May 17, 2020. What does it look like to embody the unity of the Spirit in this time of physical separation? What does the commandment of love, for God and one another, look like in this time of COVID-19? Pastor Meagan's sermon today is on these questions, and Jesus' promise not to leave us orphaned, in this time of uncertainty. Readings: John 14:15-21, 1 Peter 3:13-22 *** Transcript *** By now, you probably know that I have a thing for cats. Over the last few weeks, I've had the joy of watching over Facebook as a colleague who lives in Virginia has been raising five tiny kittens whose mother disappeared and has not been found. Weighing in at less than a pound when they were rescued, they needed help with absolutely everything. Their eyes still closed, and their little legs still too weak to support even their bitty weight, they started their time in foster care in a box just big enough for them. They were fed with eyedroppers at first, as they couldn't even handle even a bottle yet. They needed to be cleaned from head to tail, as their mother would have done frequently. As they have gained strength, their space has been expanded to include room to play, a designated litter box, and an increasing number of toys. In the last week, there have been pictures and video of these fur babies, now all over a pound, eyes wide open, exploring not just a box but a whole room, hungrily inhaling solid wet food, pulling on strings and leaping back when the string responds, and pouncing on toys, and one another, and their parents’ hands and feet. They still wobble as they navigate their new surroundings, and they return frequently to the safety of their protected habitat to rest and regroup, guided by the nurturing hands and hearts of their caregivers. Their mother may have disappeared, but they have not been abandoned. “I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus told his disciples. And although we are now in the Easter season, this promise came before that — before Jesus had even been arrested, before his crucifixion and death, before the disciples discovered the empty tomb. Jesus was trying to prepare the disciples for what was to come, letting them know that everything was about to change, that he was going to be arrested and die, that their whole world as they knew it was about to fall apart, that they would in fact betray him — and yet, they would not be alone. “I will not leave you orphaned.” In our own time of uncertainty, this is so comforting to hear! And there is so much in Jesus’ counsel that can guide us as we navigate our new world, a world changed by the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020. “I will not leave you orphaned.” Jesus promises that the Spirit of truth will be with us, that God will be present around and before and within us, bringing us together. And, Jesus says that the world will not see the truth, but that the disciples will. I hear this and can’t help but echo Pilate’s question to Jesus: “What is truth?” How, in the chaos of this broken world, can we see where we are to go, what we are to do, how we are to be church in the midst of it all? Our eyes are being opened, Christ Lutheran family, in this time when everything we have been used to has been altered. Our routines have been disrupted, the easy sense of inherent safety as we navigate the world undermined. Any illusion that “church” means the building in which we worship has been exposed. Because right in this moment, we're separated from our building, and physically separated from one another. And yet the truth of what it means to be the church is perhaps more accessible to us than ever. Jesus talks about keeping the commandment of love, for God and one another, as a mark of God’s people. It is the greatest commandment, one by which we will be known as the church. What does that look like, in this time of COVID-19? How can we be the church, by embodying love — for one another, for God, and for the world around us? Jesus says the Spirit brings us together, with one another and

May 3, 2020. Pastor Meagan reflects on today's readings by noting that none of them promise that danger will be eliminated, death will cease to exist, or evil will be no more. Things change and we are not the same. But God does not change. Readings: Acts 2:42-47, Psalm 23, John 10:1-10 *** Transcript *** I was struck, as I read today’s readings, that although all of them mention danger in one form or another, none of them promise that danger will be eliminated. That death will cease to exist. That evil will be no more. Acts 2 acknowledges that there are needs in the community. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” says Psalm 23. And our gospel today names thieves and bandits that attempt to steal and harm the sheep. Our texts do not present a promise that hardship and even evil will be absent, but something else. It reminded me of something that happened when I was young, my first experience of God’s presence in the midst of things that we don’t understand, sadness and confusion. When I was about seven years old, my favorite pastor collapsed after church one Sunday. We went home unsure of what the outcome would be, and being one who likes to have answers, and wants to understand, I went to the source: my children’s Bible. I read it from cover to cover that day, looking for the answer to why someone so good would die like that, if that’s what was happening. I remember finishing, and still not having my answer — and yet realizing that somehow that was okay, because God knew the plan even if I didn’t. Now, lest you begin to think that I have spent all of the intervening years feeling serene and peaceful and hopeful, let me assure you — I have not. Doubts, questions, frustrations, grief, anger, are all a normal part of human existence and I, like all of you, have experienced them all along the way. But this experience was one of those touchstone moments in my life that has shaped me, revealed something of God to me, and has in many ways informed how I experience God and understand life and death. It has made possible a slow, gradual, sometimes painful, unclenching of the need to have answers for everything as I have grown older. Christ Lutheran family, as the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 continues, we are walking together through a time that is full of unanswered questions. Why is this happening? Who is this going to impact? Where is God? What are we supposed to do in this really strange time? And maybe most importantly, how long is this going to last? So much we don’t know and don’t understand. We may sense the thieves and the bandits, feel the weight of the shadow in the valley at times, as we navigate hospital corridors, or grocery store aisles, or cross streets to give our neighbors space as we walk on these sunny days of spring, or stay in our Upper Rooms to keep ourselves and our fellow humans safe. None of our readings today promise us that the thieves and the bandits and shadows will go away, much as we wish they might. For those of us used to feeling safe most of the time, and sure of ourselves and our future, these readings today can often be taken as a promise that we will be protected from the dangers and the sadness of this human life. In this time of COVID-19, when danger and sadness and anxiety and uncertainty seem to be all around us, these readings sound very different. Psalm 23 is so often used at funerals, and there is a reason for that. Psalm 23 names head-on the reality of death, the presence of the valley of the shadow. It speaks of a table of abundance, in the midst of enemies who seek to destroy. A wise woman I know created a painting of that image, a table with enemies surrounding it, and she named the enemies — fear, anxiety, self-loathing, resentment. Anyone else felt those enemies, those internal enemies, hovering close in these days? What does your valley look like in this time? Take a moment to name that for yourself, and if you would like to, share that in the chat. Psalm 23 na

April 26, 2020. Pastor Meagan preaches on the story of Cleopas and the unnamed disciple on the road to Emmaus. Cleopas and the unnamed disciple tell Jesus everything. What would you tell Jesus, if you were walking with him, about the events of these last few weeks? Reading: Luke 24:13-35 *** Transcript *** When change happens quickly, or when something somewhat traumatic occurs, it can take time to grasp even the simplest details of what has happened. One such event that stands out for me took place many years ago. I was driving from La Crescent in southern Minnesota up to the Twin Cities with a college friend, and another driver pulled in front of me and then hit the brakes. I immediately tried to slow down, but I knew that it was no use. We hit the other car from behind, and we came to an abrupt stop. My first reaction was to apologize profusely to my friend for the colorful language that had come spewing out of my mouth as I watched the accident unfold. And as we got out of the car and began to assess the damage, the reality of what had happened slowly began to seep in. I looked at the front of the car, now pushed into itself accordion-like. “This doesn’t look good.” I noted the broken headlights, the glass and the plastic scattered on the ground. “No, not good at all.” Then I saw fluids seeping out from under the car, and the peculiar angle of the front tires. “I’m not sure I can drive this home.” The liquid began to pool, the colors blending together on the ground. “No, I don’t think I can drive my car home.” Then, it dawned on me that we were two hours from home. And no cell phone. And no extra car in my pocket. It sounds pretty quick laying it out like that, but the embarrassing truth is, to my recollection, it took nearly half an hour to figure all that out. I couldn’t bear the full picture of what had happened all at once. We can probably all think of times when something happened that took a long time to “sink in.” Some of them may be painful or traumatic things, like accidents. Or diagnoses. Or losing a job. Or the death of a loved one. Painful things happen, and it can take a while to process and settle into new realities that are not what we anticipated or hoped for. Some of them may be joyful things. Like the birth of a healthy child. Falling in love, or getting married. Even times of joy can be overwhelming. And we can find ourselves struggling to grasp and name what has happened, and what it means. And so, we can relate to the disciples, as they struggled to sort out for themselves the reality of Jesus’ death, the empty tomb, the reports that Jesus had been seen alive, impossible though that seemed. And so as Cleopas and the unnamed disciple walked along the road to Emmaus together — breathing in fresh air and absorbing the sunshine, perhaps watching the birds flying overhead, after days of being closed up in the Upper Room — they talked it all over again, trying to make sense of it. And then a stranger joins them on the road, and overwhelmed and exhausted and confused as they are, they don’t even realize it’s Jesus! And Jesus, as they are walking along, doesn’t seem to know anything about what his disciples are discussing. And he asks them: what things? What things have happened? Tell me the story. And so Cleopas and the unnamed disciple, walking along the road with their new friend, are invited to share all of the challenges, the fears, the heartbreaks, and the confusion that they're going through, while Jesus listens to them. Jesus didn’t need them to tell him what had happened. Remember, he was there! But he wanted to know their story, how they were experiencing things, how they were feeling about it. Jesus knew how important it was, as they worked through it all, to tell that story one more time. And this invitation is not just for them. Cleopas is not one of the more “famous” disciples, not one of the leaders. And the unnamed disciple could be anyone. We are all included in this invitation. In this time o

April 19, 2020. After Jesus had been arrested, tortured, and crucified, the disciples waited  — hidden away in their Upper Room — and were afraid. We hear this gospel story every year. But this year, we know more than ever what it means to be isolated in our rooms and afraid too. Today's sermon reminds us that even so, the promise of God is still with us. Reading: John 20:19-31 *** Transcript *** Is anyone else tired this week? I will admit that I am. Easter is over, Jesus is risen, the adrenaline of the fast-paced adjustments of the last several weeks has worn off — and I am a little worn out. And yet, all of the reliable sources on the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 indicate that we're not done yet, and we'll be sticking together while staying physically apart for a while yet. The nightly news is not hopeful, for us who long for the widespread testing and successful management of the virus that will allow us to open the doors of our Upper Rooms, and come out safely to resume our regular routines, to travel, to go to parks and movies and museums and restaurants, like we did every day until just five weeks ago. Think about that — just five weeks, and how much has changed. And I wonder, if the disciples didn’t feel a similar weariness, waiting in their Upper Room. The news they heard from outside wasn’t good, either. Jesus, their friend, with whom they had eaten the Passover meal, who had washed their feet, who had shared the promise of God’s love and forgiveness and mercy, had been arrested. And Jesus was tortured. And murdered. And Jesus had been betrayed by Judas, their friend, who was now dead too. All of the hopes they had for freedom and justice and change in their world had seemingly died, on the cross, with Jesus. And they, the followers of Jesus that they were, were vulnerable also. Peter especially knew that — he had been noticed, as he waited for word on what was happening to Jesus in the sham trial held by the religious leaders and the Roman occupiers. And he was afraid that he himself, and maybe his family too, would also be arrested by the religious leaders. So afraid that he had denied not only Jesus, but his own ideals and hopes, multiple times, in order to protect himself. They were all afraid. And so they waited, hidden away in their Upper Room, perhaps the same Upper Room where they had their last meal with Jesus. The witness of Mary Magdalene and Mary, mother of James and John, that Jesus’ tomb was empty, corroborated by Peter and the other disciple reporting on the linens left abandoned where Jesus had been buried, and Mary Magdalene’s claim that she had actually seen Jesus, could stir hope, but not enough to set them free to leave their place of safety for good, and return to their normal lives. It was all too confusing, too hard to believe. We hear today’s gospel story every year, and it is so familiar. How Jesus came to the disciples as they hid. How Thomas wasn’t there, and refused to believe that Jesus had come while he was out. And how, when Jesus came again, Thomas demanded proof from him of who he was, proof of the good news that he brought. And how Jesus invited Thomas to touch his wounds, and Thomas then believed. “Doubting Thomas,” as he has been dubbed, gets a bad rap often, in our Easter story. And I always stick up for Thomas, point out how often we too need proof in order to believe, how Jesus sees what Thomas needs, and offers him the opportunity to touch the wounds in his hands, his feet, his side. But this year, as we wait still in our Upper Rooms for good news that will allow us to venture out again, a question occurred to me about this story of the disciples in their Upper Room. Where was Thomas, when Jesus came the first time? It’s easy to take this for granted, to let it pass as insignificant to the story we are hearing. But in this season of COVID-19, a new light is shed on this throw-away phrase from our gospel. And I wonder, where was Thomas, the so-called doubting one? From our new

April 12, 2020. It's been challenging thinking about how to mark Easter this year, when in the season of COVID-19 we can't be together physically. In our isolation, we feel a little closer to the disciples in theirs, waiting for a bit of good news. Pastor Meagan's sermon this morning is on the promise of the resurrection, on the light and life and healing and hope on the other side. Reading: John 20:1-18 *** Transcript *** This Easter feels really weird, doesn't it? It's been challenging thinking about how to mark Easter this year, when in the season of COVID-19 we can't be together physically. We aren't gathered in our sanctuary with the altar full of gorgeous color, and the choir resounding, and the smell of lilies flooding the space. We won't be feasting on a brunch, at a table surrounded by loved ones, traveling from distant places to celebrate. In comparison with "normal" years, in some ways it hardly feels like Easter. And yet here we are. We have shared the Last Supper in our Upper Rooms. We've been at the cross with Jesus, remembered how he died, acknowledged the ways in which we contribute to the brokenness that still oppresses and wounds so many today. And now we are huddled again in our Upper Rooms — just as the disciples were that early first Easter morning — waiting for a bit of good news, something to let us know that resurrection is coming, something to prove that Jesus has in fact risen from the dead. In A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens declares, "Marley was dead to begin with. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story that I'm going to relate." And I say to you this morning, Jesus was dead to begin with. And this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I'm going to relate. Because although Jesus' death is not the end of the story, if we don't know the sacredness and intimacy of Maundy Thursday, the horror of Good Friday, and the silent despair of Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday comes like too much chocolate and jelly beans on an empty stomach: it tastes really good but it won't get us very far. And so, my family of faith, this year may in fact be more like that first Easter than our typical Easter celebration, because we in our Upper Rooms are a little closer to the disciples in theirs. The women — Mary Magdalene and Mary, the mother of James and John — who went to the tomb that morning bearing spices, were there when Jesus died. They knew he was gone, and they didn't have the slightest expectation that he had survived all that had happened. They were drawn to the tomb that morning not by the thought that Jesus might be alive, but by the call of their faith to honor one they had loved and followed by anointing the body that was left. They were there because they were not afraid to face the darkness of the tomb. They faced the darkness, walked into the tomb, and saw evidence of the miracle: the stone rolled away, an empty tomb, a pile of linen left lying on the floor. What would you have thought had you been there? How would you have told the story to the others, waiting back in the Upper Room to hear about their visit to the tomb? What would you have thought if you were one of Jesus' other followers hearing this story? The women themselves didn't believe it at first. Mary was sure that someone was playing a cruel trick, that Jesus' body had been stolen and hidden. As Mary begs to know where Jesus is, she hears the voice — that voice, the one she knew so well — saying her name. And she believed, or began to believe. And knowing how crazy it might sound, she runs to tell the others. Resurrection, this coming of life out of certain and undeniable death, is impossible to explain or prove. And yet for those who have experienced it, it changes everything. The women who went to the tomb and the other disciples who followed them, the disciples on the road to Emmaus, once they had witnessed the resurrection, they were never the same. They faced the d

April 9, 2020. For many people of faith, washing is a sign of spiritual cleansing. In our gospel this evening, Jesus washes the feet of his disciples. And all these years later as we prepare to break the Eucharistic bread together, each of us in our own separate Upper Room during this time of social distancing, we are more aware than ever of how important washing is. Reading: John 13:1-7, 31-35 *** Transcript *** A few years ago when I was in Tanzania, we had the opportunity to “break bread” many times, in many places. We had a rich meal with many different foods, spread on a large table, in the home of a bishop. We had cakes and tea, served with a face-splitting smile by the mother of three young boys living with a degenerative disease, as we sat on bales of hay in their living space. And we had a meal of peanuts, which our hosts poured into the hands of guests sitting on the floor of their one-room village home. “You can’t leave until you take something,” said the boy’s mother. And so it was, everywhere we went. Always there was food, something to nourish our bodies. And always there was that profound joy in having something to share. And always, there was a washing of hands. In the Bishop’s home, and in the restaurants, there was a sink with running water in the corner of the dining space, at which we lined up to wash our hands before the meal was served. In the mother’s home, there was a pail of water and a cup for pouring water over our hands before we took the cakes. And before the peanuts were divided among the guests, a banana leaf, broken open to reveal its moist inside, was passed around so all could receive that rare treat with clean hands. The breaking of bread and the washing are central to Tanzanian culture. And, they were central to the culture shared by Jesus and his friends, and their surrounding community. This story of the Last Supper is not the first time we have heard about washing in our gospels. There is perhaps most notably the poignant story of the woman who enters Simon’s house, when Jesus is there, to wash and anoint his feet. And when people chastise her for “invading” the home of a temple leader, sinner that she was, Jesus chastises Simon for not having offered Jesus the opportunity to wash his feet when he arrived. There are many reasons why washing is so important to different cultures and different times. For many people of faith, it's a sign of spiritual cleansing. For us as Lutherans, the use of water in baptism is a way of claiming our identities as children of God, a way of entering into the community of faith, and the promise of forgiveness. For we humans, at our essence, water is life. And the use of water for washing can be a reminder of the water that exists in our bodies, our very cells. For the disciples who lived in a hot, dry land where travel by foot was the norm, even when there were miles to cover, the opportunity to wash one’s feet upon entering a home was very basic hospitality. And washing feet was essential for health and well-being, in a way that we often take for granted — washing feet that were covered with dust and dirt, blistered and cut and bruised from walking for days, was necessary to ensure that they could walk another day. And in this season, this time of the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, we are more aware than ever of how important washing is. “Wash your hands” has become a mantra for us these days, as we see more clearly than usual that doing this simple ritual is not only a way to keep ourselves clean, but to stay healthy, prevent disease, and indeed to show our love for others as we contribute to the health of our whole community. The disciples gathered with Jesus over 2,000 years ago in an Upper Room in Jerusalem. Jesus broke bread with them in that Upper Room. And before they ate in that Upper Room, Jesus washed their feet for them. And he said, “Do this in memory of me. Do for others, as I have done for you.” “You can’t leave until you take something!” And tonig

April 5, 2020. The people walking along with Jesus on his triumphant entry into Jerusalem were yelling out, "Hosanna!" This was not so much a cry of joy, though, as it was a cry for help. Palm Sunday this year is different from other years, isn't it? Here we are a week away from Easter, dealing with the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, and we are crying out for help that we know only God can give. Reading: Matthew 21:1-11 *** Transcript *** We tend to think of Palm Sunday as a parade like St. Patrick's Day, a big street party with lots of music and dancing and food, a time of exuberant celebration, and unbridled fun. And that was certainly part of it, that day so long ago, when Jesus was entering Jerusalem. The people gathered spontaneously to sing and wave branches, and to walk along the road together as a community. My favorite Twin Cities parade, before it was canceled a few years ago, was always the Holidazzle Parade. It would take place every night from Thanksgiving through Christmas, outside — yes, we are crazy like that in Minnesota! — and people would come hours early to eat downtown, to go to the Macy's Eighth-Floor Holiday Display, and then line up on the street to watch the parade after it was dark. All the floats and even the costumes were lit, and the costumes and music were amazing. It was a great chance for the community to come together in defiance of the winter snow and ice and cold. What's your favorite parade? There is more to this parade though, this Palm Sunday parade, this triumphant entry into Jerusalem, than what appears at first glance. Because this was a parade not to celebrate an anniversary or a heritage or a season or even a community. The people, Matthew tells us, were shouting "Hosanna!" as they walked with Jesus into the city. It can be understood to be an exclamation of praise and honor, and it is. But interestingly, most closely translated, hosanna means "save us." Think about that for a moment. The people walking along with Jesus were crying out to be saved. Jesus was the focal point of this parade, the whole reason for the spontaneous gathering. And those who gathered there were poor, oppressed, beaten down by the occupying forces. And they were yelling out, "Hosanna!" This was not so much a cry of joy as it was a cry for help, from a people who believed that Jesus could save them. This gathering of people claiming their right to be heard, and their faith in the possibility of freedom and justice, was probably more like the March on Selma for basic rights and freedom for black people led by Martin Luther King, Jr. and other black leaders, or the historic demonstration for LGBTQ rights and lives at Stonewall that was led by queer trans women, than it was like your typical St. Patrick's Day parade. This was an act of resistance to the injustice and despair in their world, an act of hope, of community standing together in solidarity with one another, welcoming the one they believed could change their lives. As Matthew tells the story, this is emphasized by the passage from Zachariah that Matthew quotes: "Your king is coming to you, mounted on a donkey and a colt," claiming Jesus as that king who would save God's people — not the Roman emperor, but Jesus, God come to us in human form, to fulfill God's promise. This Palm Sunday is different from other years, isn't it? Here we are a week away from Easter, knowing we'll be experiencing a Lent of sorts for a while, as we all do everything we can to respond to the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020. This year, more than other years, we are fully aware that we need more than our own efforts, more than our local and national rulers can do, to bring us through this crisis that is impacting all of humanity. We know this year, more than most, the limits to our human capacity. We know more than ever that we need one another and that we need God to save us. This year, more than most, we join the crowd that gathered around Jesus and claimed him as the king come to save God

March 29, 2020. The readings today include the Valley of Dry Bones from Ezekiel, and Jesus raising Lazarus to life from the Gospel of John. Pastor Meagan preaches on these texts, on the death that is already happening in our world with the pandemic we are facing, and the life anew that we know is coming from the breath of God. Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45 *** Transcript *** Twice, I've been present in the room at the moment when someone took their last breath. Stood at the bedside, waiting and watching, holding hands, praying and singing, as breath by breath, life slipped away. In both cases, I and those I stood vigil with listened closely, wondering which breath would be the last one — this, or this, or this. In the end, when the final breath was released, we collectively held our own breaths until we were sure: the final exhale had indeed signaled the end of this unique life in human form, the body still warm, but quickly cooling. The bones God leads Ezekiel to in that valley have no warmth. There is no indication that they ever had breath, and for my money, if I were the betting type, no hope that they would ever breathe again. It’s kind of like the feeling I would get being out in our yard in Minneapolis, after the snow melted, but before any buds had popped or grass had appeared. It just doesn’t seem possible that life could return, it all looks so dead, twigs and sticks and brown. If I had been Ezekiel, I might have said, “No way!” in response to the question of whether these bones can live. “Are we looking at the same thing? Not possible.” And Mary and the other mourners say basically the same thing to Jesus, when he says he wants to take the stone away from Lazarus’ tomb. “It’s going to smell! He’s been in there for four days!” Jesus persists, because he knows something that the others don’t know. Even when death is so final that you can smell it, when breath has been gone for so long that the bones are literally dry, God can still bring life. The winds, the Spirit, moves, in concert with Ezekiel’s prophecy, and the breath enters the bones and they live! When the stone is rolled away from Lazarus’ tomb, we have to imagine the stench of certain death was terrible, and yet in response to Jesus’ cry — Lazarus, come out — Lazarus comes! My family of faith, the pandemic that we are facing is like the stench of death from Lazarus’ tomb, or the rattle of bones from Ezekiel’s valley, or the brown, lifeless branches in my yard before spring begins. Signs of death, undeniably. Death is already happening, and beloveds, there will be more before this passes. And, the Spirit is still at work. The wind is blowing, ready to bring life out of the bones that have no flesh left on them. The stone is rolled away, waiting for Lazarus to step out into the fresh air. In our yard here in South City, our cats are discovering every green blade, all the new plants they've never seen before. This coming of life is not a passive thing. We human beings living this human life are invited to be active, breathing participants in the life-giving movement of the Spirit around us. God asks Ezekiel, “Can these bones live?” and he says, in effect, “I don’t know, can they?” And God says, “Prophecy to these bones. Tell the winds, breathe on these bones, and they might have life.” In other words, claim the promise, Ezekiel, and proclaim the promise, that God brings life where we can only see death. Lazarus’ sisters, and their gathered community, are invited to participate in Lazarus’ re-birth by unbinding him. Letting go of old ideas perhaps of who he was, letting go of grief, opening their minds to receive the new life that stood before them. We, too are invited to witness to death, family of faith, as Ezekiel did in the Valley of Dry Bones, as the mourners gathered smelled death at Lazarus’ tomb. God witnesses with us all the griefs we experience, all the losses we bear now, and those yet to come — not as a passive observer, but weeping alongsid

March 22, 2020. Here we are today, in the days of the COVID-19 pandemic, an experience that we living through it will not soon forget. And just like other such events, it is going to transform our country, transform us as people, transform us as a family of faith. But Pastor Meagan reminds us that there is good news to be heard in our readings today. First and most important: we are still here. And God is still here. Readings: 1 Samuel 16:1-13, John 9:1-41 *** Transcript *** September 11, 2001 is a date that many of us of a certain age or older will not easily forget. I was at work, alone as it was still early, when the first reports came in. My coworker called, exclaiming in shock about the plane that had crashed into the Trade Center in Manhattan, and promised she would pack her TV into the car and be at the office in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes later she called again, and in horror I pulled up images of the second plane hitting the tower. And again she promised to be at the office quickly with her TV in tow. Ten minutes later, she called again. But finally she made it, and the two of us spent the greater part of the day glued to the TV, hearing the President’s announcement that this was a terrorist attack, the likes of which had never been seen in this country before. People dying, flames burning, the seeming impossibility of navigating the wreckage to rescue survivors. Over the weeks to come, I found myself shaken to the core. I was afraid of what the future held, in a way I never had been before. I felt economically vulnerable. I was horrified by the thought that my cousin, who lived in Manhattan, had run past the building a scant hour before the attack. I grieved for the loss of so many lives, the terror they had experienced in their final minutes, and the devastation for all the families who had lost loved ones that day. Nothing felt safe, or secure, or familiar anymore. Grief, anxiety, isolation, confusion. I remember talking to my dad in the weeks after September 11th, as I struggled to find solid ground again. And he told me that he had experienced just such uncertainty, and fear, and grief, following the assassination of President Kennedy — another national event that had rattled everyone who lived through it, leaving them wondering how they would make it through. Grief, anxiety, isolation, confusion. And here we are today, in the days of the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, an experience that we living through it will not soon forget. And just like other such events, it is going to transform our country, transform us as people, transform us as a family of faith. But for now, as things are shifting minute by minute so quickly, it is hard to keep up. Many aspects of our lives may feel unrecognizable compared to what they were even last week. So, family of faith, let us take a minute on this Sunday morning, breathe deeply, and listen to what God may be saying to each of us as we gather together for worship and prayer as a community. We can find grounding, for a few minutes at least, in the story of Samuel seeking a way forward after losing his relationship with Saul, and in the story of Jesus’ encounter with the man born blind. In our first reading today, Samuel was grieving the loss of his relationship with Saul. We are grieving right now. Grief is real, very real. We are grieving the loss of our Good Friday Cantata, in addition to grieving the loss of worshipping together in our sanctuary each Sunday and Wednesday. ALL of us are grieving different personal losses and family losses, from vacations to concerts to sporting events and parties. We are all grieving different things in different ways. And God is with us in that. Jesus wept at the death of Lazarus. And God grieves with us, today and in the days to come. God is present, leads us forward in the journey, just as he led Samuel forward to find David. What are you grieving, at this time? The people around the man born blind are anxious. Why did it happen? Whose fau

March 15, 2020. Bishop Susan Candea preaches on the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, and building bridges to connect people, as we celebrate the Installation of Pastor Meagan today. Readings: John 4:5-42 *** Transcript *** Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Creator, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. Whew! There is a lot going on, isn't there?! In some ways it feels so surreal, this whole coronavirus pandemic thing. Did you ever think that we would be talking about a pandemic? Things are rapidly changing, and it's hard to know what is the appropriate response. How should we be feeling? What ought we doing? Are we taking enough precautions? Are people overreacting? How are we supposed to feel? Are we supposed to cancel everything? Keep going on? What kind of adjustments? It really feels like a lot, doesn't it? And in the midst of all of this, we're in the season of Lent — a time when we gather more intentionally as a church, to engage in the disciplines of repentance and prayer and acts of charity and fasting, when we hear and respond even more deeply to the invitation to return to the Lord our God. And on this Sunday in Lent we have this long gospel that is full of all kinds of stuff: a Samaritan woman being approached by Jesus for a drink, and the whole bit about Jews don't have anything in common with Samaritans, launching into this discussion of living water, the strange detail about the woman having five husbands (what is that all about?), the disciples coming back with food only to be told, "My food is to do the will of the one who sent me," then launching into a conversation about harvest and reaping (where did that come from?) ending with the Samaritan woman bringing people to meet Jesus. Whew, there's a lot going on in this story, isn't there? Oh, and by the way we are also installing your new pastor! After many months of discernment and transition, you are officially welcoming a new pastor, embarking on a new relationship with one another, stepping into the future of which God is calling all of you. That's a big deal. There's a lot going on: lots of excitement, lots of changes. Because we all know we're each different. She's different. You're different. Things are going to be different. So you get to explore and experience and grow in this new relationship. Have I mentioned that there's a lot going on? So in the midst of all of this, what is the gospel? What is the good news that we are invited to hear this day? Well first of all, the good news always begins with Jesus, so let's start with him. And what we see in our gospel is that Jesus is the one who reaches out to the Samaritan woman, even though Jews have nothing to do with Samaritans. What we see in our gospel is Jesus offering living water, Jesus having a theological conversation with the woman — in other words, talking about God with her. And then, that is what brings more people to seek out Jesus and to hear and experience him as the Savior of the world. In other words, Jesus builds bridges that connect people — connect people with God and connect people with one another. And that is the theme of my sermon this morning: Jesus builds bridges to connect people. Jesus builds bridges to connect people. Let's start by talking about why building bridges is even necessary. Well, that's pretty easy, isn't it? We all know why: because we are a divided people, with what sometimes seems like huge chasms between us. In Jesus' day it was the Jews and Samaritans who had nothing to do with each other because they did not share things in common. In our day there is a long list of groups of people who have nothing to do with each other, seeing their differences rather than seeing what holds us in common: our humanity, the reality that we are all children of God. We divide people along religious beliefs and political affiliations, along their immigration status, their race, their gender, their sexual orientation, their age, even where they live.