Sermon March 29, 2020 - Fifth Sunday in Lent

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord…I wait for you, my soul waits; in your word is my hope.

I wait for you O Lord, in your word is my hope. This short phrase from Psalm 130 has been a sort of mantra for me this week, words that I’ve been reciting over and over again. In your word is my hope. 

The images in today’s readings feel like they were somehow written and created exactly for the context in which we find ourselves living today. A valley of dry bones. A cold, hard tomb filled with death. Anxious onlookers. Binding clothes. Not purely coincidence, right?

There’s no doubt we have entered a dark valley. Turning on the TV or opening up our favorite news app, we are greeted with grim data, statistics that proclaim the tallies of victims, deaths, mortality rates. The life is starting to drain from our bones, they’re beginning to rattle as we learn new catchphrases like “flattening the curve” and “social distancing.” Varying degrees of lockdown, isolation and quarantine can make us start to feel trapped, claustrophobic, stir-crazy, like we’ve been thrown in a tomb, its entrance sealed. If we’re not careful, we become bound, wrapped tightly by the anxiety, fear and uncertainty around us.

We stand trembling in the valley, wondering if these bones can live, wondering if the devastating despair will ever end, wondering if things will ever be normal again.

Out of these depths, we cry to God, our bodies and souls wait for some relief, for some life, for some joy, for some hope. 

God hears us and God doesn’t disappoint. I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will cause breath to enter you and you shall live.

God hears us, even when we think our cries our falling on deaf ears. In the story from the gospel of John, Lazarus’ two sisters, Martha and Mary, beg Jesus to come and save their sick brother. They, like many others, had seen the signs, the miraculous acts that Jesus had done. Surely, he had the power to save Lazarus, too. Yet, after hearing their plea, Jesus lingers, he dawdles. And in the meantime, Mary and Martha’s brother dies, their cry seemingly unanswered—or worse—ignored.

Days later, a span of time in which Lazarus’ body had started to decay, Jesus shows up in the depths of their pain and sadness. He calls the dead man from his tomb, unbinds him, and Lazarus—living—is released from death.

I am the resurrection and the life, Jesus says. In your word, O Lord, is my hope.

Like the six signs that precede this one in the gospel of John, the raising of Lazarus isn’t just about a dead man emerging from his grave. These miraculous signs show us who Jesus really is and point us toward Jerusalem, the place where a death and subsequent resurrection will save the world. These miraculous signs point us toward the promise that sin, death, suffering, and disease do not win out in the end. Instead, dry bones are given new breath and flesh, new life; stones are rolled away, the dead are unbound, and the one God sent into the world brings us resurrection life that never ends.

In baptism, we die with Christ so that we might also be raised with Christ to new life. He who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies. To those of us living in the shadows of illness, unemployment, isolation, anxiety and death, the stories today proclaim God’s promise of hope, made real for us in the resurrection. 

In your word, O Lord, is my hope. Filled with hope, filled with resurrection life, we are unbound, we are let go, we are set free to show the world the very places that hope and life keep showing up.

Sermon March 22, 2020 - Fourth Sunday in Lent

As I read through the lessons for today, and especially the story from the gospel of John about the man born blind, I kept coming back to that phrase, “the Lord does not see as mortals see.” Or, maybe in today’s language, “God does not see as people do.” This is obvious when little, scrawny David is chosen over all of his big, strapping brothers to be king. 

And in a story with layers and layers for us to peel back, we discover that Jesus doesn’t see as people do either. And, in fact, he shows us the places where we can’t see at all, places where sin and brokenness have given us huge blind spots. In an ironic turn of events, it’s the man born blind who has the 20/20 vision and it’s the religious authorities and Jesus’ own disciples who can’t see past their own noses.

Jesus doesn’t see as people do. When the disciples first see the man born blind sitting off to the side and begging, they assume that someone, either the man or his parents, must’ve done something wrong. It was not uncommon for people to equate tragedy or suffering or disease with sin. But Jesus rejects this common notion, he rejects their equation of blindness with sin. And in his interaction with the man, he doesn’t patronize him or pity him either. Instead, as the scene plays out, Jesus insists that this man has a holy purpose, a purpose that goes way beyond physical healing. 

The man born blind is the one in the story who reveals the truth, it is the one who was born blind who shows the greatest vision. He is the one who clearly sees Jesus’ sign for what it means and he is the one who sees who Jesus for who he really is—and this sight has nothing to do with the human eye. 

God doesn’t see as people do. They look on the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart. What good news for those of us who live with disabilities, those of us who struggle in countless ways with how the “outward appearance” of our bodies, our relationships, our lives are viewed and judged by others.1

And the good news doesn’t stop there. The first line from the Ephesians reading is fitting for the realities of this day. “Once you were in darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Many of us are experiencing the affects of the coronavirus outbreak as a swirling darkness that is descending on our communities, our country and our world. We have been forced to face a very real threat and danger, a product of a broken and sin-filled world. But the author of Ephesians reminds us of our baptismal promises: that we have received Christ’s light, Christ’s light shines upon us, even in the darkest valley of the shadow of death. The passage from Ephesians ends with the stanza of an ancient hymn, “sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead.” We know and trust, even as we walk this surreal, confusing, and frightening journey, that in the light-filled presence of God, sin and death do not hold the day. A man born blind is the one who proclaims clearly that Christ is Lord. A child whom nobody really thought anything of is anointed king. As beloved children of God, as sheep in God’s flock, we need not be afraid or in want. 

I had a professor once who would always end her lectures with the line, “clear as mud?” I think it’s interesting that in today’s story, it’s a smear of mud that begins the transformation from blindness to sight. And I say “begin” because it’s a process for the man born blind, we see him come to faith in stages. “He must be a prophet,” he says at first. Then later, “if this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” And finally, “Lord, I believe.” 

The pool that Jesus orders the man born blind to wash in is Siloam, the Hebrew word for Sent. You and I, we who were once blind but now see, are sent and invited to show the world what God’s vision looks like, we are sent and invited to reflect the light of Christ, especially in these dark times, to help reveal the places and moments filled with God’s grace, mercy, justice and truth. God transforms us, too, sent to live a new life.

1 Meghan Johnston Aelabouni in Sundays and Seasons: Preaching, Augsburg Fortress, copyright 2019.