self, I’m willing to pursue this dream anywhere, but please not California.” You see, Midwesterners look with a great frown in this direction: “land of fruits and nuts.” We are a people willfully, even proudly, different. Yet, here I am: Californian, Methodist, gay, single at 50, no children, and the only asset to my name is this peculiar work.
I am not willfully different: I am just God given peculiar. We all are, though, aren’t we? An ancient rabbi said that when a human being makes many coins in the same mint, they all come out the same, but when God creates in God’s image each and every one is different (Sacks 60). Each person is unique, a unique universe of experience and story. Each one of you is irreplaceable. This is the gift of God we are called to behold in a new church.
Each and every move of my life challenged my world view, a world view formed in the idea that one should strive toward universal ideals: some Christian, some American, all certainly right. That view was challenged by my life, a life far more complex and beautiful than any labels I had for it. Chicago was not Higginsville Missouri; and then, my first employer in Chicago sent me to this God forsaken land. In any given visit to a Southern California mall I overhead more languages in one place than I’d heard my whole life. It was Pentecost at Macy’s! This terrified me.
The first wedding I attended with my Latina fiancé was that of her best friend, a second generation Mexican wedding a black man from South Central Los Angeles in a Baptist Church. It was the tensest wedding I’ve ever attended. Soul food on one side, Mariachis on the other, neither family pretending it was their choice to be there; and me, cowering on the edge of God’s great wedding banquet: one piece of bologna on Wonder Bread. Those two families warmed to each other, eventually. You know what it was? It was the first grand child: it was a child who strangely warmed their hearts. God does so often save us by reaching up out of the manger of our humanity with a tiny, vulnerable hand.
Our God, made vulnerable to us, gathers us.
As it turns out, our “isms” — our prejudices and fears of difference— are not healed by abstract talk, or logic, or obedience to a book. In reality, we don’t learn to love the Other in general, we learn to love by first being loved by someone unique and special before we have the good sense to resist (Sacks 55, Greenway 149f, 1 John 4:10).
A child reaches out to hold your hand. A tearful, courageous son comes home and pleads, “Dad, please use the pronouns she and hers.” . The challenge before us as a church is to behold the image of God in the person not like ourselves (Sacks 60). [If you cannot love the person you have seen, you cannot love the God whom you have not (1 John 4:20).] Even in this place when you look to your East or West, North or South — you will see a person, a fathomless irreplaceable mystery very different from yourself; and that person is, in the light Christ shines upon the world, holy. This is after all the heart of John Wesley’s theology. When I became a Methodist, I actually read Wesley. Have you read Wesley? In Christ, Grace heals the heart so that it may behold the image of God in every soul that has breath.
The Bible predicts our behavior in a tower called Babel. We have a tendency to desire to gather all people into one place, or one language, or one book of discipline and impose unity on God’s given diversity (Sacks 51f). When humanity gives birth to an “ism,” we put one particular image of ourselves at the top and rank all those lower on the tower as lesser. Colonial racism puts the white male at the top; rationalism puts secular reason at the top; fundamentalism puts certainty at the top; homophobia puts reproductive sex at the top. Every once in a while God comes down, laughs, and throws the whole thing to the ground, which is exactly where we are supposed to be because that’s where our God, our universal God, walks, hidden beneath the particularity of each and every human soul.
God gather us.
When I came out, I finally did meet the love of my life. It was unexpected. Not my plan. He was no one’s ideal, but a universe to me. Many middle eastern men are tall, dark and handsome. He was not. He was shorter than most, didn’t bathe enough, unkempt, his body wasn’t born of a gym, but of the poverty of a day working family. And when they crucified him it wasn’t a heroic death. He died quickly. His arms weren’t strong enough to hold him for long. The soldiers didn’t need to break his legs.
I wish it wasn’t something I could see, but he had walked by me one day, touched me. I had been blind from birth, but now I could see. I could behold a new world of astounding beauty and grace and senseless suffering. I beheld a new world and a new church. Annual Conferences all over the world argue that I shouldn’t exist. Yet, here we are. It’s not my plan.
God Gather us.
The only thing I’ve got, the one thing I know for certain is that once I was blind and now I see.
Shepherd us O god, beyond our fears, beyond our wants, from death into life.
[the refrain is sung]
A wise Bishop once explained to me that “Methodists have always fought their theological battles with polity not theology.” Polity is a word which stands for the rules and principles by which we order ourselves as church. We were studying the church spilt prior to the American civil war. As I watched this year’s historic called General Conference, I remembered that lesson. How true it remains. We know no other way than to attempt to solve our problems through rules of order. That way has brought us about as far as we can go.
On one hand, pragmatism has been Methodism’s unique gift to the church catholic – granted, occasionally we act and talk as if we invented the church ourselves. At our most Methodist, we set our doctrinal differences aside for the sake of mission; we organize and reorganize as needed to serve the world’s hurt in our unique time and place. This is an essential observation to understand the layer upon layer of rules in our Discipline. There is no one theology of the church that makes sense of it — though occasionally someone tries and makes even more of a mess of that pedantic book.
Historically, Methodist’s organize to advance mission, not for the sake of theological clarity or rhetorical elegance. On the other hand, when we do arrive at an impasse that is theological — our words about God and our lives in relationship to God — we have little other precedent or recourse but to talk and debate order; we throw the words 'accountability', 'biblical', and 'holiness' around, sounding confused enough at it as not to be convincing to anyone.
This General Conference was a battle over plans of order: polity. Polity happens through politics and politics is always about power (and money); whoever manages a majority pretends themselves to be the victor and arbiter of truth. At the height of the American Civil War, even Abraham Lincoln knew better than this. Robert’s Rules of order assume that a conversation is a battle, that a majority wins, and a minority voice (if it is at least a 3rd of the body) is heard. Robert's Rules are the work of a wise Army general. They are not equipment for theology. For that we need witness, humility, reverence. In theory we are called to be witness to the Word of a lone prophet, a minority of one, who spoke truth to power and was put to death for the sake of good order.
I was amused by the professional parliamentarian who was hired to bring to us some sense of decorum. He said – I paraphrase – “Friends, we need to talk. I’ve read your transcripts, two General Conferences worth. Your favorite thing is to rise to a ‘point of order.’” When a delegate raises a point of order, it is to claim an infraction of the rules has occurred; a foul serious enough that proceedings should stop and the error be corrected. We loooove doing that; mostly as an excuse to make a speech. As I watched the live debate, I longed for a way to rise to a point of theological order; to press a big red button and claim that an egregious foul had been committed, one worthy of pausing and sorting out a bit. I’m going to take some space in this and another post or two, to throw a flag on the play – to use an American sports term -- at key moments that rendered the parliamentary process theologically incontinent.
Here it goes; my first. And this was in a friendly action: a speech for one of the inclusive plans; pro gay, sort of. An earnest pastor from the south, a former district superintendent, rose to a speech in favor. As I remember it, he argued that human sexuality was such a small part – holding his fingers together in the “teeny weeny” gesture – of who we are and what we do that we should be setting aside our differences about LGBTQ sexuality so we can do the principle work of the church. Foul! I'm going to call a flag on that play. Maybe we should pause there, sisters and brothers, and talk about that a bit.
We are believers in a Word made flesh, as I recall. Salvation came and comes to us into this world, through enfleshed existence. Jesus said, I came that you may have life in all its fullness. The vision of the end the bible gives is not an escape from this world -- Plato gets this wrong -- it is God coming into this world, making all things new. Behold, our sexuality, our sensual orientation to this enfleshed world conditions everything we see and know and respond to as human beings. It is not a tiny part of being human; our sexuality is the warp and woof of our being. One of the church's first bishops, Irenaeus of Leon, put this vision of enfleshed salvation perfectly, “The glory of God is a human being fully alive.”
Let me give a witness.
I am a gay man. I came out when I was 43. I have been blessed. I am grateful beyond words for those who have loved and cared for me. We did the best we could. However, ever since I was a child I have been haunted by a recurring nightmare. (Be at peace, I wouldn’t be telling you something this personal if I didn’t know exactly what it meant). One of the worst things I could imagine as a boy was getting into trouble: I was a preacher’s kid; small town; rural community. My goal was to be the best little boy in the world. Good boys weren’t gay. I was haunted by a dream. I would go into the basement, my basement, my house, my room and discover that there was a dead body buried there. I would be blamed. I wake up horrified, terrified, trembling. This dream, night and again, throughout my life until I was 43.
To make a long story of Calvinist providence and Wesleyan whimsy trivially short, I eventually found my way into the pastorate, or it found me. The revised common lectionary, Lent Year B, is a series of extraordinary texts from the gospel of John. The grace of the risen Christ stalks us on every page, challenging the reader to accept it. It was the penitumite Sunday, the Sunday before Palm Sunday. Lazurus dead, 3 days stinking dead. Mary and Martha angry. Jesus wept. And finally, there, I heard my savior’s grief stricken call: “Lazarus, Come Out.” That terrified gay child I had buried in the basement of my being, answered. I walked into the light. I was finally whole; awkward as anything, but fully alive. My sexual being united with the rest of me. I never had that dream again. Granted, my body that had been wracked by stress and anxiety, felt at midlife, like I was born again with 3 decades worth of stink. Yet I was finally whole, saved by the voice of my Lord. The acceptance of our sexual orientation toward God’s glorious creation is an essential, non negotiable part of salvation, wholeness of life, shalom We deny it to all we entomb with shame and ignorance, and to all those whom we have murdered, physically or spiritually, through our bigotry and violence.
Recounting this story, through that biblical lens, helps me to have compassion for those who have not yet opened themselves to this truth. To accept it one must stand at the grave of all those LGBTQI children who are dead because you have arrived too late. It requires us, as church and culture, to weep at what we have allowed to happen, to admit the harm we have done. Jesus wept. And so must you.
In reality, I am poor at theological argument. I detest conflict. But I am going to stand with Mary and Martha, angrily, and demand we come to the tomb of our gay children and weep. For it is only there that this church can bear witness to the grief stricken voice of her Lord who calls us out into the fullness of life and makes us whole. Some folks say I have courage, I don’t. Like the blind beggar of John 9, I didn’t ask for this life, or for this healing. At this point, I'm just a beggar at the Table of grace looking for someone to love. Interrogate me all you like. There is just one thing I know; it is the only thing I know for certain: once I was blind. Now I see.
And I dare you, double dog dare you, to claim that I am not taking the Bible seriously. Next time, we are going to call foul on that play.