The Masked Christ

A screen-grab from All Saints' Livestream from April 26, 2020

© Seth Olson 2020
April 26, 2020—Third Sunday of Easter

Acts 2:14a,36-41

Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17

1 Peter 1:17-23

Luke 24:13-35

View video of today’s sermon by following this link: https://vimeo.com/412085929 (sermon begins at 16:22).

Today’s Gospel lesson features the familiar story of the walk to Emmaus. In it, two disciples head out of Jerusalem on Easter night seemingly unaware of or unable to comprehend the magnitude of the empty tomb. While Mark’s Gospel account gives a brief outline of this story, the full depiction is unique to Luke. What is not unique within Luke is the setting of a journey.

Journeys are everywhere in the Third Gospel. Mary and Joseph had to take a trip to get to Bethlehem. The Parable of the Good Samaritan occurred on a road. Where did the father embrace the prodigal son in that famous parable? Out on a road! For a huge chunk of this gospel account Jesus was on the road to Jerusalem—and that was where so many of his greatest teachings happened. Even in the “sequel” to Luke, the Book of Acts, the apostle formerly known as Saul was blinded on the road to Damascus, before God changed his life for good and his name to Paul.[1] Embarking on a journey was not only important in Luke though, journeys are vital to us too.

How often do we describe our lives as a journey? We tell each other to take the high road when someone is dragging us down. Some people advise taking the road less traveled. And, what graduate has not received the journey-focused children’s classic Oh The Places You’ll Go, which compares life to one big, challenging adventure. And, our life in Christ is no different. Do we not often ask one another, “How is your faith journey going?”

And, all of our journeys (faith and otherwise) took a weird turn a few weeks back. Maybe some people projected the challenges of this virus, but I do not think anyone could see the full extent of how the COVID-19 pandemic would upend or turn around our traveling down our paths. As we all still struggle with what to do and what the next steps of our journeys will be, we would be wise to consult today’s story of the walk to Emmaus for guidance. What does this Easter evening trek teach us about our individual and collective journeys? Let’s look at three lessons because y’all know how much preachers like to talk about examples in groups of three.

First, it’s good to travel together. The Bible does not tell us why these two disciples decided to leave Jerusalem just hours after their fellow female disciples had seen the empty tomb, but they did. While this might seem crazy, what was not crazy was going together. There’s a wonderful African proverb, which reads: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” Cleopas and the other disciple may have only been traveling to Emmaus, seven miles down the road, but they still understood the importance of traveling together. Likewise, on our journeys we yearn to travel together.

It’s in our very nature to walk the road together. I think one of the most challenging aspects of our current situation comes in that we are not able to have the normal interactions with those in our support networks. A basic belief we have as Christians is that we believe in a Triune God, as in God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—three-in-one. To me this means that God’s most elemental nature is communal. We come from God, so we come from community. Thus, we want to have fellow pilgrims on the way. This is challenging to do in this moment, so we have to use creativity—phone calls, Facetime, Zoom calls, letters, emails, Facebook messages, and countless other ways can connect us. And, there’s another way that involves the third traveler who came alongside the disciples, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

Our life journeys right now are challenging enough and even with a fellow pilgrim on the way, we may not know exactly where we are going, and this gets us to a second lesson we can learn from today’s Gospel story.

Sometimes on our journey, it is appropriate to wander. Now, maybe this is a stretch because the way Luke tells this story Cleopas and the other disciple knew where they were going. They were traveling to Emmaus, which according to the text was seven miles outside of Jerusalem. However, if you look on almost any historical map and consult most any Biblical scholar they will tell you there is some confusion as to where Emmaus is. Now, just last year archaeologists uncovered a massive Hellenistic wall that some believe identifies the location of the ancient city of Emmaus.[2]

Still, I wonder if the disciples’ journey that Easter night was more of a wandering walk into the grief of losing their Lord than a Point A to Point B excursion. When the disguised Jesus asked the disciples what they were talking about on their way, they stood still looking sad. They were heartbroken.

Right now, we can see stress, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, illness, and death are all looming large during this part of our collective journey, as we experience the ramifications of this pandemic. And up until a few weeks ago, we may have thought we knew where we were going until the world turned upside-down and caused us to stand still and feeling sadness, like those disciples on the road to Emmaus.

Sometimes we are told not to experience, express, or process our emotions—we should just keep going on our journey—but Christ Jesus and these disciples model something different. In them, we see that it is appropriate to stop, feel our emotions, and even get lost in them. For Christ found these disciples when they were lost in their own sadness.

This brings us to the last lesson I want to bring up from this Gospel text: Christ always walks with us, but we don’t always know it. The disciples walked with Jesus for long enough to have a killer Bible study in which the Risen Lord revealed throughout all of Scripture all that pertained to his being the Messiah. In that moment, the disciples did not see the true identity of their fellow pilgrim. What dropped the scales that had obscured their vision? Breaking bread together with Christ Jesus!

During this pandemic when we are not able to have communion together, when we cannot break bread at God’s table or even in each other’s homes, this detail makes me stand still in sadness. Even here though on this daunting leg of the journey, Christ is with us. We may just have overlooked Christ in his many disguises. It’s almost as though Christ sometimes wears a mask.

Speaking of masks, a few weeks ago there was a National Public Radio story about how to politely greet one another while wearing a facemask. The reporter suggested using a friendly wave, giving a thumbs up, or smiling with your eyes, Tyra Banks calls that “smize.”[3] Me personally, I like the peace sign, touching my heart, or saying “Love” in sign language. However, this whole report got things backwards. People are looking for ways to portray themselves as friendly, which is good. But, I think it’s more important for us to truly see the one beneath the mask.

During this difficult time it has been amazing seeing all the doctors, nurses, chaplains, and medical technicians; the bus drivers, train engineers, pilots, ship captains, and flight attendants; the delivery drivers, food delivery drivers, and mail delivery drivers; the grocery baggers, clerks, and managers; the police officers, firefighters, and EMTs, and the many, many, many other people who are risking their safety and their lives to keep essential services going. And, most of them we don’t actually get to see and even when we do see them we often don’t get to see their faces because their faces are covered by masks.

Underneath those masks though, we might just see the face of Christ. Many of the people wearing those masks are loving each other, sacrificing for each other, healing one another, just like Jesus did. And, we, just like Cleopas and the other disciple, might not have been able to see that Christ Jesus has been walking beside us on this road the whole time. Those disciples could not see Christ Jesus because of their grief, and we might have missed seeing God’s face because of all our emotions and of course the masks. So I urge you to look again and see who is walking next to you.

We are definitely traveling on a strange leg of the journey. But, we do not walk alone. You’ll never walk alone. Even if we are socially distant, we are spiritually united. And, it is okay to wander or even get lost. Because it is when we feel most lost that Our Risen Lord shows up in the most profound and unexpected ways. This week, as you continue on this path that is life, I pray that you see Christ’s face, even if it is hidden by a mask. Amen.

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[1] Eric Barreto, “Commentary on Luke 24:13-35” WorkingPreacher.org [published April 23, 2017, accessed April 26, 2020]  

https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4442

[2] Ariel David, “Israeli Archaeologists May Have Found Emmaus, Where Jesus Appeared After Crucifixion” [written September 03, 2019, accessed April 26, 2020] https://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/.premium.MAGAZINE-israeli-archaeologists-may-have-found-emmaus-where-jesus-appeared-after-crucifixion-1.7774167.

[3] Sharon McNary, “In L.A., It's Now Mandatory For Everyone To Wear Face Coverings” NPR.org [published April 10, 2020; accessed April 26, 2020]. https://www.npr.org/2020/04/10/831480486/in-l-a-its-now-mandatory-for-everyone-to-wear-face-coverings

Shelter in God

On this holy night we are all called to shelter in God.

 © Seth Olson 2020
April 11, 2020—Easter Vigil

Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea]
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all]
Ezekiel 36:24-28 [A new heart and a new spirit]
Romans 6:3-11
Psalm 114
Matthew 28:1-10

Back on Tuesday, March 24th the City Council of Birmingham passed Mayor Randall Woodfin’s order for citizens of Alabama’s largest city to shelter-in-place. On Saturday, April 3rd Governor Kay Ivey issued a statewide stay-at-home order that went into effect a week ago and has kept non-essential workers in Alabama from leaving their homes, except for necessities. These actions by elected officials have been required here, as well as around the United States and throughout the world to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Even with these measures, this week in the United States, looks like it will be the deadliest yet in this fight against the novel coronavirus.

As someone in the Faith and the Modern Family class put it during our Zoom session last week, “It’s strange that this week, Holy Week is the most deadly week we’ve seen.” Someone else from the Men’s Bible Study pointed out that this month is not only when Holy Week happens, but it is also when the Jewish high holy days of Passover occur and the Muslim holy month of Ramadan begins. It is not just strange, but tragic that our major World Religions are having to cope with the reality of celebrating their holiest of days when so many are dying and we are all separated. We are sheltering in place, staying at home, and these are acts of compassion and love for our families, friends, and neighbors across the street and around the globe. Still, I cannot help but wonder if tonight of all nights we might shelter somewhere else.

Tonight is the night when the Church and the whole world rejoice, joining with heavenly hosts and choirs of angels, as Susie Youngson beautifully sang just a little while ago. The Exsultet, that ancient hymn, expresses in just a few holy moments of chanting the importance of this night. It was the night when God’s people were freed from bondage in Egypt, it was the night when Christ restored us to grace, broke the bonds of hell, and rose victorious from the grave. How wonderful is this night when wickedness is put to flight, sin is washed away, innocence is restored to the fallen, joy is given to those who mourn, pride is cast out, and peace and concord reign. Tonight is the night when earth and heaven are one. So, while I understand when our health experts tell us we are to shelter individually in our homes—because I want the coronavirus to pass over us as quickly as possible—while I get this logically, tonight I would love for us all to be sheltering together here, praising God who has done the most amazing thing—putting death to death.

And yet, sheltering where you are whether in your home or perhaps at your essential place of business, sheltering where you are does not mean that we are not together. In truth, I believe this night reveals that it is not only about gathering together in our holy places. It is not only about coming to church or another thin space where God’s presence palpably persists, but rather on this night, for us as followers of Jesus it is about eternally sheltering in God. We are called to shelter in God! This imagery of sheltering in God pervades our Scripture, songs, and prayers tonight and throughout our lives in Christ.

In our reading from Exodus the people of Israel sheltered in God as they walked across the Red Sea on dry ground. The lesson from Isaiah told of people dwelling in the security of God as those with no money received food, milk, wine, and toilet paper at no cost—wait, it doesn’t say toilet paper. In the First Song of Isaiah we know that surely it is God who saves us—God is our stronghold and our sure defense. In our prayers we know that God created and yet more wonderfully restored all of Creation—protecting it. Through these words we can understand that God sheltered us not only in ages past (like the powerful hymn, “Oh God Our Help In Ages Past” tells us), but also here and now!

God has been the God who sheltered and guided, blessed and restored throughout our entire history. It does not mean that there have not been tragic, painful losses. It does not mean that brave ones did not have to give their lives to further God’s reign of love here on earth, but God has been with our mothers and fathers, our Christian forebearers who persisted through persecution in the Early Church, the plague of the Middle Ages, the turmoil of the Reformation, the founding of the Protestant Episcopal Church in America, the end of slavery, the reconstruction of a nation, the Great World Wars, the Influenza Pandemic of 1918, the Civil Rights Movement, the September 11th Terrorist Attacks, and countless other earth-altering events. In each and every age God has been the shelter of faithful ones like you and me. And, why is that?

Well, that is because in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ Jesus we know that we have a shelter that is going to withstand whatever comes our way. Christ Jesus on this night defeated sin and death. Christ Jesus on this night overcome the gravity of the grave to triumph over all that pulls us away from the life abundant. Christ Jesus on this night united eternally heaven and earth.

In our passage from Romans we hear anew that we are united with Jesus. And if we are united in a death like his death we are surely united in a resurrected life like his. Because of this, we know that not even death has the last word—not just 2,000 years ago and halfway around the world, but right now, right here as we stare COVID-19 right in the face. No evil, no malice, not even the devil himself can overcome us when we are united with Jesus. When the devil tempts us to fold, we can, as someone recently put it, tell the devil to stand 6 feet back with the help of Jesus.

We can trust in God who has been, “our help in ages past,” who will be “our hope for years to come,” who is “Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home.” We can know for sure that God is a “Mighty Fortress” just as Martin Luther sang. We can trust in Jesus as our crag and stronghold as Psalm 31 puts it. When we shelter with God though, it is not always about hiding away in a grand turret of a magnificent castle. Sometimes sheltering in God requires us to shed our armor.

This pandemic while causing me to shield myself with antibacterial wipes, hand sanitizer, and staying at home has at the same time completely crumbled my heart. But, at least according to the prophet Ezekiel this is a good thing. Through Ezekiel, God said, “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” This ironically is how we are sheltered in God. Not by hiding out in fear, but staying home because our hearts are breaking seeing the sacrifices that others, and we ourselves, are making to care for one another.

We are called to shelter in God as we shelter in place, not as a frightened posture of cowering, but as a determined action of self-giving love. This love empowered Jesus to give his life on Good Friday. This love is what God the Father utilized to resurrect Christ Jesus this night. This love emboldened Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to go see the tomb that God made empty and to share this good news with others.

Still, we may feel like we are sitting in the darkened tomb, as our hearts of stone break for those whom we lose. Even here though, maybe especially here, we are united with Christ and soon we will feel the bright glow of the resurrection light breaking upon us. So tonight may shelter in place as an act of love for one another, but always may shelter in God through Christ’s unconditional, eternal, and limitless love. Amen.

God's Friday

The empty nave of All Saints, Birmingham, AL

 © Seth Olson 2020

April 10, 2020—Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22

Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42

Lord, let my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, let your people be cunning enough to know the same. Amen.

Today is Good Friday. It is a day when the Church typically huddles close together, hears the story of Our Savior’s death, and prays for the salvation of the world. Of all the services of the entire Church Year, it may be the most stark, bare, and bleak. Today is Good Friday, but in the midst of a Global Pandemic, yesterday felt like Good Friday, and the day before, and the day before that too. And, even though tomorrow night at the Easter Vigil we will unleash our prayers and praises of God who triumphs over death, tomorrow may very well feel like Good Friday, and I suspect even Easter morning too.

The fact that the Church is not physically gathered together on this day shatters my heart into a million pieces. It breaks my heart—it stops me up short. So, I know not what brought you here, what caused you to tune into this service, if you always come, if you were curious about this service, or if you are heartbroken like me, but whatever brought you, please know that this is a safe place for you. And if you are falling apart know that I am right there with you. This is a safe haven in which we can see the crumbling reality of our world and feel the brokenness of where we are.

Even though it is probably not the healthiest thing given the state of my heart, soul, and mind, I keep reading firsthand accounts from doctors and nurses and health experts. I keep listening to stories of what is happening to people of all ages, nations, races, and creeds—there aren’t enough masks, gowns, gloves, and shields to protect our front-line healthcare workers. There are not enough tests to determine where and to whom COVID-19 is spreading. Many families with school-aged children are now forced to balance teaching and working at the same time. Students are distance learning and grieving the loss of so many things to which they were looking forward. Others who live alone may be feeling more isolated than they previously did.

And, some people have lost their livelihoods, their loved ones, and maybe even their own lives sometimes in the same week. These stories describe the awful time through which we are living, a dismal reality that many of us were not acquainted with just a few weeks ago.

Pain, illness, suffering, sorrow, anguish, loss, grief, dying, and death are nothing new. We just have not all experienced these challenging life circumstances simultaneously as an entire planet, at least not in quite some time. Maybe we have never gone through this, on this scale, to this extent. But, God has.

God’s Son, Christ Jesus suffered. He experienced pain, sorrow, and anguish; he dealt with loss and grief, dying, and even death. In the Passion Narrative we just heard a follower betrayed Jesus into the hands of the powerful who wished to stop Jesus’ movement of love. Jesus’ chief disciple denied him three times before the sun rose on this day long ago. Most of the rest of his followers deserted him, while those in power tossed Jesus back and forth until he was beaten, mocked, and hung from a painful torture device, which was meant not only to kill but to humiliate in the process.

Audaciously, we still call this day Good Friday. And, maybe it is good, though not simply because of what lies ahead—not only because of what we hope will happen next in the story, nor what we trust God will do in the end. This day is good because on it, Jesus showed us the ultimate response to all that is broken in this world, in our communities, and in ourselves.

We so often refer to God as almighty, but today we see in Jesus that God is not only almighty, but also all-vulnerable. Jesus the Christ through whom all things were made was not celebrated, revered, or even recognized by his own creation. He came into the world and the world comprehended him not. If God were only almighty, we may expect vengeance from the cross, but that was not the way Jesus expressed strength. Instead, he drew all things to himself through complete self-emptying. Thus, our Savior was installed not at a capitol adorned with marble stone, or on a throne forged of gold, but on a cross hewn of wood. But this was not the only time Jesus displayed this self-giving love.

When throughout Jesus’ life he cared for those who were forgotten, isolated, or outcast he showed this love. When he healed the disabled, fed the hungry, and hung out with the wrong crowd, he modeled this love. When at the Last Supper Jesus knelt to wash the filth from his disciples’ feet, he revealed this love. When he commanded his friends to love one another just as he loved them, this love, my friends, is what Jesus meant. This love, this self-emptying love makes Good Friday good. We hear of this love in words that we have frequently been praying in Morning Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace.”[1]

Today as we stare up at Jesus hanging on the cross, we observe the love that God has for each one of us. We see it as Jesus’ arms extend towards all of humanity. Even as our vision gets obscured during this time of brokenness, isolation, and anxiety always God’s love shines upon us.

This love beams down not only as a way for God to right some eternal wrong committed by us human beings, but also as a different way for us to walk into the future. As one wise teacher put it, God’s love from the cross is not merely atonement, righting a wrong, but also at-one-ment. That is Jesus bringing all things together as one—drawing the whole world into his loving embrace.[2] Through Jesus we see the size, scope, and magnitude of God’s love, which does not magically end the pain of this world, the coronavirus pandemic, or the inevitable truth of death. Rather, in Jesus’ Passion we ultimately see that God the Almighty willingly gets down on our level, suffers with us, and even dies, as the most vulnerable one.

God unites with us. And, in God’s unity with our own brokenness we see something clearly. We observe strangely that this day is good. However, it may not have always been called Good Friday.

This day was once called God’s Friday. It was God’s day to express the primacy of love, to show us what ultimate love looks like. Somewhere along the way, like so many phrases within the English language, the phrase was mispronounced, and God became good.[3] While this day is good, right now it feels more helpful for us to call it God’s Day. And, on God’s day we are invited to embrace our vulnerability and to live in radical, unconditional love. But, this isn’t always easy.

This last month has essentially felt like one long Good Friday. It is as if we have been stuck not on Groundhog’s Day, but on this day. What if though we shift from nonstop Good Friday to everyday being God’s day? Wouldn’t that transform something within us? Every day is truly God’s Day. I know Church scholars out there will argue that the Lord’s Day is Sunday, but right now all these days are running together anyway. So, why not think of everyday as God’s Day? Because every day God is here with us.

Every day is God’s Day because there is not a moment we experience in life in which Christ is not living with us. Christ Jesus experiences our pain, illness, suffering, sorrow, anguish, loss, grieving, dying, and death with us because he was well acquainted with these in his own life. This day, this Good Friday, which is truly God’s Day, was the day when God forever united Godself and us. God through Jesus destroyed all separation that exists between earth and heaven, us and God, divinity and humanity.

Today is Good Friday, but if tomorrow or the next day feels like Good Friday remember that every day is God’s day. Remember that every day God overcomes anything and everything between God and us. Remember that every day Our Almighty God freely becomes the All-Vulnerable One living with us, suffering with us, and even dying with us. And for that, thanks be to God.

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[1]The Episcopal Church. The Book of Common Prayer. New York: Church Publishing, 1979, 101.

[2] Rohr, Richard. Center for Action and Contemplation. October 12, 2016. https://cac.org/nonviolent-atonement-one-ment-2016-10-12/ (accessed April 5, 2020).

[3] “Who, What, Why: Why is Good Friday called Good Friday?” BBC Magazine Monitor. April 18, 2014. https://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-magazine-monitor-27067136 (accessed April 10, 2020).

The Sun Was Rising

Nicodemus came to Jesus by night, but when did he leave?

© Seth Olson 2014, 2020

March 8, 2020—The Second Sunday of Lent

Genesis 12:1-4a
Psalm 121

Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17

Nicodemus couldn’t sleep again. The all too familiar feeling of anxiety ravaged through his stomach, like monstrous, marauding butterflies. His wife, Rachel, lay beside him in their king-size bed. She could sense his worry; it made her uneasy too. As she drifted off into a troubled sleep, Nicodemus simply starred at the ceiling. The mortgage, the bills, the children’s education, it all added up. These problems alone though did not keep this religious leader from resting peacefully. No, something else was the matter. By morning he would have all the covers wrapped around himself, like some sort of cocoon of fear, yet for Nicodemus that night there was no metamorphosis, no change, no growth. The only butterflies were in his gut.

He left the covers behind before the sun left the cover of the night. Standing in the pre-dawn half-light, he could see the dark circles around his eyes. They grew ever more visible each day in the mirror. Seeing Rachel resting peacefully in the reflection, Nicodemus remembered the pledges he made to her on their wedding night. Promises of trips to the Mediterranean, family vacations, and putting his time in early, so that he could retire at reasonable age, and they could enjoy their golden years together. These hopes vanished, as his focus returned to his rapidly aging face. Looking into his own eyes, he recognized an emptiness.

Following every word of the Law, working harder than every other Pharisee, arriving earlier and leaving later, these were the rules Nicodemus lived by, but still he felt hollow. Like a wineskin with no wine or an inn with no visitors, Nicodemus’ soul felt empty and vacant. Kissing Rachel and his children goodbye, Nicodemus started hurriedly to the Temple to lead morning prayers, as the sun hurried to the horizon. If he felt any peace embracing his family, it vanished, as he stepped out into the street. His thoughts turned to the upcoming Passover festivities, and that morning’s meeting of the Sanhedrin, the religious council.

In a stuffy room with many leather-bound books of the Law and the Prophets, the Sanhedrin members gathered. This council dispatched with old business quickly, then an elder member brought up a touchy, new subject. His calculating words cut through the stale air of conference room B, like a snake darting through withered grass. “What are we to do about this upstart teacher from Galilee?” the man asked. Then continuing without pause enough for a reply, he hissed, “He is gaining followers, you know, disciples even! My sources tell me that he has performed some mighty signs, even turning water into wine at a wedding.”

Another voice emerged, “Where is he now?” The elder Pharisee replied, “Capernaum with his family.” Nicodemus, intrigued by the miraculous deeds and exhausted from his insomnia, forgot himself and excitedly piped up, “Do you think he’ll come to Passover?” Before he could even finish his sentence, Nicodemus knew that the emotions worn on his decorated sleeve had given away his giddiness. In his desperation, Nicodemus secretly hoped he’d meet this itinerant miracle worker.

The elder Pharisee looked down at Nicodemus and snarled. Another leader with long fringes and broad phylacteries questioned, “Why does it matter if this man shows up?” he interrogated, “Nicodemus, why do you care?” A pragmatic voice cut off the questioning to get back to business, “This week, we need extra security at the Temple to prepare for this man… What is his name again?” The elder Pharisee replied disgustedly, “Jesus.”

Although Passover begins at sundown, Nicodemus left long before sunrise on the first day of the festivity. As he made his way to the Temple, he thought, “Maybe, just maybe, God will show me a sign today,” and in this moment of hope, the tension within him released.

Suddenly, right as he entered the Temple gates he heard shouting, then the crack of a whip, sprinting to see what was happening Nicodemus saw a rough looking man. He was driving out the merchants who were selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables. As the vendors scattered in all directions, the unkempt man flipped over their tables and proclaimed, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” Nicodemus wondered who this man was, was this Jesus, and a verse from Scripture arose, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” Other Pharisees just arriving began to question this man’s motives, but Nicodemus just wanted to know, “When can I meet him?”

Several Pharisees, seething at Jesus’ irreligious behavior and his disrespect for their Tradition, watched him carefully for a mistake. Nicodemus, on the other hand, looked on with eager anticipation, hoping for another sign. Secretly following Jesus around, he watched from a distance as Jesus healed a man blind since birth. It was then, that Nicodemus made up his mind, he would risk his status within the Sanhedrin, so that he could meet with Jesus.

The night Passover was finishing, Nicodemus told his wife he was going to seek out a mighty healer, in hopes of a sign that might fill the emptiness within him. Rachel urged her husband to find healing. Then, Nicodemus pulled his cloak over his head and hurried through the streets to the outskirts of Jerusalem.

He had used the Sanhedrin’s intelligence network to discover where Jesus was staying. After mistakenly waking a few neighbors in search of Jesus’ exact location, Nicodemus eventually found the right house. When he knocked on the door quietly, two of Jesus’ disciples, Simon-Peter and Andrew, came to the door. Nicodemus asked if he could speak to their teacher. Welcoming the guest inside, Simon-Peter went back to sleep. Andrew went to wake their teacher. Soon, Jesus emerged silently from his sleeping quarters, lit a candle, poured some wine for his guest, and offered Nicodemus some of the remaining Passover feast.

Speechless, Nicodemus could not initially reply to the hospitality. Only long ago when, as a child he had traveled to Temple for high holy days with his family had Nicodemus felt such a rush of spiritual energy. Jesus’ eyes beamed in the candlelight and Nicodemus could tell that when Jesus looked at him he was looking deep within his soul.

Anxiously, Nicodemus tried to cue up the questions that he had prepared, but he blabbered out instead, “Teacher, uh… we know that you are a… uh teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these… eh, signs that you do apart from the presence of… um God.” Before he could continue, Jesus swiftly replied, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Confused and wearied by his many sleepless nights, Nicodemus’ legal and literal mind churned out a logical question, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”

Wiping some sleep from his eyes, Jesus attempted to broaden Nicodemus’ horizons, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

Perplexed even more now, Nicodemus’ head was swimming in a vast ocean of questions, helplessly grasping for something to keep him afloat, he wondered, “How can these things be?”

With a smirk, Jesus replied, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know, we testify to what we’ve seen; yet you Pharisees do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And 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.”

Nicodemus still reeling from how one can be born of the Spirit, could barely keep up with Jesus now. His mind was sprinting just to keep up with Jesus’ strolling pace. Nicodemus thought, “I am just here to understand the signs.” But amid this swirling sea of wonder, confusion, and mystery, Nicodemus realized that his heart felt alive and his spirit felt awake for the first time in years. Cutting through the questions, the literalism, and the legalism, Jesus spoke words that would be forever ringing in Nicodemus’ soul:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Jesus continued talking shifting his focus now more pointedly toward those whose hearts and minds and souls remained closed—closed to this radical truth that God’s Son had indeed come into the world. “This is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed.” Nicodemus wondered if Jesus was talking about his sneaking around to find Jesus that night. As Jesus caught his attention, starring Nicodemus right in the eye, the upstart teacher said, “But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.”

Upon hearing this challenge, Nicodemus finished the cup before him, his soul felt full for the first time in years. Thanking his hosts, he silently departed. As he left Jesus, the sun was rising.

Who’s Steering?

Some life lessons are more painful to learn, like not doing too many things at once on a bicycle.

© Seth Olson 2020

February 16, 2020—The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany

Deuteronomy 30:15-20
Psalm 119:1-8
1 Corinthians 3:1-9
Matthew 5:21-37

When I was a junior in college my dad offered to buy me a new car. It was generous of him, but I responded with a counter-proposal. Buy me a new bicycle instead. Sounds crazy, right? Who passes up a car for a bike? My reasoning was that my college’s campus was much easier to navigate on two wheels rather than on four. What I did not realize when getting this bicycle though was all the valuable life lessons I would soon learn riding it.

The first lesson? On a bicycle one can only do a certain amount of activities at one time. How did I learn this? One afternoon, as I was excitedly riding to track practice, I tried to take off my sweatshirt, take a sip from my water bottle, and hop a curb all at the same time. This proved to be a bit too much. When it came time to pop up on the curb instead I went flying over my handlebars. That moment is clearly etched in my memory—and the scars from that accident are clearly etched under my right eye. A friend was standing on the sidewalk nearby. I still recall his horrified face, snarling as I crashed onto the pavement face first. He ran inside to tell my track coach that I was probably unconscious or maybe dead. An Emergency Room visit and 25 stitches later I learned a valuable lesson: don’t do too much at one time, or as Jesus might say, “There is need of only one thing.”

Another piece of wisdom I learned on that bicycle happened just a few weeks later. I was hurrying to breakfast before class, when I tried to take a turn too aggressively. As usual it was foggy and misting in Sewanee where I went to school, and my tires slid sideways on some slick sandstone. Again, I found myself headed to the ER. This time it was my lower leg that required stitches with 4 deep incisions made from the teeth of the chainwheel cutting into me. By this point, my father began questioning whether he should have purchased this bicycle for me. 2 ER trips in one month, maybe a car would have been a cheaper gift? The second valuable lesson: One cannot steal time. Or as it says in Proverbs, “Ignorant zeal is worthless, haste makes waste.”

The third lesson I learned on that bicycle came years later. After graduating from Sewanee, I had the privilege of living and working there for three more years. During that time I rode my bike even more. My roommate worked in the local bike shop and some weeks we traveled more than 100 miles together. One day we were descending down Highway 41 from Sewanee towards a little town called Cowan. In the early morning we rode through a slight fog just as the sun was rising. There was just enough light to see a piece of debris in the road. As I zoomed closer and closer to the object I found that my path was completely locked onto the thing in the road. At the last second, I clumsily swerved out of the way, barely keeping my balance.

My friend noticed my awkward darting, dodging maneuver. When we finished the descent and were calmly pedaling down a valley road, he asked, “What happened?” I told him that I was so locked onto the object in the road that I barely missed it and almost crashed getting out of the way. He told me, “You can’t focus on where you don’t want to go. Your hands and your bike will follow your eyes. If you look at a pothole you will steer towards the pothole. If you steer towards the clear path, then that’s where you’ll go.” This was the third, and perhaps most enlightening lesson I learned on that bicycle. And, Jesus has a lot to say about this lesson too, especially in today’s Gospel text.

In this passage from the Gospel according to Matthew, we observe Jesus talking about several places where we are not to steer. What are the objects for us to dodge along the way? Not only murder, adultery, and swearing falsely, but also anger, name-calling, lusting, lying, and swearing by anything at all. Some of the language Jesus utilized makes it sound like he was trying to scare his audience into doing what is “right.” But, Jesus wasn’t saying we must miss all these obstacles or else we will be steering our lives into hell. Instead in this passage, Jesus revealed that our actions follow our intentions.

In other words, steer towards where you want to go—not where you don’t want to go. Jesus urged us to understand that our intentions inextricably link with our actions. Perhaps, in the bicycling analogy, it’s more apt to call murder, adultery, and lying the ravines off the side of the road rather than the tiny pebbles along the way, regardless our intentions are the eyes that direct us toward our destination—whether it be healthy, unhealthy, or somewhere in between.

This is why Christ Jesus said it’s not good enough not to murder, we are not to become angry with our neighbor. Because our anger towards another has the potential to dehumanize and destroy relationships. It’s not good enough not to commit adultery, we are not to lust after our neighbor. For our lust towards others objectifies them and distorts relationships. It’s not good enough to avoid swearing falsely, we are to let our yes be yes and our no be no. Because any exaggeration of the truth destroys trust and makes honest relationship impossible. And, I believe these intentions exist as the highest goals for us as individuals and as a community. We are to aim our lives toward them, as we follow Our Lord. But… 

What happens when we do become angry with our neighbor? Are we to ignore it bottling up the rage? What happens when we lust after someone, or someone’s car, house, job, or life? Are we to just ignore it hoping it magically goes away? What happens when we lie, swearing by something or someone? Is it good enough for us to just pretend like it never happened?

No! Of course not. But herein lies the challenge of this passage, Jesus provided for us targets impossibly difficult to hit—establishing that it is no longer good enough for us to keep ourselves from killing or committing adultery or swearing falsely by God’s name. Instead, the path has become much narrower. So what do we do?

I love the image of our aim affecting our steering. I love the comparison to the bicyclist’s hands guiding where she goes. I love the analogy of aiming toward the place where we want to go, not the place where we do not want to go. But, still there are moments when we will go the wrong way—intentionally or unintentionally, through thoughts, words, and deeds, things done and left undone. And, the question is what do we do then? It’s pretty easy actually. We turn around.

Jesus lets us know that we are called to immediately turn around to reconcile with our neighbors. To seek repentance even before bringing in someone else. We can wonder, what about when that doesn’t work? What if the crime is too grave? Or what if we are too scared?

Oftentimes we psych ourselves out. We start to believe sin is some particular action that is on a list somewhere that Jesus wrote down for us. “Don’t do these things” it says at the top of the page. However, sin is not a particular act, but whatever causes separation between God and ourselves, between our neighbors and us. We all sin. We all steer to the wrong spot. We all aim at the wrong thing. We all make mistakes. But more than some list of things that we aren’t to do, sins are the ways in which we distort our relationships with God, with Creation, and with one another. Whatever sins we commit cause separation. If that sin consumes us, it can distort who we are, and we can believe that we are separated from God. This sounds scary. It feels scary. Because it is scary. Yet, it is not the truth.

The truth is that even though our sins and wrong intentions create a sense of separation between us and God, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—that can cause God not to love us. When we recognize this reality—that God loves us unconditionally, eternally, limitlessly—then we can see with new eyes who’s steering us on our lifelong journey.

When we invite God to guide our lives, then we can begin to see where the distortion and separation exist within us, which sounds like a good Lenten practice if you are looking for one. God will remove those parts from us, like Jesus invited his audience to proverbially cut those parts off in today’s Gospel. There is no way to completely avoid potholes, debris, and even the ditch on this side of the road. They all come with the journey. And, yes we probably crash or go the wrong way. But, as we bring our wills in line with Christ’s own, we realize the journey is not about keeping from crashing, going the “right” way, or even getting to the destination. No, our journeys are about inviting Christ to be with us every mile we travel. Keep pedaling and let Jesus steer. Amen.

Follow Me

Do we associate "Follow Me" with Jesus or Social Media?

© Seth Olson 2020

January 26, 2020—The Third Sunday after the Epiphany

Isaiah 9:1-4
Psalm 27:1, 5-13

1 Corinthians 1:10-18
Matthew 4:12-23

“Follow me,” doesn’t mean what it once did. Our incessant connection to social media has changed what we mean by “following” someone. No longer do we most closely relate this phrase to what Jesus said in this Gospel text from long ago. Now following refers to keeping up with family, friends, and neighbors; movie stars, celebrities, and sports teams; politicians, organizations, and world leaders. Some other media platforms even use this term to refer to keeping up to date with TV series, blog posts, and podcasts. Nowadays, the way people move from being acquaintances to being friends has everything to do with who and what we follow. So, who do you follow?

No, I don’t need to know your favorite celebrity pet on Instagram or the obscure British TV series you cannot get enough of, or the crazy uncle you recently un-followed on Facebook. What I really want to know is despite social and other media’s commandeering of the term, who do you really follow? Not on Twitter, but IRL—In Real Life.

Several years back someone much wiser than me wrote something about following that bears repeating. Richard Rohr, who is a Franciscan friar, a priest, and a writer, challenged readers to realize that Jesus never said, “worship me.” Instead Jesus repeatedly invited others, saying, “Follow me.” Presiding Bishop Curry (not to be confused with Bishop-Elect Curry) called Episcopal Church leadership to realize that the real action doesn’t just happen in our liturgy. Rather our true service begins at the end of this service.[1] We are to follow Christ out into the world—to do the work God has given us to do, to go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

To be clear, I am not suggesting we do away with our Sunday service. I would be lost without our worship, without the Church’s hymns and our prayers, God’s Word and our beliefs, confession and pardon, peace and Communion. It doesn’t get any better than this! However, we would be wise to remember that the root of the word worship is connected to worth. Or to make it into a question, “to what do we give worth in this world?” In this inquiry we hear resonances of my previous one—Who do you follow? Who do you follow and to what do you give worth in this world?

We can all give the Sunday School answer, on the count of three. 1-2-3… JESUS! I would guess that like me, everyone here wants to follow Jesus. That’s presumably why you are here. We all yearn to live life in Christ. Each of us desires to be one of his disciples. But in our world full of distraction and noise and brokenness, it can be difficult to discern what Jesus’ voice sounds like. We may aim to follow Jesus. We may seek to give Him worth, but how do we walk in His ways?

Before charting our own course or reinventing the wheel, it’s useful to look at how others accomplished what we hope to do. The soon-to-be-disciples from today’s Gospel lesson clearly heard Jesus and they followed him. Seems like a good spot for us to start.

Jesus in flesh and blood, went to Capernaum, walked up to some boats, and invited two sets of brothers to abandon their lives as fishermen. Sounds like a tall order, but they dropped their nets immediately! Jesus did this by saying, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” This sounds so ridiculous that we may wonder if it truly happened. Would you leave everything if a stranger invited you to follow?

Jesus though offered up a vision that these brothers could easily understand. He didn’t say to these fishermen follow me and I will make you farm for people. Jesus knew to whom he was speaking and what these brothers spent their lives doing. You might be wondering, “What about with us?”

How will God call us? We say: “I want to follow God, but how will I hear God’s voice and how will I know to follow Jesus?” God calling you and me and us is not as preposterous as it sounds. Hearing God speak doesn’t only happen in extraordinary ways, like Moses hearing a voice in a burning bush or Martin Luther meeting God in a lightning storm. God speaks in our daily lives—right where we are—like with these fishermen. God may not appear to us as a 1st century Palestinian Jewish teacher—he may—but more than likely, Our Savior will come disguised as something or someone so obvious that we find God is hiding right in front of us—hiding right within us.

The writer Parker Palmer put it this way, “Vocation [or God’s call] does not come from a voice ‘out there’ calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice ‘in here’ calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God.”[2] God’s voice calls us to be who we truly are—to be the person God made us to be. Family, friends, and our church help us to clarify God’s call by listening with us and testing this truth within a beloved community. But, what does this look like in action? If only there were a recent event in our community, maybe like a bishop election, where we could see God’s call in action...

Wow, as usual God provides! For one of us this call has been a slow and steadily increasing persuasion. A persuasion to pastor our diocese, administer its staff, be a messenger of God’s Good News, to lead our church, and defend our faith… sounds easy enough, right Bishop-elect? One is not merely called to be a bishop, there’s too much there. One must be persuaded to heed God’s call.

At the risk of speaking for everyone here, we all share in the joy of this call for it is indeed our collective call for Glenda to serve as our bishop in this part of the Jesus Movement. You may be here this morning seeking to Follow Jesus because you heard Glenda say, “I hope to see you at Church.” This is one way that God’s call rings out in this time and place, but vocation is not something reserved for people who wear purple shirts.

On Thursday evening we celebrated the life of Doug Barnes. A member of the Homewood community whom I did not get to know well—except by the imprint he left behind here. Charles Youngson described Doug as a non-anxious presence, as one who was completely here, like there was no other place to be. Doug heard God’s call as an invitation to be. Moses knew God as “I am” and Doug made the “Great I Am” known by being fully present with us.

There are other ways in which you might hear God beckoning you to follow. You may hear Jesus asking you to be a voice for the voiceless, to serve the least of these, or to visit those in prison. You may be called to attend Cursillo or Kairos, to help lead our children or youth, or to join the many outreach and in-reach ministries here. Your call may mean a new career, a new ministry, or maybe simply a new way of looking at what is already here. Regardless of what it sounds like, each of us is called by God.

I would like to end by sharing the story of when I heard Jesus say, “Follow me.” And, I invite you to share with each other and with me how you have been and still are being called ... because in our personal callings we hear more clearly how God is calling us collectively to follow Jesus.

As a child and adolescent, people told me I would make a good priest. I didn’t buy it! The old matriarch of my childhood church said it, my family said it, and complete strangers even said it. I had some inkling of this calling because I was the kid who followed around his priest for career day. But, I tried to fight it! I even flat out told Bishop Marc Andrus, “No!” when he tried to get me in the discernment process during college. Like Parker Palmer’s quote, I had to realize the call within me not just out there, but in here!

The summer after I graduated college at Sewanee I was hired there to be the Lay Chaplain. For three years I had the gift of trying on church ministry—I could see if the call was in me. To mark that time as holy I decided to renew my baptismal vows. I had been baptized as an infant, which I don’t remember, and confirmed in the awkward years of middle school, which I try to forget, so this was the moment when I would truly take hold of my own mature relationship with God.

After months of preparation, the big day finally arrived. At the Great Vigil of Easter we entered a completely dark chapel that eventually beamed with the brightness of the Light of Christ. The baptisms, confirmations, receptions, and reaffirmations of baptismal vows were beautiful and transformative. I was floating on a liturgical high known only to a certain few, known as church nerds. The service then turned towards communion.

That night I had the pleasure of serving chalice. Standing on the nave altar platform I received the bread and wine, the body and blood. Then, I approached the altar to pick up the Schwartz Chalice, a giant fishbowl-sized silver cup. At the same time the congregation came up to gather around the large altar platform. I took the chalice to commune the first person. Who was kneeling there? My very first priest, Fr. Francis X. Walter and his wife Faye.

In that moment I was happy to see them. But, as I lifted the giant silver chalice back I caught a glimpse of some heavenly vision. There, in the reflection of that cup, I saw the Great Cloud of Witnesses. It still sounds crazy, but in that moment I saw not only those kneeling or standing there at the altar, but also too many to number, to name, or to know.

I nearly fell down. And, for a long time I did not want to talk about that night because it just didn’t make any sense. But, what I kept coming back to was that all of us make up the Body of Christ—we are all united by Christ’s blood under his covenant of love. That night, when Jesus said, “Follow me” the path led to gathering God’s people around God’s Table.

What is your call? What is our call? Jesus says, “Follow me.”—not only to this table, but beyond. May we take this table and its gifts out into the world—following Jesus and fishing for people. Amen.

---

[1] Matthew Oliver, “Worship or Works? Engaging Michael Curry and Richard Rohr” The Living Church. https://livingchurch.org/covenant/2016/12/14/worship-or-works-engaging-michael-curry-and-richard-rohr/ [Written: December 14, 2016, Accessed January 23, 2020].

[2] Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak. (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2000), 10.

New Year, New You?

Aslan the Lion un-dragons Eustace Scrubb

A version of this post appeared in the All Saints Parishioner the week of January 12th

Happy New Year! And, Happy New Decade! In the world around us, this means not only celebrations, but also invitations. These invites coming from gyms, financial planners, diet programs, home improvement stores, and many others essentially say: “It’s a new year and a new decade, so it’s time for a new you!” Not to burst your bubble, but I have bad news (I also have good news, so hang with me).

Every year, when marketing experts roll out ads for a new you in the new year, they are relying on a big, little lie we tell ourselves: "I can make myself new." On the surface, this statement sounds appealing. Having a new start is awesome, and we are all about new starts in the Jesus Movement. But, the trouble comes from believing we are the source of accomplishing this newness. Here's the bad news: we aren’t the ones who make life new. There is good news though...

In the crazy, mystical vision that John the Gospel Writer had on the island of Patmos, God spoke about newness. The Almighty One said, “See, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). This is the good news! For God not only makes us in our individual lives new, but God also makes everything, everywhere new. So, you may be wondering, “We don’t have any part in this?” Well, we do and we don’t. Let me retell a story to help explain.

In C. S. Lewis’ fictional tale, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, a character named Eustace became a dragon by watching another dragon die and sleeping “on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart." We might think that being a dragon would be awesome, but several days later, Eustace was miserable. He wanted nothing more than to be made a boy again.

Late one night, a lion met Eustace the dragon, and told him to follow him up a high mountain where there was a giant well. Eustace yearned to plunge into the bubbling waters; however, he couldn't as a dragon. The lion told him he must undress first. What did this mean? Eustace had to shed his skin, like a snake. So Eustace tried as best he could to un-dragon himself by peeling away his scales. After three attempts, he saw in the water’s reflection that he was very much still a dragon.

It was then that the lion told Eustace that he could not shed his skin on his own—the lion had to help. So, Eustace lay on his back, and when the lion’s claws cut through his dragon scales, Eustace thought the lion had gone right to his heart. While it was the most painful thing Eustace had ever experienced, having the scales and skin fall away was the greatest pleasure too. All of a sudden, Eustace was a boy again. Then, the lion grabbed hold of Eustace and threw him into the restoring waters. There he was made new.

This lion’s name, as you may already know, is Aslan, and in this series, he represents Christ. Sadly enough, we are represented by characters like Eustace (perhaps that’s the real, bad news). Try as we might, we can shed layers of our skin, but we cannot un-dragon ourselves. That work of being made new must be done by God. How does this happen?

While none of us will turn into an actual dragon, all of us may become quite beastly and yearn for nothing more than to be made new by becoming our truest selves. Fortunately, we have a loving lion who comes to us. A lion who will tear right to our hearts to transform us into who we truly are.

We find that lion all over the place at All Saints. We see Him in the pews on Sundays and Wednesday mornings. There, we have opportunities to be made new by meeting Christ in the Word and in the prayers, in the songs and in the silence, in the confession and in the absolution, in the peace and in the offertory, in the bread and in the wine. Throughout All Saints, you will find other ways to be made new with, between, and through one another. Whether it is during a Taize service, an Oasis program, or a Sunday School class; going to Cursillo, volunteering to serve, or joining the Church through Episcopal 101, there are many ways that our lion-hearted God is inviting us to the well. 

How will Christ un-dragon you revealing your new, true self this year?