We Know What Happened

Sermon preached Sunday, April 4, 2021, Resurrection of Our Lord, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

A pastor I worked with in California was a professor of religion before she was ordained. In a recent conversation, she brought up a relatively obscure religious tradition: Zoroastrianism. It’s been around for thousands of years and survives into today, although there isn’t a terribly large number of adherents. Most modern-day believers in Zoroastrianism are in the Middle East or India.

You might be asking yourself, “Why is Pastor Becca talking about this random religion on Easter?” I promise, there’s a point. The thing is, Zoroastrians believe that there are two competing forces in the world: a force of life and a force of death. This duality gets expressed in other ways, too, like good versus evil or light versus dark. It’s not so different than what other religions believe and teach, but there’s one aspect of this duality that I found especially interesting.

Zoroastrians don’t claim to know what will win. In other words, the battle between life and death continues on and it’s full of suspense. This is not the action story or classic tale where the good guy always wins, the plans of the wicked are foiled and a happy ending is a given. No, for these believers the struggle is real and could go either way. Life or death could win. It’s a 50/50 bet. Every day could be lived with the anxiety of not knowing.

All too often, we live this way, like we’re not sure what will happen, like we’re not sure if life or death, good or evil will become triumphant. I fall into this trap from time to time, don’t you? We watch the news worriedly, like the death, violence, cruelty and greed reported on is all there is. We wring our hands about the state of public Christianity as if our witness isn’t most powerful when it is lived out in our everyday lives. We stress about whether or not we are good enough at our jobs, or for our family, or for God and have trouble remembering that we are already good—so much more than “good enough.” We see this battle in so many aspects of our lives: life versus death. Good versus evil. We live in anxious anticipation of what might win.

But today we hear the end of the story: God wins. Life wins.

Death tried incredibly hard. Death and the forces of sin were out in full force. God came to live among a broken humanity and we couldn’t handle how loving and full of grace and welcome this God was. Sin worked overtime in us to put this God we rejected to death…and sin thought it had won. Death thought it had won.

But we know what happened. At early dawn, a group of women came to the tomb expecting to find the body of the teacher, Lord, and friend. We know what happened: the tomb was empty and the women remembered all that Jesus had said about dying and rising again. We know what happened: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary, the mother of James, and the other women became the first evangelists, the first ones to proclaim the good news that Jesus the Christ had risen from the dead. We know what happened: most of the disciples did not believe them, but Peter did and ran to the tomb to see it all for himself.

We know what happened: the story of Christ’s resurrection from the dead spread and the message of God’s love for all of humanity made its way to every corner of the world. We know what happened: Paul wrote to the early Christian’s in Corinth about it.

²⁰But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died. ²¹For since death came through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; ²²for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ. ²³But each in his own order: Christ the first fruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ. ²⁴Then comes the end, when he hands over the kingdom to God the Father, after he has destroyed every ruler and every authority and power. ²⁵For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. ²⁶The last enemy to be destroyed is death. (1 Corinthians 15:20-26)

This what has happened. We know the end of the story.

None of this is to say that there will never be any suffering or pain or even death. Ultimately, though, we know that these forces have been destroyed. Ultimately, we know they have been defeated.

This knowledge is best expressed through a story I heard from another pastor colleague. He was at a nursing home on Friday, leading a Good Friday service in the chapel there for its residents. Just before the service began, a woman called him over to her chair. She told him that she lived in an assisted living facility nearby, but was having some health problems that put her temporarily in the nursing home. Then she told him she was scared. “I’m scared to death,” she said, “Just scared to death.” He asked her what she was scared of and she didn’t mince words, so I’ll edit a bit for more tender ears: “This sickness. It’s a bear. It’s a freakin’ bear. But even if it gets me, God wins.” Even if it gets me…God wins. She knew the end of the story.

And even this year, when the world feels upside down and so many of the things we’ve taken for granted gone from our lives, this fact is still true.

We know the end of the story. We proclaim it here every Sunday. In thanksgiving for our baptism, we proclaim that God has provided life-giving water. The readings remind us of all the ways God has already acted in human history. In the Nicene Creed, we end by stating, “We look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. In communion, we are welcomed to a table with bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, that sustains us in this life and keeps us in God’s grace. We leave, ready to share the good news of God’s victory to all who will listen.

We know the end of the story. Allelluia! Christ is Risen. Amen.

Jesus is Still Risen

Sermon preached Sunday, April 21, 2019, Easter Sunday, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

The two sermons that tend to give pastors the most anxiety are for Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday. It’s not that the texts themselves are particularly tricky or obscure—they are, in fact, the most well-known stories our faith has! But there is pressure because it’s a big, festival service when we try to pull out the stops and make everything as beautiful and meaningful as possible. …which means that most pastors, me included, feel like we’ve got to come up with something amazingly insightful and unique and special. We’ve got to wow for the people who are here most weeks and show off for anyone who might be visiting.

Truly, though, we should give ourselves a break. Yes, we want to preach well, we want the story of the resurrection to be proclaimed loudly and explicitly… but the good news about preaching on Easter is that, no matter what I say, no matter what happens during this service, even if everything falls Jesus is still resurrected.

Even if Carolyn, our organist, fell terribly ill and couldn’t make it, Jesus is still risen. Even if the flowers all died overnight, Jesus is still risen. Even if, somehow, we all showed up and were locked out of the sanctuary, Jesus is still risen. That is the reality and there is nothing we can do or fail to do to contradict that simple fact.

After all, that’s the story of Easter, the good news that we are here this morning to celebrate. Jesus is risen and any time we are faced with death, we know that God can bring life out of it.

I’m sure that most of, if not all of, you are aware of the fire at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris on Monday. In what appears to be an accident, a fire sparked on the roof and spread, causing a great deal of damage. Emergency crews battled the flames for hours, and it looks at points as if the whole building might be lost. Faithful Parisians gathered outside and sang hymns as they waited to see whether or not Notre Dame would be spared.

Luckily, the fire was put out before the building was damaged beyond repair. It will be years before it will be open to visitors. But, in the rubble, the beauty of the space could still be seen in the cross, gleaming and golden on the altar, surrounded by piles of ash.

The fire caught the world’s attention, but it also highlighted a troubling string of church fires that occurred in Louisiana, beginning at the end of March. Three churches in St. Landry Parish were burned beyond repair, but under very different circumstances. Instead of being accidentally set off, these churches were victims of arson—a hate crime against these predominantly black congregations.

Sacred places burning. Sacred places turning from places of refuge to places of danger. Sacred places facing despair and desolation and, yes, even death.

In both cases, though, we can see renewal coming. Millions of dollars have already been pledged to restore Notre Dame. And the generosity seen there has inspired people to give to the St. Landry Parish congregations, as well, bringing in about $2 million to be split among the three churches in their own efforts to rebuild. The buildings will be renewed, but the real renewal is in the spirit of the faithful who worship in these places. One might expect these people to cut their losses and move on, or to give into despair…but they know God might still have work to do in those places.

The morning of the resurrection wasn’t what anyone expected, either. When the women came to the tomb, all they were expecting were the ashes and the burned-out shell, if you will. All they were expecting to find was the tortured body of their beloved teacher and messiah so that they could properly anoint him for burial. Instead, they encountered angels and an incredible story the other disciples didn’t believe. “He is not here but has risen!”

Even with all the prophetic words Jesus spoke about his death and how he would return, it is the unexpected outcome—and yet, it is the only outcome that could from God who first brought forth life out of chaos and came to be the Light of the World.

So, no, the story might not be new. It might not be fresh. I might not have anything terribly new or insightful or earthshaking to share with you this morning…but that’s not the point. We don’t need new. We need the old, constant story. Easter is here. Jesus is Risen. This is the foundation of our faith and thanks be to God that it just never changes.

Amen.

Tell the Story One More Time

Sermon preached Saturday, April 20, 2019, the Vigil of Easter, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

The Vigil is arguably the oldest Christian worship service we have, aside from weekly worship around a meal and fellowship. The formal shape we recognize now took some time to develop, but the resurrection was the highlight of Christian faith and so it was the first yearly celebration the early Christians had. It was also the first occasion new converts to Christianity were able to fully participate in the life of the community, since they would wait to be baptized at this service.

The vigil is ancient. The prayers, the extensive readings from the Hebrew Scriptures, the account of the resurrection, the affirmation of baptism…all of these elements have been passed down through the centuries—and yet, every year, the vigil somehow becomes new again.

We need this ancient service because we need reminders: reminders of God’s creation, of God has saved God’s people in the past, of how God continues to be at work in the lives of each of us. All in all, reminders that “this is the night.”

In the words of the Easter Proclamation from the beginning of this service, this is the night God led the children of Israel out of slavery into freedom. This is the night believers are renewed in grace and restored again to holiness. This is the night when Christ burst the chains of death, rising to life in triumph. And so, we hear the stories of God’s promises, of God’s actions, of God’s mercy, of God’s abundance, of God’s love.

We hear these stories and we gather around new stories of what God is doing in our lives and in our world. We might not read these stories from the lectern, but we carry them with us, in our bodies and in our hearts. Stories about relationships that have been restored to newness. Stories about how brokenness is transformed into wholeness. Stories about new life coming out of something we through was dead. Stories that point to God’s love and grace and mercy for all of God’s good creation.

These stories mingle together, old and new, ancient and modern, well-known and experienced for the first time, but one thing never changes: God never changes.

On this night, we proclaim one more time, “Alleluia! Christ is risen!” …and we get to tell the story one more time. Amen.

So What Are You Going To Do?

Sermon preached Sunday, April 1, 2018, the Resurrection of Our Lord, at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA. Audio can be found here.

Did you notice anything strange about the end of our Gospel reading? Anything strike you as odd in Mark’s account of the resurrection? I’ll help you out: Mary Magdalene, another Mary, and a woman named Salome go to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. Not only is the stone rolled away and the body gone, but an angel is there who tells them that Jesus has risen from the dead and that they need to go and tell the other disciples.

What do they do? Nothing! Hear it again: “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” (Mark 16:8) They do nothing! They don’t follow the angel’s instructions, they don’t tell the disciples, they don’t tell anyone!

This is where the Gospel of Mark originally ended. You’ll notice if you look in most Bibles that the eleven verses that follow are usually bracketed off and set apart—they aren’t found in our earliest manuscripts. Most scholars agree that this book of the Bible ended right there, with the women not telling anyone anything because they were afraid.

It’s easy to understand why people would want to add more onto it. Fear and silence doesn’t make for a great ending. People tried to explain it away and tried to fix the problem. But what does it mean that this is the end? What does it say to you? What does it say to us?

Imagine that you are a Jesus believer hearing this story. You’re sitting in someone’s house, gathered with other early believers being told and retold these accounts of Jesus’ life: his miracles, his teachings, his actions, and, of course, his death. You are invested and passionate and finally the story teller comes to the end and says, “…and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” All of a sudden, there’s an unspoken challenge: they said nothing—what are you going to do? Are you going to tell the story? Are you going to proclaim that Christ has risen? Are you going to be brave and bold in your faith?

It’s not only a challenge issued to those early followers…it is given to us, as well. What will you do with the news of the resurrection? Will you tell it to anyone who will listen? Or will you remain quiet?

There is, of course, a difference between the church almost two thousand years ago and the church today. Whereas they were persecuted and under threat and had the uphill battle of telling an incredible, mystifying, miraculous story to people and trying to get them to believe it, Christians today, at least in our current society, don’t have those same challenges. If someone sees a cross somewhere, they probably know what it refers to. If someone says the name “Jesus of Nazareth,” people usually know the basic biography: born in a manger, died on a cross, rose from the dead. The story of Christianity, the story of Jesus is almost ubiquitous in our culture, even for people who have never stepped foot in a church.

The challenge Mark’s Gospel gives us, then, is a little different. Instead of simply telling the story to as many people as we can, we are called and compelled to proclaim why the story matters. It’s not enough to shout “He is risen!” We’re called to name how Christ’s resurrection affects and influences our lives and our world.

All of you are here this morning for a reason. Only you know what that reason is. For many of you, it’s simply because you are an active part of this congregation and worship is an integral part of congregational life. Some of you are here because you always go to church on Easter, even if you don’t come very often throughout the rest of the year. Some of you might be here because you just felt a pull, a tug, a calling that maybe you should give this church—or any church—a try and this seemed like a good week for it. Or maybe you’re here for another reason all together. Nonetheless, you’re here.

And since you’re here, let me remind you that God has done, is doing, and will continue to do incredible things in your life. These acts are not always easy to spot. Oftentimes they are camouflaged through our friends or in tiny miracles of nature or in things we write off to dumb luck or cheerful happenstance…but if we look for it, we can see how God moves in and through our lives bringing hope and life and peace when we need it the most.

When you hear this challenge from Mark to share with the world the story of the Risen Christ and, in particular, the challenge to share why this story matters, think about those moments. Think about everything God has done and be brave. Be bold. Proclaim God’s saving action with everything you have.

It won’t always be easy. Sharing our faith can be quite scary at times.

We will face people who are incredulous. Those who can’t imagine believing in any God at all and find our faith misguided at best and dangerous at worst.

We will encounter other Christians who believe our faith is not genuine if we do not agree one hundred percent on every finer point of theology.

We will encounter people who have been hurt by the church and are wary of how we might hurt them as well.

These are all scary scenarios, and they’re not the only ones we might face! But the Gospel is bigger than that. The good news of the resurrection is bigger than that. We might be afraid because of the response we might receive from the world…but Easter is here and there’s not much we can do about it.

God has risen from the dead. The world is a different place. The kingdom of God is here and now.

This is our story. It’s our calling to share it and to share how much it matters.

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

Christ is Risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

 

 

While It Was Still Night

Sermon preached Saturday, March 31 at the Great Easter Vigil, held at St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Littlestown, PA.

I wonder if you caught a very small detail in tonight’s gospel reading. It’s right at the beginning, in the first sentence: “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark…”

“…while it was still dark…” I love that phrase. It’s one of those parts of the Bible I turn around and around in my mind because I can’t let it go.

“…while it was still dark…” That’s not usually the way we picture Easter morning, is it? When we think about the women arriving at the tomb to anoint the body of Jesus, we usually imagine that’s it is dawn, the sky is slowly lightening as the sun moves higher in the sky. Sunlight might be filtering softly through trees. There might be some dew on the ground, sparkling a little as the sun beams hit it. It’s not usually still night.

Maybe that’s why I like it. In the other three Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), the women arrive at dawn…but in John it is still before sunrise. It is still night. The new day hasn’t yet arrived.

It’s night now. The sun was setting as we gathered outside around the fire, but if we peer out through the windows right now, we see that it is well and truly night. And so it is night outside and it’s also night in our world—the kind of deep night that leads to hopelessness…wondering if God is even there at all.

This night is everywhere, even in the daylight. We are surrounded by it. It invades our lives through news reports, or stories from friends, or the inner demons that seek to take root in our every thought. This night is overwhelming, smothering, and as we’re stumbling through trying to find our way, we look for Jesus. We come to the tomb, with Mary, to grieve, to mourn, to look for the place where Jesus is supposed to be.

While it is still night, we weep. We look for our Lord. We ask where Jesus has gone…because in all the shadows, we don’t see him. We don’t see God in all the hate, the fear and the grief. We don’t see God in the hopelessness and loss.

But God is there. Jesus comes to Mary while it was still dark out—while it was still night. And Jesus comes to us as well. Jesus is there. He hears our sorrow, sees our tears and then says our name. And in that moment, when we know that God has heard us and seen us, God is revealed to us.

God doesn’t promise lives without difficulty. God doesn’t promise that faith will mean a life without death or struggle. The promises that God makes are different, but infinitely more valuable: Eternal and abundant life; Emmanuel, “God is with us.” God says, “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” And, as we hear proclaimed each year at Christmas, God promises that Christ, the light of the world, shines in the shadows and they do not overcome it.

Light that looks like grace and forgiveness. Light that looks like efforts to work towards peace, justice and equality. Light that looks like gifts of food or other resources to those who need it most. Light that looks like violence being met with compassion instead of revenge.

Once Mary Magdalene recognizes Jesus, she hurries back to tell the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” And she had! Even though it was still night, Mary saw Jesus. The light of Christ shone in the shadows of fear and anxiety and grief and overcame them.

And even in the midst of our world’s deep night, tonight’s celebration of Christ’s resurrection reminds us that Christ is always with us, even when we don’t recognize him.

Earlier, we gathered outside around a new fire. The fire broke up the oncoming evening, glowing brightly through the dusk. And then we shared the fire among ourselves, lighting our candles and spreading the light from one person to another.

God is like that light, dispelling the shadows, breaking through the despair or gloom, and being shared between the people of God. No matter how heavy the night might feel, God is there to call our name and bring us light, often passed to us from a friend, or neighbor, or even stranger.

On this holy night, we rejoice! The light of the risen Christ shines through the night. Amen.