Remembering...

The Rev. Kathi Johnson

C Palm Sunday – 20 March 2016

Text: Luke 19:28-40 and Luke 22:1-27

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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What do you do to remember the special days in your life? In our lives, we have happy occasions that we celebrate in various ways: birthdays, anniversaries, congratulations, to name a few. Some of us also have difficult memories, but they are important to us, and so sometimes it is helpful to commemorate those, as well.

My mom died on a September evening in 2005, at hers and my stepdad’s home in southern New Hampshire. Steve and I had been up there the week before, and so we were in Austin on that evening, having dinner with friends before we got the call from my stepdad. Even though that was now over ten years ago, we still go out for dinner on the anniversary of her death. We often go with friends, and I share stories about Mom, and it helps me remember her. It also helps me remember the many ways in which God has taken care of me in the years since she died –surrounding me with loving people, many of whom have surrounded me with loving prayers.

Remembering helps us live more fully as people of love.

So we begin Holy Week with its powerful stories, and their contrasts of devotion and betrayal, honor and humiliation, life and death. We spend this week every year looking at the events leading up to Jesus’ betrayal and arrest, his crucifixion and death, his burial, and his resurrection. Each year, we tell the stories again: observing and paying attention to the details. And so in the case of Holy Week, remembering helps us live more fully as people of faith.

Our Palm Sunday narrative for today is found in Luke 19, and it tells us of Jesus entering Jerusalem on a colt. This was a very humble mode of transportation, but in this case, it was a fulfillment of what the prophet Zechariah had written so long ago about the Messiah: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

The crowds of people who are welcoming Jesus to Jerusalem are jubilant, laying down their clothes to make a pathway for Jesus. (Notice in Luke’s version, there are no palm branches! Those appear in John’s version.) In this scene as Luke writes it, the crowds call Jesus “blessed” and they praise God for the mighty acts that Jesus has done during his time of ministry.

In terms of chronological time, we are far-removed from these people and their lives. But in terms of our deep need for Jesus, we too need this Messiah – this anointed one – we need him to heal us. For we are still sinful, and we still live in a broken world, a world that is desperately in need of healing.

As people of faith, we have Holy Week now ahead of us – including Maundy Thursday, upon which we remember Jesus instituting the Lord’s Supper. The story is familiar to us – we just heard Luke’s version, but we also hear it each week, as I say the words over bread and wine. Jesus takes the bread and breaks it, and he takes the wine and offers the cup to his disciples. In this supper, Jesus tells them that his body will be broken, and then on Good Friday, we devote an entire day to this one important event. Remembering helps us live more fully as people of faith.

It is in Holy Week that we remember that the yelling of the crowds changes from shouts of blessing and praise to shouts of taunting and ridicule. Today, on Palm Sunday, Jesus is praised as a king, but on Good Friday, the words change as we hear the horrific accounts of Jesus’ crucifixion. Jesus – the king who has come to us, triumphant and victorious, humbly riding on the foal of a donkey – we remember Jesus on the cross, his body broken.

And then, of course, next weekend – just one week from now – we spend the Easter Vigil and Easter Day remembering and celebrating the resurrection of Jesus from the dead – his new life becoming our new life.

It’s very easy to skip over all the remembering in between today and Easter. It’s easy to go from the jubilant shouts of Palm Sunday to the triumphant Easter shouts of next week. The harder thing is to remember. The harder thing is to observe, and to pay attention to, and to remember all these stories of Jesus that we hear again during Holy Week.

I challenge you to do the harder thing. I encourage you to hear these stories of Jesus that are so difficult to hear, and to pay attention to the details of these stories and the meaning found in them: the hands of Jesus as he breaks bread and pours wine, the bewildered disciples, the devoted women at the foot of the cross. And Jesus, on the cross and in the tomb. And Jesus, risen and alive!

These are the stories of God’s love becoming flesh for us – God’s love, with flesh put on it, living and dying, and rising to life again, so that we, in Christ, may have new life. Come and hear and live the stories again, and remember, for remembering helps us live more fully as people of hope.

Amen.

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When Weeping Lingers for More Than One Night...

Weeping may linger for the night,

but joy comes with the morning. 

Psalm 30:5

When I was a little kid, I thought that mourning doves were actually "morning" doves. I remember one afternoon, visiting my grandparents in their New Jersey home, I heard a "morning" dove and I asked my Granny why I was hearing a "morning" dove in the afternoon. After she figured out what I meant, she explained that the bird was called a "mourning" dove because the sound it makes can be so sad.

This entire week, I've been staying at the home of some relatives while they are out of town. I came here for a couple of events and, at least when I planned this trip, I decided the time here alone would do me some good. A retreat, of sorts.

All week long, I've heard the sound of many mourning doves outside: on the roof, right by the chimney, next to the window, on the fence, in the trees. I hear one now, sadly calling, again and again. And this sound has been an appropriate backdrop for the sadness I have felt all week.

I came here already sad. Our beloved schnauzer, Max, died last week, and so it was with a heavy heart that I came on this trip at all. I was terrified to be alone with my grief - so very scared to face alone the gut-wrenching sobs that I knew would come. And they have come, and they have gone, and then they've come back again. Joy may come in the morning, but sometimes, weeping lingers for more than a night.

And then there came Charleston, and deaths so horrific that I spent my alone time in stunned silence, with silent tears, not knowing what to say or do, only knowing that there would be another night wherein weeping would linger, and another morning with no joy.

All week long, I've watched my social media feeds blow up. I've read horrible words that those with racist hearts have said about others. I've seen quote after inspirational quote by Dr. King and I've even posted a few myself because his words have always been anchors for me in trying to understand - as a white person - the racial tensions we face as a nation.

It has all felt empty to me.

And I think that, for me, anyway, the emptiness stems not from a lack of caring - I do care, very much. The emptiness stems from having to stare at this ugliness once again - this particular form of evil, that cloaks itself in righteousness and calls itself holy. For racism is evil, and particularly so when it drives someone to destroy life. The emptiness I've felt this week has come from knowing that there are no quick solutions, there are no easy answers, and there is no way we are getting out of this without more meaningless rhetoric from our politicians and more anger spewing from all sides.

And all I can do is what I can do.

All I can do is speak against racism when I see it and hear it, whether it is an attitude in my own heart or something I witness in someone else's. All I can do is pray unceasingly for those who have no peace, either because of the color of their skin or because of the insidious hatred in their hearts. All I can do is reach out to those I know who suffer because of racism. All I can do is weep for those who have died and mourn for our world which is so very broken.

And all I can do is remember for myself and say again to others that the love of God is greater than our hatred. The love of God is greater than our sin. All I can do is remember again and again that the love of God encompasses us all, so that while weeping may linger for a night or more, joy will - eventually - come again in the morning.

It's OK to Point...and other lessons from John the Baptist

Mathis Grünewald, from the Isenheim Altarpiece (c. 1515)
"He must increase, but I must decrease."

Advent 3, Year B – December 14, 2014

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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Grace and peace are yours, from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

One of the lessons that I was taught as a child was that it was impolite to point at someone. I remember learning this especially from both of my grandmothers – so, for instance, if we were in the grocery store, and I saw someone doing something…strange (in my mind, anyway), as a child, my instinct was to point at them and ask what they were doing. “No! Don’t point!” I’d be told. “It’s not polite!”

What is humorous about this to me is that if you look at artwork of John the Baptist from throughout history, in many portrayals, he is breaking these modern rules of propriety by pointing. In some artwork, he’s pointing this way, in other artwork he’s pointing that way. If we were to form our opinion of John the Baptist based solely on this artwork, we’d think that the most important part of his job description is to point.

Which, of course, begs the question – to what or to whom is he pointing?

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.” John’s purpose is to point others to Jesus.

I am reminded of a church building that I was aware of as a child. We would sometimes drive by this church building, just to look at it. What was the architectural feature that drew us to drive by this particular church? Was it beautiful stained glass or a beautiful garden?

It actually was the steeple – for high atop the steeple of this very simple church building was – not a cross – but rather a large, gold hand, with one finger pointing up. One finger, pointing up to God, I guess was their thinking – and the image was so ludicrous to us as a family that we would make pilgrimages to see this steeple with its golden hand.

And yet, as an adult, I now think about this image – the hand with the finger pointing up to God (as if God is up and nowhere else) – and I think, that’s what John the Baptist’s purpose was – to point to Jesus (God) – and to give his witness to the power of God at work in our world.

Later on in this gospel, John the Baptist will say about Jesus, “He must increase, but I must decrease”[1] – kind of like the relationship between our Sun and our Moon – the Moon reflects the light of the Sun – the Moon gives us light, but it is the Sun’s light, and not its own. John knows that he is not reflecting his own light – not at all – but rather reflecting the “true light, which enlightens everyone.”[2]

Today’s gospel lesson about John tells us that he came to testify as a witness – in other words, John the Baptist came to tell others about what he knows to be true about God. What is John’s testimony about Jesus? In the very next verse after today’s lesson – so, verse 29 - John’s testimony is that Jesus is the “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

How much sin is there on the evening news? Or on the morning news? How much sin is there in each 24-hour news cycle – how much sin in a complete day’s worth of news?

Each week, as we prepare for Holy Communion, we sing “Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world, have mercy on us…” The struggle for us is that we quite obviously still have sin with us, so if Jesus has taken it, he hasn’t taken it very far.

But Jesus didn’t come to remove sin from the world – at least, not in this here-and-now. Jesus came to remove the ultimate power of sin over the world. In other words, Jesus came to trample sin under his feet – to say to sin, “You don’t get the final word here. The final word will be the love of God for creation.”

It is this Advent season that reminds us: we don’t live in a time wherein all of that has been fulfilled. We are still waiting for Jesus to come again and to make all things new – we are still waiting to see that final word made complete. So while Advent is a time for us to prepare to receive the newborn King – Jesus – it is also a time for us to remember that there is another day for which we are still waiting: the final day. The day and the hour that no one knows.

In the meantime, we are called to be witnesses to the Light. We – like John the Baptist - are called to decrease, that Jesus may increase. We – like John the Baptist – are called to point to Jesus and say, “This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” – this is the one who takes away sin’s ultimate and final power over us and over all things.

“Now may the God of peace himself sanctify you completely, and may your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it.”[3]

Amen.

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[1] John 3:30

[2] John 1:9

[3] 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24, ESV

Stubborn Dandelions and Tenacious Hope

The Rev. Kathi Johnson

Midweek Advent – Week 1 – December 3, 2014

Text: Isaiah 11:1-4, 6-9

Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, Grand Prairie, Texas

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Of all the seasons of the Church Year, Advent is the season that focuses us on hope. In this time before Christmas, what is it that we hope for? A particular gift? For peace within family celebrations? For safe travel for ourselves or our loved ones? What else?

The first lesson we read together tonight, from Isaiah 11, begins with a word of hope for us: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” Immediately before this verse, the prophet has spent quite a few verses describing the judgment that God will bring upon his people. The image he uses to describe this judgment is the almost complete destruction of a forest. And this judgment comes because of their arrogance and their lack of concern for the poor and the widows and the orphans among them – in other words, those at the bottom of society.

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” After the forest is wiped out, there is still hope, the prophet says. There is still hope because God’s will arcs to love and to life – and because of God’s love and life, a shoot springs up from the deadened stump, and then a branch grows.

Outside the back door of our home, there is a concrete walkway. It sits right next to our house, almost up against the foundation. And there, in the small little space between the walkway and the house, grows a dandelion - one ridiculous little dandelion plant that springs up. I pull it – it comes back. It’s a stubborn plant.

Hope takes tenacity. Hope must be relentlessly stubborn at times. Hope gets cemented over by the hard world we live in – a world full of every violent image that can stand opposed to the peaceful images we are offered in Isaiah 11 tonight. In our world, wolves tear up lambs and children get bitten by snakes.

But the words of the prophet offer us hope that busts through the hardness – hope that grows bigger and bigger – first a shoot, then a branching tree. It is a hope that reminds us that God has all things well in hand. As Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

Amen.

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