John 20.19-23, April 28, 2019, Pastor Katy's Last Sermon

FIRST SCRIPTURE READING John 20.19 - 23

Our first scripture reading is the continuation of last week’s Easter Readings. After Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene at the tomb, he told her to go and tell the disciples. She did, proclaiming to them, “I have seen the Lord.” This scripture is the evening, of that first Easter day, but our sermon to follow will move back and forth between Christmas Eve in this sanctuary, and this Easter Evening Scripture.

19 It was still the first day of the week. That evening,

while the disciples were behind closed doors because they were afraid of the Jewish authorities, Jesus came and stood among them.

He said, “Peace be with you.”

20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side.

When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy.

21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.”

22 Then he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.

SERMON

I love Christmas Eve. I love coming to the sanctuary at night. I love the darkness, and the green boughs, and the words of the antique hymns and ancient scriptures. I love that when stripped down, those scriptures tell the normal lives of each of us. Through the drama of angels, we recognize, the emotions of new parents, the promise of a baby, and their lineage passed down to us this night. Each year, evokes a different message, told with the familiarity of a bedtime story In those days a decree went out, and a lullaby, Silent Night, Holy Night.

I love that over the years, my family in attendance has changed. At first, it was my parents' and sister’s long flights from Texas to Idaho, and the harried winter drive into Eastern Oregon. Then, my family was the surprise of the ways those friends who knew me best, showed up, in a glance during a carol, in a snowball at my study window, and in my neighbor sitting in the back-pew - her son, having shoveled my winter’s walk. Family became the invitations of congregants, their kids greeting me on Christmas morning, “Merry Christmas, Katy.” Family became a lace and light blue stocking made just for me hanging on the mantle. Family became Music Room mornings blending voices with the quartet singing, “In the Bleak,” or, “Lo.” Family became those yearly faces that I could just discern in the dim nightfallen stained glass sanctuary; the community reunion which happened between the pulpit, and the pews, and the people. You became my family.

And so, approaching this Christmas felt a little different, knowing it would be my last. I asked my former co-worker, turned forever friend, Luke, to be my liturgist. I worked on my sermon for days, and for once it didn’t even bother me that the timing, as always, coincided with Anthony Lakes’ opening. On a Friday evening, with everything Christmas and social happening on Main Street, Kyra and I, instead, came to the church. With water glasses from the Fellowship Hall kitchen, cheese still in its plastic wrappers, and a bottle of wine without an opener in the church, we holed up in the empty Sunday School Room, and scripted out the sanctuary’s Christmas banner’s lettering of, O’ Little Town of Bethlehem. That Advent was about preparing, us preparing for the Lord, but there was also, for me, a tinge of preparing to say a good - goodbye.

The disciples, that Easter evening, may have found themselves similarly. They had been a family for each other for a long time. They had left the family they knew, dropped their nets, and said goodbye to their fathers. In the meantime, their names and titles changed, as have ours, and they learned to be fishers of people and healers, as have we. For moments, the disciples even walked on water, and often they fed the hungry, sometimes with only five loaves and two fish, sometimes in double bagged, “backpacks.” In the end, it came down to the sharing of a meal, and a garden, and trying to stay awake to pray. And because they couldn’t, because no one can, stay awake forever, the disciples found themselves latched behind closed doors, grieving their loved one, grieving his lack of a good - goodbye.

Therefore, I imagine Jesus coming and standing among them, like how the tone chimes ring us in on Christmas Eve, ever so subtly they move us from the hurried outside world to the peaceful sanctuary within. Jesus moving the disciples from their busied thoughts of what was going to come through the doors, to what was within the room. Jesus came and stood among them, the scripture reads. Then he said, “Peace be with you.”  There is a moment, each Christmas Eve, just minutes before the clock strikes six, when I’ve donned my stole, run through my checklist, and prayed. Then with bated breath, I walk downstairs and open the sanctuary door. I see pews, upon pews, of my family. You my family. I see the Lord in that sanctuary room. Former youth and their families take up whole pews, my running buddies and their children snuggle in the corners, the steady of my congregation slightly shift their routine spots, and the players, the musicians, the readers, the acolytes, the Worship Committee, and the children all begin to settle in by the presence of a black robe. For me, this year, it had begun at that point, his birth, and that good-goodbye.

If we disciples hadn’t seen Jesus appear in the locked room by our first Christmas Eve hymn of O’Come All Ye’ Faithful, or the poetry of the Advent Candle Readings, some kid during the Children’s Sermon was at least going to point out something as literal as the marks in Jesus’ hand or his sides, or the need for the manger to be not a display piece, but physically below Mary and Joseph in the children’s play. Likewise, there was a moment preaching, when the sanctuary was perfectly still, and I could see every eye. You were with me, we were a family of disciples. Together, we hung on each word, waiting, for him to be born, and once he was, I knew he had given us a good-goodbye. That Easter Evening, the scripture reads likewise, “When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.”” It was Jesus giving a good goodbye.

After I finish preaching on Christmas Eve, is the moment Christmas comes to me. After giving all I have, I finally allow myself to receive. I joined you, the other disciples, in listening to the soloist, hearing the promise of Peace on Earth and then, I get to unwrap the first gift. From the Christ Candle of the Advent Wreath, I got to light the first, small, candlestick. Then, I turned to my best friend Luke, and lit his next, and then we each took a side of the aisle.

On that Easter Evening, the scripture reads that, “Jesus breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”” Jesus must have been so close, for breath to pass, for the Spirit to hover and be revived in that space between their faces. With the song Silent Night almost a whisper on my breath, I knelt down to the first pew. In so doing, the dim light turned to glowing on the countenance of my family, You my family, and the Spirit hovered and was received.

I had had only once such a moment before in my life, my birth-great-grandmother was in her nineties by the time I first met her, which my birth-family decided was too old to explain that I was actually her eldest grandchild, who had been placed for adoption. Granny lived for a decade more after that first meeting, and so each time I saw her, I would kneel before her wheelchair, face to face, and speaking intentionally close so she could hear. I am sure my breath passed between us, and upon my breath, the Spirit breathed, I felt the love of family, family, even though she didn’t know I was.

There were the Christmas faces of my friends in the community, who came on big Sundays to sit in for my own family; and in their loving faces, the Spirit passed between our candlelight. On the next pew was a couple I married whose hopes and dreams I carried, and the Spirit hovered on those dreams between our candlelight. There were the church kids who came to edge of the pew to get the first light and holding their hands I tilted their candle to the flame and saw their face light up with the Spirit. There was the woman, who years before, had come looking for a friend on Christmas Eve and between our candlelight, and the light she passed, friendship was now on either side. There was the husband alone in the pew, and with one hand on his flannelled shoulder I steadied the flame as the Spirit passed between our candles. There was the family who had invited me after and I had not yet seen, and whom I worried my sermon might not fall well with, and instead, they all leaned in with giant smiles whispering, “Hi Katy,” their greeting breath of the Spirit opening the space between us. There were the former youth group kids returned, sitting as they used to with their families, and the light was the same Spirit that accompanied their growing up. There was the row of a family’s first Christmas after loss and the Spirit’s flame was resilient and steady in the bolster of family softly singing at their side. There was the couple who smiled at me, and in the candlelight lifted the celebration amidst all the stories we’d shared. At the end, near last pew, was someone new. I recognized their face from the community, and gave an excited whispered, “hi!” They smiled surprised and then tiled their candle. Between us the Spirit spoke the promise that the flame would continue for generations after I have packed my robe.

With the sanctuary lit, I walked back and rocked on my feet singing Silent Night, Luke next to me, his mom at the piano, Nancy Ames on guitar. I looked out over my family, all of us, come together in that room; having waited for Jesus, and found him. Having heard his message of hope for peace, and having said a good goodbye. And that Christmas Eve in this sanctuary, as on the evening of Easter with the disciples, the light of the Spirit bounced from face to face, and I loved you as my family, and I received the same. I love you, family of God. And the Spirit bounces here, among us now, and forever always, Amen.

John 20. 1-18, April 28, 2019, Easter Sermon

John 20.1-18 Common English Bible (CEB)

20 Early in the morning of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. 2 She ran to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said, “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve put him.” 3 Peter and the other disciple left to go to the tomb. 4 They were running together, but the other disciple ran faster than Peter and was the first to arrive at the tomb. 5 Bending down to take a look, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he didn’t go in. 6 Following him, Simon Peter entered the tomb and saw the linen cloths lying there. 7 He also saw the face cloth that had been on Jesus’ head. It wasn’t with the other clothes but was folded up in its own place. 8 Then the other disciple, the one who arrived at the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. 9 They didn’t yet understand the scripture that Jesus must rise from the dead. 10 Then the disciples returned to the place where they were staying.

11 Mary stood outside near the tomb, crying. As she cried, she bent down to look into the tomb. 12 She saw two angels dressed in white, seated where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the foot. 13 The angels asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

She replied, “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.”

14 As soon as she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t know it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Thinking he was the gardener, she replied, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him and I will get him.” 16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic, “Rabbouni” (which means Teacher).

17 Jesus said to her, “Don’t hold on to me, for I haven’t yet gone up to my Father. Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them, ‘I’m going up to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

18 Mary Magdalene left and announced to the disciples, “I’ve seen the Lord.” Then she told them what he said to her.

SERMON 

“Early in the morning, of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” I imagine that morning, while it was still dark, like Thomas Lynch, a funeral-director and poet, described his hopes for his own eventual graveside service. He wrote,

“I'd rather it be February. Not that it will matter much to me. Not that I'm a stickler for details. But since you're asking -- February. The month I first became a father, the month my father died. Yes. Better even than November….I want it cold. I want the gray to inhabit the air like wood does trees: as an essence not a coincidence. And the hope for springtime, gardens, romance, dulled to a stump by the winter in Michigan. Yes, February. With the cold behind and the cold before you and the darkness stubborn at the edges of the day. And a wind to make the cold more bitter. So that ever after it might be said, “It was a sad old day we did it after all^[1].”

So that ever after it might be said, “Early in the morning, of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary came to the tomb.”

She came dressed for the memorial in mismatched shades of black, her countenance dutiful in sorrow. She came to make sure everything was just so, the scripture to be read, the flowers to be placed on the coffin as it descended into the ground, and once the earth was replaced and the burying done - the wreath to encircle Jesus' name forever carved in granite. She came to make sure everything was just so, and instead, it wasn’t. The dead wasn’t as it should be. Instead, she found the stone had been taken away from the tomb, the gravestone’s inscription - wiped blank, the memorial palm-fronds blooming floral, his catacomb - empty. His linens lay folded, his burial suit, placed back on its hanger. While the daylight began to creep in.

She stood, outside near the tomb crying. As she cried, she bent down to look into the tomb. She looked to the place where the death-eaters of clergy and funeral director, would fulfill their positions. Black-robe and black-suit bookending the coffin-bed, like head and footboards of an ever lasting sleep. Clergy at the head, to lift up the mystery of dreams, director at the foot to orchestrate the reality of eternal rest. What Mary saw instead were, “two angels dressed in white, seated where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the foot.”

The angels asked her, “Why are you crying?” As if grief was not what funerals were for. As if providing a platitude for her pain. As if they were not sitting at the place where Jesus had been laid to rest. Mary replied, “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.”

As soon as she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t know it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Mary was looking for the dead among the living. Therefore, she thought Jesus was the gardener, with the callousness of death become routine, and this day the same as any other. She replied, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him and I will get him.” Jesus’ lifeless body, her own cross to bear, but, Jesus said to her,

“Mary.”

And for the first time, she realized the life, which was before her. The life which called out her name, and in so doing, taught her to look for that which was living among the dead. Taught her that she need not come to anoint his body, but to celebrate his life. Taught that the promise of Jesus, the promise of Easter, was not hidden early in the morning while it was still dark but instead was visible in the light at the break of day. Easter was not in the tomb, but in the garden, just as it was in the beginning, and through to his final hours, Alpha and Omega. Easter was in his life, and hers. Easter was every Spring in the Garden, Easter was each first day of the week, Easter was each and every day. Easter was and is always. Jesus was and is also always, even though she could not hold on to his physical being.

Jesus said to her, “Don’t hold on to me, for I haven’t yet gone up to my Father. Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them, ‘I’m going up to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Jesus was teaching Mary that you cannot hold on to the dead, at least as dead. That to hold on to them, is to find them in life. To find how the dead carry on in the living.

You look for Jesus, you look for the dead, in the faces of your children. You look for the dead in their old jokes given new laughter. You look for the dead in the next curmudgeon you meet where you can immediately see the softy underneath, because your beloved was likewise. You look for the dead in the warmth of their patchwork quilt. You look for the dead in their favorite hymn sung on a random Sunday in late April. You look for the dead in the shell the night waves washed ashore. You look for the dead when you ski a fresh line, or identify a new bird, these pastimes they taught you. You look for the dead in the scarf of a childhood dress your mother sewed. You look for the dead in a legacy of family friendships passed down. You look for the dead in your living out their occupation and calling. You look for the dead when your daughter bakes her mother’s cookies, (and your son patrols her streets). You look for the dead when your feet carry you dancing the Charleston, and when you end up calling a little kid, “Pal,” or, “Buddy,” which had been your own nicknames. You look for the dead when you find yourself sharing a heartfelt, ‘thank you,’ just as they had modeled. You look for the dead with each Spring’s first Lady Slipper wildflower.  You look for the dead when your grandchild puts on his dad’s cowboy hat, or responds to her grandmother’s name. You look for the dead when you also remember to pray for the living. You look for the dead in the calming of a storm and the promise of a rainbow. You look for the dead in the way you know to cast your net on the other side. You look for the dead in the celebration of a meal. You look for the dead when the waters wash you anew. You look for the dead, you look for Jesus, among the living, amidst the light.

Thomas Lynch the undertaker poet describes similarly how when he someday dies, he hopes people see his life. Not only his life past, but his life present. At the end of his poem about his own funeral, he writes,

“It's yours to do -- my funeral -- not mine. The death is yours to live with once I'm dead…All I really wanted was a witness. To say I was. To say, daft as it still sounds, maybe I am.”

“Maybe I am.” Maybe Lynch is, in that moment. Maybe on a cold February, or during April in a garden, his mourners will read that very poem, and follow his directions, and in so doing, he will be alive. Surely they will see the dead amongst the living. Lynch, and clergy, who deal so closely with death, know the space to which Mary came. We know the dark hours between Good Friday and the light of Easter. We also know, when we come to the tomb, to look for the Gardener. Like Lynch, all the gardener really wanted was a witness. To say he was. To say, daft as it still sounds, maybe I am. Jesus is the I AM, and Mary is this witness. She sees the gardener and hears that Jesus is.

Then as if answering Jesus’ question, “Who are you looking for?” Mary Magdalene walks back while the sun rises, and then announces to the disciples, “I’ve seen the Lord.” Her words - are present tense.

Jesus’ life remains present tense. I have seen the Lord. We have seen the Lord. We see him each time, we look for the dead amongst the living. This is the promise of Easter. That, the dead, are alive amongst the living, and alive forevermore. Alleluia, Amen.

---

^[1] https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/undertaking/undertakers/tract.html

Matthew 21. 1-17, April 14, 2019, Palm Sunday Sermon

Matthew 21.1-17 Common English Bible (CEB) Entry into Jerusalem

21 When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus gave two disciples a task. 2 He said to them, “Go into the village over there. As soon as you enter, you will find a donkey tied up and a colt with it. Untie them and bring them to me. 3  If anybody says anything to you, say that the Lord needs it.” He sent them off right away. 

4 Now this happened to fulfill what the prophet said, 5 Say to Daughter Zion, “Look, your king is coming to you, humble and riding on a donkey, and on a colt the donkey’s offspring.” 6 The disciples went and did just as Jesus had ordered them. 7 They brought the donkey and the colt and laid their clothes on them. Then he sat on them.

8 Now a large crowd spread their clothes on the road. Others cut palm branches off the trees and spread them on the road. 9 The crowds in front of him and behind him shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessings on the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” 10 And when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up. “Who is this?” they asked. 11 The crowds answered, “It’s the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”

SERMON 

21 When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus gave two disciples a task. 2 He said to them, “Go into the village over there. As soon as you enter, you will find a donkey tied up and a colt with it. Untie them and bring them to me. 3  If anybody says anything to you, say that the Lord needs it.” He sent them off right away. 

We were the disciples sent away in preparation. 

When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives…

For a year, I read and prayed through every profile on the Church Leadership Connection, which matches pastors and churches. Some were of interest, and had inspiring mission programs, or thoughtful statements about what they believed. Others seemed to lack life and held out for a pastor, often a young one, to come and bring it back. First Presbyterian Church, Baker City described itself as a mix of ranchers and farmers, teachers and lawyers, with a vibrant youth ministry, budding mission programs, and an open and diverse theology. It spoke of the outdoors, and the mountains, and a congregation who identified itself with the land. It talked about being a church family. 

I described myself, the various places I’d called home, and my connection to nature. I told of my hopes of being with people, and hearing their stories, and worshiping together, and what I believed, which was likewise, pretty open, and as I do I wrote with my heart, and the mind of a writer, such that though the committee was looking for an older man, Bob Moon, apparently pulled my profile out and said, “Look at this.”

I remember Candy having warned me that the drive up from Boise would scare me, and I would think, there is no way I am coming here, in the middle of rolling sagebrush hills of nothing, and then, she described, toward the very end, we would crest a hill and see the Elkhorn range rising up in glory. 

We had a great visit. I loved this church and it’s people, and driving back to the airport I knew there was a sense of call. The Pastor Nominating Committee PNC, felt the same, because though they had told me they were going to interview another candidate, they called me on the drive back and extended the call, later canceling the other candidate’s visit.  It was like the church and I had come up and found the donkey and the colt, just as the Lord had said we would. It fulfilled a prophecy, that calling I had felt nudged toward since my childhood, but only later understood. That discernment and connection the PNC felt, and the calling that ensued. 

Likewise, I don’t think I have ever been so welcomed to a place. The church was packed, the potluck immense, the gifts humbling. My presiding over and serving my first communion, overwhelming in it’s depths and humbling in its sacristy, and one of those moments where I just shared what I felt and the gratitude of serving you, and you smiled I remember. Do you remember Maddy and Alex’s communion, where tears ran down my cheeks, and yours, the entire time? Do you remember how so many you showed me hikes, or baby livestock, or the Snake River on a boat, or opened your home for dinner, or brought me the first harvest of morels, or taught me to drive on snow? I likewise, tried to return your welcome and share my care. You prepared me for funerals really quickly, as I had something like four in my first three weeks and I made sure to hear all the stories so I could lift those people up in commendation. I slept on church floors and talked in my sleep on youth trips, and I agonized over every Christmas and Easter sermon for weeks prior. I studied the scriptures and heard their application to your life in eight years of Lectionary Bible Study. I likewise learned your stories and I don’t think there is one person I have not visited or with whom I have not shared some special time. 

In all those moments where you welcomed me, and I welcomed you, and we loved the people of God, we welcomed the Lord, and waved palms for him together. We were the crowd, you know, spreading our clothes on the road. Cutting off branches from the trees. Shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessings on the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” We did a lot of ministry together. We did SO much ministry together. And when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up. “Who is this?” they asked. With your ministry First Presbyterian Church stopped being known as the rich church, and became known as the church that did hands on Mission work in the community.  Our youth ministry was vibrant, and Vacation Bible School was like Disneyland for elementary kids. Our worship, was solid, and often creative, and we crowds of the church answered, “It’s the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” We pointed to Jesus and heralded his name.

And that was Palm Sunday, and it’s where our scripture ends today, in this triumphant celebration of welcome, in this recognition of the prophet, when we came in the name of the Lord, but we know the rest of the story. Don't we? Today begins Holy Week, in this season of Lent. We will go through the Last Supper this week, where we will sit as disciples, while Jesus foreshadows his body torn, his blood shed. We will go though Maundy Thursday and condemn the waste of perfume, and Jesus will have to remind us that is not a sin to anoint him, that we will not always have him with us. On that same day, he will bend down to wash our dirtied feet, and none of us, none of us will be clean, whether we ignored the mud that mires this journey or walked directly though it. We the disciples will have betrayed him with a kiss, or slept through his capture when he asked us to pray with him. Then there will be Good Friday where we, the same crowd, have turned from honoring Jesus’ king-like entry in Jerusalem, with all our hopes for his ministry and his saving, to shaming his exit with a crown of thorns. Then Saturday will come and we will sit vigil. We the disciples will wait in darkness, wondering where Jesus has gone. Yes, Easter will come, with all its new life, and promise. There will be another pastor, I will have another life after this. But for me, today, and maybe for you, I am sad that I am part of the crowd that went from saying,

“Hosanna,” to, “Crucify him.”

Matthew 25:1-13, April 7, 2019, Sermon

SCRIPTURE 

Matthew 25:1-13 Common English Bible (CEB)
25 “At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten young bridesmaids who took their lamps and went out to meet the groom. 2 Now five of them were wise, and the other five were foolish. 3 The foolish ones took their lamps but didn’t bring oil for them. 4 But the wise ones took their lamps and also brought containers of oil.
5 “When the groom was late in coming, they all became drowsy and went to sleep. 6 But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Look, the groom! Come out to meet him.’
7 “Then all those bridesmaids got up and prepared their lamps. 8 But the foolish bridesmaids said to the wise ones, ‘Give us some of your oil, because our lamps have gone out.’
9 “But the wise bridesmaids replied, ‘No, because if we share with you, there won’t be enough for our lamps and yours. We have a better idea. You go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.’ 10 But while they were gone to buy oil, the groom came. Those who were ready went with him into the wedding. Then the door was shut.
11 “Later the other bridesmaids came and said, ‘Lord, lord, open the door for us.’
12 “But he replied, ‘I tell you the truth, I don’t know you.’
13 “Therefore, keep alert, because you don’t know the day or the hour.


SERMON 
At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like caregivers who took their lamps and went out to meet their loved one. Now five of them were wise, and the other five were foolish. The foolish ones took their lamps, clay lamps that had traveled distances, between the caregiver’s home and their loved one’s home, to the loved one’s doctor’s office, to the pharmacy, or the grocery store, or to the clothing store to find a different type of shirt that the caregiver could slip on over the loved one’s changing body.

Clay lamps formed with so much time, of keeping company, of researching alternatives, of waiting without answers, of wondering why, and when the time will come, and grieving the reality that it is coming.

Clay lamps shaped with so much worry, worries of falling, of driving, of choking, of leaving, of what they are eating, or not eating, or remembering and not, worries of pain, and balance, and flexibility, and capability.

Clay lamps of energy, of lifting, of giving an arm, of remembering to walk slowly, of bending to tie a clumsy oversized shoe, of finding and delivering lost glasses, and of reading to when those glasses fail, of tilting cups with straws to sip, and wiping up the dribbled remnants, and the physically and emotionally hard strain of wiping, and speaking in almost a yell.

The foolish ones took their lamps, but didn’t bring oil for them.

But the wise ones took their lamps, filled with all the same things but also brought containers of oil.

Containers filled with their own needs, of regular and routine exercise, of time with friends, of people to talk to both within and outside the system, of caregiver support groups, and the awareness of church members.

Containers of saying yes, and asking for specifics, “Can you find a shirt that will slip over their body, can you sit and read once a week, can you make a meal once a week with all these dietary restrictions, can you keep me in prayer?”

Containers of good boundaries, “I will not look up medical research on the internet. I will allow my siblings to each have a part, I will remain my loved one’s spouse, child, grandchild, and allow hospice or home health to come in. I will say when and how I am available but my loved one will need to voice their needs. I will take the trip I was planning, and also plan another one.”

Containers of conversations, “of gratitude for what their loved one has given, or disappointments never said, of planning for what their loved one desires at the end of life, and after it, and their hopes for it, and their fears and approaching it.

The wise ones took their lamps, filled with all the same things but also brought containers of oil.

5 “When the groom was late in coming, they all became drowsy and went to sleep. 6 But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Look, the groom! Come out to meet him.’ 7 “Then all those bridesmaids got up and prepared their lamps. 8 But the foolish bridesmaids said to the wise ones, ‘Give us some of your oil, because our lamps have gone out.’ It was no wonder their lamps had gone out, because no one can sustain that light to care for another without also refueling their own container.

9 “But the wise bridesmaids, who knew how to care and keep their lamps lit replied, ‘No, because if we share with you, there won’t be enough for our lamps and yours. We have a better idea. You go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.’ But while they were gone to buy oil, the groom came. Those who were ready went with him into the wedding. Then the door was shut. They couldn’t get back the time that had already passed. “Later the other bridesmaids came and said, ‘Lord, lord, open the door for us.’ “But he replied, ‘I tell you the truth, I don’t know you.’ You are not recognizable when your life becomes another’s and light burns out. “Therefore, keep alert, because you don’t know the day or the hour.

Keep alert, because it’s not just caregiving, which drains our containers of oil. Is it our own all-consuming ailment? Is it friendships or relationships breaking and divorcing? Is it our financial situation, is it a project at work? Are we addicted to another’s addiction? Is it trying to be everything to everyone, or to our family, or a friend? Is it our political stance, or constantly checking and watching the news, the e-mail, waiting for the phone, or the next diagnosis? Keep alert. The bridegroom is never far away. There is a rainbow after a rain, there are flowers after winter, there are songs after silence, there is calm after the storm, and so often birth follows death, there is life to be lived, and resurrection. Do what you can to keep your lamps lit. Do what you can to find light in the darkness. The bridegroom is on his way. There will be a banquet. There will be Easter someday.

Mark 14.1-9 & Matthew 25.31-46, March 31, 2019, Sermon

Mark 14.1 - 9 Common English Bible

It was two days before Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread. The chief priests and legal experts through cunning tricks were searching for a way to arrest Jesus and kill him. 2 But they agreed that it shouldn’t happen during the festival; otherwise, there would be an uproar among the people. 3 Jesus was at Bethany visiting the house of Simon, who had a skin disease. During dinner, a woman came in with a vase made of alabaster and containing very expensive perfume of pure nard. She broke open the vase and poured the perfume on his head. 4 Some grew angry. They said to each other, “Why waste the perfume? 5 This perfume could have been sold for almost a year’s pay and the money given to the poor.” And they scolded her. 6 Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you make trouble for her? She has done a good thing for me.
7 You always have the poor with you; and whenever you want, you can do something good for them. But you won’t always have me. 8 She has done what she could. She has anointed my body ahead of time for burial. 9 I tell you the truth that, wherever in the whole world the good news is announced, what she’s done will also be told in memory of her.”

Matthew 25.31-46 Common English Bible
Notes: There are two things that are important to remember when interpreting this scripture. Firstly, the people of Biblical times, in this case the Jews, to whom Matthew is writing, are a people of stories passed down. They understood metaphor, and symbolism and likewise, this passage is best not taken literally, but literarily. Secondly, the idea some Christians today have of heaven and hell, and final judgement, was not the Christian or Jewish understanding of the time in which this was written. In Biblical times, the Kingdom of Heaven was much more seen as in the present as the Kingdom of God breaking into the world. This historical context helps this text feel less like a final judgement, and more as a guide for today.

31 “Now when the Human One comes in his majesty and all his angels are with him, he will sit on his majestic throne. 32 All the nations will be gathered in front of him. He will separate them from each other, just as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33 He will put the sheep on his right side. But the goats he will put on his left.

34 “Then the king will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who will receive good things from my Father. Inherit the kingdom that was prepared for you before the world began. 35 I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. 36 I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me.’

37 “Then those who are righteous will reply to him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? 38 When did we see you as a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’
40 “Then the king will reply to them, ‘I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done it for me.’

41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Get away from me, you who will receive terrible things. Go into the unending fire that has been prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 I was hungry and you didn’t give me food to eat. I was thirsty and you didn’t give me anything to drink. 43 I was a stranger and you didn’t welcome me. I was naked and you didn’t give me clothes to wear. I was sick and in prison, and you didn’t visit me.’ 44 “Then they will reply, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison and didn’t do anything to help you?’ 45 Then he will answer, ‘I assure you that when you haven’t done it for one of the least of these, you haven’t done it for me.’ 46 And they will go away into eternal punishment. But the righteous ones will go into eternal life.”

SERMON 

Each day, on their long walk to help build pews for a church in Kikuyu, Kenya, the two American sisters walked by the community well. They watched people load and carry the water in various ways, some had carts, some had backpacks, and some balanced it on their heads. Any way it was carried was heavy, was thirst provoking, any distance, would be far, and could not be traveled quickly. Yet, this was the water for washing, for eating, for cleaning, for bathing, for drinking. This was the water of life.

After a while the two American sisters befriended some of the girls at the church. A sleepover was arranged and the family welcomed the American girls. The Americans were invited to eat and share a large meal, rooms were rearranged so the American girls could sleep on beds, and in the morning, the Kenyans invited the girls to shower. The Americans explained that they could easily shower back at the compound and go to work on the pews just as they were. The American girls knew the burden of the weight of water, but the Kenyans knew the life in it and insisted. The older daughter went first, and on the floor of a rudimentary shower was a knee high bucket of steaming water. Someone in the family had gotten up early to boil it and place it there. After some initial solitary confusion, about how to wash with a bucket, the older sister scooped enough water out to pour it on her head, and wash her body. She was careful in doing so because she wanted to make sure there would be ample water for her younger sister, so that the Kenyan family did not worry. Having finished, proud of her conservation efforts she walked outside the shower, and there on the floor, was another steaming bucket.

This could have been used to cook the maize and beans, this could have been used to wash the dishes, this could have been used to wash the other children or the parents after a long day of work, this could have been used to feed the chickens, after carrying the buckets so far to the house this could have been used to drink and quench that thirst. But the Kenyans knew they would always have those chores to do, whenever they wanted. They wanted to do something good for the sisters. They wouldn’t always have those guests, so they did what they could. They gave the sisters the water of life, to anoint their bodies, and the good news of this story is still told today, in memory of that family.

It was as Jesus said, “You always have the poor with you; and whenever you want, you can do something good for them. But you won’t always have me. 8 She has done what she could. She has anointed my body ahead of time for burial. 9 I tell you the truth that, wherever in the whole world the good news is announced, what she’s done will also be told in memory of her.”

It was as Jesus said, 34 “I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. 36 I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me.’

37 “Then those who are righteous will reply to him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? 38 When did we see you as a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’
40 “Then the king will reply to them, ‘I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done it for me.’

What are the memories you hold of the times someone has done these things for you?

What stories of generosity do you carry with you?

Whom are the people you could never repay for their kindness? And what did they do?

I want you take a moment and think about those things.

How have you been shown this generosity in your own life?

Write down on your bulletin a sentence or phrase that tells this story.

Now I invite you, if you are comfortable, to share with your neighbor that sentence and listen to theirs.

Would anyone be willing to share what they heard? Please ask your neighbor first before sharing publicly.

This Sunday, I also invite you to take with you your bulletin and the sentence you wrote. As you leave the sanctuary, ask and hear these stories from those whom you greet, stand with in line, or sit with at table. Enact these scriptures in the words you speak. Because, these scriptures are not about judgement, or punishment, they are about the kingdom of God breaking-in through acts of generosity, and moments of grace. Part of the kingdom breaking-in, lies in their being told, and our ability to witness these acts and moments. Part of witnessing the Kingdom of God, is to be a people who tell these types of stories, who relay these types of memories, who honor these types of gifts.

I heard a story this weekend, of a grandmother in her nineties, whose last words were, “We are so lucky.” To die like that. So thankful. It takes living like that. It takes being the person who tells those stories, who names their luck, or blessings, who reframes the downtrodden times to see the uplifted. Who doesn’t shoo away an offering of nard, or a steaming bucket of water, for some needed purpose, but who is humbly anointed, and goes on to tell the story. I know we at Baker are this type of people. It’s in your thank-you notes, your Sharing Cards, your help of those in need of anything from a changed lightbulb to a funeral banquet. Its in the way you care for one another as family, and stand by one another in love. I know you to be a people of generosity. Let us tell those stories; let the kingdom break-in here, that we may be anointed. Amen.