Year A, The Resurrection of our Lord, John 20.1-18

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

Entering the subways in St Petersburg, Russia can be frightening.  The escalators are some of the longest in the world as they descend down, down, and even farther down.  One passes through the turnstiles and steps onto the escalator before you can actually see how far down the down escalator goes.  And then as the steps go over the edge you finally get a glimpse of the depths to which you are descending and the only choice you have is to ride it to the end.

Imagine, riding a ski lift down the mountain, in the dark, with no idea how far down it is, but only the sensation of the descent into the darkness.

There is a spiral stairway, of which you cannot see the ending.  If you dare look over the edge, you see nothing but stairs, one after another, each one a little lower.  Desperately, you'd like to turn around but it is as if there is an unseen force pulling you down the staircase and all the energy you can muster does nothing more than slow the descent.

Its as if one is chasing the sun, hoping to stay ahead of the darkness that is coming, and yet, try as you might, you cannot run fast enough, and the darkness always descends, and one has no choice but to wait out the night.

It is an all too familiar path.  Perhaps, if one is lucky, there are landings along the way that provide a place to rest awhile.  It might be a distraction such as a recreational activity, a good conversation, or a good meal.  But it is short lived.  As with an escalator, one can turn around and try to walk up the down escalator for awhile.  If you are capable of walking up faster than the steps are carrying you down, you can reverse the descent.  But only for awhile, a moment, for the relentless downward momentum of the escalator is more powerful than the ability to climb the stairs.

Sensory perceptions dim.  The world goes black and white, and shades of grey.  (I realize this dates me, as there are many today who have never seen a black and white TV screen.)  It becomes hard to hear.  Sound becomes jumbled.  People seem to drift away, out of one's reach, isolation becomes overwhelming.  And then, as though cruelly planned, the force of gravity increases and your body becomes heavy, incredibly heavy, making it difficult to walk, impossible to move freely, and even while resting, it is though one is pulled forcefully into the bed.

Lying alone in the darkness, one waits for the dawn.  No effort on your part can hasten the rising of the sun.  One voice in your head screams out in despair that the sun is gone forever, another calming voice speaks of faith, and that the light will return in the morning, once again, after the night has run its course.  But first the night must run its course.

Five years ago I wrote these words about my experiences of depression, that deep darkness that envelopes one’s life.

Darkness.  And waiting for the dawn.  It’s not a good place to be.  And yet in the waiting there is hope.

In Psalm 130 we read:

5 I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,

and in his word I hope;

6 my soul waits for the Lord

more than those who watch for the morning,

more than those who watch for the morning.

We sit in darkness, waiting for the morning.

Our world languishes in darkness, a darkness brought on by a virus, COVID 19.

It’s like we are on that escalator in St. Petersburg, descending into the abyss, unable to see the ending.  We don’t know how long the virus will be among us, how many will get ill, and whether we will be the ones who die. 

We sit in darkness, waiting for the light.

It was in the darkness that Mary walked to the tomb.

It was not just that the sun had not yet risen, it was that death hung over her world like a dark blanket that cut out the light.

And having witnessed the death of Jesus there undoubtedly was a fear that another shoe might drop, a fear that all the disciples shared, and that was that death might strike again.

It was Thomas that had voiced this fear when Jesus decided to go up to Jerusalem to raise Lazarus.

"Let us also go, that we may die with him."

Times of darkness, yet we wait for the dawn.

More than watchmen for the morning,

More than watchmen for the morning.

And in our darkness we cling to the promise.

The promise that God’s eternal light will conquer the darkness and even death itself.

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, 2 the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. 3 Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.

The Prophet Isaiah declared:

2 The people who walked in darkness

have seen a great light;

those who lived in a land of deep darkness—

on them light has shined.

And Jesus said:

"I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life."

And in Revelation we read:

And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb.

Though we sit in darkness, we wait for the light.

Waiting, though, is hard for we are an impatient people.

When we first decided that we could not gather for worship, following the advice of the public health authorities, we cancelled worship until Easter.

Well, Easter is here, and still we each remain in our homes unable to gather together to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord.

We are like Mary, standing alone in the darkness that first Easter, not yet able to see beyond her tears to the joy that was to come.

And we are like the disciples who gathered behind closed doors, out of fear.

You know why we wait.

We wait so that death might not claim us.

We wait out of loving concern for one another.

We wait because we are not yet out of this ordeal.

We wait upon the Lord, like watchmen for the morning.

But we wait, knowing that the night will pass and the day will dawn.

This Easter is different than any I have ever experienced before.

I, like you, long for the full sanctuary, the fragrance of lilies, the bright colored dresses (I remember when all the women would get new dresses for Easter, and the men a new shirt and tie) and of course, the Easter breakfast with which we celebrated the end of the Lenten fast.

I long for the day when we can look back at the COVID 19 virus as a disease that we long ago have overcome.

But that is not today.

That is not where we are at this Easter.

This Easter, we walk with Mary in the darkness to the tomb, not yet aware of the future that God has in store for us.

We wait for the dawn.

We long to hear the voice of Jesus.

I offer to you at this time of waiting, a song particularly dear to me through times of trouble.

1 Be still, my soul: the Lord is on your side;
bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
leave to your God to order and provide;
in ev'ry change he faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: your best, your heav'nly Friend
through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

2 Be still, my soul: your God will undertake
to guide the future as he has the past.
Your hope, your confidence let nothing shake;
all now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
his voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

3 Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
and all is darkened in the veil of tears,
then shall you better know his love, his heart,
who comes to soothe your sorrow and your fears.
Be still, my soul: your Jesus can repay
from his own fullness all he takes away.

4 Be still, my soul: the hour is hast'ning on
when we shall be forever with the Lord,
when disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past,
all safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Year C, Easter 2, John 20.19-31, My Lord and my God

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

Faith and Believing is not something we do with our minds, but the state of our hearts and souls.

In fact, it is when doubts assail us that faith and belief are often the strongest, for to have faith, to believe, is to trust in another when nothing whatsoever is certain.

Faith and belief are concepts that have multiple layers of meaning, and because of that, we are often left to struggle with what is meant in a particular situation. 

Back in 2002, on the occasion of Karla and my 25^th wedding anniversary, I became ill.  After a wonderful dinner out with friends and family, it was like a bomb went off in my gut, so severe that I asked Karla to take me into the hospital.

They treated me for a variety of symptoms, and after a few hours, had me settled down.

However, the Dr. said one thing that would have significant consequences.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a heart murmur?” 

Subsequent tests in the coming weeks and months revealed that I had a mitral valve failure, and needed open heart surgery.

For me that experience became the best example of faith and belief.

There were three things going on.

First, the doctor explained that I had pulmonary hypertension, that is, an elevated blood pressure in my lungs, which is an indication that the mitral valve was not functioning, allowing blood to be pumped back into the lungs instead of just forward into the body.

When the doctor explained that to me, the first issue was did I understand what he was saying? 

This first level, understanding, is one of the dimensions of faith and belief. 

When we say “We believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth” do you understand what that means?  This is a question of intelligence and knowledge.

One of the things that I had to deal with during my treatment is that, aside from that one night, I was symptom free.  There had been no shortness of breath or uncomfortableness that would lead me to think that I had a problem.

So when the doctor told me about my mitral valve and what was wrong, I had to decide whether I would accept what he was saying as being the truth.

This dimension of faith, believing something is actually true, is a matter of conviction.  Not intelligence.

Some very intelligent people may not agree about what is true.  For example, two people may understand quite well what we mean when we say that God created the heavens and the earth, but disagree on whether that is a true statement.

Back to my surgery.

Following all the tests and the determination that I needed surgery, I was introduced to Dr. Sewick. 

Now the question was not about understanding, nor was it about truth, but rather it was about trust.  Specifically, would I trust this man to perform the surgery and fix my heart, knowing that he would stop and start the heart to do it?

Trust in this sense, is all about a relationship.

You can understand something all by yourself.

You can be convinced that something is true all by yourself.

But trust, in this sense, is always trust in another.

So when we talk about our Christian faith, we do so in three different ways.

We talk about our understanding of the Christian beliefs, namely that God created us all, that he has redeemed us, and that by the power of the Holy Spirit he leads us to believe and transforms our life.

We also talk about our Christian faith as a conviction that these things that have been revealed to us through the scriptures and proclamation are in fact true.

But the most important dimension of faith is whether we will trust in God with our whole life and soul.

There’s one other thing about these three dimensions of faith and belief that bears noting.

Only the third dimension that of trusting in the other really matters in the end.

Understanding what was wrong with my heart didn’t save me.

Believing I had a problem did not save me.

It was trusting in Dr. Sewick that saved me.

There’s a verse that I found very meaningful regarding the experience of Easter.

It comes from Luke 24: 41.

While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, .  .  .

What this says to me is that when the disciples experienced the Risen Christ, present in their midst, they didn’t understand what was happening, perhaps they couldn’t even believe that it was true, but nevertheless they were overcome with joy at being with Jesus once again.

Likewise in today’s Gospel reading.

When Jesus appeared among the disciples that Easter evening, they did not understand what was happening, and perhaps were wondering how it could possibly be true, but nevertheless they experienced Jesus, present and with them.

Thomas wasn’t there.

When the disciples shared with Thomas what had happened, Thomas responded “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.”

For Thomas, two things were extremely important.

First, he wanted to understand what happened.

And second, he needed to see proof that this was true.

When Jesus subsequently appeared also to Thomas Jesus offered to let him feel his wounds, but it was not necessary.

“My Lord and My God.”

My Lord.

My God.

What changed for Thomas was the relationship was reestablished. 

Thomas likely still did not understand.

He probably wondered how this could be true.

But there was his Lord and Savior, Jesus.

And that was all that mattered.

What matters to us?  Nearly two thousand years have passed.  What matters to us today?

We are at a different place than those first disciples of Jesus.

For thousands of years now we have confessed our faith.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and will come again to judge the living and the dead.

We understand these things that form the nucleus of the Christian teachings about Jesus.

They have become very familiar to us.

And in our country, even though many people are no longer active in the Church, most people will, when asked, say that they believe these things to be true.

But the real question is whether we will trust the Lord our God above all else.

Do we have a personal relationship with Jesus as our Lord and Savior?

Jesus’ disciples struggled to understand.

It was also difficult to believe that this could possibly be true.

But what they could not deny is the experience they had of the Risen Christ.

“My Lord and My God!” Thomas declared.

My Lord and My God!

That is about a relationship.  Not understanding or truth.  But a personal relationship with Jesus.

This can be a struggle.

And it’s easy to get distracted.

As a pastor a whole lot of my life has been devoted to the pursuit of Christian knowledge and understanding, and the convictions that arise out of that about what is true.

In this regard, we train our pastors well.

I have an undergraduate degree in Religion and Philosophy, and four years of seminary to get my Master of Divinity Degree. 

Pastors understand a lot.

And most of us have strong convictions about what is true and what is not.

The real issue though is whether we have encountered the risen Christ and experienced a saving relationship with Jesus as our Lord and Savior.

For us, as for many people, sometimes it is the challenges that we face in life, not our education or convictions that truly test our faith and lead us into a relationship with Jesus.

It is not what we know or believe to be true that saves us.

It is Jesus.

Jesus only.  Standing there in our midst, wounded for our sake, and saying “Peace be with you.”

Amen

If for this life only. . . Easter, 1 Corinthians 15.19-26, John 20.1-18

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

The burdens of this life had weighed heavily upon her, and the veil of death hung heavily over her.

As she walked toward the garden tomb that morning, every step was a challenge, as though she carried on her shoulders and enormous load, which she did.

She could not get the image of Jesus, hanging from the cross out of her mind.  His agonizing pain.  The labored breathing.  Blood oozing from the welts on his skin, the horrific reminder of the lashes that ripped at him one by one.

Father, into thy hands I commend my Spirit!

And then silence.  A deafening silence.  His body now hanging limp from the cross.  His head resting upon his breast.

Darkness covered the land.

And though the sun would set and rise again, the darkness remained.

Jesus.

Now lifeless flesh, laid in a tomb, and a bittersweet memory of a love cut short.

Mary had hoped.

Mary, together with all the disciples had hoped.

Jesus had talked about the kingdom.  He promised they would see it.  That it was very near.

Purple robes had been draped over him in cruel mockery.  A crown of thorns placed upon his brow.

“This is the King of the Jews”, the inscription that hung over him.

What went wrong?

How could love, that love that had so touched Mary, have been so fleeting?

“Jesus.  My Jesus.  I cannot let go.  My soul grieves.  My heart aches.”

Step by step, she inched closer to the tomb.  Fear and foreboding overwhelmed her.

And then.  And then.

Nothing.  Emptiness.  

They had taken him from the tomb.

Where had they laid him?  Where had he gone?

Mary had been robbed of the love of her life, this Jesus.  Now it seemed, that they had added salt to the wound, not even allowing her proper grief.

All that she had hoped for was now gone with Jesus.  Even his body, taken from her.

One word changed everything.

“Mary!”

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

We hope for many things.

A child is conceived.  Hope abounds.

One wonders if it will be a boy or a girl.

What will he or she do?  Who will they become?

But then there is silence.

Listening for the heart beat, there is silence.

“Come back next week, and we’ll try again."  Still silence.

On a rainy day, we gathered under a tree to bury that unborn child.

My Bible’s pages still are wrinkled by the drops of water that fell as I read from Psalm 139 that day.

13 For it was you who formed my inward parts;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

that I know very well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.

In your book were written

all the days that were formed for me,

when none of them as yet existed.

And then Bill, the dad, gently laid the small box containing the lifeless body of their unborn child into the earth.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

If there is one thing above all else that I regret about my years of ministry, it is that I buried far too many children.

William Clark Benton born too early to survive.  They took him early, before his lungs were adequately developed, to save the life of his mother.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

Spencer and Andrew Petrina.

Two brothers, both who were born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy.  SMA

Slowly from birth they began the process of dying.  About a year each one lived.  And then finally the muscles simply did not work anymore. 

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

There was Paul, a nine year old boy, killed while playing with his brothers in a cemetery.  They had been swinging on the rope that hung from the flag pole when the pole collapsed and crushed Paul’s skull.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

Alison and Jazz, young girls, about fifteen, sixteen years old. 

Alison in Thompson Falls.

Jazz in Plevna.

Automobile accidents cut short their lifes.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

And on the list goes.

I remember Gary, the young father whom cancer claimed.

He left behind two wonderful kids, and a beautiful wife.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

In short order, over the course of the first few years of my ministry, I had buried someone in every decade of life, from birth till a hundred years old.

One by one.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

What does it mean to be a Christian?

What is the hope we claim?

We speak about things like new life, and living in the Kingdom now.

We hope that the love of Christ might transform this world.

We pray for ourselves, our families, for one another, and for the world.

Oh how we pray.

One of my vocations as a pastor has been to pray.

In worship, in your homes, in hospital rooms, and in the silence of my own soul, I pray.

That we pray is a confirmation of our hope.

And yet so often, the hopes we have for this life fade with the passing of each day.

The final prayer I offer is this:

“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant.  Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.  Receive him/her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.  Amen”

Ministry has been for me, walking hand in hand with my parishioners through the trials and fears of this world, to the gates of heaven.  And then, letting go, and saying those words “Into your hands, O merciful Savior.”

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

Easter.

Flowers.

Bunnies.

Hunting for eggs.  (I truly have never figured out what that is about.  I have no clue what it has to do with Easter.)

We have brunch.  (Can you smell it now?)

Easter is a celebration of the coming of Spring.

Or not.  .  .

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

“Mary!”

I’m increasingly aware that I’ve lived more years already, than I have left to live.

And on numerous occasions, I’ve faced heath issues that might have claimed my life.

Death looms.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

“Mary!”

That one word, spoken by the Risen Christ, declared to the universe itself that death was not the final word on life.

Eventually, death will call our name, and we will go.

But that is not the final word.

“Mary!”

Or John.  Or Kathryn.  Karl or Rebecca.

Or Spencer, or Andrew, or Gary, or Alison, or Jazz.

If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died. For since death came through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ.  Amen

So We Too. . . An Easter Meditation

Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.

So we too. . .

Resurrection.  Jesus.  A historical event.  An eschatological hope. 

Death's dominion clouds our vision.  It's coming.  That we know.  No exceptions.  The years pass quicker now.  Tragedy strikes too often.  Life is fragile.  But resilient. 

Death is real.  The Greeks were wrong to speak of the immortality of the soul.  We die.  All of us.  Completely.  Not just part of us.  Our souls are not spared the stark reality of death.  The world  can exist without us.  It did before we were born.  It will after we die.  The cosmos does not depend on our experience of it for its very being. 

Yet there is God, the Author and Giver of life.  And a promise.  You are dust and to dust you shall return.  But dust filled with possibility.  "Then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being."

Breath on O King Eternal, Breathe on.

Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven
Breath of heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy
Breath of heaven

(Amy Grant)

Resurrection is real.  More real than death.  Resurrection is not the avoidance of death, but a shedding of death's dominion.  One breath.  Life restored.  Not resuscitation.  To be resuscitated is to return to life, yet to remain under death's dominion.  We will die, again.  Resuscitation merely delays death's dark day.

They wanted to try.  The paramedics that is.  Dad had died.  "What do I do?" Karla asked.  Call 911.  "It may not be too late."  "No that is not what Dad wanted."  DNR means that one hopes for resurrection not resuscitation.  Dad looked forward to his own Easter.  

And yet resurrection is also a reality now.  Dying before death, and rising in this life.  "Keep you in eternal life."  Having once died through our baptism into Christ, we no longer need fear that breathless day.

"You almost died."  Or maybe I did.  But I was there to hear the words.  New life now meant sober living.

Resurrection.  Awakening.  Passing through the darkness.

Heart surgery.  Breathing stopped.  Lungs empty and deflated.  The heart's persistent beat now stopped.  Hours passed by.  A robot's arms stitched away under a skilled surgeon's gentle control.  And then the restart.  And the wait.

I remember her eyes looking into mine.  Her face but a few inches away.  "You're doing just fine.  You made it through surgery."  A few years later Dad had surgery in the same hospital.  The same nurse recovered Dad.  I recognized her.  It was those eyes.  And the assurance that I lived through it.

I wonder now whose eyes will welcome me home.  I think it will be much the same.  Except there will be no breathing tube.  The Breath of God entering in.  Death destroyed.  

Aging brings with it questions.  Are your best days behind you now, or yet to come.  Yet to come.  That's the resurrection hope. 

 If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.

It is darkest before the dawn.  And then the grating sound of rock against rock, as the stone is rolled back.  The grave opened.  Perhaps it was opened not for Jesus sake, but for the sake of those who came that morning.  The stone would have obscured their view.  And now they saw what was not there.  Him.  Why do you look for the living among the dead?

This Easter morning I keep my vigil.  I hope and pray.  One of the prayers I offer is for my congregation.  Small.  Declining in size.  Fearful.  And struggling to find hope that their ministry will continue.  New life, new members, and a renewed sense of purpose and being are difficult to realize.

Easter services.  Might there be visitors?  That would mean much for the congregation.

Resurrection or resuscitation.  Would a few new faces represent a resurrection of the congregation, or merely a resuscitation?  New life?  Or merely prolonging and delaying an inevitable death, the consequence of a world becoming secular.

I wonder what consolation that people will find at the time of their death in the knowledge that while they were able, they played soccer well each Sunday morning.

"Breathe Oh Breathe your gentle Spirit into the heart and soul of this congregation.  Do not let our voice be silenced, or our praise fade away."

It is dark now.  The vigil continues.  I write in the place that my father died.  More importantly, the place from which he was resurrected.

One final thought.  Gladys was her name.  95 years old.  "Pastor, I have one last question.  When we die do we go immediately to heaven, or sleep until the day of resurrection at the end of time?"  "What do you hope for Gladys?"  "Pastor, I'm 95 years old.  I've lived a long time.  I'm tired.  I want to sleep awhile."

I've slept enough.  When that day comes, I hope that the sleep is short lived and that the dawn comes quickly.  In the meantime, I'm thankful for the meantime.  The Bread and the Cup.  Is it not the Body and Blood of Christ?  And as we receive it we participate in his resurrected life.  Now.  That is sufficient.  I will wait in hope, knowing that Christ is present now, though my vision is obscured.

Christ is Risen!

Christ is Risen, Indeed!

Alleluia.

Year B, Easter Sunday, Mark 16:1-8 So That

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

A curious thing happens in the Gospel of Mark that leaves us wondering.

There is a secret, known as the “Messianic Secret”.

Who is Jesus?

As Jesus cast out demons, “he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.”

Whenever the unclean spirits saw him, they fell down before him and shouted, "You are the Son of God!" But he sternly ordered them not to make him known.

He cured the leper, but instructed him saying, "See that you say nothing to anyone; but go, show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing what Moses commanded, as a testimony to them."

When he cures the Gerasene Demoniac he does instruct him, a foreigner to "Go home to your friends, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and what mercy he has shown you."

But then after raising a young girl from the dead he again “strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.”

After curing a deaf man with a speech impediment Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it.

His disciples saw Jesus transfigured on the mountain, his appearance radiating heaven’s light and glory, yet “As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”

In spite of all these warnings, Jesus fame as a miracle worker spread throughout the region, so much so, that he could not go anywhere without being followed by the crowds.

Then, there is the turning point in the Gospel, when Jesus sets his sight on Jerusalem, and begins to teach his disciples that he must go there to suffer and die.

As Jesus was led to the cross, his disciples fled out of fear.

And on the cross, Jesus cried out with a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?" which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

And he died.

Then came that morning, the women at the tomb, and the angel’s message to the women, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. 7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you."

Throughout the Gospel, he has admonished people to not say anything, but now, finally, comes the command to go and tell.

But the women “fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

And there, the Gospel of Mark ends.

For they were afraid.

Finally there is a message to proclaim, but terror and amazement seized them and they were speechless.

Hearing this ending to the Gospel, we go, “wait, what, but they must have told someone!”

There has got to be something more.  Someone has to tell the story, otherwise, how would we know?

Someone has to share the Good News.

And there is where the Evangelist turns to us.  Someone has to share the good news, how about you?

We live in a world that desperately needs to hear a good word.

A man, Stephan Clark, was standing unarmed in his back yard when the police decided to open fire, and kill him.  He was shot 8 times, and six of those shots hit him in the back.  Rogue officers once again targeting the people they are called to protect, and killing primarily black people.

This is the nation and the times we live in.

15 students and two teachers are gunned down at Parkland high school.  6 minutes and 20 seconds was all the time it took.

Our children are being killed in their schools, and they’d rather not be. 

They march, thousands filled the streets last weekend. 

“Do something” is the demand.  “Do something.”

And yet we probably won’t, and there will be another shooting, another act of violence, and the senselessness of it all will be on display for all to see, once again.

This is the nation and the times we live in.

We have been embroiled in two different conflicts, military campaigns, in the Middle East.

It all started that fateful September morning in New York and Washington, DC.  Four airliners, two skyscrapers, and the Pentagon were hit.  Over three thousand people died.  And so we responded.

In Afghanistan.

In Iraq.

Overwhelming military force quickly toppled those governments.  But the wars linger on.  The violence continues.  Are we safer?

Many of us rejoiced that the cold war was over, but now, as tensions increase once again between us and Russia we wonder where we are headed.

And North Korea is flexing its muscle, actively testing and deploying nuclear weapons.

This is the world and the times we are living in.

We could use some good news.

“But they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

We live in a Good Friday world, standing at the foot of the cross, with violence, suffering, and death in full view, and yet we look with hope to the empty tomb.

That’s the Easter message.

There are two truths that stand out for me this day:

First, that as sinful human beings, our power and authority is far too often exercised in violent ways leading to death and destruction.  That’s the power we have.

As Commander in Chief the President can order the death of whole nations.

Terrorists can commandeer an airplane and wreak havoc on our world.

A troubled youth with a AR-15, a gun that is far too easy to purchase, can in the course of a few moments end the lives of his classmates and teachers.

And a few bad officers, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of vengeance, can open fire and end a life, at will.

This is the power we have.  Power to kill and destroy.

But secondly, the other truth is more important than the first.

God’s power and authority resides in his ability to conquer death, and give life.

“"Where, O death, is your victory?

Where, O death, is your sting?"

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

This last September, my father, who had come to live with us, died.

One of the things that was so important to his faith is summed up in two words:  “so that”.

As Paul states in Romans:

Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.

Christ died and rose again, “so that”

We were baptized into Christ’s death, “so that”

There is a rhyme and reason to it all, there is a “so that”

“So that we too might walk in newness of life.”

The prophet Isaiah describes this newness of life when he speaks God’s word:

“They shall not hurt or destroy

on all my holy mountain,”

says the Lord.

So that we too might walk in newness of life.

So that we shall not hurt or destroy on all God’s holy mountain.

Faced with all the violence and death in our world, we stand not defeated, but rather we live as and “Easter People”.

We live, trusting in the power of God to give life.

We live, trusting that death will not have the final say.

And we live as people of the promise.

The Resurrection of Jesus points us not only to a future hope, but also to a present reality.

Life is not defeated.

And Love wins.

One of the most moving things about the youth movement led by people such as Emma Gonzales, a survivor of the Parkland shootings, is that these young people have found their voice.

They are shouting out to the nation and world that it need not be this way. 

I believe that we, as the followers of Jesus, need to once again find our voice.

The women fled from the tomb and said nothing to anyone because they were afraid.

Fear seeks to drown out the message we are called to proclaim.

But we can’t let our fear, be the final word.

We need to bear witness to the Author of Life, and to the fact that life, not death, will prevail.

It is certain that the violent forces in our world will not end soon.  They will continue.

But neither is God’s work done yet.  Resurrection is happening, even now, as we gather.

And a new life in Christ is coming.

For Christ is Risen, he is Risen indeed, Alleluia.

Crabgrass and Life

Ultimate authority.  By human standards, ultimate authority is often expressed as the power to take life.  Be it waging war, condemning a criminal to death, vane attempts to use violence to control others, even making end of life decisions, it is often in the taking of life that authority reaches its climax.

I've been thinking about crabgrass recently.  One of my parishioners was a county extension agent and shared a story about an experiment conducted by his university.  Crabgrass.  Crabgrass has these pesky shoots, roots that spread far and wide, which are the bane to anyone who'd like to be rid of the crabgrass.  Try as you might, the roots continue to spring up new plants of crabgrass.  The University did an experiment.  They took a one inch piece of crabgrass root, and buried it twenty feet underground in the bottom of a pipe.  That one inch piece of root sent up a runner all the way back to the surface, and reemerged as a new plant.  Life persists against all odds.

A different kind of authority is related not to death, but to life, and herein we find God.  Try as we might to destroy, life persists.  Even crabgrass.

They buried him, the crucified one.  An exercise of human authority meant to be final.  Sealed the tomb with a stone.  All for naught.  Life persists.

An empty tomb.  A risen Lord.  And a solid declaration that the powers and principalities of this world will not have the final say.  The authority to take life is  overwhelmed by the Author of Life.

The resurrection is not an anomaly.  It is simply a sign that God's life giving authority is ultimate, and will conquer even death.  Not only for Jesus, but for us as well. 

Year A, Easter, John 20.1-18, The Living Dead.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Risen Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

Following the death of one of her patients, my sister, who is a nurse, called the on-call physician.

“Dr., we need a pronouncement.”

“I’m the one who makes that determination, not you!”

“Your quite correct, Dr., but I will say that in over 20 years of nursing I have not been wrong yet.”

The doctor came, did his examination and determined that the patient was indeed dead.  As he left he turned to my sister and said:  “Right again.”

There are a lot of things about this life that we do not understand and which remain mysterious to us.

And then there are those things that we know all too well.

Death is one of those things that fits both categories.

Over the course of my ministry I have been called upon many times to be with people as they died, and then to conduct their funerals.

I’ve buried children who died in the womb, as well as newborns that lived but a few days.

Within just a few years of beginning my ministry back in Thompson Falls, I had buried someone in every decade of life, from birth to people who had lived a century.

One of the mysteries surrounding death is “Why?”

“Why does death come far too soon for some?”

“And why, pray tell, does death come not soon enough for others?”

And is there ever a time when a death occurs at just the right moment for us?

These are the mysteries surrounding death.

We will never understand these things.

But one thing we feel quite sure about is death itself.

We fear it.

We do everything we can to avoid it.

We grieve when a loved one dies.

But we know it when we see it.  That is certain.

“Right again.” The doctor replied.

“Right again.”

Another Story:

I went to visit one of my oldest members in Thompson Falls. 

Gladys turned to me that day and said, “Pastor, I have just one more question.  “When we die, do we go directly to heaven, or rest until the last day and then be raised from the dead?”” 

I shared with her that there were Bible verses to support either belief, and that the only thing we really know is that following our death, the next thing we will be aware of is being with Jesus.  We won’t be aware of the passing of time between death and resurrection.

“Gladys,” I asked, “what do you hope for?”

“Pastor, I’ve lived 94 years and I’m tired.  I hope that I get to rest for a long while before I have to live again.”

Behind my home in Sandpoint is a graveyard.

Lakeview Cemetery.

As I walk out the back of my yard into the cemetery, one of the first graves is for George Chatfield.  George was a retired Colonel from the Air Force.  He prided himself on being “a little to the right of Attila the Hun” as far as his politics went.  He was the chair person of our altar guild and set up communion and often served as the assisting minister in worship.  He was a faithful member in our choir.  And I might add, he drank an incredible amount of wine. 

Well there he lies, just outside my back door.

Next to him lies Nancy McFarland.  Nancy was one of the members of our church choir as well and often accompanied us on the piano.  She also played the harp.  She was single, and didn’t want to be buried next to strangers, and so she bought the plot next to George’s so that she wouldn’t be alone.  Dear lady.

As I cross the graveyard, next to the shore of Lake Pend Oreille, there is a columbarium, where ashes are inurned. 

Jim Nelson is there.  Jim was another choir member, come to think of it.  When we moved to Sandpoint Jim decided to help us unpack.  His task was to set up all our beds so that we’d have some place to sleep that night.  His widow is one of our family’s adopted grandparents.

In the same columbarium, Mary Neuder is buried.

Mary was our next door neighbor.  Her son was my associate pastor in Sandpoint.  She and her husband raised Christmas trees and when we moved into the parsonage in Sandpoint, they had set one up for us.  What a gift.

Dear friends that lie in their graves behind my home.

Some people wouldn’t want to live next to a cemetery.  It has never bothered me.  Especially because these are the people I loved and served as a pastor.

Many times I’ve stood in that cemetery, and others.  Surrounded by the graves of those who have died, I am aware of the inevitability of death.  And that one day I too will join them.  My hope is to be buried in that cemetery behind our house.  But not too soon. 

But of this I am certain.

I am still very much alive, and they are dead.

Mary entered the garden, convinced that she too was alive, and the one she loved, was dead.

We know the story all so  well.

The tomb was open.

The rock was rolled away.

Jesus was not there.

 “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

There was one thing that she felt she could count on that morning.  And that was that Jesus who had died, would be there.

But this was Easter.

The Day of Resurrection.

And everything changed.

Jesus called her by name.

“Mary!”

And everything changed. 

Not just for Jesus.

Or Mary.

But for you and me.

Just when we think we have figured it all out, everything changes.

We walk through the graveyards of our lives, convinced that one day we will die, but today we are very much alive.

And yet, the reality is much different.

It is we who are dead, and they who are alive.

Or as Paul puts it:

“Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth, for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”

“Your life is hidden

                With Christ

                In God”

Paul writes in Romans 6:

“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? 4 Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.”

Mary didn’t realize yet that she had been buried with him.  That was yet to come.

But more important is the knowledge that she too would walk with Jesus in the newness of life.

For Mary, that “newness of life” began when Jesus called her by name.

Death is, for us, a mystery.

We think we’ve got it all figured out.

But we don’t. 

I envision living out the rest of my life in our home in Sandpoint.  And then when I die, being laid to rest in the cemetery out back.

And yet Easter changes all that.

If my hope comes true,

I will die in my home,

                But will live, as my bones are laid in the cemetery out back.

We think of baptism as the celebration of the new life of our babies, and rarely think about it as a dying and rising with Christ.

And yet it is, just that.

If I’m honest, I have to admit that with each passing year I am more and more aware of my impending death.  Death is closer, now than it was yesterday.

I look at my first grandchild and I wonder how much of his life I will be able to witness and enjoy.

One of the reasons I think more about death now, than I once did, is because following my last night of drinking, now 4 ½ years ago, my doctor told me “You almost died.”

It was a pronouncement I was not ready to hear.

But today, living my life anew in an Easter faith, I believe that Dr. Carlberg was in fact wrong.

In reality, I did die, but was raised.

Not on that fateful night, but in the waters of baptism.

Our lives have always been hidden with Christ in God.

One last story.

Ted Kato was a member of my congregation in Thompson Falls, and died of cancer.

Before he died, he talked about ‘losing the battle’ to cancer.

In an effort to comfort him, I responded that just because our lives come to an end doesn’t mean that we’ve lost the battle.  It only means that the battle is over.

The night Ted died, he had a strange request.  He asked those of us beside him to lift up his arms over his head.  For hours we held his arms high.

It wasn’t till after Ted had died that I realized what he was doing.  Ted was a football and wrestling coach.  We had talked about how just because the game or match is over, doesn’t mean you’ve lost.  It’s actually at the end of the game that the victors and losers are declared.

Ted chose to die with his arms raised high in the sign of victory.

Death was for him, and will be for all of us, the beginning of life.  It will be a victory celebration. 

Strange world we live in isn’t it.

Where the living die,

And the dead live.

But so it is.

Christ is Risen,

Christ is Risen, Indeed.  Alleluia.