Sermon: “Breaking the Rules” (Exodus 2:1-11)

(NB: This sermon owes a tremendous debt to Kelley Nikondeha’s remarkable book, “Defiant: What the Women of Exodus Teach Us About Freedom.” Run, don’t walk, to read the book.)

It’s been on t.v. for ages now, but when it first began there was nothing like the t.v. show, “Survivor.” 

Most people have seen it at least once. 

You may or may not like the show.  You may not entirely like that you like the show.  But many, many of us have at least seen the show.  

“Survivor” is, of course, part reality t.v. and part game show, with a group of people from all kinds of walks of life get marooned somewhere beautiful but marginally deadly….a place with lush green foliage and enormous, hungry reptiles.  Waters the color of lapis lazuli…and the most ferocious sharks known to science.  

They arrive without food, fire or shelter and have to, well, survive

They can only do this through a combination of working together and looking out for #1, and the whole thing has a Darwinian “survival of the fittest” kind of twist that is never far off, because at the end of each episode, your collaborators have to vote one of you off the island for good.  

The early rounds just pick off the ones who drag down the group—the hapless Gilligan kind of people who let the fire go out by accident, or lose some sort of contest by falling out of a boat or dropping the tiki torch at the crucial moment.  

One by one they go. 

The last one standing wins a million dollars. 

“Survival,” at least at the show depicts it, turns out to be a combination of physical prowess, outdoor skill, and political acumen – and as each season unfolds, it is clear that over time, it’s the political acumen that is the single most important thing keeping you in the game. 

That said, in the years I watched “Survivor,” there were times I wondered why the contestants agreed to play by the rules. 

Why was it that they accepted the terms of winner take all, and all others take none?  

If they wanted to, couldn’t they take working together to the next level, and come up with a totally different outcome – one in which didn’t show up for the little side games that were designed to turn them against one another? 

Why did they buy into the rules they were handed? 

Why not just split the money?  

With a little imagination and an openness to unorthodox collaboration, a very different world was surely possible.  


This morning’s Scripture from the Book of Exodus, and it describes the rescue of the infant Moses. 

What happens in the story is anything but a game, although it is certainly true that Moses was nothing if not a survivor.  

He was born at a moment of tremendous injustice and oppression.

In fact, the Hebrew people may have taken their name from this moment: “Habiru” is a word that may point to an Egyptian word for “foreigner.” 

And if you hear in that something that sounds like a new sense of “us” and “them” into what had been a warm and life-giving collaboration—a kind of unity—well, that’s probably on target.  

In this story, Egypt is ruled by a wicked Pharoah, consumed with fear of strangers, foreigners he worries that he won’t be able to control.  

Accordingly, he takes strong measures, and commands that all the newly born males of the Hebrew people should be thrown into the Nile. 

In Egypt, Pharoah is the one who makes the rules, and so Pharoah’s fears and Pharoah’s agenda are the only game in town. 

Or so it seems. 

Because Scripture’s point is that in the deep darkness of such a terrible hour, a ray of light emerges.  

Something different begins. 

Redemption is at work.  

In the improbable survival of this particular infant, Moses, God is at work to secure the survival of so many others—God is at work to let God’s people go.  

But what we may not notice quite so readily is how much saving Moses is the result of an unorthodox collaboration, as a group of women decides that they will not buy into the rules they have been handed. 

Somehow, without conferring or plotting, this group decides to work for a very different outcome for this one child, not realizing that he is a figure of destiny. 

Or maybe the point is that any child has a destiny that ought to claim our loyalty, no matter who the child is or what that destiny might be…because it’s not about saving our own flesh and blood, so much as it is about making a way so that all God’s children can make theirs.  

I don’t know. 

But something happens there along the banks of the Nile. 

Moses’ mother has risked everything by keeping him alive up to now, which she had decided to do entirely on her own. 

But now he’s just too big for that to continue. 

Those cries at night are getting too loud.   You can’t hide a crib in a one room shack in the middle of a shantytown set up in Pharoah’s brick yard. 

It’s not like women were excused from daily work, themselves.   

And so, with all that being the case, it looks like Pharoah’s rules are going to win, after all.  

Moses’ mother makes him a basket out of papyrus and seals the cracks with bitumen and pitch they had all around them for making Pharoah’s bricks.

Is it hope that prompts her to make the baby a little boat to float away in? 

Or is it just a final act of tenderness? 

The story never says.  

In the early morning, while the sun is still just coming up, and the neighborhood has not started stirring, she carries the little basket down to the river to let the child go. 

But you see, she’s not the only one out there. 

Pharoah’s moves are designed to convince us otherwise.  They’re all about trying to keep us lonely and afraid and convinced that we must be the only one.  

But there’s somebody else out there by the river on this particular morning.  

Pharoah’s own daughter with her entourage has gone down by the river to bathe.  

And when this Hebrew lady wades in on the other side of the river and goes out to where the current runs strongest, lets go of some basket and watches it slowly drift away, it turns out there is someone just a little further downstream who’s there to catch it.  

And when this fancy Pharoah’s daughter sees that basket in the reeds and hears a cry come from it, she would have known what her father expected her to do. 

She would have known the dangerous game she was getting herself into.  

Even in a palace, it’s not so easy to muffle a cry, or hide a crib, or explain the presence of a toddler.  

But somehow in that moment, by the grace of God, Pharoah’s daughter sees that her father has them all locked in an even more dangerous game—a game of loneliness and fear and injustice and violence.  

She decides she will not simply go along and play that game as he would have her do along with everyone else, as she has up to now. 

She decides that she isn’t going to buy the rules that she’s been handed, and will, instead, work for a very different outcome for this one child.  

And God being God, wouldn’t you know it that right at that moment, a young Hebrew girl appears, and helpfully says she might just know a lady who could be a wet nurse for the baby, “assuming that you’re keeping it, your highness.”  

And the princess pauses maybe just a moment and says yes.  


So a group of women…a mother, an adoptive mother, and a sister…collaborate for the saving of this one child…this child who turns out to be the instrument of God’s liberation.  

And isn’t that such a reminder of God’s dream? 

Doesn’t our God just hope that we will unlock the power of salvation, and act in ways that let God pour the power of redemption into the things we do? 

So much of our lives get wasted playing games that turn out to be rigged, run by rules that make us all losers in the end. 

So often, it’s the game that’s playing us.  

But something else is possible. 

The power of a God who stands always on the side of dignity and flourishing and hope is at work in the world.  

We see it in the bravery of these women, making a way out of no way, saying yes to each moment that shows up like a message in a bottle or a baby in a basket. 

The story teaches us to say yes to those moments when they appear in our lives, and to hear God’s invitation to midwife a better world into being. 

We may have to rewrite a lot of the rules to make that happen. 

We may have to collaborate in some unorthodox ways. 

It’s not easy to see one another when your eyes have been trained to look elsewhere for so long.  

But there’s more to life than just surviving, and it’s in our capacity to love and serve and see one another that we begin to find it. 

This morning, the women show us how, and remind us why.  

All those with ears to hear, let them hear.  Amen.

Sermon: Marooned (Acts 8:26-following)

This morning’s Gospel circles back to one of Scripture’s most powerful preoccupations: the power of tribe.  

…Of which, Scripture understands, there can be any number of versions – good ones, bad ones, and many more for which it isn’t so clear what word…what proper descriptor…you’re supposed to supply. 

Those are the ones that probably come closest to most of the tribes we know.  

In our context, “tribalism” is a way of talking about insularity, and when we talk about tribes, we are almost always being metaphorical. 

In other contexts and other periods of history, people talking about tribe tend to mean it far more directly.

But the metaphor is no less powerful for all that. 

Because belonging and not belonging are so close to the bone for us.  

We were not made to be independent operators and can’t really function as such for very long,…or anyway, most of us can’t.    

Maybe you read this week about the man who’s been the hermit caretaker of a small island off of Sardinia since 1984, supervising the safety of a beautiful place that nobody is apparently supposed to go but which somebody owns, anyway, and cares about…sort of.  

It’s not entirely clear how it all originally came together, but apparently the hermit had started out from Sardinia in a little boat back in 1984, with a plan to sail solo around the world.  

But it didn’t turn out to be much of a plan, I guess, because he didn’t get that far and hadn’t planned for a lot of contingencies, which I would think would be an important part of sailing around the world, but there you go…

So he had some sort of boat issue a couple of days out and made it to this island, which is where he had stayed.  

And the original owner hadn’t apparently thought about the liability of having people wash up on his island, so he decided to let this guy stay in order to make sure anyone else who might turn up would beat it.  

This has suited the hermit just fine. 

Any aspirations he might have had to seeing the world apparently evaporated as soon as he arrived on the island.  

Except that now the island has been sold, and the new owner has apparently decided that the hermit is getting a little long in the tooth, which from the hermit’s point of view was part of the point, but in any case…now the owner is working to evict him.  

The hermit…prepared to be philosophical about this.  

But apparently, others are not.  

The Sardinian Internet has gone wild.  

There are Facebook groups.  

There are crazy comments sections at the tail of every story in the paper. 

There are those emails circulating where everyone over 40 hits “reply all,” and you know you shouldn’t, but you get sucked in anyway.  

It’s big news.  

People are seriously rooting for the hermit and his freedom to go do his own thing, whatever that is. 

Even a hermit can turn out to have a tribe.  

More poignantly, there are people who feel like hermits, I think, except without the beautiful island or any sort of decision to stay there.  

People who feel marooned where they are or marooned in who they are – people for whom any sense of family or tribe, any notion that others can know what they’re going through or care, just seems impossible to imagine. 


It seems to me that the Ethopian eunuch in today’s Scripture might have been one of those.  

If you dig a little deeper into the story, it seems clear that he was a curious combination of insider and outsider.  

There were any number of tribes to which the eunuch seemed to sort of belong, but none in which they squarely did. 

That’s where the Gospel comes in.  

But just to get a sense of how the story sets this up, let’s start with this idea of an “Ethiopian eunuch.”

A lot of people hear that and go, “Ok, Ethopia…I know where that is” or maybe “I can look up where that is, again.”

Most people hear “eunuch” and are like, “Ok, I know what that is…”

But it turns out that back in the day, these were more general terms.  

“Ethiopia” often meant any number of countries in sub-Saharan Africa.  

And a “eunuch” could mean something as simple as an unmarried adult man, someone not attracted to women, or what have you. 

It was a social and cultural category even more than it was a physiological descriptor.  

In any case, what we are told is that this eunuch has done well – they serve as the Treasurer for Queen Candace.  

And yet, even with that high position in the court and all that comes with it, the Eunuch is outside.  

Somehow, they have understood themselves to be Jewish, which most everyone around them at the court would not have been.  

And I hear in that a kind of longing.  

I hear in that a way of finding solace in a God who isn’t from where you’re from, perhaps because for all your success, you don’t consider yourself to be quite from where you are from, either.    

The biggest office in the world…the most bespoke tailoring in the world…having Elon Musk on speed dial…whatever that might have looked like for the Eunuch…it wasn’t really all that much.  

The Eunuch felt marooned.  

And so imagine what it would have meant to have decided to step into a chariot and travel to the Temple.  

To pack up your suitcase and call Citibank to make sure it doesn’t decline a whole series of out of town purchases.  To tell the charioteer to plan the route.  

To go to the queen…the queen…and tell her, “Your majesty, I’m sorry, but there is just this thing I have to do.”

What is that thing, exactly? 

In the Jewish tradition, the final toast of the Passover table is to say “Next year in Jerusalem!”  

It is a dream of return.

And the Eunuch seems to know something of that dream. 

A dream of belonging.  

The ancient hymn book of Israel, the Book of Psalms, has particular songs to sing as you travel upwards toward Jerusalem – some of the most joyous of the psalms, known as the “songs of ascent.”

And you can just imagine the Eunuch’s heart soaring as the chariot ascended toward this place of which they had dreamed, toward which they had prayed for so long.  

Except that there was one thing that the Eunuch seems not to have known. 

Because eunuchs were not permitted in the Jerusalem Temple.  

It didn’t matter to have come all that way. 

It didn’t matter to have newly minted money to spread around, to grease the wheels.  

It didn’t matter to have wanted it…to have needed it so much

It didn’t even matter to be one of the faithful. 

There was not room in the tribe for someone like that.   

And so our Scripture takes up the story when the Eunuch is sadly rolling home..sadly looking for consolation in a Bible that seems suddenly unable to speak to them much at all.  

What seemed so clear turns out to be not so.     

But, you know, this is the moment when God acts. 

This is the moment when God’s hand comes down. 

The stories of when Jesus was baptized describe a moment when the heavens opened, and a voice was heard, and a dove – the symbol of healing and wholeness and peace – the symbol of God’s shalom, descends.  

For me, that’s what happens for the Eunuch when Philip appears and runs alongside the chariot and manages, somehow, to talk his way right up onto the platform.

God’s hand comes down.  Shalom descends.

Somewhere in this conversation with Philip, the Eunuch hears that voice that Jesus heard—that voice that says, “You are my beloved child.  In you, I am well pleased.”  

And the Eunuch knows that they didn’t find their tribe.  


It’s that, at last, after all this time…after all this journey…at the wit’s end of their longing, finally, finally…their tribe has found them.     

Their God has found them.  


Church, we all know what it is to be lost.  

To feel lost. 

To feel marooned.  

Maybe even to be a hermit against our will. 

But the voice of the Gospel is that voice that tells us that somewhere out there, God is looking for us.  

Somewhere out there, the tribe of God’s people is looking for us.  

For all the ways that people tell us we don’t fit, or the ways in which we know in our hearts that where we are is not where we belong, there is the Spirit that says, “I’ve got you. You’re mine. You belong with me.  And our people are on the way.”  

“Just hang in.”  

“Just hang on.”

“We’re coming.” 

Because in the world that Jesus teaches us to look for, even a hermit can have a tribe…even a sinner can have a savior. 

Everything the Eunuch had gone out hoping and searching for came to be found, though in the most unexpected and wonderful of ways. 

Because in God’s world, there’s no sheep so lost that they can’t be found.

God is out on the roads, and God’s people are out on the roads, looking…  

…Making it so that everyone knows they are a beloved child of God, with a claim on God’s attention and a place in God’s heart.  

…Making sure everyone knows they have place in God’s world… 

This is the good news that we are called by that same God to hear for ourselves, as a message to us.  

And as we move out along the road in the days after Easter, as God’s people, it is the good news that we are called to share with a world waiting to be found. 


Easter Sermon (Mark 16:1-8)

Last year, we had such big plans for Easter. 

Lockdown was new, and although it was challenging in every way, we thought it would be short-lived, and so our plan was to hold just a nice, hopeful service online for “Easter proper.” 

Then we thought we would go all out for that first Sunday back. 

The church would be full. 

The spirit of resurrection would need no explanation.  

Our singing would raise the roof.  

It was going to be “Second Easter” or “Resurrection Sunday” – we hadn’t settled on the name just yet.  

I told Alexander to start looking for a contralto or at least a couple of coloratura sopranos in blingy gowns, like opening night at the Met.  (He talked me down from that.)

Of course, none of that happened.  

Now it’s a year later, and we’re still not quite there, although this morning is a very good start. 

But safe to say, if you’d told us just how much was going to happen in the coming year, we would have been amazed.  

In so many ways, everything to come was almost unthinkable.


Each Gospel offers its own account of what happened on the first Easter.  

They differ slightly, just as the stories of Christmas do, and when it comes to Easter, we tend to blend the different versions into a composite, much as we do for Christmas. 

Mark’s version is the shortest and the most unsettled. 

It describes Easter as an encounter between Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome, who go to the tomb to anoint the body of Jesus, only to discover when they arrive that the stone has been rolled back, the body is gone, and the only one there is a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side, who tells them to tell Peter and the others that Jesus has gone ahead to Galilee and will see them there. 

The other Gospels linger over the dawning recognition of the resurrection.

You may remember how in John’s Gospel, Mary Magdalene sees the empty tomb and starts talking to someone she believes to be the gardener, only to realize that she is encountering the risen Christ.  

It is a story of joyful reunion.  

That’s not how Mark describes Easter. 

What he describes is the “oh no!” moment without any subsequent “a ha!”  

When the young man dressed in white speaks to the women, Mark says that “fear and amazement seized them” (16:8) and the women run for it.  

That’s it.  

That’s his story.  

Mark’s word for “amazed” is the Greek word “ekstasis,” which is where we get words like “ecstasy” and “ecstatic,” but Mark is using it a little differently.  

For Mark, what the women are feeling is not joyful or even transcendent.  

It’s certainly not ecstasy.  

It’s something more akin to that moment just before an accident – that moment when you see the car that’s running the red light or the coffee cup on the desk falling onto the keyboard. 

It’s one of those moments when everything suddenly seems as if it’s in slow-motion. 

You know what that’s like? 

…You’re trying to stop something from happening but you can’t move fast enough…can’t call out a warning…can’t form the words properly…almost as if you’re under water, although you know that you are not. 

The minute the women walk into that garden and see that stone rolled back and the tomb open, they’re in that sort of state. 

That’s what their “amazement” is like.  

Maybe they don’t respond to the young man dressed in white because they never really hear his words at all.  

They’re under the waves of the moment.  


We know moments like that, don’t we? 

A friend of mine never goes to the doctor without a wingman because he knows that if there is anything he needs to hear, he won’t be able to hear it.  If there’s a question to be asked, he won’t ask it.  

We know what it’s like to be under the waves, sure enough.  

But we don’t associate that with Easter.  

Easter is all about good news.

So if you’re Mark, why tell the story that way – especially this story?

Why offer an “oh no!” without an “a ha”? 

We can’t say for sure.  

However, I wonder if the “a ha” that interests him isn’t theirs, but ours.  

Mark also tells us that the women run away and don’t tell a soul what they have seen, which is something that makes sense for the purpose of the story’s dramatic effect, but which can’t be true, strictly speaking. 

If it were true, we’d never have the story in the first place.  

We’d never know about the resurrection.  

So let’s remember that Mark is telling the story in a certain kind of way, and that there are things he chooses to tell us and others he chooses not to tell us. 

When it comes to the resurrection, what he chooses to do is to draw the curtain just here, in this moment of amazement, stopping somewhere short of the ultimate realization.  


For Mark, Easter isn’t a set of facts to be memorized so much as an experience to be understood.  

It’s a truth they encounter.   

It is a truth for us to encounter. 

And the point of that isn’t to make Easter more remote, but to bring it closer.  

Because Mark is saying that in life’s most bewildering moments, the risen Christ is present, just waiting to be revealed.  

When tragedy strikes, when emptiness looms, when exhaustion seeps in, when duplicity snaps the trap, the risen Christ is present, just waiting to be revealed.   

Mark is serious about the challenge of life at its hardest, reminding us not just what it looks or sounds like, but how it feels, because he is so sure that the grace of God, the power of God’s transforming love, is right with us in those moments.  

The only other time in his Gospel when uses the Greek word ekstasis, amazement, is near the beginning, when he describes how Jesus heals of a little girl who has been sick. 

Mark tells us that getting to her takes a while. The crowds keep stopping Jesus with their own needs, their own struggles. 

He’s trying to get somewhere, but there they are, pressing in, even grabbing at his clothes as he passes by.  

The Bible even says that he can feel some of the power flowing out of him.  

This slows him down, and the trip takes long enough that the girl dies before Jesus can get to her.  

He goes anyway.  

He arrives to another crowd waiting and wailing outside the house.  

He tells them to take a step back and goes right into the house of misery.

“Why do you make a tumult and weep?” Jesus asks those closest to her. “The child is not dead but sleeping.” 

I’ve always wondered if the tumult he mentions is referring more to the people outside than the parents inside.  

I’ve always pictured them as more numb than anything else.  

Lost in their grief, when Jesus arrives, the little girl’s parents probably don’t hear a word he’s saying. 

Talk to her? Fine. Sit with her? Fine.  Pray by the bed? Sure, if you want.  

For the little girl’s parents, it’s all so unreal. 

Jesus calls to the girl and says, “Little girl, I say to you, arise,” and Mark reports that: “immediately, the girl got up and walked. And immediately, they were overcome with amazement” (Mark 5:39-43). 

She’s standing there.  Restored to life.   No tomb for her today.   

Mark reports that they are “amazed” – that word he will come back to later when the women encounter the empty tomb.  

Amazed? I’m sure they were.  Switching gears from devastation to jubilation takes a minute. 

From the numbness of grief to being in the presence of a power beyond all hope.  

If you’d been there…if someone had asked you what just happened, what would you have said?  


For Mark, what the story shows so clearly is that the transforming, healing love of God in Jesus Christ is with us in the darkness, right there next to us, even in the house of misery.  

In the deepest of our losses, the love of God is making a way forward, moving toward a new beginning, a new chapter, a renewed Creation, even in the face of death itself.  

This is who God is. 

This is what God does.  

Mark’s Easter is a story about what happened to the women: what they encountered, and how they responded.  

But it’s just as much a story about what we see—what we come to know—and how we will seek to respond. 

It’s about the risen Christ who is still present, and it’s about the work and witness of the community that still gathers to seek and to do His will.

Their testimony is also ours.   

Where is the presence of a resurrected, resurrecting God at work in our lives?

Isn’t that where we most clearly see the power of a God whom even death could not contain?   

Like the women at the empty tomb, we know what it is to be bewildered with fear—to see everything happening in slow-motion…to feel a sense of powerlessness in every muscle.  

We know how it feels when instinct kicks in, and it seems unthinkable to imagine a deeper purpose at work, or a deeper truth that abides.  

But if a tomb could not contain Jesus, then neither can our hesitations and confusions.  

Our dependencies and delusions and our wounds are no match for him.

That deeper purpose is at work in us and in the world.  

And in those moments when we hear his voice, we find within ourselves the power not to give in to the powers that would diminish us.  

In him, we begin to see how things might be and find the strength to reach for it.  

Because the meaning of Easter is that, in Christ, fear has been dethroned.  

Hatred has been dethroned.

Violence and selfishness and ignorance and death have been dethroned.  

They don’t have the final word.  

God’s word is the final word, and the story of God’s love is from everlasting to everlasting.  

Wherever people look down into an empty tomb and lift their eyes in hope, a new day dawns, and Easter comes again.  

May it be so for us today, and every day.  


Sermon: Good Friday 2021

Today the entire Western Church gathers to remember the death of Jesus of Nazareth, whom we understand as the Christ, the Messiah, God’s anointed one.  

Hard as it is to imagine, he died in a way that was entirely legal, as a convicted criminal, guilty of something like inciting rebellion against Rome, although, to be truthful, the specifics were probably not particularly important to anyone.  

His case, if you bothered to call it that, was really little more than a verdict in search of some charges, and everyone knew it. 

The Romans were willing to oblige, although as the story makes quite clear, there were any number of people, far more than just the Romans, who wanted Jesus gone.  

His message of peace and forgiveness, justice and love was more controversial than it might first appear.  

Because Jesus’ commitment to healing in body, mind and spirit, and his clear belief in the dignity of every person were transformational. 

Lived into fully, it promised to change not only individual lives, but even the course of history. 

Some understood that this was good news, but those who mostly liked the way things were did not see it that way.  

In a world not unlike our own…a world that made a point of drawing a bright line between insiders and outsiders, those worthy of notice and those unworthy of notice, the way of Jesus was a stern challenge to the status quo. 

It wasn’t just about quietly learning to live our best lives or to find transcendence in or peace with the everyday.   

His questions went further.  

The consequences of hoping in God were much greater. 

It taught people to be dissatisfied with sin, as God was.  

Like the prophets of old, Jesus taught that it was how things stood where life hurt the most that was the most faithful reflection of a society’s commitment to God.

He refused to be distracted.

As soon as his public ministry began, when Jesus looked around, he saw the sick and the grieving. 

He saw the lonely and the exhausted. 

He saw the hopeless and the hurting and those who bore the brunt of human injustice. 

These were his people.  This was his tribe.  

He was their champion.  Their Joseph. Their David.  

Then on the cross, Jesus goes the last part of the journey and becomes one of them completely. 

On the cross, now he is, himself, vilified and victimized, agonized and anguished and abandoned.  

And as he looks down from the cross, he sees as the vilified do…as they have always seen…taking in so much of the ugliness that so many know so well.  

He sees people there to enjoy another’s suffering. 

He sees those grown so hardened that committing injustice was all in a day’s work.

He sees the grief and powerlessness of a mother, watching her son die, and hears the sarcasm of an unrepentant thief who is dying beside him.

He sees the limits of the loyalty his friends have sworn, as they don’t intervene, but merely watch from a distance, saying nothing. 

He feels the slow strangulation of this particular manner of death, in which breathing gets harder and harder and shallower and shallower, until he can’t breathe at all.

He goes through all this.  

Yet to the end, Jesus loves and forgives, until the only spirit he can commend into the hands of God is his own.  

On Good Friday, the Prince of Peace becomes another sacrificial lamb. 

It shows us what it looks like when it seems as if sin triumphs yet again, and the world reverts to its own devices and desires. 

And yet, of course, the whole point is that God has never been willing to leave the world to its own devices and desires. 

God has offered relationship since the beginning…and law since Sinai…and ultimately, Jesus, God’s Word made flesh, to embody the love and healing that God has always wanted for us.   

To teach us to see.

Even on Good Friday, we can see it.  

That is part of the point.  

If we can see God’s commitment to love and heal on this day, then it is within our grasp to see it on the other days of the year—and especially among the faces Jesus would have noticed but that our world may not.  

Brokenness takes so many forms and touches so many lives.

The work of transforming our world into a place of peace, joy, and hope is ongoing, and all around us are those who want to convince us that nothing is wrong. 

Saddest of all is the possibility that they might even believe it.  

So we come to the cross, the place where the brokenness of the world and the love of God meet decisively.

It’s where what we are willing to do to God, and what God is willing to do for us are joined.  

For faithful people, coming to the cross may provoke questions instead of offering answers.  

Hope moves so slowly.  

The world says it’s foolish to believe in it, and sometimes, it feels like it is.  

But we find power in the cross.  

In remembering a God who would not abandon us, we become people who will not abandon God.  

We place our hope in resurrection.  

As Christ looks down today, may he see us taking up the work, taking up the cry, taking up his yoke, until all the brokenness in the world is taken up, and the peace and love of God descend like the dove at Jesus’ baptism, announcing the presence of the Son in whom the Creator is well pleased, and all the world shall say: 


Maundy Thursday Reflection 2021

Tonight is a night of firsts and lasts for the followers of Jesus. 

It is striking to me that the very first service of the Lord’s Supper is at the Last Supper. 

They must have found so many of his words to be mysterious and odd.

Little did they know that it would all make sense soon enough.  

But seeing it for the first time, with Jesus right in front of you, it must have seemed strange to hear him connecting, first, broken bread and his own broken body, then wine with his blood, and finally, to hear him raising the notion of needing to remember him.  

Remember…why, Jesus? 

The lastness of the supper is something only Jesus and Judas have a clue about.  

We see that in the Garden of Gethsemane, too. 

Way back when they had all been in Galilee, crossing the sea in a storm, the disciples had been the ones in agony, terrified of the wind and the waves and the suddenness of the storm.  

Meanwhile, Jesus was asleep in the back of the boat – unworried.  

Now in the Garden, the roles are reversed. 

The disciples are the ones sleeping, while Jesus agonizes.  

They never do quite learn.   

The disciples are worried when they shouldn’t be, and unworried when they should be.  

Or maybe it’s just that they have learned that, with Jesus, they are safe.  

The notion that he is about to be taken — that he could ever be taken — is unthinkable.  

Why would these be their last moments with him? 

What would make you think that


But if the disciples don’t get what’s happening on this night of firsts and lasts, the deeper point is that Jesus does.  

Jesus inaugurates this feast of remembrance, with its particular power to connect us to his presence, because he knows that the disciples will need it, and that so will we. 

After his arrest, it is as if the disciples run off into the night in eleven different directions.  

Fear and self-preservation take hold – maybe even appropriately so. 

They would have been no match for a detachment of Roman soldiers.  

But at some point, they ventured out. 

At some point, they found one another again, after skulking among the shadows, listening attentively for the sound of marching sandals on the cobblestone streets of the old city, trying to open a door just enough to slip inside and then creep up the stairs.  

Somehow, they made it to that upper room we talk about on Easter – this place where they regathered.  

At first, it was enough just to be together again…to sit there in silence, sharing the shock of it all.  

The memory of their firsts and lasts with Jesus must have been so strong.  

If you have ever suffered a great shock or a tremendous loss, you know that those memories loom so large.  

But Jesus wasn’t half as interested in the past as he was about reaching for the future.  

He didn’t hope to see his friends regathered. 

He wanted them to get refocused – to get back to the work he’d called them to join.

And so he gave them this meal, not simply to remember him by, but so that they could find again the strength they’d found in him.  

As the great UCC theologian Mary Luti has observed, a central part of the Communion liturgy is described as anamnesis – a kind of resistance to amnesia, if you like.  

But by this, the Church has never meant “remembering” in a simple sense.  

It’s deeper than that – more pointed than that – Communion is a refusal to forget.  

He gave Communion to his disciples so that they could find again the hope they’d found in him, and the love they’d found in him. 

To share the bread and share the cup was to respond to the brokenness of the world by refusing to forget the wholeness of God, and to be nourished by it.  

It was to see the brokenness of God’s own Son, not as the last word, but a new beginning: a seed planted in the ground that would become a harvest. 

And so the meal offers, in Christ, the strength to face another day.  


As faithful people, then, tonight is a night for us to remember the reality of heartbreak even in a world so loved by God. 

We remember the horror that the disciples must have felt at losing, and our own horror for the suffering, loneliness and injustice that continue even now among God’s children.  

But we remember what it is to be a people Christ calls in the face of all that to become his body now: to be his hands and feet now, his eyes and ears now, even his voice now, especially as gathering around his table makes us alive to his presence and ready for what comes.  

On this night of firsts and lasts, we refuse to forget.

We refuse to forget what it was to lose him. 

We refuse to forget what he suffered, and what too many have suffered at the hands of injustice.  

And most especially, we refuse to forget that first and last, we belong to him, and that he loves us with a love that will never let us go. 


Sermon: “Look and Live” (John 3:14-21)

I want to begin this morning by telling you two quick stories about one of the best pastors I ever knew: my friend A.  

She was the Emergency Room Chaplain at Yale New-Haven Hospital – and she was a fixture in some of the most difficult and terrifying moments that people go through in a place like that.  

Working in a hospital is a standard part of training for most pastors, and as you might imagine, going to the ER is where some of the biggest lessons occur. 

But truth be told, they’re very thoughtful about how much time you really spend there. 

When you’re a chaplain intern and you have to go meet the Lifestar helicopter on the roof of the hospital, then go down and wait with a family member in the ER, it’s an experience that it takes a while to process. 

This was what A.  did all day, every day. 

And it was perhaps all the more remarkable, on the face of it, because it was a ministry that she had come to later in life, well after she was not only a mother, but a grandmother.  

Ordained ministry was something she came to after her retirement.  

Prior to divinity school, A. had a thirty-year career as a preschool teacher, much of it not far from here, in Wilton, Connecticut.    

That’s cool, right? 

On the face of it, it seems like a big leap, although A.  did not particularly see it that way.  

She was one of those people who, if you asked her about it, would just sort of shrug, and it took me a while to understand why. 

She spoke fondly – proudly – of her time as a teacher.  

In fact, I’ll never forget her description of her very first teaching job.

She was hired just a couple of weeks before the start of the school year, when someone pulled out of their contract at the last minute.  

She was thrilled to get the job.  On cloud nine.  

But then the very next day, the preschool director called her.  

“I need you to come have lunch with the Smiths,” she said.  

“I’m sorry?”  said A.  

“I need you to come have lunch with the Smiths,” her boss said again.  “You will be teaching their youngest daughter, Marietta.” 

She paused, and then said: “The Smiths are…very active…in the life of the school.” 

A.  agreed and the next day, she arrived at the Smith family home. 

It was an imposing old house set well back from the road behind a significant gate – the kind of gate that was actually supposed to keep people out.  

Not that it would be bad if you were in, by any means.  

It was one of those homes where everything was just perfect.  

Beyond immaculate.  

Mrs. Smith greeted her at the door. 

She was beyond immaculate, too.  

Marietta stood behind her in a lovely little dress. 

The director of the pre-school was already there, looking nervous.  

“Ahh,” said Mrs. Smith, scanning A. in a heartbeat and smiling faintly.  “You’re so good to come. We’ll be having lunch on the porch.”

The lunch, as you might guess, turned out to be a whole other interview.  

Where she was from, where she had studied, what her husband did, how much television her own children watched, how often they had sweets. 

Many years later, when she spoke about it, A. could not remember all of the questions.

However, she did remember the one about sweets, because it was during her answer to that question that Marietta, who had been sitting there quietly, reached across the table for the mustard dish, and taking out the little spoon, began absently to start scooping mustard onto her mother’s forearms and spreading it out with her pointer finger.  

Have you ever been in one of those moments when you’re like, “Is this reallyhappening?”

Relatedly, of course, there is the kind of moment when you’re like, “This isn’treally happening.” 

Apparently, that’s the moment that Mrs. Smith and the director of the preschool were having, because their impulse was to keep their eyes locked on A.  and listen with rapt attention about her views on children and sweets. 

But then the most remarkable thing happened. 

A.  turned to the child and said, “Marietta Smith. You will stop putting mustard on your mother’s arms this instant.”

The child dropped the mustard spoon, looked up silently for a moment, and ran. 

A.  looked at the preschool director, who looked as if making budget had just gotten a whole lot harder for fiscal year 1974.

Then she looked at Mrs. Smith, who was in tears. 

“We just don’t know what to do,” she said.  “I’m her mother. I don’t know what to do.” 

What followed was the first honest conversation that anyone from the preschool had ever had with Mrs. Smith.  

Many years and many chapters later, when A.  was offered the job of becoming the ER Chaplain at Yale-New Haven Hospital, she told them she would accept on one condition. 

“What’s that?” they asked.  

“I need to go down to the morgue,” she said.  “I need to know that I can look at a body and see the person someone loves.”  

Reluctantly, they agreed.  

But it’s probably obvious enough that A.  the Chaplain was doing something that A.  the young teacher had done so many years before: she looked where others refused to look; she went where others refused to go; she spoke when others refused to speak; and she learned to see the person someone loved where others saw only a problem to be solved or a mess to be cleaned up. 


That’s a long preamble to this morning’s Scripture, which is a famous passage from the Gospel of John.  

You surely heard John 3:16, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish, but have everlasting life.” 

It is a beautiful, hopeful assertion of the power of faith and the wonder of eternity.  

What is less obvious, perhaps, is that Jesus says these famous words in a passage that anticipates his own death.  

At the very beginning, he remembers a strange story about healing from Moses’ ministry in the wilderness, when the great prophet puts a bronze serpent on a pole, so that those who have been bitten by snakes in the wilderness can look on that bronze serpent and live.  

Jesus then explains, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (v. 14-15).  

We may well gloss over that in order to get to the ringing affirmation of sheer belief.

John does not want us to do that. 

For John, even the worst and hardest parts of the story of Jesus are important. 

They tell us about a God who loves us so much that we will not be abandoned, even if in some sense, we might even deserve to be. 

“For God so loved the world…” he says.  

Some people hear that and suggest that it should be easy to believe in a God who would do that – all the more so when the stipulated benefits are so worthwhile.

Along those lines, the philosopher Blaise Pascal advanced what we’ve come to refer as “Pascal’s wager,” which is that if there is a God, and believing means eternal life, then you might as well believe.  Because if that turns out to be wrong, and there is no eternal life, you really haven’t lost anything by believing.  

There are people who read John 3:16 very much in that spirit.  

But I think something deeper is going on.  

Because the spectacle, the gruesome political theater of crucifixion was designed to be hard to look at.  

It was designed to horrify.

It was designed to remind those who saw it about what it meant to go up against the power of the Roman Empire.  

It was supposed to teach you to look away, shut up, and do what you were told.  

But not everybody did.  

Somehow, despite Rome’s best efforts, there were people who looked where others refused to look; people who went where others refused to go; people who spoke when others refused to speak; people who could gaze upon the very face of death and see the person someone loved where others saw only a problem to be solved or a mess to be cleaned up. 

The Empire called that sedition.  Jesus called it faith.  

It’s how he lived.  And it’s how Jesus tells us we must live.  


Somehow, in every generation, and in every place and time, there are those who look to Jesus and find the courage to live as those who see…to live as those who will name the elephant in the room…to live as those who find a way to love what the world is quick to deem unlovable.  

That’s what it is to look at the one lifted on a pole and see the Son of God. 

It teaches us not to look away. 

It is to see the face of Christ in an angry little girl and an imperious matriarch, to see Christ in a body in a morgue and in a person coming in by Lifestar helicopter, and in any number of other faces and places.  

To be a Christian is to refuse the world’s various strategies for keeping things quiet and tidy, and for pretending that things aren’t happening or don’t matter.  

Because in God, we know better.  

We all know that the world is messy.  Life is messy.  People are messy. 

But many don’t know that it’s o.k.  

Even fewer understand that it’s o.k. to go ahead and say so, because the world has tried to convince them that nobody could ever look with love on whatever mess they see.  

To be a Christian is to know otherwise.  

Because God is good and transformation is possible. 

Because people try and fail and try again and fail again, and wow can they ever disappoint you…but every now and again, they stick the landing.  

They climb the mountain.  

They kick the habit.  

They make the grade.  

They drop the mic. 

They find a way to leave you breathless with the courage of what they just did. 

But they can’t do it alone.  

They can’t do it without the ability to reject the false conspiracies of silence that tell them to keep quiet and keep things the way they are – to look away and to settle for less, if they know what’s good for them.  

They can’t do it without God.   Nobody can.  

Jesus says that for those willing to look, willing to learn, and willing to grow, there are many chapters yet to be written, and so many truths just waiting to set us free. 

That may not matter to the world.  But it matters to God.  It matters to Jesus.  And it matters to those called to new life in him.

My friend A.  is someone who stood with people in the moments when truth beckoned to them in a new way.  

She wasn’t afraid to name what she saw.  

I am glad to report that with her help, Marietta Smith and her mother were among those who chose to walk toward a brighter light, all the way back in 1974. 

That light is beckoning to us now, too.  

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish, but have everlasting life.”

May God’s grace strengthen us to look fearlessly and live.


Sermon: When Jesus Crashes the Party (John 2)

At some point late in my middle school career – sometime in seventh or eighth grade – I attended what folks from other places probably know as “cotillion.”  

We didn’t call it that in Brooklyn Heights, but so what, that’s what it was.  Cotillion. A formal dance class.  

Of course, if you know cotillion, you know that it’s much more than that.  

Cotillion, called as such or by any other name, is sort of the minor leagues for the debutante circuit, which is itself a form of entrée into polite society.  

More immediately, cotillion also addresses a particular kind of problem about the debutante circuit.  

Because if there are going to be debutantes, young ladies who debut, there need to be young gentlemen who know how to escort them properly.  

And there are skills involved.  

To be an escort involves knowing how to tie a tie, how to pin a corsage (flowers pointing down, stem toward the shoulder), how to offer a young lady your arm, how to check coats, how to ladle punch and bring it with a napkin across the room to a seated young lady, how to shake hands with adult hosts and hostesses (making good eye contact and warmly thanking them for a pleasant evening). 

And while you’re at all that, you know, you might as well learn how to waltz, foxtrot, lindy, and hustle.  

Bless them, I think they threw the hustle into the mix in a bid for “relevancy.”  

I am glad they did.  

Being twelve years old, we weren’t really getting to Studio 54 as often as we’d have liked, so it was good that they were making sure to keep us “current.”  

It really was. 

For me, personally, the highlight of the whole experience was dancing with Eve Morgenstern, who was beautiful and mysterious and taller than I was.  

That aside, the whole thing wasn’t for me.  

Sad to say, I blew my chances at advancing to the major leagues of Brooklyn cotillion by turning down an invitation to the Yuletide Ball somewhere or other.  

To decline, it seems, was to choose permanent oblivion. 

After that, you were off the list.  

Well, I survived. 

No disrespect to others who did cotillion and went on either to debut or to escort someone who was making their debut – I hope you remember it fondly. 

Dipping my toe in those waters gave me the skills to dance the lindy with my grandmother a couple of times over the years, which was fun, and I’m glad I could.  

But for me, that was really about it.  

Except there was a seriousness to the whole thing that I have never forgotten.  

For the adults organizing and overseeing my class, sure, it must have been cute to see seventh graders in suits and dresses, practicing “cutting in” during a foxtrot. 

But there was this sense that knowing how to do that and all the other stuff really mattered.  

Come to think of it, the only other thing in my childhood that was approached with the same level of seriousness was driver’s ed. 

Now that seems crazy.  The point is that it didn’t then.  Not to those particular grown-ups, anyway.  

To them, cotillion was, actually, not unlike driver’s ed: it was a patient introduction to the rules of the road, designed to keep you safe and get you where you wanted to go.  

There are some things in this world that you need to do correctly if you’re going to do them at all.  


I can’t imagine what would have happened back in 1982 if someone had come into cotillion…if they’d skirted past the chaperones lined up by the door…if they’d started turning over tables…if they’d lunged for the big crystal punch bowl and hurled it onto the indoor tennis court…went for the hi-fi and twisted the arm off the record player…or frisbee tossed the records out the windows onto Montague Street… 

I can’t imagine having an interloper interlope like that. 

I’m sure I would have been freaked out, to say the least. 

And when I try to imagine this morning’s gospel story of an interloping Jesus, suddenly appearing and overturning the tables in the Temple. 

Had I been there, I know I would have been freaked out then, too. 

It’s important to remember a few things about it as we try to picture the scene. 

The first is that, in fact, the money-changers were not doing anything wrong by being where they were, doing what they were doing.  

They were not opposed to the Temple and its purposes – they were very much part of the system.  

The Temple did not permit people to bring money with the image of some foreign ruler anywhere closer than the outermost gate, which was tricky if you were coming there from anywhere else, as indeed, many were. 

Similarly, coming to the Temple often involved bringing animals for ritual sacrifice by the priests there.  

Many, perhaps even most people did not bring these animals all the way from home – they purchased them there – and they knew to do that because people had done it for years.  

The Temple was not a perfect institution by any means.   

Prophetic questioning of the Temple and its righteousness was not unique to Jesus.  

In fact, John’s Gospel this morning refers to several moments in the Old Testament in order to explain what Jesus is up to.  

But the issue was not really its commercialism or the money. 

To some extent, we Christians tend to read that in.  

We need to be cautious there.  


So let’s step back for a moment.  

Because if the story isn’t about money, then what is it about? 

Go back to cotillion with me for a moment.  

What was wrong with cotillion? 

From the perspective of today, there is probably plenty we could name.  

Who was invited to take part at all, for one thing.  

Also, there were the very carefully defined roles which those of us who were invited were then instructed in how play.  How to be boys and how to be girls.  Hetero boys and girls.  Rich boys and girls.  Connected boys and girls.  

That’s it, isn’t it?  

In its own way, cotillion offered a vision of the kind of future into which we were supposed to put our hope—hope we could find, as it happens, in a very particular understanding of pedigree.  

Make of that what you will. 

My point is not so much what was wrong with cotillion.   

It’s more that it wasn’t right in the ways it thought it was.  

And I think this is some of what Jesus is trying to say about the Temple. 

The real problem with the Temple, as he saw it, was that it wasn’t right in many of the ways it thought it was.  

It’s not that God could not be found there.  

But the roles the Temple taught people to play, the future to which it seemed to point, even some of the ways in which it seemed to enact righteousness itself were all open to question. 

Holiness asked something more personal, more searching than many people wanted to bother with – even many of the most important religious figures of the day.

Much later in the story, a Sanhedrin full of men like Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea would never have put Jesus on trial, much less handed him over to the Romans.   

Sadly, it would turn out that such humility and holiness were in short supply.  

Events to come would prove what Jesus already saw so clearly: that some of what a holy life required needed reimagining

God’s call to the great but always profoundly personal work of seeking God’s will needed to be heard again.  By each of us and all of us.  

Somehow, too many of us were learning to hope for the wrong things.  Or to put our faith in the wrong ways.  

As he saw it, it didn’t need to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  

Because the world that was to come was not some far off thing that would only arrive on some distant day.  

It was already here.  For us, it could be now.  Even at this moment, it was within and among us.  

The Temple at its best had always said so.  The prophets had always said so.  

But now if the Temple seemed to be saying something different, then perhaps it was time to reimagine the world, maybe even without it.  

For Jesus, the urgency of finding a way to the source of all that was good, all that was true, all that was real made everything else pale by comparison.  


Along those lines, I wonder what we need in order to reimagine our world.

What have we learned to hope for?  

How is it that Jesus breaks into our lives? 

And what is it that might be getting in our way? 

When is the last time you felt like you had space to breathe, and what needs to happen for you to start breathing again? 

Some people have a gift for dreaming big.  Some of us don’t.  

That doesn’t mean that our own corner of the world cannot be different – that Jesus is not interested in meeting us where we are, working toward the redemption of anything that’s holding us back. 

There is plenty that stands in need of reimagining.  

With that in mind, today’s Scripture isn’t just about the Jerusalem Temple.  

It reminds us that there is no Temple to which God will not seek admission.  

But there’s a hard truth that goes with that.  

More soberingly, today’s Scripture reminds that if it seems like God isn’t doing any of that… 

if it seems like God isn’t at work in our hearts, or turning over any of our tables… 

if it seems like God isn’t interloping and smashing the occasional punch bowl, disrupting our easy assumptions…

if it seems like God isn’t right here, right now…

trying to enlist us in the work, 

trying to get us to walk along the stony road toward the Kingdom

or trying to teach us the steps to a very different dance, well…

maybe it isn’t God that we’re really listening to.  

Because God is at work

God doesn’t wait to be invited to the party.  

God hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things. 

God sees past the illusion and confusion, the hurts and hang-ups of God’s children.  

And so, invited or not, polite or not, our God shows up, wherever we are, always talking about a more excellent way – a way that smashes the idols of any other way. 

That’s how this works.  That’s who God is.  

At every moment, God calls us onto the floor to take our place in the dance of Creation, watching for the moment when we put aside our punch glass and rise at last. 


Sermon: Wax figures or real people?

I read this week that the wonderful old Brooklyn steakhouse, Peter Luger’s, has hatched something new in order to contend with the challenge of being a restaurant during COVID. 

Now, if you know Peter Luger’s, you’ll get how odd this is.  

It’s one of those places where the whole point is to do everything the same way they’ve always done it.  

That’s a big part of the appeal.  

Well, these are odd times, as we know.  

Restaurants are not permitted to operate at full capacity, and that’s not good. 

But there is also the reality that a lot of people get the creeps when they eat in an empty restaurant, and apparently, COVID has not changed this, so that’s not good, either.  

So this is where someone at Peter Luger’s has had an idea. 

Because while you are not permitted to operate at full capacity with live people, it seems that the regulations are silent when it comes to operating with wax people. 

(MG: slowly nods head…)

So someone at Peter Luger’s has said, what if we populate half of the restaurant with famous people? Famous wax people.  

What if you came to Peter Luger’s and Audrey Hepburn from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” was sitting at the next table? 

What if you came to Peter Luger’s and Don Draper from “Mad Men” was standing at the bar?  

What if being a real person eating a steak at Peter Luger’s was like taking part in the ultimate New York story? 

This is what they’re going to do.

So…is that “adjusting” or isn’t it?  

I can’t quite tell.  

It seems clear that it is choosing to meet a new reality by cultivating a very particular kind of fantasy. 

They’re banking on the hope that one way or another, the fantasy will manage to catch on.  


In this morning’s Gospel, I wonder if Peter isn’t caught up in a very particular kind of fantasy, himself. 

Certainly, he is hoping that the message of Jesus will catch on.  

He’s not focused on just trying to survive

From his perspective, things could not be better.  

This project of preaching and healing they’ve been working on is already starting to change the world.  

For those with eyes to see, the presence of God in the midst of all of it has been unmistakable.  

The endless troubles of a weary world are over now, or soon will be.  

He’s seen it.  

Isn’t that what the voice they all heard on the top of that mountain meant? 

Thanks be to God that he had been given eyes to see…that he got to be a part of it.  

It’s Jesus who abruptly interjects with visions of the immediate future that are dark and seem bad for business.  

It’s Jesus who is introducing fantasies about doomsday.  

From Peter’s perspective, it must have made no sense, and since it didn’t, it’s out of love and loyalty that Peter tries to stop Jesus from going too far down that road.  

Because he could see.  He could see, even if Jesus apparently couldn’t.  

He could see the people starting to look at each other nervously as they listened to Jesus talk this way.  

He watched as they began to get agitated and started to disconnect.  

It’s not that they were just abruptly turning and going.  Any of the regulars would have noticed that.  

It’s more that lately, the ones who’d been up front, hanging on Jesus’ every word, glowing after every healing they witnessed, seemed to be hanging more toward the back, with each day more of them leaving…more of them breaking camp sometime overnight and taking off without a word. 

With every new gloomy tiding, the people of God were fading away.  

Jesus wasn’t telling them about the God they wanted, anymore.  


Peter doesn’t quite recognize that is the God he wants, too.  

Who knows? 

If there had been wax figures available to pump up the numbers, to give the illusion of the same kind of joyful crowds they were all used to, maybe he would have ordered a truck load.  

Maybe he would have tried to sustain the challenge of this new reality by cultivating a very particular fantasy, banking on the hope that one way or another, it would manage to catch on.  

This is what Peter still doesn’t understand after all this time.  

He’s gotten very good at watching Jesus.  But he still has a great deal to learn about actually seeking the presence of God.  

He cannot imagine a world in which Jesus will not be there for him to watch—literally to watch.  

It’s so unthinkable that even when Jesus himself speaks of it, Peter urgently seeks to hush him.  

The deeper notion of the God who is present…the call to know the God who dwells with us, abides with us, who loves and cares for us even in the darkness is something he just can’t fathom yet.  

What Jesus wants him to understand is that godforsakenness isn’t a thing, not because henceforth, there will not be darkness, but because no matter how dark it may become, God is always there with us. 

We see God’s face in the faces of those who stand beside us. 

We hold God’s hand in the hands we reach to grasp. 

We know God’s healing when, in our own distress, we may not even have the strength to believe just then, but we find ourselves sustained by the faith and love of those who come alongside us, willing to sit with us patiently in the darkness.  

That’s not the God that Peter thinks he wants.  

That’s not the God who promises to smite our every enemy and bless our every effort.  

But it’s the God we know in Jesus Christ.  


That’s the God we’ve seen with particular clarity over the last 50 weeks. 

Not all Christians would say so. 

You may have seen Christians claiming to rebuke the virus like a demon and to banish it.  

Some others have said that it represents God’s decision to withdraw Divine protection over the world because of a particular short list of sins.  

The temptation to meet some new reality by cultivating a very particular kind of fantasy is never far away from any of us. 

We would do well to remember that as we seek to speak of God.  

For me, what has abided through this whole everything has not been some shallow version of God’s decrees and our unworthiness, or some fantasy that God, properly worshipped, will take any danger away as a reward for those with brains enough to do as we’re told.

What has abided has been a sense of the presence of God, even in our challenges.  

I’ve seen it in the love of this community for one another. 

I’ve seen it in the way we have found the strength and purpose to push through each day as best we can.  

I’ve seen it, not because life is easy for those who believe…but because life can be so hard, and yet we get on with it.  

We love children who are so angry and withdrawn. 

We love spouses who are hard to live with all day, every day, which is never what we signed up for.  

We love people who still say half of what they have to say while their Zoom is still on mute.  

We find a way to manage boredom and solitude and the sense of being at loose ends.

We do our jobs.  

We do all of it.  However we can. 

And God bless us for it.  I’m certain God does.   

I’ve seen how God has been actively at work doing new things—offering new comfort, newinsight, new and unexpected gestures that help us to heal even in the midst of our distress. 

God is doing this despite and sometimes even through all of this, not because God wishes it on us, but because God is with us, no matter what happens. 

Even this long into it, we know that some days go better than others.  Some of the adjustments we make are easier or more durable than others.

We have to look for God anew each day and learn to bless the partial daily victories of a God whose providence unfolds more gradually than we might be inclined to wish, but which proves to endure far longer than we could ever dream

Peter could not recognize this God, even when this God literally stood before him and spoke about these very things. 

But faith would not have us be so blinded, anymore. 

God stands with and among us. 

God is ready to join us in any new reality that the world might devise.  

And God is urging us to see the Divine Presence now and in whatever comes next, because the world may change, but the love and presence of God simply never will.

Don’t be a wax figure, frozen in a vision of the past, Jesus says.  

Be a child of God, attentive to what comes, alive to what remains, and hopeful in what will be.  

Flesh and blood and Spirit – unable to be frozen, and ever alive to the God in whom we live and move, and have our Being.  


Ash Wednesday Reflection: Longing 2.0

There are some things we almost always say at the beginning of Lent.  

For example, that Lent is a time for reflection—introspection. 

That it’s a time for learning to live without things, so that we can see more clearly what it is we actually need in order to live as souls before God, our truest, deepest selves.  

Tonight, on Ash Wednesday, we are especially urged to ponder the fact of our own mortality.  

That’s what the ashes are about. 

Of course, you’ll remember that when we receive ashes, we receive them with an admonition. 

We always say: “Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.”  

There is an urgency to that.  

It reminds us that there are some things in our world and in ourselves that we need to turn around, and we don’t have forever to make progress on those things. 

It’s also a way of remembering that some of what the world cares about—some of the things it teaches us to focus on, to spend our time doing, to spend our wherewithal building—some of these things don’t stand the test of eternity. 

Put under that sort of intense microscope, few things actually do stand up to the test.  

In that sense, I’ve always been surprised that we don’t generally read from the Book of Ecclesiastes on Ash Wednesday. 

The preacher’s old familiar words that “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” seem so deeply resonant.  

If we spent 40 days taking time on our knees to parse the vanities and the verities of our lives – to ponder the notions and the truths that guide us – we would be really keeping Lent…keeping Lent real…for sure.  

But this is a weird year.  

Given the last eleven months, how many reminders of our mortality do we need? 

How much giving up of things do we still need to do?  

I suppose it is a comment on the relative ease many of us have come to expect, but once you’ve had to get creative in sourcing your family’s toilet paper, how important could it possibly seem to give up chocolate for Lent?  

In a world where grandparents have had to give up seeing their grandchildren, when spouses can’t even be together in the hospital during a procedure, when brides have to wear masks to walk down the aisle, and so many of the little places we love for our small comforts can scarcely stay afloat—wow—what’s Lent?  

The Christian writer C.S. Lewis once described Hell, not as a place of fire and brimstone, supervised by devils with pitchforks.  

For Lewis, Hell was more like a dreary English suburb with houses that looked all alike, where the time was that depressing window before sundown on a cold midwinter afternoon just after the shops have closed – except forever.  

Who among us can’t picture that right now?  

At this point, what could “keeping Lent” possibly add? 

I think the answer is, actually, it could add a lot.  

Because of the edifice of our own expectations…the structure of our assumptions has crumbled, then the question is what we will seek to rebuild – what is it that will come back differently? 

If the isolation and boredom of Corona hit, and all we had to lean on was the pop of a cork at 5 o’clock, what have we learned?  

If our relationships have not proven a comfort to us, or if they’ve demanded more from our emotional wells than we have to offer, with little return, what have we learned? 

When the institutions we have taken for granted turn out to be far more precarious than we realized, what have we learned?

I think a whole lot of people have found that with everything they’ve been through, they miss God.

They miss a sense of connection to the guiding sense of purpose that we find in God.  

They miss a sense that someone sees their struggles and their unsung goodness and still finds them loveable – that while we are sinners, we are much more than only sinners, and the center of the Universe knows it, and sees that in us.  

They miss a sense that when they’re lost, someone is on their way to come find them. That there’s a Good Shepherd trying to bring them home. 

They miss what it is to hope in God’s declaration of the future – a sustained and sustainable Creation, shaped by trust among peoples and firm in the way of peace, where tears and death and darkness are no more.  

A whole lot of people are finding they miss God. 

The great Existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre once observed, “I don’t believe in God, but I miss Him.”

Without clubbing Sartre for his honesty, the Church teaches us to wonder if God was somewhere in that longing—that sense of missing the Divine. 

And that’s why Lent is so important, even for us, even for this year.  

It’s a year when we have not had to work ourselves up to 40 days of pondering our longing. 

This time, a lot of us have reached Longing 2.0 – the longing that comes on the other side of months and months of seeing the shoddy crutches we lean on snap in pieces before our very eyes.  

Lent asks us to ponder how we might live, now that we see so clearly how we can’t afford to keep living a moment longer.  

The promise of Lent is the promise that God will teach us how to build back better from here, as God gives us the strength to take up the cross and to join the work of redemption that is already under way, as all things are enfolded under the banner of Christ. 

So it is a weird year.  

The particular disciplines of Lent may seem redundant in a year with so many of those same lessons already baked in. 

But our longing for a new heaven and a new earth could serve us well, particularly it guides us to offer our lives in service to the One in whom all true hopes must finally dwell.  


Sermon: Hold on, not down (Mark1:29-39)

There’s a wonderful irony to putting this particular moment in Jesus’ ministry at the heart of our worship today. 

On Annual Meeting Sunday, our congregation gathers in a way we rarely do, and we speak and listen according to procedures that in most years, we only impose upon ourselves for this single gathering. 

There is a formality to how we do things that we tend to shy away from in most of our church life.  

In a way I really love, it’s profoundly Congregationalist that here and in most churches ours, even a four year old will call the pastors “Max” and “Shawn”…but God help us if we tried to run the Annual Meeting without formally establishing a quorum or without having Brenda read the “Certification of Congregational Usage.” 

If that happened, we’d have forty hands shoot up at once to put a stop to the anarchy.  

In many other denominations, that’s just not how it works. 

You’ve got to love that.

For a long time, well before I was ever here, I worried about it a little bit. 

I worried that it meant that churches like ours were ok with being loosey-goosey when it came to talking about Jesus, but by the book when it came to talking about money. 

I worried that it said what actually mattered, and that the answer was not “Jesus.” 

That’s not how I experience it now.      

It is of course true that, in so many ways, a church is most fundamentally a people of God, and its ongoing life is expressed in relationships with one another and with God.   

Yet in other ways, a church is also an institution, with an ongoing life that is expressed in resources that can and should be measured.  

With that dual identity in mind, it would be incorrect to reduce the complexity of ministry, witness, or even our understanding of stewardship to a series of entries for income and expenses on a balance sheet.  

But let’s not denigrate balance sheets or hold that money and assets are somehow beneath us as Christians to talk about.  

There is no question that budgets are moral documents. 

Read thoughtfully, budgets point to our commitments and to our diligence in keeping the promises this people of God has made over the course of its history. 


And so we come to this morning’s Scripture, in which Jesus more or less refuses to take the path of institution-building when it seems so clearly to be beckoning.  

He’s seized people’s attention with his preaching and his healings. 

Mark tells us that “the whole city” is gathered at the door of the house in which Jesus is staying.  

When Billy Graham used to lead a crusade in a particular place, he worked out very carefully ahead of time how the momentum of his visit would then carry people into a long-term relationship not just with Jesus, but also with particular churches in that place.  

Jesus could have done that, too. 

Or better yet, he might have stayed right there. 

For example, he could have become the Great Healer of Capernaum.

Something like that had to occur to somebody.  

All throughout the Greek world, there were temples to Asclepius, the God of Medicine – these were places of healing, often with lovely groves, and placed near springs thought to have healing properties. 

A couple of weeks ago, we heard about Jesus’ visit to the synagogue, and how challenging it may have been to hear his preaching for all of them, not just the man with a demon who is the one who actually cries out.  

They’d all been muttering as they listened to Jesus preaching.    

But later that very same day, once the healings started – once the crowds came – I wonder if the fathers in the synagogue were prepared to forgive and forget whatever it was that had raised their eyebrows that morning.  

It’s hard to argue with results

And Jesus certainly has those.  

Roll the tape back for a moment.  

Right after Jesus gets back from the synagogue, where it’s everybody muttering and one guy screaming, Jesus heals Peter’s mother-in-law. 

We don’t know a lot about her. 

Most of us think of the disciples as all male and all single, which a closer reading of Scripture complicates. 

We also don’t think of them as crashing at someone’s house, much less someone’s mother-in-law’s house, much less Peter’s…but whatever.   

There she is.  

As I said, we don’t know a lot about her, but she must have been one of those people who gets up from being sick and gets right on the phone because—boom!—by sundown, every sick person and every possessed person in town is outside the door.

That alone gets people’s attention.  

Look what happens when Jesus heals two people in the morning.  

So what’s going to happen when now all these new people and their families and their friends start posting to Facebook?   

If you look on the edge of the crowd, you’ll notice plenty of folks standing there, wondering that very thing. 

The disciples are.  The town fathers are. 

You can’t argue with results.  

People have been waiting a long time for something to change.  

People have been trying to hold on to hope for ages now.  

People are sick and tired of being sick and tired.

But now this has happened.  

Jesus has appeared.  

If you’re watching it, you have to be thinking “this guy is going to put Capernaum on the map.”  

And if what came out of it was a nice little grove or a colonnaded spring where people could gather, well, you know, that’s o.k., too.   

Baking stuff for Coffee Hour is going to be taking everybody all week.  


You know, though, I don’t blame them for dreaming. 

Those moments when God touches down are like that. 

Those moments when a new breeze starts to blow are like that.  

The Gospels tell us about many of those.  

Next week is Transfiguration Sunday, when Jesus goes up a mountain and uncloaks in all his glory before three of the disciples, and Peter says, “Lord, it is good that we are here.  Let us build three dwellings: one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

Peter doesn’t want to stop at building one church – all of the sudden he wants to build three

But Jesus resists that then, just as he resists in this earlier moment at Capernaum, when he might have launched Jesus, International, LLC, and somehow refuses.  

It’s not that he doesn’t love churches or see the need for institutions.  

It seems as if John the Baptist had no time for those.  

However, for his part, Jesus goes into synagogues all the time, and eventually he goes into the Jerusalem Temple, of course. 

If he thought nothing of value was happening in such places, it’s hard to see him bothering.  

Even more than John the Baptist, Jesus didn’t need institutions to do his particular thing.  

To review: he could stand in the doorway of his friend’s mother-in-law’s house, and the entire city would show up.  

But where else is it, exactly, that people come together to talk about the wonderful things that God has done? 

Where else is it that a person can sit in a pew on the day of her granddaughter’s wedding, and remember standing where her granddaughter is now standing, while her own grandmother, now long departed, looked on with a face full of love? 

Where else is it that a family brings a newborn, and a roomful of strangers makes promises to live better lives so that they might serve as a better example and a more reliable friend to that child? 

Where else is it that when we find ourselves broken by life, suffering loss, feeling the weight of everything, that an old hymn can spring from the organ, and two measures into it, we remember…oh right: God isn’t finished yet? 

Somehow, even though (whew)…somehow, in God, there is a way forward.  

Where else is it that we learn to stand for the dignity and worth of all people, to bless the goodness of all loving, and come to live with the discomfort and sacrifice this may ask of us? 

Those things don’t just happen on their own. 

They happen when and where Jesus appears and tells people – reminds people – that we are God’s people, and that a new breeze is set to blow. 

It’s one thing to try to hold on to God.  

But there’s no such thing as holding God down.  

That’s why Jesus did not tarry in Capernaum.  

That’s why, even though the people there were on fire for him literally overnight, he was on his way just after dawn.  

Because God will not be held down. 

The life of faith demands that we seek after God with open hearts all over again each morning. 

If the house of God is ever to be more than a shrine to where God appeared once, long ago, we must watch in faith for the flame to be lit anew.   

And we must go where it leads.  


So in a little while, we will regather this morning to discuss God’s business here at the Second Congregational Church of Greenwich. 

We go about it in ways that are different than our usual ways.

We try to describe the work of our church community at some of its most granular.  

Our leaders will talk about when and where they see the Spirit moving, and the charge they believe this lays upon us now. 

May we always prove open in our seeking and fearless in our following where God would have us go.