A deep acceptance of the truth. April 23, 2023. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 1 Peter 1:17-21; Luke 24:13-25

I donated blood last week and got my Snoopy t-shirt that says “Be Cool. Give Blood.” And, I don’t know, but maybe because of that, blood has been on my mind a lot this week. And I’ve been thinking that our worship this morning is pretty bloody. There’s blood in the lesson from First Peter today: You know that you were ransomed from the futile ways inherited from your ancestors, not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ. It’s in the Easter blessing at the end of the service: The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every way to do God’s will. And, of course, it’s at the center of our Eucharistic prayer: This is my Blood of the new Covenant, which is shed for and for many for the forgiveness of sins. And, actually, when you think about it, the whole Bible is steeped in blood. It’s there at the beginning, when the blood of Abel cries out from the ground; it’s there at the end, when a great multitude gathers around the throne of God, having their robes in the blood of the Lamb.

 Now, I don’t know about you, but blood is not a pleasant image for me. I associate it with violence, horror movies, and suffering. And perhaps some of you have negative associations as well. But whatever our personal reactions may be, I don’t think we should just ignore all this blood talk. It’s worthwhile unpacking it and seeing what that language is trying to convey to us. And doing that brings to mind another blood drive I participated in. The t-shirt I got that time said, “Give the Gift of Life.” In the culture of ancient Israel, blood symbolizes life. More than that, blood is life. As the Old Testament sees it, the blood of every creature is its life. That’s why no meat is kosher unless all the blood has been drained from it, because the blood is the life of the animal, and that life belongs to God. And that helps us understand what the high priest did in the Temple on the Day of Atonement every year. He took the blood of a bull and the blood of a goat inside the Holy of Holies and sprinkled it on the ark of the covenant to purify it. The blood, the life of those animals, represents the life of God, and the act of sprinkling it in the Holy of Holies signifies that God washes away human sin. And the early church, rooted deeply in the history and worship of Israel, used this same language to understand the death of Jesus on the cross. Rather than symbolically shedding God’s blood through the death of an animal, Christ literally sheds God’s blood through his own death. The New Testament affirms over and over that the blood of Christ, the very life of God, washes away all human sin. And if you don’t like  the word “sin,” you can say it washes away all human fallibility, wrongdoing, and failure. Only God can do that. It is God pouring out God’s very life for us through Jesus that conveys to us that we are loved unconditionally and forgiven completely for everything wrong we have ever done or ever will do.

 In our culture, we are so used to thinking about religion as commandments we obey, rules we follow, rituals we enact, that we easily lose sight of the truth. The core of our faith is not about what we do at all: it’s about what God does for us. The central symbol of our faith, after all. is the cross: God in Christ pouring out God’s life for us. But even now we can be like those two disciples on the road to Emmaus and just not get it. Jesus does not rebuke them for failing to believe in the resurrection: he rebukes them for failing to see the absolute importance of the crucifixion: Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory? Don’t you see that God had to shed God’s blood for you? Love will settle for nothing less.

 I cannot overstate how important this is. We do not love, do good, and work for justice and peace in order to get God to love us. Rather, God’s love for us is what sets us free to love, do good, and work for justice and peace. The First Letter of John says it clearly: We love because God first loved us (1 John 4:19). Our faith, our rituals, our acts of love and goodness are a response to what God has done for us. That doesn’t mean that we always feel loved, or that we always feel like loving. Our feelings come and go. But it’s not about feelings, It’s about a deep acceptance of the truth. God’s unconditional love and complete forgiveness are given to us as gifts which enable us to live full and abundant lives. And the shedding of Jesus’s blood on the cross reveals that in the most powerful and effective way possible.

 My message in this homily is not that we necessarily need to dwell on bloody imagery. Rather I offer an invitation to look closely at our religious motivation. In our heart of hearts, are we trying to gain God’s love and acceptance? We don’t need to. But if we are, why not embrace the truth of the cross and accept that we already have God’s love and acceptance? As someone who used to try to earn God’s love constantly, I have found that accepting God’s love for me

 as the beginning of faith makes a huge difference. It makes me want to love more, it motivates me to be my best self, because I’m not operating out of  guilt and fear but out of gratitude and love. And when I forget that and lose my way temporarily, it is always so helpful and so life-giving to return to that basic truth: We love because God first loved us. And if we struggle with that or disbelieve that, we can ask Christ for help. And just as he did for the disciples on the road to Emmaus, he will find a way to open our minds and our hearts to see the truth. In fact, because of him, we won’t just see the truth: we can eat it and drink it.

 

 

Doubt: A component of faith. April 16, 2023. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

John 20:19-31

Once upon a time there was a couple who were engaged to be married but, unfortunately, before their wedding day they had a car accident and died. But in hopes of making lemonade out of lemons, as they stood before the pearly gates, they wondered if perhaps they could get married in heaven. So they asked St. Peter if that was possible. “Well,” he said as he scratched his head, “it’s quite rare, but let me see what I can do.” And left the couple in a heavenly waiting room as he went back to check. A couple of months went by and still no St. Peter. As the couple waited, doubt began to creep in. Given the eternal aspect that their marriage would have in heaven maybe they should reconsider. Could they really love each other for all of time? The doubts grew as they continued to wait until finally, after another month or so Peter returned looking rather bedraggled, but triumphant as he announced, “Yes, you can get married!” Surprisingly the couple didn’t seem so happy with the news. “What if it doesn’t work out, can we get a divorce?“ they asked. Well, upon hearing this Peter slammed down his clipboard and exclaimed, “It took me 3 whole months to find a priest up here. Do you have any idea how long it will take to find a lawyer?!”

 It seems that doubt can creep in anywhere, anytime - not so sure about in heaven, but certainly in church. Because the things that we proclaim as true can seem rather far fetched. Which is likely why every year the Sunday after Easter, seven days after we have celebrated the amazing news of Jesus’ resurrection, we always, without fail, hear the story from the gospel of John. Because, come on, someone being raised from the dead? Who wouldn’t in their right mind wouldn’t register some degree of doubt?

 Hence we are presented with Doubting Thomas. Isn’t it interesting, though, that we don’t call the disciple Thomas just by his first name? Why is it that he, of all the apostles, has an insult attached to his name? Peter denied Christ three times, but no one calls him Denying Peter. Judas, who commits the highest of treason, is not commonly referred to as Betraying Judas. It’s only Thomas who cannot rest in peace with just his given name. No, poor guy, he’s forever branded Doubting Thomas.

 Perhaps we hold onto that moniker so doggedly because we need him as a stand-in for us all. For doubt is no foreign concept. Just the opposite, doubt and uncertainty is almost a universal experience. Which makes me wonder, what is it that you harbor doubt about right now? Do you doubt  if your kids will be ok? Or if your finances will be able to meet your needs? Our health is always fraught with uncertainty. And relationships can make us feel unsure. We often doubt ourselves - that inner critic can be especially harsh. And when it comes to God we can doubt God’s presence or God’s goodness. We can doubt if God will show up in adversity. We can even doubt if Easter is really true or, if true, makes any difference in this life. We are people filled with doubt.

And includes the disciples.

It’s Easter evening for them in our reading today. The resurrection is behind them. Mary Magdalene has told them, “I have seen the Lord.” Peter and another disciple have verified the tomb is empty and, we are told, that the other disciple saw and believed. But still things are unsure. There’s probably hope and excitement among them, but also a lot of confusion and uncertainty. So the disciples gather behind locked doors in fear. And what happens? Jesus comes. In their confusion, in their doubt, in their isolation, Jesus comes. Oftentimes we might think that it’s up to us to find Jesus when we are feeling lost, yet here Jesus is finding them. Jesus is not to be found on the other side of fear, confusion, and withdrawal. Jesus comes to the disciples in the midst of all of that. He comes to the place where they are. Which means that Jesus comes to you, right where you are, even now. And his greeting is one of peace. Not chastisement for failing him when he needed them most. There’s no lecture about how they should have done better. It’s simply and profoundly, “Peace be with you.” That is how the resurrected Christ comes to all those who falter, with peace and with love.

 But what about Thomas? Well, for whatever reason he’s not there in the room that evening when Jesus comes among them. And he’s hard pressed to believe what his closest friends are telling him about Jesus being alive. There are so many other explanations that would make more sense than the notion of Jesus coming back from the dead - including, but not limited to, mass hallucination, wishful thinking, they could all just be lying, maybe there’s someone who looks just like Jesus. But being raised from the dead? Doubtful. “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," declares our doubting Thomas.

 So Jesus comes again with the same greeting of peace and then a specific invitation for one struggling disciple, to see, to touch, to believe. Thomas then responds with one of the most dramatic declarations of  faith, “My Lord and my God!” And Jesus doesn’t dispute that. He allows it to stand.

 We all have our doubts. Doubt is a component of faith. We spend our lives toggling between faith and doubt in so many areas of our lives. Yet doubt can be painful, especially when it comes to love. No one wants to doubt if they are loved. And that’s the assurance that Thomas receives in his encounter with the risen Christ today - he doesn’t necessarily receive the answer to all of his questions, the hows and whys of resurrection. But Jesus does  answer the most important question that deep down all of us have. Am I loved? And the answer is an emphatic, “Yes!” God comes to all of us doubters with that same answer, to Thomas and the disciples, to you and me. We are all so dearly, so fiercely, so passionately loved by God - more than we can even imagine. Although that might leave us still with many questions and doubts, God’s love can hold us until we have what answers we need or our doubts are assuaged.

 Because it’s important to notice, Jesus connects with Thomas through his wounds and vulnerability. And this is how Jesus comes to us. Not so much in our mountaintop experiences, when we’ve got it all together, but in the places where we are frail and full of fear and uncertainty. It’s then that Jesus comes with grace and mercy and peace. He is not impeded by doubts or fears or confusion. He does not abandon his disciples nor does he abandon us. No. The resurrected Christ comes to you wherever you are because the Lord is risen. And, I dare say, there’s no doubt about it. 

Sharing in Christ's resurrection now. Easter Sunday 4/9/23 The Rev. M. Stoddart.

 Colossians 3:1-4; Matthew 28:1-10

Easter Day

9 April 2023

Church of Our Saviour, Charlottesville

The Rev. David M. Stoddart

So a guy is walking by a house one day, and sees a sign that reads, “Talking Dog for Sale.” He is, understandably, very intrigued by this, so he knocks on the door and asks the dog’s owner, “Does he really talk?” The owner says, “Yeah, he sure d0es. Come in and see for yourself.” Well, this guy has never spoken with a dog before, so he asks the dog, “Can you tell me about your life?” And sure enough, the dog answers him in this rich, sonorous voice and says, “I’ve had a full and interesting life. When I was younger, I rescued avalanche victims in the Alps. I’ve been on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with the Archbishop of Canterbury. And now, I spend my days reading to the residents of a nursing home.” The man is just flabbergasted, and says to the owner, “That’s incredible! How can you get rid of such an amazing dog?” And the owner replies, “Because he’s a liar! He never did any of that!”

The story of that first Easter morning as Matthew recounts it is certainly an amazing one. There’s an earthquake, and an angel descending like lightning, guards paralyzed with terror, and astonished women who actually see Jesus alive. We could stop there and say, “That’s incredible,” but then we would miss the greatest wonder of all. That wonder is not that, some 2,000 years ago, Jesus rose from the dead after being crucified. The greatest wonder is that the Risen Christ is here among us in Charlottesville at Church of Our Saviour in the year 2023. It’s not what the dog says that’s so amazing: it’s the fact that the dog talks at all. It’s not just the story of Jesus rising that’s so awesome: it’s the fact that he lives and people experience him alive even now.

And the Gospel points us to this. It pushes the disciples out of their grief and into the future. At the very end of this passage, Jesus exhorts the women to tell his other disciples that he is going ahead of them and will meet them in Galilee: they need to get going and get up there. And then when he does meet them in Galilee, he sends them out from there into the whole world. This is not just a local miracle story for the people of Jerusalem. This is a new reality that touches people around the world and through the ages. So you and I are not here this morning to indulge in some religious nostalgia by listening to a remarkable old story that we really like. We are here to celebrate the reality of resurrected life that we have begun to share in now and which we will continue to experience after we die.

So as important as the Gospel passage is, I want to call your attention to that great reading from the letter to the Colossians, which says, If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. The Greek here could just as easily be translated, since you have been raised with Christ, and that’s clearly Paul’s intended meaning: you are sharing in Christ’s resurrection now —  so think like it, feel like it, live like it. What are these things above that we are supposed to seek? Well, he’s not talking about clouds and rainbows: he’s talking about the blessings of resurrected living which we can know and enjoy even now. 

There are many such blessings, but I want to focus on one today because it comes up so often in my pastoral ministry, and that is freedom from catastrophic thinking. So often I hear in others and recognize in myself this deadly tendency to anticipate disaster. Lots of bad things can happen in this life, of course, and lots of bad things do happen. So catastrophic thinking is commonplace: it assumes the worst will happen and fears it. We might think that the worst thing is physical death, or separation from loved ones, or humiliating failure, or just becoming more feeble and less capable as we grow older. And sometimes the worst thing comes to pass: we do fail, the diagnosis is terminal, the people we love do die, sometimes at a young age. And so people can spend so much of their life’s energy dreading this, imprisoned by their own worst fears.

But we have been raised with Christ, and we don’t need to do that. Just about every worst possible thing happened to Jesus: he was physically tortured, emotionally abused, abandoned by his friends. They killed him at a young age in the most painful and shameful way possible, while his mother watched, heartbroken. And even when they bury him they don’t leave him alone: they actually place guards around the tomb as if they are going to keep him dead. And still he rises! And he doesn’t rise as a broken, embittered man, but as one filled with joy. The very worst thing happened, but disaster does not get the final word. And it never will. I like the way Emily Rutledge put it in one of her recent children’s homilies. She told the kids, “the worst thing is never the last thing.” Since we have been raised with Christ, we know that the last thing for each and every one of us will be life, love, and eternal bliss.

So we don’t need to make ourselves miserable with catastrophic thinking. Take Paul’s words to heart: Seek the things that are above, where Christ is. Notice that verb: seek. Just look for it. Ask for it. We don’t need to have superhuman faith. We don’t need to have heroic virtue. We don’t need to persuade God to be on our side: God is already on our side. The gift of resurrected living is just that: a gift. And we can all practice looking for it, asking for it, receiving it. So when we fear the worst, practice giving that fear to God. When catastrophic thinking takes over, practice asking Christ to set us free from such thinking. And when the worst does happen, practice trusting that it is not the last thing that will happen. And here’s how God compounds the gift: we don’t have to do any of this perfectly. We just have to do it at all. If we just want to do it, if we just want to want to do it, we will give the Holy Spirit room to help us. And she will. The Spirit will gradually set us free from dread, worry, and fear. And as that happens we will know, really know, that Easter is not just about remembering some fabulous old story, but about our sharing in the resurrection of Jesus Christ even now.

Marvelous works in the midst of darkness. Easter Vigil Sermon 4/8/23 The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

 April 8, 2023

Tonight is a holy night. Before the lilies, the feasts, the flowers, and the fanfare that the morning will bring, we begin this first celebration of Jesus' resurrection quietly, in near darkness. With the scratching of a match we ignited a new fire. And from that fire the Paschal Candle was lit. We listened to the stories of God creating the universe, setting people free, breathing life into dry bones, saving, healing, redeeming, and all the while the Paschal Candle burned, witnessing to us that the light of Christ was present through it all.

 And, of course, all these stories build up to the one that begins in darkness. While it is still dark, John’s gospel tells us, the grieving Mary Magdalene makes her way to Jesus’ tomb. But upon her arrival she discovers that the stone has been removed and the cave is empty. Understandably, Mary interprets this dark, empty tomb as a further tragedy - not only has she lost Jesus to a horrific death, now even his body has been stolen and taken away from her. With time, though, she discovers that she’s got it all wrong. That even though at first glance the empty tomb looks bad it is not, in fact, tragedy upon tragedy. Yes, something has happened in the darkness, but it was something wonderful, something unimaginable, something glorious. The tomb is empty not as the result of thievery, but the great power of God. Jesus is alive. He is risen.

 While so much of our focus is on the light of that good news, let us not so quickly forget where the story began. Theologian Barbara Brown Taylor reflects on this in her book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, as she writes, “As many years as I have been listening to Easter sermons, I have never heard anyone talk about [the dark part]. Resurrection is always announced with Easter lilies, the sound of trumpets, bright streaming light. But it did not happen that way. If it happened in a cave, it happened in complete silence, in absolute darkness, with a smell of damp stone and dug earth in the air…new life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb, it starts in the dark.”

 As Christians we often talk in terms of dark versus light and celebrate that the light overcomes the darkness. But by pitting the two against each other we can miss the ways that God is present and working in both. We tend to think of darkness in negative terms, as periods of despair, hopelessness, or confusion, times when God feels far away. It is in darkness that we hit our shin on the coffee table. It is in the dark that we are unable to see what might jump out and get us. And it is often in the dark, when our fears and anxieties get the best of us.

 Yet there is also goodness to be found there. Darkness provides the optimal condition for restorative sleep. In the dark and in the quiet we can rest and replenish. In the dark and in the quiet of the earth, bulbs wait for warmer temperatures. In the dark and in the quiet, seeds germinate before pushing green shoots up above ground, ready for the sun. Indeed, God works marvelous wonders in the midst of darkness. And if we ever doubt that it is the psalmist who reminds us, “Darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day; for darkness is as light to you. For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” (139:12-13)

 God creates in the darkness - in the soil, in the womb, in the cave.

 Remember that the next time you find yourself in the dark - God creates in the darkness. And if we are willing to take a second look in the dark and observe closely, we might just see that God is quietly present, sowing seeds, working wonders, and inviting us into new growth and new life.

 That is the truth that we’ve been hearing in all of our readings. In Exodus, the Isrealites are in fear and disarray as they flee enslavement in Egypt. Pharaoh's army is in pursuit, hemming them in. All seems lost. Yet God creates a way, a path forward into new life. In the book of Romans, Paul proclaims that though Christ was crucified and died, his resurrection means that death no longer has power over him. What looked like the end of the story is only the beginning. For in Christ “we too might walk in newness of life.” And then we have our gospel reading. It is dark when Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb and upon finding it empty she assumes that more tragedy has ensued. But in time she recognizes just the opposite. What looked like bad news is actually good news - very good news. The story is not over. Jesus is alive.

 The joy of Easter is no shallow joy. It is a joy grounded in the depth of knowing that God is with us and always creating a path to walk in newness of life - with us in the dark and quiet, with us in the unknown and the uncertain, and with us in the bright light of day. And so, on this holy night that shines with the glory of the Resurrection, let us give thanks in the dark and the quiet, amidst the light and the fanfare, and in all the moments in between knowing that God is always present - creating, inviting, restoring. We are witnesses to the fullness of that truth.

 Alleluia. Christ is Risen. The Lord is Risen indeed. Alleluia!

 

 

His willingness to trust. Good Friday 2023. The Rev. David M. Stoddart

 John 19:1-37

Do you not know that I have the power to release you, and the power to crucify you? Don’t you see that I’ve got the soldiers and the weapons and all the raw physical force I need to kill you? Pilate is referring to the only power he knows, of course, which is the power of violence. After all, he represents an empire that ruled much of the world with ruthless brutality, as empires and nations and kingdoms and tribes have done for as long we have been human. All of us here understand perfectly well where Pilate is coming from. Meanwhile, there’s an angry mob of religious leaders outside calling for blood. They are also trying to get their way through violence. We understand that, too. For many if not most people, the ultimate power is the power of sheer might. We know we have power when we can physically overwhelm or destroy others. It’s so obvious, right? Jesus must see this. 

But Jesus is not impressed. He replies to Pilate’s question by saying, You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above. Jesus knows fully well that Pilate can kill him, but he also knows that there is a power far greater than Pilate, far greater than Rome, at work here. His willingness to trust in that power in the face of angry mobs, armed soldiers, and certain death is unnerving, to say the least. There is nothing scarier than a person who won’t be sacred. In fact, John tells us that in the face of this Pilate was more afraid than ever. And, as has happened all too often in human history, fear led to more violence. A frightened Pilate exercised the only power he understood and crucified Jesus.

We know how the story ends, of course, and we will celebrate that on Sunday. But tonight we pause. This story, as John presents it, demands that we ask ourselves: How much do we buy into Pilate’s view of power, the crowd’s view of power? Physical force can sometimes be used for good; physical force should sometimes be used for good. But how much do we assume that physical force is the only real power, the only power that matters? And if we don’t believe that, if instead believe there is a greater power at work in our universe, how much are we, like Jesus, willing to trust it?

I can think of occasions when ordinary people trusted in the power Jesus trusted in. For example, the people who crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Alabama on March 7, 1965 in peaceful protest certainly trusted that there was a power greater than police clubs and attack dogs at work. And I can think of times when ordinary people have trusted in that power in the face of threats and verbal violence. Years ago, when I was a seminarian in New York City, I spent some time working for St. James’ Church on Madison Avenue in their outreach ministry. One of the projects we were working on was establishing a drop-in center for homeless people on the Upper East Side. But many in the neighborhood strongly opposed it: they didn’t want homeless people “ruining” their neighborhood; they didn’t want to acknowledge that there even were homeless people in their neighborhood, even though there were plenty of them. So a public meeting was set up to discuss the plan. And it was the scariest thing I ever experienced while living in Manhattan. It was the only time in that I ever feared for my physical safety. The auditorium where we met was crowded with Upper East Siders: affluent, well-dressed, well-educated men and women who were literally screaming at us and threatening us. Many people spoke viciously against the drop-in center, but I will never forget one woman who stood up there and spoke in favor of it. She said, “I am a mother of two young children. I am more afraid of my children encountering the hatred in this room than I am of them meeting homeless people on our streets.” She spoke quietly and politely, without rancor, and there was a moment of silence when she finished before the jeering began again. I don’t know that she changed anybody’s mind, but it was a moment. She was just a young person: she had no bodyguards, no police escort, no worldly power, but there was clearly some power at work in her when she spoke. You could feel it.

We can call that power God, we can call it love. Jesus calls it Abba, Father. But when Jesus tells us to take up our cross and follow him, one of the things he clearly means by that is to trust in that power, to live and act believing that the power of God and love is greater than the power of violence and fear. We may not have to contend with physical violence directed at us personally — hopefully none of us here will ever be a victim of that — but we live in a society where such violence happens all the time: crime, mass shootings, domestic abuse, instances of police brutality and mob violence. And there is the implied violence of individuals and crowds spouting racist and anti-Semitic taunts. And our public and political discourse is filled with vitriol and verbal violence. If we are going to take up our cross and follow Christ, we cannot be part of that. We have to find ways to stand for the power of love. 

And we can begin in our own personal, daily lives. How often do we respond to anger with more anger? How often do we say words that are hurtful? How often do we engage in emotional violence, even against the people we love? Jesus shows us a better way. We choose to trust in God and in love when we do not resort to violent actions or violent words, when we do not retaliate, when we do not give into hateful feelings. To do that, to trust God and to choose love on a daily, an hourly basis is not easy. We can get hurt. But we are followers of the crucified Christ, and the story of his Passion shows us that God is indeed almighty, that no matter how much violence is directed against it, love wins in the end. Forgiveness and mercy have the final word. Resurrection always happens. 

Do we not know that Pilate and all he represents has the power to kill? Of course we do. But like Jesus, we also know something greater than that.

 

How did Jesus love? Maundy Thursday 2023. The Rev. Kathleen M. Sturges

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

    This is a special night. Jesus takes this one last opportunity away from the crowds and the

people and the noise to eat with his closest friends. To share with them what starts out as an

ordinary time together but at a certain point shifts to something extraordinary as he gives his

followers a command - hence the name Maundy. It comes from the Latin word mandatum which

means “command.” It’s where we get the English word “mandate.”

    I give you a new command,” Jesus says, “that you love one another.” But he doesn’t stop there,

he links it to something crucial, “Just as I have loved you.” Now I find it worth noting that up

until this point in John’s Gospel it’s never been explicitly stated that Jesus loves his disciples.

There is the famous verse, John 3:16, where Jesus announces God's love for the entire world, but

on this night, in this moment, things all of a sudden get profoundly personal. It's not about the

world at large. It's not about the Jews as a whole or even the disciples as a group. It's about each

one of them, individually. Which is rather unique because overwhelmingly throughout the

gospels whenever we encounter the word “you” it’s almost always plural, as in “you all.” But not

here, Jesus is using the “you” in the singular. As in, Love one another just as I have loved YOU,

Peter and YOU, Andrew, and YOU, Philip. And even YOU, Judas.

    Because before any of those disciples gathered around the table could ever understand what

Jesus’ command called them to do, they first had to wrap their heads and hearts around what

the command revealed about them. Before the command to love others is about others, it's

about us. Before it's about the person sitting next to you, it's about you. If the amazing, merciful,

abundant love of God is ever to be for anyone else, it first has to be for you.

    That’s the challenge the disciples had then, and we as disciples of Jesus, have now. It’s the

challenge to grasp the depth of Jesus’ love for each one of us, personally. Love one another just

as I have loved you. Which begs the question, how did Jesus love? Well, the gospel of John tells

us that Jesus, “having loved his own who were in the world, loved them to the end.” Or probably

a more accurate translation would read, he loved them fully or to the utmost or he loved them to

the greatest possible extent. It's less about a statement about time and more about depth. It’s

about how far Jesus’ love actually reaches into a person's life. And part of what’s so special about

this night is that Jesus interrupts the meal to show everyone exactly what the depth of that love

looks like as he gets up from the table, takes off his outer robe, bows down, and washes the

disciples’ feet.

    Now you’re probably aware that the washing of feet was a common and necessary act in Jesus’

day. People wore sandals and primarily walked on dirt, feet got dirty all the time and so they

needed washing all the time. Not surprisingly, washing feet was a dirty job and considered the

lowest of all services. So low that Jews exempted themselves from performing this act - either

you washed your own feet or you had a Gentile slave do it for you. Which adds to the shock value

of Jesus'; act. Kneeling down to wash his disciples feet was radical on so many levels - including

in the revelation of radical humility and self-giving love.

    I marvel at that, but I also marvel at what leads up to this act. I appreciate that John’s gospel

gives us a glimpse of Jesus’ inner life. “Knowing that the Father had given all things into his

hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God,” Jesus got up from the table and

began to wash feet. Jesus’ ability to serve directly corresponds with being solidly rooted and

grounded to who he was in God. Jesus’ capacity to love is fully related to the knowledge that he

himself is so loved - loved by God the Father fully, to the utmost, to the greatest extent. Loved,

just like we are.

    It is that love that empowers Jesus to love and serve in extravagant ways - even to the point of

washing feet. And it is that love empowers us to do likewise. Which brings me back to the truth,

that before the command to love others is about others, it's about us. Before it's about the person

sitting next to you, it's about you. You are loved fully, to the utmost, to the greatest extent.

Following Jesus’ command to love begins when you let that love of God fill you and flow through

you.

    But I want to highlight something here. Jesus’ love command isn’t about letting love flow only in

one direction - from God into us then out to others. That's a big part of it, yes, but there’s more.

God’s love is meant to flow in all directions. From us to others and from others back to us.

For I look around and I see you. I see how open and generous you are. How you step up to serve

others - whether that be those in your family, in this community, in the world. And in doing so I

see the love of God at work. Yet I also see your resistance. How hard it is to be on the receiving

end of that same love and let others serve you. And I get it. It’s humbling to be served when you

are genuinely in need. Yet when we are rooted and grounded in who we are, like Jesus was.

When we know our identity in Christ - that we are loved by God with an extraordinary love, then

we can stop resisting that love when it seeks to flow through others into our lives and, instead,

receive it with grace, gratitude, and even joy.

    And that’s the opportunity we have this evening. Now I realize that tonight we’ve heard a lot

about foot washing and that Jesus says that, “You also should do as I have done to you.” But that

doesn’t mean we have to literally wash the feet of others. Sometimes that may be what’s needed,

but in our culture it makes more sense that we embody Jesus' command through the washing of

hands, as well as in countless other ways that we can love and serve. So tonight we’re sticking

with hands and letting God’s love flow in all directions as we both give and receive a washing as

we say the words, “The Christ in me serves the Christ in you.” For ultimately any act of love is

God’s spirit in us recognizing and serving God’s Spirit in another.

    So between the commotion and celebration of Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, I encourage you

to spend a moment and let things get profoundly personal. Let God love you fully, to the depths

of your soul. And then, by all means, go and love one another just as Jesus has loved you.

Turmoil. Palm Sunday, April 2, 2023. The Rev. Kathleen Sturges

Matthew 21:1-11, 27:11-54

Palms and Passion all in one service - it’s quite a mash up. We started this morning in joy waving our palms, celebrating Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Minutes later in our world - in Jesus’ it was a week later, still that’s not a lot of time - Jesus is arrested, tortured, crucified, dead. And here we are left in the wake of that darkness. What do we do with that? What a swing in emotional tone. How do we hold both of these realities - the joy and the sorrow - at the same time on this day, and really in our lives?

As I’ve pondered that, I’ve been drawn to a particular word that Matthew’s gospel uses to sum up Jerusalem’s response to Jesus’ arrival. Turmoil. “When [Jesus] entered Jerusalem,” we heard, “the whole city was in turmoil.” So instead of Palm Sunday, what if we called this day Turmoil Sunday? Does that sound like good news to you? Did you show up today hoping Jesus would bring you some turmoil? Probably not. I can honestly say that I have never prayed for to Jesus, “Please bring turmoil into my life.” And I’m relatively sure that you haven't either. Most of us probably pray that Jesus will bring just the opposite. Peace. Comfort. Answers to questions. Solutions to problems. We didn't come here today looking for turmoil. We came to hear the story of Jesus riding on a donkey, to sing our hosannas, and to get our souvenir palms. And likely the crowds that followed Jesus weren't all that different from us. A ride on a borrowed donkey, songs of celebration and praise, garments and branches that fall before Jesus like the confetti in a parade. Now that's a triumphal entry. It was for them and it is for us. And most of us are probably pretty happy to leave it at that - end of story.

But of course that is not the end of the story. And I wonder if Jerusalem gets it better than we do. I wonder if the city’s response to Jesus’ arrival is actually the most faithful and appropriate one. Maybe we should all be in turmoil this day. Maybe turmoil is today’s good news. Maybe the turmoil that Jesus brings is exactly what we need. 

 We typically think of turmoil along the lines of chaos, confusion, uncertainty. But the Greek word that has been translated into turmoil really means to shake or quake. It’s descriptive of what happens in an earthquake. In addition to using this word to describe Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, it is laced throughout the rest of the story - the shaking of the earth and the splitting of the rocks at Jesus’ death, the angel rolling the stone away from the tomb, the shaking of the guard who stood at the tomb. In all these moments, the gospel is describing seismic events in which our lives and our worlds are shaken to the core.

 Now as some of you may know, I grew up in California. And back in the day before, sadly, it became routine for the state to experience disaster upon disaster, the primary underlying threat we lived with was earthquakes. Growing up I probably experienced three or four of them. And what I learned from experience was that all earthquakes are not alike. Of course there is the degree in magnitude, some are more intense than others. But they can also feel differently. Some shake the ground, but others have more of a rolling sensation. They last just a few seconds, but those seconds can feel much longer in time. And, of course, they occur without warning - you’re going about your normal day and then, all of a sudden, something very odd is happening. Usually it takes a moment to get your mind around what is actually going on. Perhaps you know what I mean if you were in this area back in 2011 when an earthquake out of Louisa shook the ground here in Charlottesville.

 Thankfully there were no deaths from that earthquake and only minor injuries were reported. Damage to buildings, however, was widespread. Which makes sense because when the ground on which we stand shakes, when the foundations on which we build our lives are threatened or in turmoil things can crumble and fall. Bottom line, earthquakes can be very destructive in our lives. But not necessarily so. Over the years building practices have been honed so that structures can better withstand seismic tremors. The key is developing strength and flexibility. Strength so that the building can stay standing, but flexibility so that that same building is able to absorb and dissipate tremors. For in earthquakes, and in life too, rigidity often results in downfall.

 Which brings me back to our two gospel readings. One of triumph, the other of tragedy. Both reveal the kind of turmoil that Jesus brings into our lives. The kind of turmoil that seeks to shake things up not for our downfall, but in order that we might become more fully alive, more fully ourselves, more fully God’s. So let me ask you this. What parts of your life and world need some Jesus kind of turmoil? What in you needs to be shaken? What are the old ways of thinking, seeing, and acting that maybe just need to crumble and fall? In what ways have you become rigid and a prisoner of the very structures upon which you’ve built your life? Somewhere in each of our lives we need the triumphant turmoil of Christ so that space can be made for a new foundation, a new structure, new life - one that at the same time is strong and flexible. One that doesn’t cling to the either/ors, but is able to hold with some degree of ease the both/and’s of life. The joys and the sorrows, The triumphs and the tragedies. The palms and the passions.

 For the turmoil of this day is also the triumph of this day. The triumph that goes way beyond a donkey, hosannas, and palms. It is Christ Jesus’ earth shaking entry into our world and into our lives. It is a triumph that will continue to be revealed throughout this holy week - and, if we are willing, throughout all the days of our lives.