The Feast of the Presentation, celebrated on February 2, is one of the major feasts in the church year. It is sometimes known as Candlemas or the Feast of the Purification. This feast is celebrated forty days after Christmas and commemorates the presentation of Jesus and the purification of Mary in the Jerusalem temple (Luke 2:22-40).

The name “Candlemas” focuses attention on the candlelight procession that is a part of the liturgy. It became customary to bless not only the candles carried in the procession but also the year’s supply of liturgical candles and to give parishioners a blessed candle to take home.

The candlelight is an outward and visible sign of Christ who illumines our heart and inner being. This is the light that Simeon saw and of which he speaks:

Lord, you now have set your servant free 
to go in peace as you have promised; 
For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, 
whom you have prepared for all the world to see:
A Light to enlighten the nations, 
and the glory of your people Israel.

Here is a short form for blessing candles during the liturgy of the Feast of the Presentation:

Antiphon: The Lord is my light and salvation, whom then shall I fear?

V: You, O Lord, are my lamp:
R: My God, you make my darkness bright.

Celebrant: Let us pray. (silence)

O Gracious Father, almighty and eternal God, you created all things out of nothing, and by your command caused the labor of bees to be revealed in the perfection of wax. You commanded your servant Moses to keep lamps continually burning before you. Bless and sanctify these candles that their light may be for us a visible reminder of the true light who enlightens everyone coming into the world. All this we ask through your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, One God, for ever and ever. Amen.

This blessing is based upon and incorporates Psalm 27:1 (antiphon), Psalm 18:28 (versicle and response), Exodus 27:20 and John 1:6 (prayer).

Some of the blessed candles may be used in a candlelight procession that begins the liturgy. A blessing specific to the Feast of the Presentation may be offered at the end of the liturgy. The two blessings bookend the entire celebration.

In a previous post I wrote about blessing candles on the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord in the Temple. But what about a blessing specific to the feast itself? The Book of Occasional Services offers several blessings specific to seasons and feast days. It does not, however, offer a blessing specific to the Feast of the Presentation, a major feast in the liturgical year.

The following blessing has been written based upon the collects and gospel reading (Luke 2:22-40) for the day:

May Almighty God, who today revealed to Simeon the light which enlightens the nations, fill your hearts with the light of faith. Amen.

May Jesus Christ, who was this day presented in the temple, present you before Almighty God with pure and clean hearts. Amen.

May the Holy Spirit who guided Simeon to the temple to see God’s salvation, guide you in the path of goodness and bring you to the Light that shines for ever. Amen.

And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be upon you and remain with you for ever. Amen.

St. Mary the Mother of God

I recently heard a man say, “I feel as if I have dropped into my own life and it fits.” It made me smile. It was such a great description. I think we all want to be able to say that. He went on, however, to say that it wasn’t about his family, his work, or even anything he could specifically name. It was more about what was happening within him than what was happening around him.

There are moments in our lives when our senses awaken and open to a greater reality, a larger world, a more whole life. Those are the moments when our seeing gives way to recognition and acknowledgment of a deeper and more profound reality. They are the moments of presentation, moments of meeting, moments when divinity and humanity touch, and heaven and earth are joined. That’s what this day, the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord in the Temple, is all about. In those moments we are living today’s gospel (Luke 2:22-40). In those moments we catch a glimpse of what Saint Simeon saw. We stand in his shoes and we see with his eyes.

We’ve all had those moments. Now we probably don’t say, “Oh, wow! Look! Heaven and earth are joined, humanity and divinity are touching.” No, we say it differently. Nevertheless that’s what’s happening. Think about a time when you said aloud or maybe to yourself, “I never want this moment to end.” That wasn’t about the passing of time. It was about presence. You were fully present to the moment. You were acknowledging that somehow all the pieces of your life fit. There was an integrity and authenticity about you and your life. There was a reality greater than the circumstances of that moment.

How about this? Have you ever been so immersed in the presence of another person, your work, a hobby, a conversation with a friend, that you lose all track of time? We look at our watch and wonder, “Where did the time go?” I’m not talking about time that was wasted but time that was full and complete. In those minutes and hours we had softened and opened ourselves to the eternal.

Maybe you’ve experienced it this way. You look back on a particular time in your life and think, “I don’t know how I got through that. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t think I could.” You don’t know how you got through that, you only know that you did. That was a moment of presentation, a moment of meeting with a presence greater than yourself.

In all those and a thousand others like them it seems as if that moment is presenting itself to us but I think it is just the opposite. We are being presented to the moment. God’s Spirit guides and takes us to that place of meeting. We see that moment but not with our eyes. We hold it but not with our hands. We taste it but not with our tongues. We smell it but not with our nose. We hear it but not with our ears. We meet a presence greater than what our physical senses can experience or understand. That’s why this man I just told you about couldn’t name what was going on, what had changed, only that it had changed and he was somehow different. He wasn’t just living. He was alive.

I think that’s what’s happening for Simeon today. He took the child, Jesus, in his arms and praised God saying,

Lord, you now have set your servant free
to go in peace as you have promised;

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,
whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations,
and the glory of your people Israel.

Simeon saw more than just a child. He looked at the child and he saw salvation. He saw the fulfillment of God’s promise. He saw the Lord’s Messiah. He saw the Light of God’s glory. He saw the freedom to go in peace. He saw the fullness of his own life and it fit him perfectly.

St. Simeon the God-receiver

On this Feast of Meeting, as it is sometimes called, Mary, called Theotokos in Greek, it means God-bearer or God-birther, would place her son in the hands of the old man Simeon. He had been waiting for this moment all his life. It’s why he went to the temple on this day. Guided by the Holy Spirit, Simeon was being presented to the child he would hold. In that presentation and in that holding Simeon would be Theodochos. It’s Greek and it means God-receiver. Simeon is the God-receiver.

Who among us doesn’t want that? Who here doesn’t want to be Theodochos, a God-receiver? At some level that’s what we’re all searching for. It’s our heart’s desire and the longing that drives our life. Whether we know it or not that’s why we’ve shown up here today. We want to hold the child. We want to be presented. We want to receive God. We want to see our salvation and know the fulfillment of God’s promises in our own lives. We want to be set free to go in peace. We want to try on our life and discover that it fits.

Today is not just for or about Simeon. It is also for and about us. This is our day. All of us have the possibility of becoming God-receivers. All of us are intended to be God-receivers. The light Simeon sees is not just for himself but for the nations, all the peoples, you and me included.

There’s something you need to know about Simeon, however. Our sacred tradition says that when all this happened Simeon was 270 years. There’s something else you need to know. Our sacred tradition also says that he was blind. So what do we do with that? A 270 year old blind man that sees? How can that be?

We might say that that makes no sense. It cannot be. Nobody lives to be 270. He is either blind or sighted. He can’t be both. At a factual level we would be right. What if, however, we don’t try to resolve the factual inconsistencies? What if, instead, we let this paradox be the doorway into the temple of our own life and another way of being, another way of seeing, another way of knowing?

Surely that’s what Simeon had to do. If we think we struggle with this paradox imagine Simeon’s struggle. God had promised him that he would not die before he had seen the Christ, the Lord’s Messiah. What did Simeon think when he turned 100, 150, 250 years old and still had not yet seen the Messiah? What did he think when he went blind and could no longer see with his eyes?

The truth of this story and the fulfillment of God’s promise, for Simeon and for us, do not depend on resolving the factual contradiction. They are found in the paradox. We spend so much time and effort trying to make life fit by resolving the facts and controlling the circumstances. Simeon didn’t do that. Maybe we shouldn’t either. He showed up at the temple knowing he was blind and believing he would see. That was enough for Simeon and it was enough for God. Let it be enough for us.

Step into the paradox of a 270 year old blind man that sees the Christ and you will see the invisible, hear the unspoken, smell the odorless, taste the uneaten, and touch the intangible. Those are the sights, the sounds, the fragrance, the taste, and the feel of a life that fits, a life in which heaven and earth are joined and humanity and divinity touch. Try it on for size. Drop into your life and discover that it fits.

Nunc dimittis, the Song of Simeon, from the Feast of the Presentation:

Lord, you now have set your servant free
to go in peace as you have promised;

For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,
whom you have prepared for all the world to see:

A Light to enlighten the nations,
and the glory of your people Israel. 

When someone comes to you and asks for help, then you must not say to him with a pious mouth, ‘Have trust and cast your care on God!’ What you must do is act as if God did not exist, as if in the whole world there were only one person who could help the man: you alone.

Attributed to Rabbi Moshe Loeb.
Quoted by Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis in Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word, vol. 1, 206-207.

Image source

Who are you? How do you answer when someone asks you that question? The most common answer is to give our name. We might also tell a bit of family history and the connections that help identify us. Often we’ll tell something about our work, the things we do, and how we spend our time. I cannot, however, think of a single time when I ever answered that question by saying, “Oh, I’m the salt of the earth. I’m the light of the world.” How about you? Have you ever answered that way? Has anyone ever answered you that way? Maybe, but I’m guessing probably not.

Why not? Even if we’ve never said it aloud do we ever think of ourselves that way? Do we know that about ourselves? Jesus knows that about us. Jesus thinks that about us. Jesus even says that about us. It’s right there in today’s gospel (Matthew 5:13-20, Epiphany 5A).

“You are the salt of the earth…. You are the light of the world.” Don’t think this is about somebody other than you. Jesus isn’t talking to particular individuals. He’s talking to the crowds that have followed him from Galilee, the ten cities known as the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and beyond the Jordan. That means they’ve come from everywhere. They’ve come to see this one they’ve heard about. They’ve come to listen and learn, to be healed, and to have their lives put back together. They’ve come in search of meaning, direction, and purpose.

You and I stand among that crowd. We’re one of them. We’ve come today to see this one we’ve heard about. We’ve come to listen and learn, to be healed, and to have our lives put back together. We’ve come in search of meaning, direction, and purpose. Jesus’ words are as true and applicable today as they were two thousand years ago. “You are the salt of the earth…. You are the light of the world.”

Jesus doesn’t stop there, however. There are profound implications to being named salt and light. It means that we are to flavor the world. We are to season and transform human activity in such a way that it reveals God in this world. It means we are to help people better see God’s life in theirs. It means we are to enlighten the dark places of the world. You and I are the means by which God flavors and illuminates life and the world. If last week, the Feast of the Presentation, Christ’s gospel showed us to be God-receivers, this week Christ’s gospel shows and calls us to be God-givers, God-sharers.

Christ has given us the salt and light of his divinity not just for ourselves but that others might eat and see better. The salt of divinity that was poured into our hands we are to sprinkle onto the world. The light of divinity that fills our hearts and minds is to shine on and brighten all of life.

So what does that look like? What does that mean for us? It’s really pretty practical and tangible. It’s something that can tasted and seen. It makes a difference in the world and to other people.

• It is looking another in the eyes, speaking a kind word, and acknowledging him or her as having been created in the image and likeness of God. Try that with someone you’ve labeled as a welfare mother, a panhandler, a gang kid.
• It is generosity with your compassion, time, and money to care for and make a difference in the lives of the poor, the hungry, the homeless.
• It is starting a conversation and rebuilding a relationship when what you mostly feel is indifference, pain, or anger.
• It is praying that God will bless with all the good gifts you want for yourself and those you love, those who have hurt you, those who are different from you, and those with whom you disagree.
• The prophet Isaiah speaks of loosing the bonds of injustice and letting the oppressed go free. So maybe salt and light look like politics that are not dependent on control and power, that establish a society of equality and diversity, and that recognize the dignity of every human being. Would you support that kind of legislation? Vote for that kind of candidate? Maybe even campaign as that candidate?
• It is faithfulness and commitment to others shown by listening, being available, and spending time. It would mean slowing down, rearranging your schedule, and valuing presence over efficiency and productivity.
• It is choosing a life of self-giving rather than taking and acquiring, vulnerability rather than defensiveness, and intimacy rather than isolation. It means you might, and probably will, get hurt.
• It is loving God, your neighbor, your enemy, and yourself. It means choice overcomes feelings.

Where is the salt and light in your life? What does it look like? How does it show up? There are probably as many expressions and manifestations of salt and light as there are people. Ultimately though, they always look like the life of Jesus Christ.

To live as salt of the earth and light of the world is to know our deepest, truest, and most authentic self. It is the life we long for and the life God desires us to have. It is both who we are how we are to be. That’s why Jesus is so adamant that we not lose our saltiness and we not hide our light.

To do so is to lose and hide our life. To do so, in some way, denies Christ. Salt that has no flavor and light that is hidden are worthless. They’re not really themselves. They are neither true nor authentic. They’re not real. That’s neither what we want nor what God intends for us. No one says, “Pass the salt please,” hoping that that the flavor of their food will stay the same. No one walks into a room, flips the switch, and hopes the light won’t come on. Yet, we’ve all known times like that, times when our insides and outsides don’t line up, when something is amiss, and we’re just not ourselves.

If we are salt and if we are light then we ought to be tasted and seen by the world. If our relationships are bland and flavorless, if our world is dark and filled with shadows, maybe we’ve not been faithful to or trusting of our own saltiness and light. Maybe we’ve forgotten who we are. Maybe we never knew.

Regardless of where we are in life or our faith I think we are all looking for the salt and the light within us and how we can best be that for others. This past week I had at least five conversations about that very question. Not one person said the words salt or light but that’s what they were asking about. How to be real, authentic? How to make a difference? They were all searching, asking good questions, reflecting on their lives, and working to live faithfully with God and others. They all heard the echo of Christ’s words deep within themselves, the same words that echo within each one of us.

“You are the salt of the earth…. You are the light of the world.” 

With those words Jesus is declaring what already is. He is making a statement of fact. This doesn’t mean we must become something we’re not already. It means we are to become, live into, and manifest what we already are. That is both the good news and the challenge, to believe and become what we already are. It is some of our most difficult and most important work.

Several years ago I spent quite a bit of time at the Society of St. John the Evangelist, an Episcopal monastery in Massachusetts. At the invitation in the Eucharist the priest would point to the gifts, the bread and wine become body and blood, and say, “Behold what you are, become what you see.”

“Behold what you are, become what you see.”

I think that’s what Jesus is saying in today’s gospel. “Behold the salt that you already are. Behold the light that you already are. Become that for the life of the world. Let them taste and see.” I can’t tell you how to do that. It will be unique to each of our lives. It will be particular and specific to our individual circumstances and relationships. I don’t exactly know what you will do, where you will sprinkle your salt, or where you will shine your light, but I know this. In whatever ways you do that, wherever you do that, on whomever you do that, you will reveal the embodiment of God in humanity, God with us. In that moment they and you will taste life and see the world as never before.

Let them taste and see, for you are the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

Source: Wikimedia Commons

You have heard it said, “The Old Testament is a book of law and judgment.” You have heard it said, “The New Testament is a book of grace and love.” But I say to you, “Welcome to today’s gospel!” (Matthew 5:21-37, Epiphany 6A)

Today’s gospel won’t let us make those simple and inaccurate distinctions. Jesus’ words show continuity and consistency between the Old and the New Testaments, not separation and opposition. According to Jesus it’s not just for murder that we will be held liable but also for anger, insult, and name-calling. By his definition adultery is not solely determined by physical relationships but by the thoughts, desires, and fantasies within us. In Jesus’ eyes divorce might sometimes be legal but there are always lasting consequences. For Jesus honesty and truth-telling are not to be governed by an oath but by every word we speak.

If we thought Jesus would cut us some slack on the law we need to think again. He seems to be doing just the opposite. Jesus does not reject the law. Far from it; he intensifies it. He does not change the law, he interiorizes it. That means that life is lived from the inside out and that the quality of our relationships arises from and is determined more by what is going on within us than by what is going on around or outside us.

Jesus’ intensifying and interiorizing of the law means that we cannot live as one person on the inside and another on the outside. It’s a remedy to living a dividend and fragmented life. To the degree we are divided within ourselves, one person on the inside and another on the outside, we will be separated from God and each other.

Jesus is more interested in our lives and relationships being put back together, made whole, than he is in superficial compliance with the rules. I think that is why he intensifies and interiorizes the law. I think that is also why he is so critical of the scribes and Pharisees. It’s why, immediately before today’s gospel, he says that unless our righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees we will never enter the kingdom of heaven. The law was never intended to be the goal. It was always intended to be a means of establishing, nurturing, and protecting relationships.

We can too easily forget that the law is more about relationships than it is rules. When that happens we’re in grave danger of keeping the rules and losing the relationship.

More than once I have said to my wife, “Just tell me the right answer and I’ll say it. Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.” I was trying to keep the rules not the relationship. It’s not hard to guess how well that worked. It didn’t! She didn’t want the right answer or even the right behavior. She wanted me. She wanted relationship. That’s what today’s gospel is about.

If we are to be faithful to Christ then we must take an honest look within ourselves and answer some hard questions. In what ways is our life divided and fragmented? Are we living as one person on the inside and another on the outside? Have we kept the rules but lost the relationship?

Most of us have probably never murdered another person. But have our anger, insults, or name-calling left another dead to us so that they are just no longer a part of our world? We may not be in an adulterous affair but have our thoughts, fantasies, or the way we see and perceive another objectified and depersonalized another? This is about more than sexuality. It happens every time we dehumanize and strip another of life making them a thing to be used. Maybe we’ve never been divorced or if we have there were good reasons and it was necessary, because sometimes that is the reality, but there’s a deeper question. Have we treated another as disposable, here today gone tomorrow, as if we had no need of them and they had no inherent value?

Perhaps that’s a part of what intensifying and interiorizing the law looks like. Jesus is not trying to make things harder, to trap us, condemn us, or judge us but to make us whole, to put our lives and relationships back together so that our “yes” really is “yes” and our “no” really is “no.”

Obedience to the law is more than just keeping the rules. It is, ultimately, keeping the relationship. That is a choice each one of us makes every moment of every day. That choice comes from deep within us. It is the choice between life and death. Isn’t that what we heard in the reading from Ecclesiasticus?

“Before each person are life and death, and whichever one chooses will be given.”

The good news is that God gives us what we choose. The bad news is that God gives us what we choose. The choice is life or death; physical, emotional, and spiritual. Let’s not think this is only about our life or our death. That’s just another symptom that our life is divided and fragmented. We’re all in this together. None of us ever really lives an individual life isolated from others. We’re not choosing life or death only for ourselves but for each other, for our neighbors, for our enemies, for the stranger on the street, and for the anonymous face across the world.

As St. Antony the Great said, “Our life and our death is with our neighbor.” If we choose life for another so have we chosen life for ourselves and if we choose death for another so have we chosen death for ourselves.

“Whichever one chooses will be given.” That’s why this intensifying and interiorizing of the law is so important and necessary. It is Jesus’ way of saying, “Choose life. Choose life. Choose life.” If that is what Jesus asks of us it is only because that is how he and his Father are. They always choose life. They always keep the relationship.

Every time we choose life, every time we keep the relationship, we are participating in the life of God. We are exhibiting the divine attributes. We are making God present in this world through our life and humanity. The reason we can do this with each other is because God first does it with us.

The next person we meet will set before us a choice between life and death. It may be at lunch, in our family, at work, at school, running our errands, or any one of thousand other places. Regardless, the choice will be there. Let’s not leave here today not knowing what we will choose. The choice does not depend on the person or the circumstances. It depends on us. Let’s choose life, let’s keep the relationship. Let’s not stop choosing and keeping so that wherever we go, whoever we are with, whatever we are doing there is nothing but life, there is only life, there is nothing but God, there is only God.

That’s not us, but it could have been. (image source)

Somewhere around the time I was in kindergarten or the first grade my parents took my sister and me to a carnival that had come to town. The only thing I remember about that day is the monkey on a stick. Mom and Dad bought us each a little fuzzy monkey tied to a stick by piece of elastic. We carried them around watching them bounce and swing. At some point we went back to the car and laid them on the backseat floorboard and then went on about the day. When we came back to the car my sister got in on my side. As she did she stepped on my monkey and broke the stick. It was an accident. Nevertheless, it was broken.

I got in the car, reached over, and stomped on her monkey. I broke it. Then my dad reached over the front seat and slapped my leg. Contrary to Jesus’ admonition in today’s gospel (Matthew 5:38-48, Epiphany 7A) I did not offer him the other leg to be slapped. “That’s not fair,” I yelled. It made no sense to me that she broke my monkey and I got slapped. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a monkey for a monkey. Now that made sense. That was fair.

Truth be told there are times when that still makes sense to me. As I read the news and watch other people it seems to make sense to much of our world today. Maybe it makes sense to you as well. We’ve all had our monkey stepped on and broken.

So often we hear those words, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” and think it is permission to get even. After all it sounds fair. The problem is it was never intended as permission to get even it was a restriction, a limitation, intended to prevent revenge. More often than not we don’t want to just get even we want to exact a little revenge. We want to get ahead. This law was supposed to prevent that.

Jesus is doing with this law the same thing he did in last week’s gospel. He is intensifying the law. In some way fairness always ends up being about the rules. Jesus, however, is always about people and relationships.

While fairness might be the way of the world it is not Jesus’ way. Nor is it his Father’s way. God makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good. That’s not fair. He sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. That’s not fair. God is God, however, and he gives based not on who we are or what we think is fair but on who he is. God does not act with fairness but with love.

While fairness might make sense to us and the world it does not make sense to Jesus. The world doesn’t need to be more fair it needs to be more loving. What difference does it make if we love only those who love us, greet only those who greet us, be nice to only those who are nice to us, accept only those who accept us, and hang out with only those who think, speak, act, and believe like us? That’s not love. That’s fairness. Too often we are fair to the exclusion of love. For Jesus fairness is not the answer but the problem.

You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile.

If we are to heal the brokenness in our lives, reconcile our relationships, and end the violence in our world we have to stop being fair towards each other and start loving one another. We must quit stomping on each other’s monkeys. Evil for evil, violence for violence, hit for hit, word for word will never change anything. It only escalates the violence and entrenches us deeper in the way things already are. It only reveals who we serve and who guides our thinking and actions, ourselves.

Fairness can never change our lives and world. Only love can do that. Turn the other cheek, give your last piece of clothing, go the extra mile. That means we “do not resist an evildoer.” That doesn’t mean, however, that we are to just sit there and take it. It means non-retaliation. It means choosing love instead of fairness. It means loving our enemies and praying for those who hurt us. It means no more monkey stomping.

I want to be clear about something here. I know there are people, more often that not women and children, caught in violent and abusive relationships. Faithfulness does not demand someone stay in that situation. Faithfulness, the choice to love, and the refusal to retaliate, means protecting yourself and getting out. It is always about choosing love.

While most of us are not being physically struck across the face I’ll bet each of us has heard the gossip, name-calling, and labeling that sting like a slap on the cheek. What do we do then? Fairness will only get us into a shouting match and replay the argument in our head. What does love look like in that context? How will we embody Christ in that moment? That’s the question.

Chances are no one is suing us for our clothes but have you ever felt as if someone was demanding more of you than you had or wanted to give? Time, attention, assistance. What does love like then? Do we offer a defense, negotiate a fair settlement, or offer all that we are and all that we have?

What about that extra mile? How far are we willing to go for love? In Jesus’ day a Roman solider could require a civilian to carry his pack for a mile. That’s not today’s world but I suspect you’ve had days when another interrupted and disrupted your plans and routines. You hadn’t planned on carrying their burdens; sorrow and grief, loneliness, sickness or addiction, depression, bad choices. Fairness says, “That’s their problem.” Love says, “I’ll go with you.”

In all of these the challenge is to stop being fair and instead be loving. Fairness is a transaction. Love is a relationship. It’s usually easier to be fair than to love. Love is messy and risky. It comes with burdens and obligations. You can get hurt. Look at the life of Jesus. He is not asking us to do anything he did not do. He received physical blows and abuse. He was stripped of his clothes. He carried our burden to the cross. That’s not fair. That’s love.

The problem with fairness is that it leaves us blind, toothless, and surrounded by broken toys. That is not the kingdom of heaven and it’s not what Jesus came for. Jesus came to call us into and show us the way of perfection. “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Jesus is echoing God’s command in Leviticus (19:2), “You shall be holy, for I the LORD your God am holy.” As St. Paul asks, “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” That indwelling Spirit is both why and how we can be holy and live into perfection.

The thing is we most often discover our holiness, move towards perfection, and reveal God’s Spirit within in us in the painful, demanding, and burdened places of our lives. We don’t have to go far to find those places. They are in all our relationships, the people we live with, in our places of work, the busyness of everyday errands, the victims of injustice, and the stranger on the street. Will we be fair or will we love? The choice is ours.

Why settle for fairness when God offers holiness? Why maintain the status quo when Jesus shows and gives us perfection? Why live as anything less than our truest selves, God’s holy temple? Go love the fairness out of this world.

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them, for then you have no reward from your father in heaven.” (Mt. 6:1-6, 16-21; Ash Wednesday) Don’t sound the trumpet when you give alms. Don’t pray standing on the street corner attracting attention to yourself. Don’t show off by your fasting.

This is about much more than how we give our alms, where we say our prayers, and what we look like while fasting. Those are just examples that point to a deeper issue. Jesus is getting at the ways in which we often take ourselves more seriously than we take God. He is speaking against our exaggerated self-importance, our need to be seen and recognized, the ways we seek approval and validation from others, our desire for admiration, pretending to be someone or something we are not, and continually measuring our lives by comparison and competition with others.

There are all sorts of reasons why we sometimes act like this. Ultimately though, it is about our fear of death. You can be pretty sure that whenever we begin to take ourselves more seriously than we take God, whether in our thoughts, our words, or our actions, we are living in fear of death. I don’t necessarily mean only our physical death or the physical death of loved ones though that certainly may be a part of it. I’m talking about the death or loss of all they ways in which we try to create an identity, meaning, purpose, and security for ourselves. We fear that if we lose those we will lose ourselves and we will no longer exist.

Our fears of death are as unique and varied as are our lives. We fear the death of our power and control, our reputation, our success, and our accomplishments. We fear the death of our dreams and opportunities, and the images and expectations of what our life and relationships should be like. We fear the death of our independence and self-sufficiency, our financial security, and even our youth and looks. We fear the death of the personas we project onto the world and the ways in which we want to be seen and known by others.

What are the deaths and losses you most fear? In what ways do they control your life and hold you captive? Is that really how you want to live?

I am not suggesting the things we fear losing are unimportant or that they don’t matter. They are important and they do matter but to the extent we are afraid of death, in whatever ways it comes, we are also afraid of life. Here’s the tragedy. When we live in fear of death we deny ourselves the fullness and abundance of life God intends and desires for us. We deny ourselves what we most fear losing, an authentic and abundant life and our truest self. How could it be otherwise? We are taking ourselves more seriously than we are taking God.

So what do we do? How do we break this cycle? To put it bluntly, we must die before we die. Death can only take from us that to which we cling and to which we are attached. Let those things go and death has lost its power. There is nothing to fear. Death has nothing to take from us. That is the way of Christ’s cross and it is the way of Lent. Lent is a forty day death march in which we learn to die.

Our truest piety is not in almsgiving, prayer, or fasting but in our willingness to die to this life. It means letting go of the individual programs we have created to give us happiness, security, power, and control. It means giving and entrusting ourselves to God. It means that we no longer store up treasures for ourselves on earth where death’s rust and moths consume and death’s thieves break in and steal. Rather, we store up for ourselves treasures in heaven where neither rust nor moths consume and thieves do not break in and steal. The treasure Jesus is talking about in today’s gospel is our own life.

Storing up life in heaven begins with the mindfulness of death. We remember that we are dust and to dust we shall return. We face that which we most fear and want to avoid, all the many forms of our mortality. That’s what Ash Wednesday is about. That’s why we come here today.

To voluntarily be marked with ashes and reminded of our mortality is the beginning of death’s defeat and our rebirth in God. It is the beginning of our participation in Christ’s death and the sign of God’s promise to give us everlasting life.

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” is the Church’s way of saying, “Don’t take yourself more seriously than you take God.” Today is our first step into death. It is a journey that leads, not to the grave, but to the fullness and abundance of life that God intends for us and we most desire for ourselves.

Study for Nicodemus Visiting Jesus, Henry Ossawa Tanner

Nicodemus “came to Jesus by night” (John 3:1-17, Lent 2A). I wonder if that’s not true for all of us. I wonder if we don’t all come to Jesus by night.

Some have said that Nicodemus was hiding in the darkness. He was embarrassed. He was scared and didn’t want to be seen or caught. Others have said Nicodemus wasn’t a true believer and that his faith was shallow and superficial. A few have even said it was just a matter of scheduling and night was the only time Nicodemus and Jesus could get together. Maybe, but I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s any of those. I think there is much more to it than that.

St. John is using night in a particular way. It’s not our usual understanding of the word. St John is using it to describe a condition or a circumstance. In St. John’s account of the gospel night is that time, Jesus says, “when no one can work” (Jn. 9:4). Our usual daytime activities have no power or meaning in the night. We are unable to create and sustain our own life in the night. Elsewhere Jesus speaks of night as the time when we stumble because there is no light in us and we just can’t see the way forward (Jn. 11:10). Night is the separation, fragmentation, and division within us that can become betrayal of ourselves and others. Remember Judas? He got up and left the table, St. John writes, “and it was night” (Jn.13:30). Night describes those times we fish all night but catch nothing (Jn. 21:3). Our efforts prove fruitless and our nets remain empty.

Coming to Jesus by night is not a statement about the time, Nicodemus’ motive, or his faith. It is, rather, a description of Nicodemus and his life, a description that probably fits all of us at one time or another. Coming by night is the recognition that there is a daytime Nicodemus and a nighttime Nicodemus; just as there is a daytime Mike and a nighttime Mike, a daytime you and a nighttime you.

By day Nicodemus knows who he is. He has an identity. He is a Pharisee. He has a role and a reputation as a leader of the Jews. He knows and applies the law. People listen to and follow him. He has a particular place in society. He fits in. He has security and power.

By night, however, Nicodemus is lost and confused. He cannot see or understand. Nothing makes sense. He’s in the dark, as we say. His work, accomplishments, reputation, and place in society no longer provide stability or answers. Everything has changed. He’s stumbling in the dark. Daytime certainty has given way to nighttime questions. “How can these things be?” By day he keeps the faith. By night, however, his nets come up empty. He’s looking for something the daytime life just cannot give him.

We probably all know what that’s like. We live daytime lives and we live nighttime lives. By day all is well. We live with a sense of identity and security. We have a place and purpose. Our life has meaning and direction. Daytime reveals what is, but darkness reveals nothing. By night everything is hidden. We stumble through the darkness, grasping for something to hold, seeking answers and explanations for our life. Everything has been turned upside down and nothing is certain. In the dark life doesn’t make sense and we don’t understand. The night is a time of vulnerability, questions, and wrestling with life.

We are almost always better at daytime living than nighttime living. We have been taught to live daytime lives. That’s what our world values, encourages, and rewards. We want to be daytime people. That means we spend our time looking for information and answers. We build our reputations. We desire recognition and approval. We establish our place in life. We buy stuff and gain wealth. We want predicability and control. We prefer what is safe and familiar.

Daytime life is the life we create for ourselves. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. We all do it and we need to. Some of those things are necessary. The problem is that daytime life keeps us stuck in the cycle of always having to create and re-create our lives. Somehow we can never get enough. We never quite get there. It seems that which we most want is always just beyond our grasp. That’s important information to know. It means we cannot keep doing the same old things and expect a different result.

It means no matter how hard we try, how much we gather, or how much we know something will always be missing from our daytime life. It will always be less than the life God intends and desires for us. No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above. No one can enter the kingdom of God without being born again. No matter how full, beautiful, or successful daytime life is it will always be incomplete, fragile, and fleeting. How could it not be? It’s the life we have created for ourselves and “what is born of the flesh is flesh.”

When we realize that about our self and our life we have entered the nighttime of life. Here’s the irony. The very life we create for ourselves often becomes the circumstances that take us into the darkness. We keep doing the same old thing but nothing changes. We’re so exhausted we can’t muster the energy to re-create our life one more time. We have everything we want, everything is fine, but something is lacking. Those and a thousand others like them are the start of our darkness.

Most of us do whatever we can to avoid or get out of the darkness. Nighttime living isn’t much fun. It’s difficult, uncomfortable, even painful. It’s not our first choice. It is, however, necessary. That’s why we are marked with ashes and reminded of our mortality. We must remember that what is born of the flesh is flesh and that there is more to us and our lives than what we can create for ourselves. It’s why this season of Lent focuses on the very opposite of daytime living: letting go instead of possessing, hunger instead of fullness, self-denial instead of self-satisfaction, change instead of status quo, self-examination instead of blissful ignorance, and darkness rather than light.

The great temptation in the nighttime is to think that if we just get the answer, if we can understand and explain it all, then we’ll know what to do. We’ll do it better this time. We’ll do it differently this time. Things will change and we’ll get what we want. That’s what Nicodemus is doing. “How can these things be?” He wants an answer, information. That’s just more daytime living and it doesn’t work in the nighttime of life.

The nighttime of life is not a situation to be resolved, a problem to be figured out, or a question to be answered. As difficult and painful as it may be the nighttime of life is the womb by which we are born from above. The discomforts of the darkness are the contractions by which we are pushed into new life and born again. This nighttime birth changes everything about our daytime life. This second birth gives meaning to, completes, and fulfills our first birth.

This, however, is the Spirit’s work not ours. We cannot birth ourselves. We can only feel and give way to the rhythm of the contractions. So don’t flee the darkness. Don’t fight the night. Let yourself be born. The contractions of the darkness are God reshaping, forming, and molding you in the likeness of Christ. Isn’t that what we really want? Isn’t that why we’ve shown up here today? Isn’t that what this holy season of Lent is about?

Lent is our reminder that the nighttime of life, no matter how dark, is always filled with the promise of new life, full life, abundant life, God’s own life – what Jesus calls eternal life. Why settle for re-creating ourselves one more time when Christ is dying to give us a life we could never create for ourselves?

Image source

“A bishop will die, but the Church which is the people will never perish.” Those words of Archbishop Oscar Romero proved prophetic. He was shot to death on March 24, 1980 while celebrating Mass at a chapel near his cathedral. The previous day he had preached a sermon calling on soldiers to disobey orders that violated human rights. Almost nine months after Romero’s assassination, four Maryknoll nuns were killed by the El Salvadoran army. Similarly, in November 1989 nine Jesuit priests were murdered.

This year is the 34th anniversary of Archbishop Romero’s martrydom. He was appointed Archbishop of San Salvador in 1977. Radicals distrusted Romero’s conservative sympathies. This would, however, quickly change for them and Romero. Following Romero’s appointment a Jesuit friend of his, Rutilio Grande, was assassinated. Romero began protesting the government’s injustice to the poor and its policies of torture. He met with Pope John Paul II in 1980 to complain that the leaders of El Salvador engaged in terror and assassinations. He pleaded with the United States to discontinue military aid to El Salvador. This request was, however, denied.

We often focus on the circumstances of a martyr’s death and rightly so. Before there can be a martyr’s death, however, there is first a martyr’s life. It is a life of learning to die. Martyrs die before they die. This first death is what frees them to live a martyr’s life, to offer all that they are and all that they have. The second death confirms and points to the first. Isn’t that the way of Christ, the way of the cross? Isn’t that what we see in the martyrdom of Archbishop Romero? He was assassinated in 1980 but he started dying in 1977 following Rutilio Grande’s murder. In life and death his blood was “a seed of freedom.”

To learn more about Archbishop Romero’s life and martyrdom watch the movie entitled Romero or read the biography by James Brockman entitled Romero – A Life. The following quotations from Archbishop Romero come from a book entitled The Violence of Love:

• “The world does not say: blessed are the poor. The world says: blessed are the rich. You are worth as much as you have. But Christ says: wrong. Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, because they do not put their trust in what is so transitory” (33).
• The guarantee of one’s prayer is not in saying a lot of words. The guarantee of one’s petition is very easy to know: how do you treat the poor? Because that is where God is. The degree to which you approach them and the love with which you approach them, or the scorn with which you approach them – that is how you approach your God. What you do to them, you do to God. The way you look at them is the way you look at God” (35).
• “Some want to keep the gospel so disembodied that it doesn’t get involved at all in the world it must save. Christ is in history. Christ is in the womb of the people. Christ is now bringing about the new heavens and the new earth” (102).
• “If we are worth anything, it is not because we have more money or more talent or more human qualities. Insofar as we are worth anything, it is because we are grafted onto Christ’s life, his cross and resurrection. That is a person’s measure” (124).
• “A church that suffers no persecution but enjoys the privileges and support of the things of the earth – beware! – is not the true church of Jesus Christ” (125).
• “God’s reign is already present on our earth in mystery. When the Lord comes, it will be brought to perfection. That is the hope that inspires Christians. We know that every effort to better society, especially when injustice and sin are so ingrained, is an effort that God blesses, that God wants, that God demands of us” (206).

Almighty God, you called your servant Oscar Romero to be a voice for the voiceless poor, and to give his life as a seed of freedom and a sign of hope: Grant that, inspired by his sacrifice and the example of the martyrs of El Salvador, we may without fear or favor witness to your Word who abides, your Word who is Life, even Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be praise and glory now and for ever. Amen.

“In the days of creation of the world, when God was uttering his living and mighty “Let there be,” the word of the Creator brought creatures into the world. But on that day, unprecedented in the history of the world, when Mary uttered her brief and obedient, “So be it,” I hardly dare say what happened then – the word of the creature brought the Creator into the world.”

- Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow, 1874

Ohrid Icon of the Annunciation (source)

How amazing is that? The creature’s word echoes the Creator’s word. The created gives birth to the Creator. That says a lot about what God thinks of humanity. Far too often we look at ourselves and say, “I’m only human! What do you expect?” We use our humanity as an excuse. God, however, sees our humanity as an opportunity. It is the opportunity, to paraphrase St. Gregory of Nyssa, for the Invisible to be seen, the Intangible to be touched, and the Son of God to be become the Son of Man. That opportunity was fulfilled in Mary’s “Let it be.” That’s not, however, the end of the story or the opportunities. Each one of us is a new opportunity for God. The Feast of the Annunciation reminds us that God is always announcing and entrusting God’s self to each one of us, to you and to me.

What is God announcing in our lives? In what ways is God entrusting himself to us? Will we speak the word that brings the Creator into the world?

Consequently, prayer is a matter of love. Man expresses love through prayer, and if we pray, it is an indication that we love God. If we do not pray this indicates we do not love God, for the measure of our prayer is the measure of our love for God.

- Archimandrite Zacharias, The Hidden Man of the Heart, 68

Praying woman. Catacomb of Calixtus, Rome, early 4th century fresco.
(image source)

Icon of Jesus, Pantocrator
Hagia Sophia

“The Lord clothes his chosen souls in
the garments of the ineffable light of his kingdom,
the garments of faith, hope, love, joy, and peace,
the garments of goodness and kindness
and all comparable things.
They are the divine garments
pulsating with light and life,
and they bring us peace that passes all description;
for God is himself Love and Joy and Peace
and Kindness and Goodness,
and this is exactly how he renews our very being
in his grace.”

- Makarios the Great in The Book of Mystical Chapters, p.137-138

Icon of the Triumphal Entry (source)

Today is known as the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. (There are two gospel readings: Matthew 21:1-11 (the triumphal entry) and Matthew 27:11-54 (the passion)). I’ve been wondering and thinking though about a different name for this day. What if we renamed today “Turmoil Sunday?” Does that sound like the gospel to you? Did you show up today hoping or expecting Jesus to bring some turmoil? Is the turmoil bringing Jesus the one you want to know and follow?

My guess is that, for most of us, the answers to those questions are, “No, no,” and “no.” I can honestly say that I have never prayed for Jesus to bring me some turmoil and I’m betting most of you haven’t either. Most of us probably pray for and hope Jesus will bring just the opposite: some peace and calm, answers to our questions, and solutions to our problems. We didn’t come here today looking for turmoil. We came to hear the story of Jesus riding a donkey, to sing our hosannas, and to get our souvenir palm.

I suspect the crowds that followed Jesus weren’t so different from us. A ride on a borrowed donkey, songs of celebration and praise, garments and branches that fall before Jesus like the confetti of a ticker tape parade; now that’s a triumphal entry. It was for them and it is for us. Most of us are probably pretty happy to leave it at that.

So why would we rename this day “Turmoil Sunday?” Despite what we see, our expectations and hopes for the day, and even what we want to believe, the city itself, Jerusalem, has a very different experience of and response to Jesus’ triumphal entry. “When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’” Jesus and turmoil seem to go together.

I wonder if Jerusalem sees and understands something we don’t. I wonder if we are too easily distracted by the donkey, hosannas, and palms so that we miss what is really happening. I wonder if the city’s response just might be the most faithful and appropriate response. Maybe we should all be in turmoil this day. Maybe turmoil is today’s good news. Maybe the turmoil Jesus brings is exactly what we need.

St. Matthew makes it very clear that turmoil sets the tone not just for today but throughout this entire week and even into Easter. It is not, however, our usual understanding of the word turmoil. It is more than just chaos, confusion, and uncertainty.

The Greek word that has been translated as turmoil really means to shake or quake and is descriptive of what happens in an earthquake. St. Matthew uses this same Greek word to describe Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, the shaking of the earth and the splitting of the rocks at Jesus’ crucifixion, the earthquake that accompanies the angel coming and rolling the stone away from Jesus’ tomb, and the shaking of the guard who stood at the tomb.

In all these St. Matthew is describing seismic events in which our lives and our world are shaken to the core and something is destroyed. That’s what earthquakes do. The destruction wrought by Holy Week, however, is not the end but a new beginning. The tremblers of this week will forever change who we are and the life we live.

On Monday the fragrance of love will mingle with the coming death of Jesus and everyone in the house will be shaken. On Tuesday the invitation to die before we die will become the epicenter of our faith. On Wednesday Judas’ betrayal will reveal the fault line in all of us. On Thursday we will tremble at the intimacy of touching and washing another person’s feet and having them touch and wash ours. On Friday the earth will quake as the cross of our creator is plunged into the heart of death. The silence of Saturday will cause the gates of hell to shudder and burst open.

Holy Week will be one earthquake after another. You know what happens in an earthquake. Earthquakes are destructive. The foundations on which we stand are shaken. Old things crumble and fall. The structures around which we’ve built our lives are left in ruin and rubble. That’s how Jerusalem experiences Jesus’ entry and that’s why this day should be called “Turmoil Sunday.”

So let me ask you this. What parts of your life and world need some Jesus kind of turmoil? What in you needs to be shaken awake and back to life? What has become foundational for your life but no longer supports your life? What are the old ways of thinking, seeing, and acting that just need to crumble and fall? In what ways have you become a prisoner of the very structures upon which you built your life? Somewhere in each of our lives we need the triumphant turmoil of Christ. It is the devastation of everything in us that keeps us from being fully alive, fully ourselves, and fully God’s. It’s the devastation that creates space and place for a new foundation, a new structure, and a new life.

The turmoil of this day is also the triumph of this day. The triumph of Palm Sunday is not in the donkey, the hosannas, or the palms. It is Christ’s earth shaking entry into our world and our lives. It is a triumph that will continue to be revealed throughout this week. It is a triumph that happens whenever and wherever Jesus is present.

I’ve now been here at St. Philip’s long enough that you probably know one of the things I emphasize in my teaching, preaching, and our life together is the movement from thinking to experience, the practice of living out of our hearts rather than our heads. My focus on this is as much for me as it is for you. I teach that because I struggle to live that, and I suspect you do to. Most of us do.

Tonight (Maundy Thursday, John 13:1-17, 31-35) is one of the most dramatic nights of the Church’s year; the last supper, the foot washing, the stripping of the altar. Nothing about tonight or the rest of this Holy Week makes sense. So don’t look for explanations or answers. I will not offer you any. The only thing I have to offer this night is an invitation.

Foot Washing (source)

Don’t rationalize away this night; its intimacy, its vulnerability, its grief, its darkness. Most of us do that all the time and it gets us nowhere. That’s what Peter is trying to do. “You will never wash my feet,” he tells Jesus. He doesn’t understand how or why Jesus could or would wash his feet. That makes no sense. That not how it’s supposed to be. Ah, but it is. It has to be this way. Otherwise, we “have no share” with Jesus. “You do not know what I am doing,” Jesus tells Peter, “but later you will understand.” To give ourselves to this night is to give ourselves to Jesus.

If we try to think our way through this night we will miss taking our share with Jesus. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want you to do that. Tonight let’s take our share with Jesus. Isn’t that why we came here tonight? To take our share?

That means we show up to this last supper. We bring with us all the last suppers at which we have eaten; the endings, the losses, and the tears. We all have them. We carry them deep within our hearts. Who are your guests at those tables? Picture their faces. Recall their names. What are the conversations? Hear their voices. Listen to their words. What are you feeling? Don’t turn away. Let the emotions touch your heart and run through your gut. Tonight we eat and drink in remembrance. We let ourselves be fed with a food that will remain even after the table has been cleared.

Taking our share means that we come to the basin. We bare our feet to one another and to the water of Jesus’ love. Strange and familiar feet, young and old feet, healthy and hurting feet, pretty and attractive feet, ugly and deformed feet, feet that have kicked and hurt another, and feet that have been stepped on and hurt by another. Jesus received and washed them all. Will you risk being that vulnerable and intimate? What does that bring up for you? Fear, embarrassment, shame? Hope, forgiveness, healing? Tonight we love one another just as he has loved us. We let ourselves be washed in a love that will remain even after the water has dried.

Finally, taking our share means that we be present to the darkness and the stripping of the altar. We acknowledge and recount the times and ways in which the altar of our life was stripped bare. The light fades and shadows invade: fear, grief, absence, isolation, despair. The darkness testifies to just how real life is. Tonight we cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.” We let this stripping hollow out a place in us large enough to hold “the Holy One, enthroned upon the praises of Israel.” (Ps. 22:1, 3)

That’s it. That’s my invitation to you this night. No explanations and no commentary. This is all I have, for you and for me. But I trust and believe it is enough. The mystery of this night is enough. So, what do you say? Will you show up? Come? Be present?

Will you, this night, take your share with Jesus?

+++

Holy Week Sermons

• Life-giving Turmoil – A Sermon for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday, Matthew 21:1-11
• Hell Awaits – A Sermon for Good Friday, John 18:1-19:42
• The Morning After – A Sermon for Holy Saturday

Last night we began taking our share with Jesus. We ate the last supper. We washed feet. We stripped the altar. We come here today much the same as we left here last night. The table of our last supper has been cleared and is empty. The water that washed our feet has dried and the basin is empty. The altar of our life has been stripped bare and is empty. It feels like hell; death always does.

Last night’s drama has become today’s crucifixion (John 18:1-19:42). Today there is only the cross. Jesus is dead. In him all our last suppers, our loves, and our life’s altars hang before us. Life is gone.

Today, more than anything else, I want to run away. I want to run away from Jesus’ cross and death. I want to run away from my own death. I want to run away from our son’s death. I want to run away from the deaths of my family. I want to run away from your deaths. I don’t know where I’d go. I just want to get away. Anywhere but here.

I know you understand what I am feeling and talking about. I’ve seen your tears and heard your cries. I’ve listened to your questions. I’ve held your hands and hugged you. I’ve watched death take from you what you did not want to give up.

Running from death is how most of us grew up. It continues to be what most of us do or at least try to do. It’s what we were taught to do. We were told death is the end. There is nothing left. It’s over. So we ran for our life. We railed against God. We asked questions for which there are no answers. We sought explanations of a mystery that can only be experienced and not understood. Mostly though we lived, and often continue to live, in fear, as prisoners of death.

The years, the deaths, and the Good Fridays have, however, taught me that no matter how far or fast we run we can never get away. Crosses stand throughout our lives and our world. Death is real. Every time we deny the reality of death the cock crows, mocking our fear and despair, our isolation and abandonment, our tears and sorrow.

Taking our share with Jesus did not end with the last supper, the foot washing, or the stripping of the altar. It has brought us to this day, this day of death, and it will take us though this day. Don’t ask how or why. I don’t know. I have no more explanations or answers for you today than I had last night. I have only the mystery of death and the paradox of Good Friday, and it is enough.

So that today we stand at the foot of the cross. There is nowhere else to go. In a few moments we will pray the solemn collects for the Church, the nations, and the people of the world. We will name the suffering, the miseries, and the sorrows of our lives and our world. We will remember those who have died. We will pray to the God who, on days like this, seems to have left us.

Don’t follow along and just read the words. Let yourself feel and enter the isolation and abandonment of this day. Ask the question that always haunts us on this day, “Where is God?” Ask it not to get an answer, but to enter the mystery. Picture the faces of your loved ones who have died. Call their names. Recount the losses of all that you cherished and held dear. Continue taking your share with Jesus.

Today we know ourselves to be in hell; not because we’ve been bad or are being punished but because death is real. Then we will do the craziest thing. It makes absolutely no sense but we will do it anyway.

+ We glory in Jesus’ cross.
+ We declare that joy has come to the world by virtue of his cross.
+ We adore and bless Christ because by his holy cross he has given us life.
+ We sing about the faithful cross.

That’s the mystery of death and the paradox of Good Friday. It means there is more to this day than death. The cross is not the end. It is Jesus’ entry into and presence with us in the last place we ever wanted to be. So today we take our share in him that he might take his share in our hell. Today Jesus is on the cross, death is here, and hell awaits.

In fear and trembling, hell awaits.

+++

Holy Week Sermons

• Life-giving Turmoil – A Sermon for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday, Matthew 21:1-11
• Taking our Share with Jesus – A Sermon for Maundy Thursday on John 13:1-17, 31-35
• The Morning After – A Sermon for Holy Saturday

In a grave they laid Thee,
O my life and my Christ;
and the armies of the Angels were sore amazed,
as they sang the praise of Thy submissive love.

Entombment of Christ (source)

How, O Life, canst Thou die?
Or abide in a grave?
For Thou dost destroy the kingdom of death, O Lord,
and Thou raisest up the dead of Hades realm.

Now we magnify Thee,
O Lord Jesus, our King;
and we venerate Thy Passion and Burial,
whereby from corruption’s bowels are we redeemed.

Thou Who didst establish
the earth’s bounds dost now dwell
in a small grave, O my Jesus, Thou king of all,
who dost call the dead to leave their graves and rise.

O my dear Christ Jesus,
King and Ruler of all,
why to them that dwelt in Hades didst Thou descend?
Was it not to set the race of mortals free?

Lo, the Sov’reign Ruler
of creation is dead
and is buried in a tomb never used before,
He that emptied all the graves of all their dead.

In a grave they laid Thee,
O my Life and my Christ.
Yet behold now, by Thy death, death is stricken down,
and Thou pourest forth life’s streams for all the world.

- Excerpt from the Lamentations, The First Stasis, for Holy and Great Saturday

The Harrowing of Hell (source)

Jesus’ body has been taken down from the cross, received into the hands of his mother and friends. They have wrapped his body in their love and laid him in the tomb. The door of the tomb has been replaced by a great stone. (Matthew 27:57-66)

This is not only a story about Jesus. It is a story about the deaths and losses of our lives. We all have been there. Some still are.

Today the liturgy is short. There is no Eucharist. The church is still empty and barren. There’s not much to say or see on this day.

Today is mostly a day of silence, sitting, and waiting. That’s how it is on the morning after. That’s how it is the morning after you receive the news. That’s how it is the morning after you see the body. That’s how it is the morning after the burial.

Every Good Friday is followed by a Holy Saturday. You wake up and realize that last night’s nightmare wasn’t just a bad dream. It is the reality and truth of today’s life.

The author of Lamentations speaks our truth (Lamentations 3:1-9, 19-24). We have been “brought into darkness without any light.” We are “besieged and enveloped with bitterness and tribulation.” We are walled in and cannot escape. We are bound in chains. We call and cry for help but our prayer is shut out. We are homeless. There is nothing but the tomb.

We sit and wait in the hell of our life. We sit and wait in the hell of our life. We sit and wait in the hell of our life.

Our portion, our share, we are told is in the Lord, his steadfast love, his never ending mercies, his great faithfulness. Where is that today? Where is the steadfast love of the Lord on Holy Saturday? Where are his never ending mercies and great faithfulness on the morning after?

The only place they could be; in hell, with you and with me. Look at the bottom of page 53 in the Book of Common Prayer:

I believe in God, the Father almighty,
maker of heaven and earth,
And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord;
who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died and was buried.
He descended into hell.

Hell. That’s where the Lord’s steadfast love is on Holy Saturday. That’s where his never ending mercies are today. That’s where the Lord’s great faithfulness is on the morning after.

Holy Saturday is when Christ descends into the hell of our life, breaking the bonds of death, and setting the captives free. Holy Saturday is the day death and Hades tremble in fear, and regret ever having tried to take captive the author and creator of life.

At the presence of Christ the trembling and quaking of Hades will become the contractions that birth new life. The tomb of Holy Saturday will become the womb of Easter Sunday. That is the promise hidden deep within every tomb. Meanwhile its still hell and we sit and wait. We sit and wait with a promise and the one who will keep that promise.

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Holy Week Sermons

• Life-giving Turmoil – A Sermon for the Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday, Matthew 21:1-11
• Taking our Share in Jesus – A Sermon for Maundy Thursday, John 13:1-17, 31-35
• Hell Awaits – A Sermon for Good Friday, John 18:-19:42