The Rev. Leslie E. Chadwick

Exodus 20:1-17
Psalm 19
1 Corinthians 1:18-25
John 2: 13-22

In Bible Study last week, someone pointed out that we have no natural limits anymore.  She said, “My nephew’s boss expects him to be available 24 hours a day.  If she e-mails him and he doesn’t write back within 30 minutes, she’s irate.  He is never free.” Others nodded, ‘Yeah.  The expectation is to respond to texts or messages immediately.  What else are you going to do? You have a family to support, so you do what it takes.”

Our world is amazing. Thanks to technology, we are connected in ways we never could have dreamed.  And we are inundated with information.  People can reach us 24/7.  It’s hard to sift through what’s important and what can wait.   Culturally, we get zero help setting limits.  Remember the Sabbath day? Oh, yeah. Back in the day, nobody scheduled sports or activities on Sundays.  Everyone went to Church. All businesses were closed. People hung out together as a family.  One Bible Study member recalls her father saying, “Once stores start opening up on Sundays, it will be the downfall of the family.”  There may still be holdouts like Chick-Fil-A, but we concluded, “There’s no goin’ back. Nothing is sacred anymore.  Everything is fair game. We can’t get back to the way it was, and even if we could, that would not solve our root problem.”

The problem is that we’ve sacrificed intentionality for convenience.  That problem goes back to the beginning of time.  We have taken control of time as if it is ours to do with what we wish –and yet, we often end up controlled and driven by the order we have created where there are no limits or boundaries for our souls.  The Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel writes, “The solution of mankind’s most vexing problem will not be found in renouncing technical civilization, but in attaining some degree of independence of it” (The Sabbath, 28).

God ordered creation to remind us that in him alone we are free.  He built into creation a limit and a boundary that keeps the way open for our souls to get back to him.  We hear in our reading from Exodus the command: “Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy.”  This command is no sentimental question like, “Remember the Sabbath day?”  as in “Remember the good old days?”  It’s a very present command to guard with our lives this limit God gives us to keep us fully alive in Him.  Genesis tells us that “On the seventh day God finished the work that he had done.”  The ancient rabbis wondered why the Bible didn’t say that God finished his work on the 6^th day since God “rested” on the seventh day.” They “concluded [that] there was [also] an act of creation on the seventh day:  rest.  Not just freedom from toil, but inner freedom:  tranquility, serenity, peace, repose—the essence of the good life—experiencing eternal life now.”

Heschel, a devout Jew who observed the Sabbath from sundown on Friday night through sundown on Saturday night, sees the 4th commandment as guarding that sacred boundary:  He admits that it seems impossible to get all our work done in six days—our work always remains incomplete.  So he urges us, “Rest on the Sabbath as if all your work were done.  Rest even from the thought of labor.”  Heschel sees the Sabbath not just as a chance to rest up for more work, but as a time “to mend our tattered lives” (18) “to tend the seed of eternity planted in the soul” (13).  When we set aside time to do that, God heals us, and sets us free from the tyranny of our lives.

In today’s gospel, Jesus acts in a way that shows us he’s fully tapped into that freedom.  He’s not about to be dominated by any person or thing.    He comes up to Jerusalem for the Passover after doing his first miracle at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.  Passover is the festival celebrating Israel’s freedom, deliverance from slavery (W. Hulitt Gloer, F o W, 93).  When Jesus arrives at the Court of the Gentiles (93), the courtyard outside the temple, what he sees is not a clear path to the God who sets his people free. He finds instead a cluttered, smelly, chaotic mess.  In the guise of preparation for worship, people are selling unblemished animals to pilgrims who will  pay more for convenience.  It’s easier to buy animals for sacrifice there than dragging them on a long journey from home (93).  Money changers have become fixtures—they have settled in, made themselves quite at home.  The temple leaders sanction their presence. Again, for people’s convenience, they change out the coins with the Emperor’s face on it for coins without images required for the temple tax.  These sellers are essential to the business of the temple.

But Jesus is not buying it. He thinks the essential business of temple is allowing people to mend their tattered lives.  To rest in God’s loving presence.  To worship him with all their heart, with all their soul, and with all their strength. So with all his strength, he ties together leather cords and drives out the sellers and animals as if he’s driving out demons.  He pours out the coins of the money changers; all of the money with Caesar’s face gets mixed up with the temple coins as they clatter to the floor and roll under every crack and surface. He yells at the dove sellers, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.”

Jesus makes quite a scene.  And for what?  In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the scene takes place at the end of the story—right before Jesus is arrested, tried, and crucified; those Evangelists suggest that the sellers and moneychangers there were price-gouging.  But here, at the beginning of his ministry, Jesus seems upset about the sheer presence of the marketplace.  It is creeping into time and space that should be sacred.  He’s upset about the steady encroachment of the commercial world on his Father’s house and on God’s people. Jesus does not worship the temple itself.  By the time John wrote his gospel, that temple was long gone.  The Romans had knocked it down and turned it over.  As Jesus told the woman at the well, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem, but …in spirit and truth.”  He knows buildings won’t last.   Jesus cares about one thing:  drawing people to the Father and knocking aside anything that gets in the way of that.  The point of his coming isn’t to get back us to the way things were, but to get us back to God.

When the dust clears, it seems that Jesus’ tantrum has made no difference–the world remains unchanged.  The next day, the money changers probably set up their tables again and kick back to do business.  The animals saunter back in and the pilgrims continue to do their business outside the temple to get in.  The temple leaders definitely continue business as usual.  They aren’t about to let an upstart from Galilee tell them how to run things.  They plan to kill Jesus for calling God his own Father and making himself equal to God (5:18).  But Jesus’ inner freedom, his insistence on keeping what is holy set apart, sticks in the mind of one person who longs for more than commercial, material, business as usual.  Later that night, secretly, tentatively, Nicodemus, a Jewish leader, comes to Jesus to ask him about being reborn, about tending that seed of eternity planted in his soul.

And maybe that’s how the change happens for us, too.  Our world continues to go on with business as usual.  Like, Nicodemus, we come to Jesus tentatively at first, and ask him to show us more about what he guards for us so passionately: the holy limits that keep the path open between God and us.   Little by little we ask Jesus to help us reclaim or perhaps claim for the first time the rest, life, and freedom God intends for us.  There’s no going back to the good old days when the culture set aside a whole day for us.  Even then, we had the same problem of things encroaching on our relationship with God.  The answer for us is not just “setting good boundaries” as any counselor or self-help book would suggest.  What our Scripture today invites us to do is: Remember the Sabbath.  Keep it Holy.  Rediscover it.  Let it set us free to be who God created us to be. Let Jesus knock over and drive out whatever encroaches on our need to rest and delight in God’s loving presence.  And ultimately let go of the way we’ve been doing things. To reclaim our independence from the things that control us.

The Sabbath may no longer a whole day for us; Jesus himself was not a stickler for its rules, but he did make time to be still, to pray with others, and to be alone with God.  So, as a start, Sabbath may mean setting aside 5 minutes a day to be silent in God’s presence; setting aside our I-phones for a media fast for a day, or an hour, or a few minutes so that we can be truly present with the people around us. It may mean coming together to worship or study the Bible in community.  It may mean journaling to let go of whatever worries or scenes we rehearse at the end of the day; Letting go of our pettiness or our anger at others that encroach on us not only us in the moment, but linger in our minds past the time we are to surrender to rest at the close of the day. As we approach this mid-point of Lent, may we remember the Sabbath.  Not as an antiquated thing of the past, but as a very present way God intends to set us free to worship him and to rest in his loving presence.  To be the people he created us to be:  whole and sound (Psalm 19:13).

Amen.

The Rev. Leslie E. Chadwick

2 Kings 2:1-12
Psalm 50:1-6
2 sildenafildosage Corinthians 4:3-6
Mark 9:2-9

 I got a phone call at 7 AM from an 85-year-old 8 o’clocker asking if we were going to have church today.  I said,  “Well, Brad and I will be there, but I’m not sure you should venture out.  I haven’t been out to see what the roads are like yet.” He said, “We’ll, I’ve been out to get the paper.” I asked, “Was it slick?”  He replied. “Crunchy.  But then again, I was barefoot.”  I said, “Alright.  You are made of something tougher than this South Georgia native.”  And so are all of you who made it here in ice, snow, and single-digit cold!  That’s what today’s sermon is about:  What we are made of.

Two different friends who had gone through difficult years told me recently,  “Times like these  give you a chance to see what you are made of.”  The phrase “what you are made of” stuck with me.  It made me wonder, “What am I made of? “  “What are we as a Church madeof?”

Difficult times are not the only times that give us a chance to see what we are made of; times that are sheer gift can do the same thing.

I would like to tell you about two mountaintop experiences I had in January.  One was during the Eucharist at Annual Council. I sat next to our delegates from St. Timothy’s surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses from the Diocese of Virginia, singing, praying, listening to the good news and basking in the radiance of God’s presence.  Brass thundered from the balcony; candles flickered; the choir sang a piece called “How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place” from A German Requiem. Brahms had written this piece when his mother died and I knew the music backwards and forwards from performing it in college and graduate school. I knew how it had helped heal others in their grief. As the choir sang it, I felt as if time were compressed, suspended, that past, present, and future were together all at once.

The second mountaintop experience was a pilgrimage I took to Sewanee, Tennessee where I had gone to college.  Sewanee is a holy place for me.  I had not been back there for 17 years.  As I hiked through Shake Rag Hollow with my family and biked through campus by myself, I was filled with the joy of God’s presence in nature and in layers of memory.  I worshiped at Evensong in All Saints’ Chapel where I’d been a sacristan; at Morning Prayer in the seminary chapel; and in Otey Parish for the Eucharist. I felt as if time were compressed, suspended, that past, present and future were together all at once.

At times like these, we glimpse what we are made of as individuals and as the Church—we are more than the physical, yet deeply rooted in time and place. God has put something of the eternal in us and we are tethered to that even as we move from place to place and from experience to experience.  Letting go of one particular way we’ve known God does not mean we lose it.  God integrates all of our encounters with him, past, present, and future deep within us and within Himself.

In his second letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul reminds the Church in Corinth just how deep their connection with God is.  He gives them a glimpse of who they are as the Church.  This community has felt disconnected from Paul, and the way they used to know God through him.  A lot has happened since Paul wrote his first letter to them. He had promised to visit them but it didn’t work out.  Once Paul finally made it there, his visit was painful and he followed up with a harsh letter.  He now urges them, “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart…We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord.”

In refocusing them all on Jesus, Paul moves the community beyond petty bickering.  He lifts their minds back to what is eternal.  Seeing Jesus reminds us what we are made of: we are dust and more than dust. Paul continues, “Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day.  For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen.”

In today’s gospel, Peter and James and John get a glimpse of that eternal weight of glory.  They get to see for an instant what cannot be seen when we have our noses pressed flush up against life:  Their vision is not just that all shall be well, but that all is well and whole and right. The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near. Past, present, and future are together; time is suspended; Law, Prophets, and Gospel stand together in perfect harmony. In order to see this vision of God’s holiness, the disciples have to be led by Jesus up to a high mountain, apart, by themselves.  This is not a vision they can achieve on their own or while they are caught up in the drama and stress of their daily lives.  They have to let Jesus take them away from all that.

As they watch, they see who Jesus really is.  He is dust.  Man.  Human.  Just like them. And suddenly, his clothes become dazzling white such as no one on earth could bleach them.  He is wholly other, almost pure light.  And there with him Moses and Elijah show up, the great holy ones of Israel who represent the Law and the Prophets.  They talk with Jesus as if they are old friends.  Peter interrupts and blurts out, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let’s keep this moment going as long as we can.”  If Peter had had an I-phone, he would have been snapping pictures in “burst” mode and trying to capture the entire thing on video.  But the Evangelist excuses him, “[Bless his heart].  He didn’t know what to say—for they were terrified.”  As often happens on mountaintops, a cloud covers them.  And from the cloud there comes a voice.  God affirms what he had proclaimed at Jesus’ baptism, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”  Then it’s all gone in a flash.  Law, Prophets, the dazzling white, the idea of making 3 tents, everything.  As if it had never happened.  “They saw no one with them anymore, but only Jesus.”

I asked my 6-year-old old after I told him this story, “What do you think Jesus is trying to show his disciples?”  He answered, “That he’s going to die.”  He’s right. The disciples are about to have to let go of the way they’ve known God. It may seem at times as if what they had experienced with Jesus never happened.  But the last phrase of the story gives me hope.  “Suddenly, they saw no one with them anymore, but only Jesus.”  When the radiance and joy of a mountaintop experience fades, what we are left with is “Jesus.”  And Jesus is enough.  If we listen to him, he leads us through the mire back into the radiant glory of God’s love, from death into resurrection.  He does that for the disciples and he does that for us.

As we come down from the mountaintop today, we descend back into the unknowns, uncertainties and drama of our lives.  We walk straight into Lent to journey the way of the cross. God shows us who Jesus is and orders us, “Listen to him!”  This is what we hear, “You are setting your minds not on divine things, but on human things.  Take up your cross and follow me.  Lose your life for the sake of the gospel, and save it. Whoever wants to be first, must be last and servant of all… Your sins are forgiven.  Do not fear, but only believe.”  [I say to the wind and waves, “Peace, be still.” To the demons, “Shut up and come out.”  To the sick and weak, “Go in peace, your faith has made you well.”]

This Lent, may we stay focused on Jesus.  He shows us the truth about what we are made of:  “You are formed of the earth; you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  And you are more than dust; you are, by my grace, God’s beloved; the God who called light into being, calls forth radiant light from your being and shines new light and strength into your hearts.  Jesus shows us the truth about who we are as the Church.  As we eat the body of Christ and drink his blood, past, present, and future come together all at once.  We lift our voices with Angels and Archangels and all the company of heaven as we cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

Amen.

Rev. Leslie E. Chadwick

2 Reyes 2:1-12
Salmo 50:1-6
Corintios 4:3-6
Marcos cost for viagra without insurance 9:2-9

“A veces pasas por situaciones en la vida que te dan la oportunidad de ver de que estas hecho.” Dos amistades diferentes me dijeron eso recientemente. Cada uno de ellos acababa de pasar por un ano muy difícil y al superar las dificultades se sintieron más fuertes y mejor preparados para enfrentar una nueva etapa en sus vidas. La frase” de lo que estas hecho”, quedo grabada en mi memoria. Me obligo a reflexionar “De que estoy hecha?”, “Como Iglesia, de que estamos hechos?”. No es solo los momentos difíciles que nos brindan la oportunidad de ver de qué estamos hechos; aquellos momentos que consideramos bendiciones pueden hacer lo mismo.

Yo quisiera relatarles dos experiencias extraordinarias que viví en Enero. Una fue durante la Eucaristía del Concilio Anual. Estaba sentada junta a los delegados de ST. Timothy, rodeada por una “nube” de testigos de la Diócesis de Virginia, cantando, orando, escuchándolas buenas nuevas y envolviéndome en la radiancia de la presencia de Dios. Desde el balcón sonaron los instrumentos, tiritaron las velas, el coro entono una pieza musical titulada “How lovely is thy dwelling place” (Que bello es su hogar), de una misa cantada alemana. Brahms escribió esta pieza cuando murió su madre y yo sabía su letra hacia atrás y hacia adelante por tantas veces que la cantaba en la Universidad y durante mis estudios de post-graduada. Sabia como este tema había ayudado a muchos sanar sus heridas y superar sus sufrimientos. Mientras el coro cantaba, sentí como si el tiempo se detuviera y quedara suspendido…que el pasado, presente y futuro se hubiesen unido.

La segunda experiencia fue durante un viaje a Sewanee, Tennessee donde fui a cursar estudios universitarios. Sewanee, para mí, es tierra santa. No había regresado a Sewanee en 17 años. Mientras caminaba por un sector llamado “Shake Rag Hollow” con mi familia y corría mi bicicleta por los predios del colegio, me sentí llena de júbilo por la presencia de Dios en la naturaleza y en los folios de mi memoria. Fui a rezar en la Capilla de Todos los Santos localizada en Evensong, donde serví como Sacristán durante las Oraciones Matinales en el seminario y en la Parroquia Otey durante la Eucaristía. Otra vez sentí como si el tiempo se hubiese detenido, suspendido y que el presente, pasado y futuro estuvieran juntos a ese preciso momento.

En momentos como esos experienciamos de que estamos hechos, como individuos y como Iglesia… somos más que la forma física con profundas raíces en el tiempo y el espacio. Dios ha puesto parte de lo extraneo en nosotros y estamos atados a ello aunque nos transportemos de lugar a lugar  y de experiencia a experiencia. Dejar ir de una manera particular que hemos conocido a Dios no significa que lo perdemos.  Dios integra todos nuestros encuentros con épasado, presente y futuro , en lo profundo de nosotros y dentro de sí mismo.

En su segunda carta a los Corintios, St. Paul recuerdala Iglesia en Corinto integra su conexión con Dios es.  Pablo brinda a ellos un vistazo de quien son ellos como Iglesia

Esta comunidad se ha sentido desconectado de Pablo , y la forma ellos solían experimentar el amor de Dios a través de él.  Han pasado muchas cosas desde que Pablo escribió su primera carta a ellos. Les había prometido visitar pero no pudo hacerlo. Cuando Pablo finalmente arribo, fue una visita dolorosa y a continuación les escribió una carta muy ruda. Ahora busca la reconciliación, les dice “Ya que se debe a la gracia de Dios que estemos unidos en este Ministerio, no perdamos la fe…no nos proclamemos a nosotros mismos; proclamemos a Jesucristo nuestro Señor”.

Reorientándolos hacia Jesús, Pablo se ayuda a sí mismo y asiste a los otros a sobrepasar el argumento. Levanta sus mentes de nuevo a lo que es eterno .  Mirando a Jesús por lo que representa y por quien lo escucha nos ensena quienes somos y de que estamos hechos. Somos polvo y somos más que polvo. Pablo dice a continuación, “ Aunque nuestra naturaleza externa se esté deteriorando, nuestra naturaleza interior está siendo renovada día tras día, porque esta aflicción  momentaria y pasajera nos está preparando para un paso a la gloria eterna que sobrepasa cualquier medida ya que miramos no a lo que podemos ver sino a lo oculto”.

En la lección de hoy, Pedro, Santiago (James) y Juan visualizan por un instante aquello que no se puede ver cuando tenemos nuestras narices presionadas contra la vida. Su visión no es que todo debe andar bien pero que todo está bien, completo y correcto. Los tiempos se han saciado y el reino de Dios se ha acercado. El pasado, presente y futuro esta juntos…el tiempo suspendido mientras las leyes, los profetas  y las enseñanzas se unen en perfecta armonía. De manera que pudiera apreciar esta visión de la santidad de Dios, los discípulos tienen que ser guiados por Jesús hasta lo alto de una montaña, apartados por si solos. Esta no es una visión que ellos pueden alcanzar por si solos o mientras sean prisioneros del drama y las presiones de su vida cotidiana. Necesita dejar que Jesús los separe de todo eso.

Mientras observan, entienden quien en realidad es Jesús. Él es polvo. Hombre. Humano. Como ellos. De repente su vestidura se torna un blanco lustroso como nadie en la tierra pueda blanquearla. Él es  totalmente otro, casi una luz pura. Allí aparecen con El, Moisés y Elías, los grandes santos de Israel que representan las leyes y los profetas. Hablan con Jesús como si fueran viejos amigos. Pedro interrumpe y dice “Rabino, es bueno que estemos aquí, tratemos de alargar este momento tanto como sea posible”. Si Pedro hubiese tenido un “I phone” hubiese tomado fotos sin detenerse y hubiese tratado de captar todo en video. Pero el Evangelista lo excusa (Que Dios lo Bendiga). Él no sabía que decir porque estaban aterrados. Como suele suceder en el tope de la Montana, una nube los cubre. Una voz se escucha desde la nube y Dios afirma lo que había proclamado durante el Bautismo de Jesús, “este es mi hijo, mi adorado, escúchenlo”. “Entonces todo desaparece en un instante. Los hombres de Leyes, los profetas, los vestidos de blanco lustroso y la idea de construir albergue, como si nunca hubiese sucedido. Nunca vieron a nadie acompañarlos, excepto a Jesús.”.

Le pregunté a mi hijo de 7 años de edad, hijo, después de que le dije a esta historia , ” ¿Qué crees que Jesús está tratando de mostrar a sus discípulos ? “Respondió Este , ” que va a morir . ” Tiene razón .Los discípulos están a punto de tener que dejar irla forma en que ‘ ll’ve conoce Dios. Puede parecer a veces como si lo que habían vivido con Jesús nunca sucedió.

Pero, esa última frase me da esperanza. ”Ellos no vieron a nadie acompañándole, solo a Jesús”. Cuando la radiancia del momento de júbilo se disipa, lo que nos queda es Jesús y Jesús es suficiente. Si lo escuchamos nos saca desde el lodo hasta la radiante gloria del amor de Dios; desde la muerte hasta la resurrección. El hace eso por sus discípulos y por nosotros.

Hoy, cuando bajamos de la cima de la Montana entramos directamente a Cuaresma. Navegamos hacia la cruz. Dios nos ensena quien es Jesús y nos ordena “ESCUCHENLO”. Y esto es lo que escuchamos, “están poniendo su mente no en las cosas divinas, sino en las cosas humanas, levanta tu cruz y sígueme. Da tu vida por las enseñanzas y sálvala. Aquel que quiera ser primero deberá ser el último servidor de todos…no temas, solo cree. Tus pecados son perdonados”. A los demonios, “cállense y de la cara”. Al enfermo y frágil “vaya en paz, su fe le ha curado”.

Que durante la cuaresma mantengamos nuestro enfoque en Jesús. Él nos dice la verdad sobre sobre de que estamos hechos. “Tú eres moldeado de la tierra, eres polvo y al polvo haz de volver. Eres más que polvo. Eres, por mi gracia, amado de Dios, el Dios que creo la luz, emite luz radiante de tu ser y brilla nueva luz y fuerza a sus corazones. Jesús nos ensena la verdad en cuanto a quienes somos como Iglesia. Mientras participamos del cuerpo y sangre de Cristo, pasado, presente y futuro se unen al mismo tiempo. Elevamos nuestras voces con Ángeles y Arcángeles y toda la compañía de la Gloria clamando “Santo, santo, santo, Amen.”

The Rev. Leslie E. Chadwick

Acts 10:44-48
Psalm 98
1 John visit – www.seekmedicine.com 5:1-6
John 15:9-17

Last weekend, sixty parishioners from St. Tim’s gathered at Shrine Mont for our parish retreat.  The mountains have never looked more beautiful.  Friday night, after a heavy rain, the world was new-washed, the grass, a vibrant green, flowering dogwoods and redbuds in full bloom.  Mountain streams raced by and the setting sun cast shadows over the ridge and made the trees look like a blanket.  Mist and fog unfurled like veils.  The words of Psalm 98 came to life: “Shout with joy to the Lord, all you lands; lift up your voice, rejoice, and sing.  Let the rivers clap their hands, and let the hills ring out with joy before the Lord!”

The people from our church were fully alive, too.  The word that describes the mood among us was joy. Children kicked off shoes and socks, rolled up pants, and waded in the streams and lake, trying to catch salamanders and minnows in their net only to release them.  Youth lounged on blankets in the sun watching the children or got in the water to wade with them. Adults laughed and shed tears, deep in conversation with each other about the pain and richness of life.  We sang, prayed, hiked, and ate together.   The pressure was released from our lives for this time and the result was joy:   “Shout with joy before the King, the Lord!”

To share such undiluted shared joy is rare on this earth.  This kind of joy in community and nature seems discordant with what happened in Baltimore less than two weeks ago.  It seems incongruent with the tension and violence that erupt throughout the world on a regular basis.  But our Scripture insists that joy is different from merriness or fleeting happiness. Those emotions change with how we are feeling or what we are experiencing at a given moment.  Joy goes much deeper.  The people who wrote the psalm brought to mind and experienced joy in creation as a sign of God’s sovereignty over all.  They composed and sang this psalm not when all was well, but when they were far from home in exile.  In the gospel, Jesus wills for his disciples a joy that cannot be taken from them no matter what goes awry.  He wills this deep joy for them at a time when things are not going well.  He tells them this the night before he lays down his life for them and is handed over to be crucified.

Half a century later, when this gospel was written, the Evangelist John addressed a community also going through hard times.  We hear hints of their difficulties in the text. A few verses after our reading, Jesus says, “If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you.” He warns them not to stumble and predicts, “they will put you out of the synagogues.”  In spite of this discord, Jesus insists that the way to find the joy he promises is to choose love. Choose love in the face of hatred.  Choose love in the face of persecution.  Choose love in the face of uncertainty and fear.  Jesus himself did that from start to finish.  He reminds them, “You did not choose me, but I chose you.”  I chose to love you first.  God chose to love you before you were born.  Not because you deserved it.  Not because you were perfect or because circumstances were optimal.  And because God loved you first, you can love one other.  You act in love not powered under your own steam, but by staying connected to the unending love of the living God.

In short, Jesus’ promise is “Choose love and find joy.”  That may seem impossible in this life.  Yet when we try to live out this command to love, we find ourselves not imprisoned by the impossible, but miraculously set free.  We find ourselves not pressured by something unattainable, but empowered to accept ourselves and others.  Martin Luther King, Jr. understood this commandment very well.  He knew that love was a choice.  Love is a choice not based on our feelings or circumstances; it brings about an inner joy and peace that transcend circumstances and feelings.  King writes, “I have decided to stick with love.  Hate is too great a burden to bear.”  This decision to love is not a decision to escape unpleasantness.  It’s not a decision to close our eyes to the injustice of a broken system, ignore tension, or to pretend that nothing is wrong.  It is a choice to act over and over with that principle of love guiding us:  King denounced willful ignorance, and silence in the face of wrongs; he urged people to see each other as brothers and sisters:  “We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”

So how can we, the Church, choose love in the face of problems that seem irreconcilable in our society?  We can educate ourselves instead of having knee-jerk reactions.  We can look head-on at the history behind what is going on in Baltimore and other places of unrest. The gospel does not promote one ideology over another.  God’s word is a living word, a double-edged sword, resisting our attempts to wield it as a weapon.  Jesus urges us to stay awake: to be conscious and intentional about acting in love.  To do that, we have to acknowledge inequities.  To listen without judgment to each other’s stories.  Starting from there, we can discern what is ours to do to act and find a way forward with God’s help.

Finding a way forward can seem daunting in the face of systemic problems like socioeconomic disparity, racism, and polarization.  But we do not have to take big steps to choose to act in love.   In a few minutes, we will commission the Lakota Team.  This team sees poverty and cycles of despair every time they make their pilgrimage to the reservation; but they go back year after year in love.  They experience a deep joy and find that joy in the friends that they’ve made there.  A website called fusion.net posted some photos from Day Two of the riots in Baltimore.   The website assumed that everyone saw the acts of violence, but wondered how many of us were aware of acts of kindness and unity going on at the same time.  The post asks, “Have you seen the images of hundreds people coming together in the streets to sing Amazing Grace?  Or the guy putting himself between police and demonstrators to prevent a clash?  Or the African American Baltimore youth out in the street giving bottles of water to police? Or the activists feeding kids who weren’t getting lunch because schools were closed?  Or rival gangs coming together?

Jesus urges us all, “Choose love and find joy.”  Whether or not everything is neatly resolved, we can act in love one step at a time.  Jesus commands us, “Love one another as I have loved you.  I have said these things to you that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

Amen.

The Rev. Leslie E. Chadwick

Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm http://cheapcialisoriginal.com 22
Hebrews 4:4-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42

Let us pray.

“When I survey the wondrous cross where the young Prince of Glory died, my richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”  Amen.

Please be seated.

You have chosen to come out here tonight and look at what most of us prefer to avoid:  sufferingand death. Websites like Power of Positivity advise you above all to limit the news you watch:  What good can it do you to look at masked men killing over 140 Kenyan students in their beds?  What good can it do you to see that the 150 souls who died in last week’s plane crash included infants, students, singers, mothers, and daughters?  That someone crashed the plane on purpose? What good can it do to look at casualties of war and senseless violence?  There are much more pleasant things to focus on right now:  stuffing Easter eggs for children, buying new clothes for Sunday, getting outside and at last enjoying signs of spring.

And yet, we are here.  The altar is stripped bare.  The cross dominates the whole room. You are not the only ones who have come to gaze on the starkness of Good Friday.  Every year, a mother brings her 3 daughters to stand silently in the sanctuary on Friday morning of Holy Week.   They don’t come to church much anymore.  We just see them at Christmas and Easter, and of all days, Good Friday.  The mother explains, “I think it’s important for the girls to see this.  What does Easter mean unless you look at things as they are today?”

We do not come here tonight for spectacle.  It’s a good thing not to seek out suffering, violence, and death for its own sake.  Jesus certainly did not.  He sought out beauty in people and creation wherever he found it.  And those saints in our midst who have cared for dying loved ones are the last ones to romanticize pain. One woman said that the first thing she did after her husband’s death was to redecorate and rearrange the bathroom.  She said, “There are no happy memories from that room. Just me overwhelmed with his care.”  Another member who stayed with her father through anything but a peaceful death said that it took months of getting out into nature with her grown children to see beauty again.

Suffering is not pretty.  Isaiah describes the suffering servant “as one from whom others hide their faces.”  Sometimes we avoid others going through rough times.  We don’t know what to say and perhaps fear getting too close to calamity. The Renaissance poet John Donne wrote a poem called “Good Friday, 1613:  Riding Westward.” He describes his business taking him in the opposite direction of where the events of Good Friday occurred.   He admits, “Yet dare I almost be glad I do not see/ That spectacle, of too much weight for me. /

Who sees God’s face, that is self-life, must die; / What a death were it then to see God die?”

Turning away from the events of this day is a natural reaction.  And that’s just what Pilate wants to do.  I picture him in his office leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk.  His assistant tells him that some Jewish leaders have come to see him about a criminal.  He swings his feet off the desk.  “Bring ‘em in.”   The assistant shakes his head.  “They have a festival coming up. They don’t want to defile themselves by setting foot in your headquarters.”  Pilate remembers.  It’s time for  Passover.  The commemoration of their God setting them free from Pharaoh.  This festival always makes Rome a bit uneasy. Pilate doesn’t want to ruffle things any further.  Jerusalem is no one’s first choice for being stationed.  If Pilate ever wants to be promoted out of there, he needs to keep things as smooth as possible.  He goes out to them. “What’s up? What’s he done wrong?”  The Chief Priest sneers, “We wouldn’t have handed him over to you

if he weren’t a criminal.” Pilate does not want to get involved:  “Take him yourselves and judge him according to your law.”  But they have brought Jesus to Pilate to get the death penalty.

Pilate tries to clear this matter up fast.  He wants to get back to his office. He snaps his fingers and summons Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?”  The King of Love looks him straight in the eyes and asks, “Do you ask this on your own or did others tell you about me?”  Pilate jumps back as if bitten by a snake, “I am not a Jew, am I?  Your own nation and chief priests have handed you over to me.  What have you done?”  Jesus does not drop his gaze, “My kingdom is not from this world.  If my kingdom were from this world,

my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over….But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”  Pilate asks, “So you are a king?”  Jesus replies, “You say that I am a king.  For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.

Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  Pilate averts his eyes from Jesus, “What is truth?”

Three times Pilate insists, “I find no case against him,” and three times the leaders bully him into condemning Jesus.  Pilate runs back and forth between Jesus and the crowd, hoping they’ll choose Barabbas and make his job easy. He gets more fearful and anxious.

He shouts at Jesus, “Do you refuse to speak to me?  Do you not know that I have power to release you, and power to crucify you?”  But Jesus sees the truth.  The little power that Pilate has he will not use for good.  His fear of losing what he has keeps him trapped from truth. Jesus states, “You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above.”

Pilate has spenthis life keeping his distance from calamity.  Making judgments without engaging.  He has the illusion that his happiness and peace are untouchable—that he can turn away from suffering and shut the door on it.  But this encounter with Jesus rattles him.  Looking at Jesus is like looking at your soul exposed. And Pilate cannot get away fast enough.

He hands Jesus over to be crucified; he tries to forget that loving gaze.

If we can force ourselves to look at what happens on this day, Jesus shows us where true power lies.  Pilate’s desire to avoid unpleasantness does not make him stronger, more joyful or free.  God’s love inside Jesus makes him free and strong even in his greatest weakness.  What draws us into Jesus’ suffering this day is not a morbid desire to gawk.  Like the beloved disciple, Mary Magdalene, and Jesus’ mother, we are drawn here because we love the one who saves us.  And that love gives us power to go into dark places with others. Jesus comes to us when we are in such places out of love for us.

So tonight, we come here not to stare at suffering and death.  We come to stand before the King of Love.  In him, we see the truth and power of a love that draws us through darkness and restores us to life and light.

Let us pray.   “Were the whole realm of nature mine, that were an offering far too small; love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all.”

Amen.