This is the Night

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Hallelujah! 

You have come to know that I love audience participation, I love a call and response, and on this holy and blessed night, we are invited to rejoice and to sing praise to our God, to shout “hallelujah” over and over again, because the power of sin and death have been overcome by the glorious resurrection of Jesus the Christ. It’s finally here, beloveds. This is the night. 

This is the night when we get to ask my favorite questions, brought to us by the prophet Hosea and the Apostle Paul, “Where, O grave, is thy victory? Where, O death, is thy sting?” Not here. Vanquished. 

This is the night. This is the night where we do not fear the darkness, for it, too, has been vanquished. 

This is the night. This is the night when we hear stories told from throughout the history of God’s people. In the full and exhaustive Great Vigil of Easter, we would have heard a dozen stories, which would have carried us from the darkness of the tomb into the resurrection dawn. As we are a modern and practical community of faith, we have heard merely six stories this evening, and they have been good ones. 

Voices from throughout our congregation have told us of the creation of the universe; of the exodus and Israel’s deliverance at the Red Sea; prophecies about what it is to live and to breathe as a community. The Apostle Paul insisted that we are moving from death to life. And the women gathered at the tomb of Jesus, looking for the living among the dead. 

We heard poetry, we heard prose. We heard history, we heard allegory, we heard prophecy. We heard hopes and dreams and visions. We heard assurances and admonitions. 

The Great Vigil of Easter invites us to listen for the whole story. 

Somewhere along the line in our institutional church history, we leaned not into the voices of the women at the tomb, but of those who failed to believe them. We determined that some voices were not welcome in the church, that some people were not worthy to proclaim the Gospel. It is clear, simply from this evening’s readings, that we got this very wrong. The first proclaimers of the good news—Jesus is not dead, but alive—were women. Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women who had come with Jesus from Galilee are the Gospel’s first preachers. In order to be Biblically accurate, it could be argued that only women should preach on Easter. I digress. 

These women had been with Jesus on the way. They had traveled around the Judean countryside, providing invaluable service to the community. We know that they were exceptional women, given that they traveled with this band of radicals rather than staying put and keeping a home in the village of their husbands. They famously sat at the feet of Jesus, learning from him and sharing the good news that he proclaimed. But we also know that their roles as disciples were likely related to the care and keeping of the men; feeding, clothing, mending, cleaning, tending. We know that they had not abandoned this responsibility, as they approached the tomb of Jesus in the early dawn hours. They came to tend to the body of their friend, the last act of service they would ever do for him.

When we don’t listen to the whole story, because we do not hear from everyone involved, we are very likely to miss out on something important. In some instances, it might be interesting details or context. In some instances, it might be the whole point.

We know from the historical record that it is almost always the winners who write the story of the war. It is always those with power whose voices are loudest, whose expertise is acknowledged, whose contributions are applauded. But if we stuck to that version of the story, in the case of Jesus’ death, all we’d know is that some rabble-rouser was executed and nobody ever thought twice about it again. Thanks be to God, we have the testimony of these women.

Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the Mother of James, and “the other women who were with them” spent their sabbath day afraid and unsure about what the future would hold. They relied on their tradition to point them toward action, to move through the rituals of grieving together. These women probably fed their families, and gathered to pray in the candlelight. Then, before anyone else was awake, I imagine them meeting, quietly, at one of their homes, and gathering the spices they’d prepared. I imagine them looking one another in their scared faces, taking a few steadying breaths, nodding resolutely, and walking out into the dawn. 

These women are some of the most courageous people in our whole scripture. While they were doing their sacred duty to their friend, they were making their way to the grave of a convicted political criminal. They took a significant risk to themselves and to their terrified community, showing their faces at this place, where Roman guards likely still stood. But in the chaos and turmoil, they had courage.

When they arrived to do their work—the practical, mundane, sacred work of tending to the dead—they were met, instead, with an empty tomb and two dazzling strangers. “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” One of the strangers asks. “He is not here, but has risen.” 

Not only did these women have the courage to show up at the tomb of their friend when all hell had broken loose, but they had the courage to believe it was true that he was alive again. And then, the courage to run home and tell their friends this unbelievable truth. It is, at face value, an absurd proclamation. He is risen? Could it be?

But as the people of God, who have heard the stories of God’s work in the world over millennia, we are perhaps familiar with such odd things. 

“Let there be light,” God says, and it is so. 
“Go into the ark,” God says, and Noah goes. 
“The Lord will provide,” Abraham says, and Isaac nods. 
“Do not be afraid,” Moses says, and the Israelites cross the Red Sea.
“Prophesy to these bones,” God says, and Ezekiel breathes. 
“He is not here, but is risen,” the stranger says, and the women believe. 

They believe, but their friends and coworkers in ministry fail to believe them! They are dismissed, their proclamation of the gospel truth disregarded as an idle tale. How many women—and how many marginalized and minoritized people, across time and space—have told the truth and not been believed? How many times have people insisted on their lived experiences, only to be ignored or invalidated or even punished? This cannot be the example we follow in a post-Easter world. 

We, hearers of these stories in the Year of our Lord 2022 know the truth, and the truth has set us free, because, for centuries, people have had the courage to tell that truth. And the person they told it to trusted them, believed them, and continued to tell the story. Our ancestors in faith have told the stories of the people of God, and told them again, and again. Year after year, night after night, telling the stories. The simple stories, and the weird stories, and the confusing stories, and the complicated stories, and the gruesome stories, and the uplifting stories, and the liberating stories.

And in the same way, each of your stories is part of God’s story. Your lived experiences, many and varied, are reflected in the pages of our sacred texts. Your victories and your defeats, your hopes and your fears, your joys and your sorrows, all of you belongs here, in the story of God.

The truth, as hard as it is to believe, is that Jesus, who was once dead is alive again. You, who were once dead, are alive again in Christ. Hallelujah! Amen.

Two Alexes Are Better Than One Alex -- A&A 10/4/14

I officiated the wedding of my brother (Alex) and my now brother-in-law (Alexander) earlier this month. These are the words I preached about what their union could be like.

 Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

 Much to my chagrin, today (like each day before it) is not about me. Today is about a God who has blessed two giant families with two wonderful men named Alex. And as our main man Ecclesiastes has just proclaimed, two Alexes are better than one Alex.

And Hafiz, who, in the 14th century, wrote the poem that Aunt Jackie read, knew that your union could be like this.

Alex and Alexander, you chose this poem, I believe, because of its extraordinariness and ordinariness. In the poem, Hafiz explains, “You felt cold, so I…” and “A hunger comes into your body, so I…” and “You ask for a few words of comfort and guidance, so I…” Hafiz responds to the needs of his partner, as you are promising to do. Here, you have recognized that this wonderful celebration (while the end of a year of planning and anticipating) is in fact the beginning of a lifetime of regular old togetherness. You will go through the ordinary and extraordinary experiences of life, now, together. You will make ordinary experiences into extraordinary ones, by your togetherness.

The Ecclesiastes reading dealt in twos—two Alexes are better than one Alex. If one falls, the other catches. If one is cold, the other warms. If one feels weak, the other strengthens. But then the last line suddenly mentions that a threefold cord is not quickly broken. It’s like, thanks for the advice, Eagle Scout, but what does that have to do with anything? It turns out that the relevant information in this passage is not just that two Alexes are better than one Alex, but that there’s even a third ply at play. Congratulations, y’all—it’s you.

Earlier in this very ceremony, you, the third ply, agreed to “support and care for them, sustain and pray for them, give thanks with them, honor the bonds of their promise, and affirm the love of God reflected in their life together.” You promised that. Thank you.

We’re gathered here today as people of a variety of faiths, cultures, and political persuasions. And we’re gathered here today because Alex and Alexander are our beloved brothers, sons, cousins, nephews, friends, colleagues, classmates, comrades. We’re gathered here because we believe—or are coming to believe—that this marriage is about love and commitment and joy, and that this union does nothing to threaten anyone. The only thing this marriage threatens to do is celebrate in the midst of those who would tear it down.

Because while we—all of us present today and all those who will be present later this month in Sterling Heights—are that threefold cord, we find the strength to be so because God, too, is with us.

For me as a Christian, the most important words I ever preach are, of course, the greatest commandment Jesus ever preached—love one another. That’s what we’re here to do today. We’re not here to do anything if not to celebrate love and multiply love. This is radical and this is exponential.

Like you promised, when you support and care for Alex and Alexander in the coming years—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you pray for them—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you give thanks with them—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you honor the bonds of their promise, and uphold yours, that will radiate. When you affirm that love of God reflected in their life together—the love of God will radiate.

When I look at your faces, Alex and Alex, my dear ones, the love of God radiates. 


Thanks be to God! Amen!

The Beloved Community -- Luke 12:32-40

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
Psalm 50:1-8, 22-23
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
Luke 12:32-40

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.

So here we are on the umpteenth Sunday of “Ordinary Time”—we’re in that green season of summer between holidays—as a joke, we sometimes call this the “low holy days”—where we’re just supposed to go week to week without any particular excitement. Just some ordinary days. But I can think of 57 people, myself included, who, after last week’s summer trip theme, just might not ever look at the word “ordinary” the same way again.

Ordinary time offers us a little breathing room from the rigidity of the other seasons—we’re not lamenting or anticipating or celebrating anything in particular all summer, so we get a chance to re-center and rethink just what it is that we’re up to in our “ordinary” lives. We have the freedom to reconsider our identity in Christ as individuals and as a community.

Our community here at Bethlehem here in Encinitas is pretty comfortable. But I’ve been away from y’all for a while, now, and my internship supervisor taught me a catchphrase I just might have to stick on my car. The role of the pastor, Pastor Dave says, is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. This week’s lectionary texts make that job easy.

At first glance, this week’s texts are full of a lot of, umm, Bible-y things. The Isaiah text is full of burnt offerings and the dreaded Sodom and Gommorah; the Hebrews text offers fancy words about faith and ancestors; and the gospel is about slaves and the end times. Oof.

The kingdom of God that Jesus is always drawing us into is confusing, because the people he was speaking to thought it was the end of the world and that it was coming like, next weekend, and we’re pretty sure that didn’t happen. And so, now, when he admonishes us to look alive, we struggle to be in as big a hurry as he seems to insist.

The kingdom of God can be beautifully described as the beloved community. Those of you who have known Bethlehem for a while know that if I’ve said something good, Pastor Ray probably said it, and therefore Dr. King probably said it.  His words are where the ideal of the beloved community really fleshed out, at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. The beloved community, according to Dr. King, is the end of the struggle—“the end,” he says, “is reconciliation, the end is redemption, the end is creation.”

Those are also Bible-y things, so let’s talk about those.

A theologian I love named Joyce Hollyday writes about this and says that we’re “building a new city—one where justice and peace replace hatred and violence. I may only add the 57th brick in the third row of the left wall of the garage for the second house from the corner. It may seem like little. But if we all work together—and keep the faith—a world more grand than our greatest imaginings will one day appear.” This beloved community is real and possible and about as hard of work as it sounds.

On our trip to Visalia last week, we participated in the building of the beloved community. We spent day after day having fun together and loving each other through some less-than-stellar moments, reminding and being reminded of the value of laughter and tears and hugs between friends. We developed relationships we’d never imagined, and we deepened relationships we thought had no further to go. And, while all of that was happening, we literally built a community. The 45 kids and their 7 small group leaders worked alongside the families who will soon live in and own the homes we were all constructing together. Each of us was able to do our small part, combined with everyone else’s small part, to make a large difference.

Even if you only nailed one column on one stud on one house on one street, so did your neighbor, and that wall now stands. Even if you only installed electrical boxes in one room of one house on one street, so did your neighbor, and that house will have lights. Even if you only caulked one window on one wall in one house on one street, so did your neighbor, and that house will stay weatherproof. Each of these pieces of our work last week may have seemed small, and random, and occasionally haphazard. But the work that went in before our arrival and the work that takes place now, after we’re gone—all of it is part of that neighborhood, and we are part of that community, now.

Imagine if we understood this type of investment and that type of work as we built the beloved community together. Imagine if we took a week out of our summer vacation—a week of vacation out of our year of work—and dedicated those hours to improving the well-being of our world. That sounds like a significant change in the way we live our lives. But I’d invite you to take it further than just a week out of the year. I’d like that week to be unnecessary, because we’re operating on a daily basis with the intention of building the beloved community. Because each time we walk out the door, we’re intending to make gentle the life of this world.

It won’t be easy.

“Nothing sends terror through the bones of the American middle class more quickly than the injunction, ‘Sell your possessions,’” Walter Wink writes. “We equivocate. We rationalize. We explain. And we do nothing but heap on guilt. Jesus is not trying to make us feel bad; he reminds us that it is all divine gift, not effort on our part. ‘Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’”

The reason this call to sell our possessions always sounds so threatening and so impossible is because it could only work in community. It could only work if our whole world wasn’t centered on who had what. And our societies have been that way for a long time. Jesus knows a little bit about that.

This week’s gospel is wonky and apocalyptic and not even Jesus’ listeners are super sure what to do with it. There’s a slave owner who is going to return from his own wedding feast to serve another to his own servants? That’s backwards. Jesus’ message turns every social system upside down. No master has ever done this. 

Who are we, here? Will we be awake when the master returns? When the thief comes? Or is it we who are thieves? If we truly are to be the beloved community, how might the Spirit, alive in us, express this new world order?

As Jonathan asked us all last week, what is the point of any of this if you’re not going to let it change you?

The world we are called to love is complicated. The people we are called to love are complicated. There are systems in which we are entrenched, and there are relationships from which we cannot escape. Cycles of violence plague us.

But we, builders of the beloved community, have reconciliation, redemption, and creation in our toolbelts. We may feel like we’re up against a pretty massive current reality—and we are. Jesus’ message of radical social change came against the Roman Empire, so he knows what kind of systems we’re facing. And his message of radical social change is not small. And because we have been empowered by the holy spirit, neither are we. Because our God is powerful, so too we are powerful. It is how we use our power that makes all the difference.

Because you are sitting in these pews right now, you have the power to worship freely in the nation you call home. Because you are sitting in these pews right now, you have access to reliable transportation, you are healthy enough to leave your home and do as you please, your employment situation is such that you have Sunday mornings free or could arrange to have this morning free in order to be here. Because we are in this church building in this town in this state in this nation, we are some of the wealthiest people this world has ever known. If you’re a citizen who’s 18 or older, you can vote in some of the most important elections this world has ever known. You. Have. Power.

And there are people sitting beside you who have a little less or a little more, sure. But there are people sitting beside you everywhere else you will go today who have a lot less. And there are millions of people you will never see as you go about your daily life who have a whole lot less. The beloved community must include them as surely as it must include us.

The beloved community does not have space for systemic and institutionalized racism, sexism, xenophobia, heterosexism, rape culture, glorified violence, the war-industrial complex, the prison-industrial complex, the war on drugs, the war on terror, chronic homelessness, marginalization of the mentally ill, fear-mongering, gerry-mandering, or any other manifestations of the sin that so easily entangles.

Martin Luther would tell us that we live in two kingdoms—the kingdom of God, and the United States of America. We are called to be full participants in both. As equality in this country falls by the wayside, it is our job to call for the radical social change that Jesus preaches. We are called to put an end to the snowballing income inequality that surrounds us. We are called to bridge the gap in education that leaves poor children with fewer and fewer options. We are called to require living wages from all employers. We are called to demand respect of all cultures and religious traditions in this nation—especially those that are not our own. We are called to live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. There is work to be done and we are called to be the people who do it.

So, you see, Ordinary Time is not free time. It is not time to skip church and go to the beach. Ordinary time is time to act. It’s the time we aren’t bogged down by Christmas shopping or spring break planning or finals week or any of our favorite excuses—it is time.

Thanks be to God. Amen.