“It feels like this is something of our last Sunday of the school year, before we shift into summer mode next week with one 9am service. It’s also like we are at this societal moment of pivoting out of COVID-19 restrictions and more or less going back to normal – if there ever was such a thing. What’s been a bit disorienting for me was the radical abruptness of reopening. It was like the CDC and our civic leaders just got tired of the gray zone of semi-regulated communal life, and rather than slowly undimming the lights, they just decided to flick the switch on, and many of us, accustomed to the dark and coziness of quarantine, are squinting a little bit, trying to acclimate to the bright lights of normal.”

“Imagine a Portrait Gallery approached you and wanted to capture your image for posterity. How would you like to be portrayed? What picture of yourself would you like others to see? And do you think that picture ties up at all with the pictures others have of you? How would you be in this portrait? Where would you be? What emotion, position, look would just capture you?”

“Human beings take around 650,000,000 breaths in their lifetime;

About 25,000 a day. How many of those are we aware?

My Apple watch rings once an hour with a reminder to Breathe.

It’s kind of annoying:

What does it think I’ve been doing for the last hour?

It doesn’t give me a reminder to tell my heart to pump blood

Or to my intestines to digest food.

Why does it suppose I’ve neglected my breath?”

“I am not a priest—I just poorly play one on Facebook live. My study of the Bible is relatively recent and shallow—I didn’t find my way into regular worship until I met Gene. Sure, my childhood featured Easter Sunday services in fluffy Talbots dresses and two-weeks each summer of Vacation Bible School… but those were less an expression of my belief in God than they were my being easily bribed by flowery dresses and weeks of time at Grandma’s house.

I’m not a rector, but Iama writer. I’ve consumed a lot of stories in all sorts of different media. I love the craft of storytelling, and the tropes and tools we writers use to tell a story right. That’s why I think I love John’s gospel.”

“Our tradition provides us two holy books, two sacred texts, to shape our spiritual imaginations. The first text is Holy Scripture – the Old and the New Testaments containing the great story of salvation, providing us the teachings of Jesus, and the examples of the earliest followers. The second Sacred Text is the Book of Creation. We don’t normally think of creation as a text, but all the elements are there. There are characters (both heroes and villains), and landscapes, and family conflicts, and resolutions and more bloody conflicts. And like any text, or book, it’s there for the reader to interpret it. To try and make sense out of it. What’s it about? Can we discern a plot?”

“Bertrand Russell, the famous British philosopher, once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said, “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You're very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it's turtles all the way down!

Two millennia ago, while the Stoics, and the Platonists, and the Aristotelians were holding forth about the motions of the planets and the stars and the observable universe, in the back of the room, a little old man stands up, and clears his throat, and says something so preposterous you’d hardly believe it: it’s love all the way down.”

“This fourth Sunday of the Easter season is awash in images of shepherds and flocks. This Gospel passage, and the 23rd psalm from which its imagery derives. The original audience listening to Rabbi Jesus would have been more than familiar with the frequent use of images of sheep and flocks in scripture and teaching.

Years ago, when I dropped out of college for a bit of time that was graciously considered by the dean of students as a “leave of absence”, I lived on a farm in the Upper Connecticut Valley in New Hampshire. This farm raised blueberries and trees and was self-sustaining for its own produce. Living there was, quite literally, living off the land. Like most New England farmers, the man who owned the farm was responsive to his neighbors’ needs. Farming in New England is not for the faint of heart and you survive in solidarity with the other resolute souls who try to earn their living out of that stony ground and frequently harsh climate. One of the neighbors kept sheep, and when he would need to leave town for a time, we took care of his sheep. It was thus that I had a very short-career as a not very capable shepherd. The Mediocre Shepherd, you might say.”

“Easter Sunday puts a pause on the world’s worries: pilgrims make their pilgrammages; choirs belt out their strong hallelujah’s; the pope says mass for thousands; preachers mock death; the adorned altar proclaims spring, and for a brief shining moment the hope of Jesus Christ risen is tangible. But then the world blinks, as it were, loses its concentration and returns its attention to other pressing matters: COVID variants in the air, a border in disarray, a boiling planet and brutal gun violence. Then it turns to look for this hope again, and it’s gone. An array of forces is approaching us led by the baddest bully of them all: death. Where is that Easter bravado today?

One week after, do you still believe in Easter? How? There was once a man who did not believe in Easter. His name was Thomas the Twin; we might call him St. Skepticus.”

Easter Sunday puts a pause on the world’s worries: pilgrims make their pilgrammages; choirs belt out their strong hallelujah’s; the pope says mass for thousands; preachers mock death; the adorned altar proclaims spring, and for a brief shining moment the hope of Jesus Christ risen is tangible. But then the world blinks, as it were, loses its concentration and returns its attention to other pressing matters: COVID variants in the air, a border in disarray, a boiling planet and brutal gun violence. Then it turns to look for this hope again, and it’s gone. An array of forces is approaching us led by the baddest bully of them all: death. Where is that Easter bravado today?

One week after, do you still believe in Easter? How? There was once a man who did not believe in Easter. His name was Thomas the Twin; we might call him St. Skepticus.

I studied Greek in college. And I have to admit I didn’t choose this major for any high or lofty reason; I have since begun to tell people that I wanted to read the New Testament in the Original; that’s not really true. We had something of a “Major’s Fair” at our Orientation Week, and all the other tables were full and bustling except for the Classics table – so I wandered over, and I was drawn in by a kindly professor and a big plate of Grape leaves. I ate 4 or 5 or maybe 12, and I signed my name on a sheet.

I’ve been thinking back on those early days recently, especially my first classes. The first Greek word I learned was the first person singular present tense indicative verb LUO. I quickly discovered it means “I loose.” You learn it on day one of the Greek class because it’s a short, regular verb that’s easy to conjugate. It’s a particularly useful verb for those who’re in the habit of tying up oxen or releasing mules. Now, as a 18 year old boy from a suburban town I didn’t have a lot of life experience to bring to sentences like “I would have loosed the oxen,” or “They are going to loose the donkeys,” let alone “I would have loosed,” “I used to loose,” and “I was going to have loosed.”

But then comes the great day when you first pick up a copy of the New Testament in its original Greek. And then you enter a new world.

Holy Saturday is often referred to Christ’s Harrowing of Hell. A harrow is a spiked implement that is drawn over plowed land to break up clods, tear up weeds, and level the ground for planting. Knowing that bit of agricultural technology gives our figurative use of the adjective harrowing an important layer of meaning. When we speak of a harrowing experience, we mean one that is hair-raising and unnerving, one that disturbs our peace and challenges our sense of security. Whatever in us remains to be broken up and rooted out so that we may be made fertile and fruitful may need to be harrowed. It is not likely to be a comfortable process.

How in the world did it come to this?

I met Daryl in a homeless shelter. Darryl was in his mid 40’s and he was fresh out of prison. He was rather open and forthcoming with me. He told his story about living on the run – drugs, and alcohol had gotten him into trouble. He told me about a life of dishonesty and duplicity, and straight-up fear – taking money from his mother, stealing his neighbor’s car. Because of this, he was always on the defense; always trying to protect something; always fearing that he was going to be found out. He was found out early in the morning after a multi-day bender. He said, “It’s never good when its your own Momma who calls the cops on you.” He was arrested and taken to County. Darryl told me something I will never forget; he said, “I sat there in my cell I was the freest I have ever been in my life. I was as free as a bird in springtime. I didn’t have to run anymore,” he told me.

This is a difficult day, if we let its meaning seep into our being, and into our marrow. It has come to this. Three years of preaching and teaching, comforting and confronting. Three years of mighty acts power, and small acts of kindness. Enigmatic parables, and straightforward and frightening demands. And now this. The last gathering, although most present don’t know it. A frightful wrestling with conscience, and a clear vision of what the next 24 hours would bring. Take this burden, and yet let it be according to your will.

We tend to rush through this week, in a great hurry, it would seem, to get to the end. The place we know, or hope for, or pray for, or simply wonder about. The empty tomb, the encounters, perhaps we can even hold the notion of a Crucified-Yet-Risen-One in our hearts. Yet by rushing through this week, we do the story and ourselves a disservice.

“His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him.

Don’t let this last sentence become a throw-away. It is extraordinarily important to linger on the idea that this moment of triumphal entry ultimately becomes, as the gospel tells us, an afterthought. Only we humans have the capacity to offer supplication for saving in one breath, only to scream “crucify him” in the next, and then forget, until later, that we were actually walking with God all along.

Let’s stand right here at this intersection of need, fallenness, and memory.”

“We are now nearing the end of the first month of the second year of the COVID19 pandemic lockdown. While there are glimmers of better times ahead, with vaccinations continuing in their piecemeal, stuttering roll out, we have to acknowledge that the end of this pandemic is not on our horizon.

We can continue to be numbed, or shocked, or outraged as the death count continues to climb. We can affirm that more than half a million of our fellow citizens have died of COVID19. As part of my job at the two hospitals where I now work, I hear the daily litany of new cases, transmission rates, deaths, numbers of people vaccinated, where on the queue of people waiting for vaccines we have reached. It has all become part of the way I live and work. A long, slow process of acclimation to what should have been unthinkable. And then something comes along that rouses me from the day-to-dayness, the shuffling torpor of our current way of being.A study released roughly ten days ago showed that one out of five Americans had lost someone in their family or their circle of friends to COVID19. One out of five. If you live in a community of color, that number climbs to one out of three.”

“…When I go to the grocery store, just me, I often forego getting a cart or a basket. “I can just carry it all,” I say to myself. This past week I had picked up some frozen pizza, and some ice cream, but then I realized I needed some toothpaste, and a fresh loaf of bread, and ohhh some fruit for my smoothies….both oranges and bananas, and of course I may as well get some garlic while I’m over there. I stood in the long line I’m sure drawing long glances from all the cart and basket users. And my foolishness caught up to me as my hands got cold from the frozen goods and my arms began to get weak, and I dropped the bread, and as I fumbled to retain it, I dropped the pint of Ben and Jerry’s and before I knew it the oranges were tumbling out of their bag running ahead of me. And I immediately had the thought, being the preacher that I am: ah, here is a metaphor.”

“I had the thought as I was reading this gospel of Jesus angry in the Temple that Jesus might have really benefitted from the clergy wellness day I attended a few weeks back. You know, every now and again, the diocese will offer these conversations for clergy where they will invite us in to talk about our feelings and experience of ministry. And as they go, these gatherings are very helpful. We talk about the weight of stress, and how stress often makes us act out in less than Christian ways – we get irritable, and snippy, and often our anger acts out in us. And we pick up tools from one another on how to cope with these difficult emotions. Take a deep breath. Recognize them, name them, give them space. But don’t fire off that email in the feeling state. Never send that email. Sit with your anger. Don’t act on it. Where were Rabbi wellness days in Jesus’ era?”

“The Gospel passage we hear today comes from a set of passages that are often referred to as “the hard sayings of Jesus”. These are the passages that don’t offer wonderful metaphors about the abiding and overwhelming love of the Creator of the Universe for frequently errant humanity, or stories of Good Shepherds and lost lambs being brought back to the flock, or children being welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven as particularly beloved of the Almighty. No healing miracles, no blessings, no comfortable words.

These are the stories that demanded much of the audience contained within the narrative itself, the people Rabbi Jesus is directly addressing, They demand even more of those who listen to the narrative– to those who heard the first recounting of the story, when the gospel we know as Mark was a piece of performance art declaimed in front of groups of people. It demands much from a congregation like us, hearing it two millennia later. “

““At once the Spirit drove him into the wilderness.”

I wonder: does this Holy Spirit drive us out into the wilderness? That might seem like a difficult question to consider, and anytime I come across a verse that is difficult in the English I take a peek at the Greek just to check if it can clarify or contextualize anything for me. The Greek, this morning, actually makes it worse. The word in Greek is ekballo– literally to throw something out; eject; cast out. It is the word that is used when Jesus exorcises demons. He throws them out. Well, before he can do any throwing out, he must first be thrown out.

Does the Spirit throw us out into the wilderness? It is a difficult question, not least because of how much our society can romanticize the wilderness. We give the wilderness names. We create bookshops on its edges. And we offer guided tours along paths. We load up with insect repellant, sunblock, water, and we go for hikes to get in touch with nature. And yet in every wilderness encounter, the most essential thing is to not forget your car keys. The wilderness is exciting as long as you can leave. And we mostly can. It’s hard to imagine the Holy Spirit driving us out into the wilderness; in fact, it’s just the reverse. We often drive ourselves out there.”

“I come to this season deep in my feelings. My appetite for a weekly examination and contemplation of my wretchedness is nonexistent. Frankly, I have significantly less appetite for watching otherwise comfortable people perform their wretchedness out loud because it’s the fashion of the season. The energy of the next few weeks holds so little appeal, I probably shouldn’t be the person in the pulpit today.

Today is the beginning of Lent and that means we’ve come back ‘round, full circle. A year of living in a transitioning world. We started Lent together as a congregation and ended it on Zoom. We went through the rest of the church calendar sometimes together and most of the time apart, and now here we are again, right back where we started: it’s Lent, this is Zoom, COVID is still here, the world is still broken and still wretched.”