Whole Numbers—A Sermon on Being Twelve, Three, and One

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

I wonder, a lot of the time, about the stories chosen from our scripture for the lectionary. The lectionary, remember, is a three-year cycle of stories that guide us, week by week, through the seasons of the church year. This is the seventh Wednesday in Easter and our story is in a sort of odd in-between space. Jesus is about to ascend into heaven. Next week, we’ll celebrate Pentecost, the arrival of the Holy Spirit in the life of the apostles, the birthday of the Church. And so this week, the apostles have some business to attend to.

Throughout the ministry of Jesus, there were 12 disciples. There were 12 of them because 12 was an important number to the people Israel; there were 12 tribes among them, and so having a corresponding number of disciples would represent a completeness, a wholeness.

The traumatic and dramatic events of the last several weeks, which include the horrific death and miraculous resurrection of Jesus, also include the death of Judas Iscariot, one of the disciples. The different books of the New Testament tell slightly different stories about Judas’ death, none of which I will describe for you because they are all grisly. But Judas is dead, and the disciples are incomplete. They’re incomplete because there’s literally an empty seat at their table, and they’re incomplete because one among their trusted circle seems to have brazenly betrayed everything they held in common. Filling his seat, so to speak, will right this wrong to varying degrees.

They discern that it should be one of two men: Joseph or Matthias. These two candidates are worthy, in their eyes, because they have been part of the movement from the beginning. Peter says that they were there for the baptism of John—one of Jesus’ first public acts—and were there when Jesus was arrested and killed. They understand what it means to be a witness to the resurrection, going out into the world to continue the work.

They are, apparently, equally qualified, because the disciples are comfortable “casting lots” to determine who will join. “Casting lots” is a phrase we’ve heard before; do you remember when? The Roman soldiers at the crucifixion of Jesus cast lots for his belongings. Casting lots is sort of like rolling dice, in that we are not the ones doing the choosing. But this practice is more spiritual than that, in that it was believed that the result would be left up to God. Casting lots would show God’s will in the situation.

So to determine which of their friends will officially join the roster of apostles, the 11 gather to pray and then to let God’s will be done. And Matthias it is! The apostles are 12 again, whole again, complete again. The first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles—literally—comes to a close.

In this week’s portion of the Gospel According to John, we drop in on Jesus in the middle of a prayer. As you heard, this is one of those times when Jesus talks for a long time but seems to say the same thing several times in several ways and we have to read it several times to get it all.

It’s a recap of his ministry—“I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world”—and a plea for safety—“protect them from the evil one”—and some instructions for the apostles to overhear—“as you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world” (John 17:6,15,18).

Biblical scholars call this part of this book Jesus’ “farewell discourse” as he says a lengthy goodbye (three chapters long) to the disciples. I think it’s interesting to look at how Jesus prays for the disciples, and to think about what that means for us.

One of the lines that sticks out to me the most is when Jesus prays, “Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one” (John 17:11b).

Jesus knew, in the very beginning of the life of the Church, that one-ness would be hard for us. He knew we’d need God’s help, straightaway. Verses from this chapter are the guiding mission of and organization called the World Council of Churches. This is a network of hundreds of denominations around the world, who gather under the one-ness of our common Christianity. It is notable that we are not one Church, one denomination, one congregation. We are millions of people, in thousands of communities, in hundreds of countries. As usual, Jesus was right. We need God’s help.

Christian history is full of division and injustice. We have a troubled past, no matter where you begin. We engage in quote-unquote holy wars, the Crusades, the Inquisition, slavery, genocide, terrorism—gravely slandering the name of Christ. Every time we draw a line between who is in and who is out, we’ll find Jesus on the other side.

I wonder if we’ve misunderstood this prayer of Jesus. I wonder if we’ve misunderstood one-ness and unity as uniformity, assimilation, and erasure. We’ve looked out into God’s world, in all its brilliant diversity, and determined that our way is the right way, and that everyone else must change or die.

This is wrong.

Christianity’s allegiances with white supremacy, and colonialism, and imperialism, and militarism, and environmental degradation are all wrong. The one-ness that Jesus speaks of here is not whiteness, or Westernness, or maleness, or even humanness. The one-ness Jesus prays we will attain is much deeper than any of our divisions.

You have probably seen at least an image or a tweet about the massacre in Gaza this weekend. Dozens of Palestinians were slaughtered by Israeli forces. This sermon will not resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but I hope it will not perpetuate it, either.

Our holy lands are holy because they belong to God and because we belong to God. They are not made holy based on who purports to own them.

Every person—Israeli, Palestinian, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, White, Arab, Black, Latinx, able, disabled, immigrant, indigenous—every person is beloved of God.

If we believe that anything we do is in the name of God who created us or the Christ who redeemed us or the Spirit who guides us, we must never forget that that is as true for every other person as it is true for us. God loves you, and Jesus prays for your safety and your wholeness, and the Spirit moves among you to this very day. Our completeness is based in that, and only in that. Our completeness cannot come through war, or death, or violence of any kind. Jesus prays for us, that his “joy may be complete” in us. His joy. As people of God, as the Body of Christ, we are made for life and for joy, not for death or for fear.

Let us go forth into the world in peace, not in terror.

Let us go forth into the world in joy, not in sorrow.

Let us go forth into the world in hope, not in fear.

Let us go forth into the world in life, not in death.

Let us go forth into the world.

An Exceptional Easter Sermon

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

The weather this week in Davis has totally gotten the message that it is Easter, that it is spring, that it is time for new life everywhere. The sky is blue, buds are breaking through on trees, flowers are blooming, grass is impossibly green, seasonal allergies are creeping in, and rain is in the forecast. It is fairly easy to look around at this and understand the feelings of celebration that accompany Easter. The eggs and the rabbits and the butterflies, with their metaphorical significance and their Americanized Easteriness, invite us to perhaps eat a few too many jelly beans.

If you went to church on Sunday—no shade if you didn’t, that’s what we’re here for!—the sermon you heard may have made an April Fools Day joke, because Easter fell on April 1 this year. Thanks be to God, it is now the 4th of April and so we are in no such predicament.

Except Easter is still weird! It’s still kind of unbelievable! Last week, churches all over the world walked through the story of Jesus’ last week alive on earth.

Last Sunday, we celebrated Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, subverting the empire in all its glory. On Thursday, we commemorated the last supper with the disciples, renewed our commitment to loving service, and washed each others’ feet. On Friday, we mourned Jesus’ horrific assassination. On Saturday, we sat vigil with the body of Jesus, dead in the tomb. And then, Sunday morning, we gathered to rejoice in the resurrection hope.

Except none of us, here in this room, did that together. We were in different cities, home for spring break, or visiting congregations around town, or weren’t in church all of those days, anyway. When we left this building, it was Lent. And now we’re back, and it’s Easter! No Holy Week required.

Except Holy Week is so, so required. If we’re just at church on Sundays, we go from Palm Sunday—happily waving palm branches and blowing trumpets and cheering—to Easter—happily shouting HALLELUJAH CHRIST IS RISEN INDEED.

Except, in that case, risen from what? If we skip from Palm Sunday to Easter—which, don’t get me wrong, sounds way nice and way easy—the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection doesn’t make sense. If we do not acknowledge and sit with the day on which Jesus died, how can we truly celebrate the day he was raised from the dead?

The feelings of despair on Good Friday and Holy Saturday—days on which there is, truly, no hope—are feelings we do not want to hold on to. We do not want to sit with grief forever. We do not want to sit with pain forever. We do not want to sit with fear forever. We do not want to want to sit with anguish forever. We do not want to sit with uncertainty forever.

The friends and family of Jesus who were present at his death never expected to be there. They were there, just days before, for the big parade! That was awesome! Jesus was changing the world, and they were right there with him!

And then, he was wrenched from their grasp, and with him, their whole vision of the future. Everything they had hoped for, everything they had worked for, everything they loved...was dead. Sometimes you expect life and find death.

The next day was the Sabbath, the first one of Passover, a very holy day. They spent it in a fog, unsure what to do next. Except for three of the women. Mary the mother of James, Mary Magdalene, and Salome spent that day preparing burial spices and ritual action for the following morning. They did what they knew needed to be done to honor the now lifeless body of their friend and teacher. They prepared the spices for anointing, and set out in the pre-dawn darkness for the tomb. They discussed the practicalities of the situation—a huge stone was between them and their work. “Who will roll away the stone for us?” they wonder. The tomb was sealed when they left it. Jesus was dead, and in the tomb, and that was that.

You don’t have to work very hard to imagine their surprise when they arrive and see that the stone has been rolled away. The Gospel According to Mark puts it very plainly: “As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.” Alarmed? No kidding. “But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here.”

This is wild, y’all. Can you envision this scene? I’m thinking wide eyes, open mouths, cold sweat; the spice jars crashing to the ground, clattering around their feet. This stranger—perhaps an angel?—calmly continues. ‘Go, tell your friends that Jesus is alive, and that you should meet him back home in Galilee.’ Oh, okay, sure. Not unexpectedly, the three terrified women turn on their heels and run. They “fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” They were instructed to go home and relay the message, but they were too afraid.

Until they weren’t! The only reason that we are here in this room tonight is because, at some point, they mustered up the courage to blurt out the biggest secret they’d ever kept. JESUS IS ALIVE! They probably shouted. Or perhaps whispered, and had to be asked to speak up. It’s a story too good to be true, isn’t it? It isn’t April Fools Day, but Easter is only for those of us foolish enough to believe the truth.

Sometimes you expect life and find death; sometimes you expect death and discover life.[1]

This unbelievable Easter story comes to us from the Gospel According to Mark, which ends, controversially, with some verses that scholars believe were added in later. In this version of the story, Jesus does not appear to the women or to the disciples. In this version of the story, “all we get is an empty tomb and some terrified women.” [2] Which works for us, because we have all been afraid. We have all been uncertain. We have all been speechless. This version of the Easter story tells us that it is okay to be afraid. This version of the Easter story also tells us that we no longer have to be afraid. That that Easter morning, and this Easter Wednesday night, Jesus who once was dead is now alive.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I really needed to be told that this year. There has been a lot of death, and a lot of fear, and a lot of pain, and a lot of misinformation, and a lot of uncertainty, and a lot of sleepless nights, and a lot of asking God a lot of questions.

I struggled during Holy Week and even these past few days to get out of the Lenten and Good Friday darkness and into the bright sun of the Easter dawn. I don’t know if that has been true for you, too, or maybe it was last year, or maybe it will be in the future.

Fear is real. And death is real. Jesus knows that as well as anyone. But what Jesus’ resurrection tells us, every Easter, is that fear and death do not win. Fear and death do not have the final say. The power of God brings life into the world over and over and over again. Every morning is Easter morning.

You may have seen that on my facebook this week, in all capital letters. Every morning is Easter morning, from now on. You are a lucky bunch, because this year I have not chosen to sing the song to you, complete with jazz hands, as I have been known to do. So that you don’t feel entirely left out, please know that a very tacky Easter song from my upbringing includes those words—every morning is Easter morning, from now on—and reminds us that not only is Easter a 50-day-long liturgical season, but it is truly a way of life. We are the Easter people.

Hallelujah! Christ is risen, and we, too, shall rise.

[1] On Facebook, I saw this turn of phrase attributed to my friend and colleague, The Rev. TJ Freeman.

[2] I riffed (and ripped) this whole paragraph from the beautiful sermon by The Rev. Christa Compton, without whose proclamation I am not sure I would have believed, this week.

Do Not Be Afraid—A Sermon on Being the Body of Christ

On six Sundays this summer, I provided sabbatical coverage for a colleague; today was the sixth. At Lutheran Church of the Incarnation, August's "Monthly Ministry Partner" is LEVN, the young adult service corps I direct; since I was there to preach and preside, I incorporated into my sermon the usual "Temple Talk" that organizations give at the start of the service.

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Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

Here we are, again this week, reading a story about Jesus that we have probably heard a million times—maybe even more in our popular culture than in church! When we encounter someone who is really impressive and we think can do no wrong, we might say that that person “walks on water,” right? They’re just that good.

This phrase can even make its way into the pejorative, when someone receives high praise and we think it’s undeserved. “Well, she walks on water around there,” we might say. It can be hard to imagine a time before phrases like this were so embedded in the vernacular—let alone imagine being a witness to the event that coined the phrase.

The disciples, of course, our usual suspects, are terrified. They’re in their boat, far away from shore, “battered by the waves” the text says. The wind was against them. They’re fishermen, so they know their way around a boat, but weather is unpredictable. They’ve been out on the water overnight, and they’re probably exhausted. So when Jesus comes walking toward them, they’re unsurprisingly frightened. “It’s a ghost!” they shout. Jesus immediately realizes that his sudden appearance has not comforted them, but terrified them, and says, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

There are a lot of words in the Bible, and a lot of them are quotable, and I love none of them quite like I love these. “Do not be afraid.” We live in a big world, with a lot going on, and a lot that we can find ourselves afraid of. We are afraid of change, and we are afraid of instability, and we are afraid of loneliness, and we are afraid of any number of things.

Even in the middle of his fear of the storm going on around him, Peter stands up and challenges Jesus, saying “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” This is a fascinating challenge, because, it assumes that Jesus can control this environment so specifically that he can ensure that Peter, too, can walk on the sea. But! It also requires Peter to take that first step out of the boat! Not knowing if Jesus is who he says he is, Peter takes that step! [You’ve already read ahead to the part where he doubts and falls but we are not going to focus on that part right now.]

As I stand before you this morning, August 13, we are 13 days away from the official move-in date of the new cohort of volunteers for our year-long service corps program, the Lutheran Episcopal Volunteer Network. This year’s LEVNeers are coming to us live from across the nation—New York, Virginia, Indiana, Georgia, and of course the great state of California. These young adults have graduated from college—an inspiring feat in and of itself—and have made the choice to spend the next 11 months of their lives living in intentional Christian community and serving in non-profit organizations in a city they’ve never set foot in before. Talk about stepping out of the boat.

They’re coming to us for an opportunity to learn, and grow, and be transformed by their service and by their witness in the community. They’re able to do this in part because of support from people like you, who dedicate an entire month each year to turning your yearlong support into direct, financial support. You also support them with your prayers, and with your welcome when they worship here, and with your encouragement as they go about their service in the community. Thank you for helping to create the space for LEVN to thrive.

During the application and interview process this year, I noticed something a little different than I’d seen in past years. I always ask them why they’re considering a year of service, and they often say things like “I was raised to always give back,” or “I’m considering a career in social work and I want to see a little more about what that’s like” or “my campus pastor suggested I spend a year reflecting on the connections between my faith and my work in the world,” or “my sister did it and told me I should, too.” These are all excellent reasons, and it is wonderful for all of these folks to be in this together.

This year, though, I spoke to more than a few young adults who said that the state of the world—and our nation, in particular—had given them pause as they contemplated life after college. They were less interested in going out into the workforce to be another cog in a wheel that didn’t mean anything to them, and they want to do something meaningful that makes life better for the people they encounter. These young people are hearing the gospel and doing something about it. They don’t know what they’re getting into, but they’re getting into it.

As we embark on this new LEVN program year, I will remind them not to be afraid. It’s going to be a year full of unknowns, starting with the housemates they’re about to share it with. The service that they’ll do will introduce them to many of the poorest and least-resourced members of our society; facing those realities on a daily basis will not be easy, and they might be afraid sometimes.

Outside of that, they will still be participants in that messy wider world. Thank you for being part of our infrastructure to provide young adults with space to ask hard questions, and face tough truths; to rewire old habits and rethink old frameworks. We know this will not be a walk in the park. “Take heart, it is I,” Jesus will say. “Do not be afraid.”

I will admit to you, dear ones, that this week, I was afraid. On Tuesday, the President of the United States and the Chairman of North Korea hurled threats at one another, insinuating that they might hurl nuclear weapons next. I don’t think you need to be reminded that I am only 29 years old, and therefore have not experienced true nuclear anxiety in my lifetime. Perhaps you recall The Cuban Missile Crisis and the Cold War, and have been recalling those days in these days. Perhaps you recall the duck and cover drills in school, or the underground bunker fever. Perhaps, because you recall these things, you were afraid this week, again, too.

In another callback to what we would like to believe is ancient history, white supremacists marched on the University of Virginia campus on Friday night, and throughout Charlottesville, Virginia in their “Unite the Right” rally on Saturday. I watched live online as men carried torches and chanted, not unlike footage of the Klan I’ve seen in documentaries about the Civil Rights Movement.

I also watched videos of the sanctuary at St. Paul’s Church in Charlottesville, Virginia, as clergy from around the country sang and prayed and prepared to protest that rally. They sang “Oh, Freedom!” and “Wade in the Water” and other old spirituals, ripe with eternal resonance, and blessed each other for the hard work of witness. Then, on Saturday, they, too, took to the streets. They linked arms and stood firmly in the way of armed militiamen. They proclaimed loudly that Black Lives Matter; that love trumps hate; that God is not a white supremacist; that bigotry and hatred do not have the final word.

I bet many of them shook in fear. But they clung to each other and to their faith in the risen Lord Jesus the Christ. And, again, they sang. I don’t know what they sang, but soon we are going to sing, “no storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging; since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

For some of us, it is dumbfounding that we are witnessing the violent extremism of white supremacist terrorism in 2017. We do not understand how the nation we believe stands for freedom and justice for all has been overrun by those who think freedom is just for some. We watch in horror as our fellow Americans are beaten and bloodied as they stand up for justice—we struggle to wrap our minds around the idea that our fellow Americans are doing the beating and bloodying. For most people of color in the United States, this is not new and it is not shocking. For centuries, they have witnessed violence against their neighbors by their neighbors, and we have ignored their cries.

Many of us wish that we could ignore this. Many of us wish that we could just turn off the news and the events would, simultaneously, vanish. Many of us wish we did not have to reckon with the reality that this has presented for our society. Many of us wish that someone else would just handle it. Many of us wish that we were not accountable to one another quite so literally.

That would be far less scary. But we do not have that privilege, dear friends. We are the body of Christ.

St. Theresa of Avila said, “Christ has no body but yours / No hands, no feet on earth but yours / Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world / yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.”

Not every one of us is called to be there, on those front lines, arm in arm. Some of us are, and should go. Others of us are called to pray, or to lament, or to support, or to tend, or to weep, or to speak, or to sing—called to confront the ways in which the sin of white supremacy has infiltrated our communities in subtler ways than these torch-wielding mobs.

All of us, as the body of Christ in the world, are called to band together in solidarity with any and all who are marginalized and trampled upon. All of us, as the body of Christ, are called to denounce violence in all its forms, to disavow bigotry wherever it rears its head, and to listen to our God who says, ‘take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.”

Amen.