March 22 ~ The Love that Releases Us from the Ambiguity of Grief

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_b2ab0ce2a561423e8fc7be3863f1ef85/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm 130

Romans 8:6-11

John 11:1-45

Sermon by Joel Crouse

Regret can be one of the most toxic choices in our lives. It is often the thing that brings people to my office, or comes up when I am sitting with them in their homes or on their death beds. Regrets about bad choices. Regrets about paths not taken. Regrets about an unkind word that will never be forgotten. No parent or partner – or pastor - gets through life without carrying a load of regrets, a situation they wish they’d handled better, kindness they didn’t offer when it was most needed, a hug they didn’t give the last time someone walked out the door. “If only I had done this,” we say to ourselves. If only I hadn’t said that. If only I could have been better. If only.

In our gospel today, we hear one of those “if only” moments.

Jesus learns that this friend Lazarus is ill. He is the brother of those feuding sisters: Martha – working busily in the kitchen, angry at her sister -- and Mary -- sitting at Jesus’s feet, listening to him. They get word to Jesus to come, but he doesn’t come right away. By the time he arrives, Lazarus, we learn has been in the tomb for four days. Martha, never shy about speaking her mind, approaches him and says, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

And eventually, Martha gets word to Mary, who also goes to Jesus, weeping at his feet, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Seeing how everyone is grieving, because Lazarus was much loved, Jesus himself begins to weep. And people whisper among themselves: “See how he loved him.” And a few others begin to level blame. “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

If only Jesus had done differently, Lazarus might still live.

It is human nature, as we know, to want to find something or someone to blame. To solve the mystery. To have an answer upon which we might lay our grief. Our brains do not like ambiguity. We don’t enjoy uncertainty.

And yet, learning to live with grief is about learning to find a measure of certainty in the ambiguity. To know that it is okay to wonder, “if only,” while coming to accept that there will be no answer. To know that closure is really just a word we like to use to make ourselves feel better – especially when we are witnesses to grief. But grief itself never closes up and goes away. It just becomes something else. Eventually, that something else is new life.

In a way, our gospel gives us an easy way out – a secret door to dodge the journey upon which all people who grieve must travel. Jesus steps in, and brings Lazarus back to life. “Lazarus, come out!” he calls. And we are told that the “dead man comes out, his face wrapped in cloth.” And Jesus said, “Unbind him and let him go.”

Now there is great space in this gospel for our own understanding to fit – and for us to find comfort there as we wish. But the line that leaps out at me, as someone who has grieved deeply, are those final words that Jesus says: “Unbind him and let him go.”

“Unbind [the one you say you love so much] and let them go.”

For such a sad story – where a man has died, and his sisters and friends are inconsolable – those are peaceful words. They do not choke off the grief as frivolous, as if the friends and family of Lazarus did not believe enough. Or that they should be dancing at his tomb, because he was now with God. Jesus himself, after all, shared in their sadness. They do not discard the “if onlys” – Jesus never addresses them – he only urges the sisters to have faith, and to trust in the love that they have for their brother and the love that God has for them. That eventually it will be okay, because while it feels as if their love for him has been ripped away, it hasn’t. Real love, like the love that God has for each one of us, never dies and cannot be separated from us by a grave. And it takes time to reach that space where we come to understand that those we have loved and lost are not so far from us, just as God is not so far from us. At the tomb, Jesus tells them to “let Lazarus go,” to untether him from the constraints of their grieving so that they can reach that space of understanding for themselves.

It the midst of all those “if onlys,” it is certainty that Jesus places into the ambiguity of their sorrow. The certainty that releases them from finding someone or something to blame. That allows them to tell the story in a way that helps them heal. That certainty, that eventually it will be okay and new life will be found, even as the grief itself never ends.

I know this certainty to be true. I have seen it in my own family with a brother whose body lies in the belly of the ocean and a mother who lost the battle against colon cancer. I have seen it in many of your lives through the grief and loss that you have had to work through. The ‘if only’ moments were plentiful. The ambiguity of grief was real. And yet new life was found. The greatest gift of faith is this certainty that Jesus places into the ambiguity of our grief.

The gospel is full of wisdom and truth and certainties. This story of Lazarus is one of those precious stories that are often watered down into paper pop-up diagrams for children, proving the miraculous power of Jesus. Do not overlook the ‘if only’ moments and the ambiguity in this story. Because if we do, we will never know the true miracle of honest certainty that Jesus has to offer.

Amen

March 15 ~ What are Our Blind Spots That Prevent Us Celebrating the Joy of Others?

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_5c142b13a0a1448bb2964d2714e7885a/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Samuel 16:1-13

Psalm 23

Ephesians 5:8-14

John 9:1-41

Sermon by Joel Crouse

We have in our gospel this morning an amazing miracle and an equally amazing reaction. A man who has been blind all his life has been given sight. And do the people he finally sees rejoice? No, they have question after question. Who did this and how? What day was this miracle performed and what rules might have been broken? Are you sure it was a good person who restored your sight? Can you say exactly how it was done?

By the end of this inquisition with the Pharisees, everyone’s joy is ruined. The now-seeing blind man is given an interrogation, not a celebration. His parents are challenged rather than congratulated. Everyone is looking for what’s wrong with this healing miracle, instead of rejoicing in its happening.

In such miracle stories, we tend to get focused on the small details: how did Jesus really give a blind man sight with mud on his eyes? Was it truly a miracle? Was he ever really blind, or only injured? And so on, and so on.

But I don’t think the miracle is the point of our gospel passage. The lesson we have to learn here is how we respond when good things happen to other people. And why, we don’t always respond with the joy they deserve.

This week, on my Facebook feed, a cartoon popped up, offering the secrets of a happy relationship. The first one was: happy couples don’t compete with each other. The second was: happy couples rejoice in each other’s success. The third: happy couples work as a team. And I thought, “Is this really a reminder we need – to view the success of our partner as lifting out own boat?” Surely, when Erin succeeds, I also rejoice, and vice versa. Our successes and failures are, after all, tied to each other.

But it reminded me, if we need to tell couples not to compete, what chance did the blind man in our gospel have – when confronted with the suspicion and jealousy of his own community?

And yet, let us step back for a moment and consider what is driving these reactions. First, the neighbors are full of suspicious questions. For one thing, they doubt the miracle is true – are we sure this is the guy? And then they question the miracle provider: who and where is he?

What makes them - and let’s face it, us - react this way to another’s joy? This is an excellent question to pose during Lent, when we are forced to look honestly within ourselves. Psychologists have many theories concerning why we’re jealous about good news stories that don’t affect us. Perhaps we feel bad or insecure about ourselves – and when someone we know gets ahead, that makes those feelings worse, reminding us of our own failures. Or we hold to a scarcity mindset – there is only so much success to go around, so when someone else gets it, my chances fall. We fail to see the hard work behind the success, and assume the person just got lucky, and therefore did not truly deserve it. And we worry about being forgotten, left behind as others get ahead.

And yet, as you can see from the list, none of those beliefs have anything to do with the one succeeding. Our sense of worth, our own hard work, our own mistakes, our limited view of the world -- are all held by us. And the beauty of ideas that we hold ourselves is that we ourselves can let them go. In this case, we can say: “I have value. I can learn from my mistakes. That person worked hard and deserved it; I can also work hard for good things. The world has space for many successes. I won’t be left behind, because we are not in a zero-sum race: success is different for every person.”

Those are the neighbors, flawed but human. The religious leaders in our gospel are another story. Perhaps their inability to celebrate a miracle as a sign from God is also influenced by the human failings listed above. But something else is at play: the religious leaders feel threatened; their power is at risk. If some preacher-man trained to be a carpenter can make blind men see, how can they hold the attention of the people, which is what leaders out for themselves must do.

So, they cast doubts on Jesus, as a person. On the miracle for the day it happened. They threaten the parents of the man because they need witnesses to sell their story. Not once do we hear those in the gospel say, “How amazing it is that you can see after all these years.” A miracle they have not controlled, a success they didn’t make happen, good news that they haven’t created is unacceptable and not to be tolerated. If anyone can perform a miracle, then how will they hold our attention? So, whoever else performs a miracle must be denigrated, and discredited.

Who does that sound like? Certainly not a leader I want to follow. A leader would rejoice in every success, lift up all achievements, be curious about how they happened, and want to know if there was a way to repeat them. I am certain there were other blind men and women and children: do you hear anyone ask, how can we help them as well?

In asking questions to serve their own purposes, silence their own insecurities, and hold on to their own power, they fail not only the miracle, but also themselves. For the real beauty and freedom in life comes when we celebrate success, when we lift up another’s joy – in those moments, as the wise among us know, we are not brought down but instead lifted up.

Reading this gospel, I sat for a bit and reflected on the man in the centre of this tale. From what we know, he was blind for most of his life. A miracle has suddenly given him sight. Imagine what that must have been like. He was a pauper forced to beg, living in endless night. And suddenly, he can see the sun and the trees and the sky. He can see the faces of his parents. He can see his own face. He can walk without stumbling. Dance without falling. He can see an apple and pick it from a tree. He can pet a dog and look into its gentle eyes. His world has been transformed. And all anyone around him can do is ask: How did it happen? Who did it? Were any rules broken? And then they are so consumed with fear and suspicion that they drive the man out of the community, making the man even more of an outcast than he was when he was blind. Because when he was blind, everyone was very comfortable looking down on him.

How sad. How sad for us, as well, if we miss those moments because we are too consumed with what is inside ourselves to see someone else.

Jesus, however, not only sees the man; he seeks him out. Having been blind when the miracle happened, the man needs Jesus to clarify who he is, before confirming his faith.

Then Jesus tells him: “I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see may see and those who do see may become blind.”

And so, with this line, Jesus draws a distinction between the two groups; first, the regular villagers, whose blindness stems from fear and anxiety and low sense of self-worth, for whom the gospel offers the vision of resilience, generosity, and meaning; and secondly, those who tell us they can see simply to hold onto power, to press a thumb upon the lives of others. Those people will be made powerless.

In our Lenten journey, let us consider the joy of the blind man, the gift of that miracle. Consider our own blind responses to another’s success. The lesson of the gospel is that we all have value, but it’s the curious and open among us who live best. The next time a metaphorical blind person tells you they have sight – challenge any negative thoughts that arise and respond to it with joy and praise. This is one important way that we who are blind shall all come to see.

Amen

March 8 ~ Discovering the Desire for Depth

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/3ef8bd_15ac9b27ba7a46e8879a4346dcf7324c/720p/mp4/file.mp4

Exodus 17:1-7

Psalm 95

Romans 5:1-11

John 4:5-42

Sermon by Joel Crouse

We are a searching species. We search for success, for money, for good fortune. And yet even when we achieve those things, we still feel something is missing, that our search is not complete. That is because, as we learn when we have them, life is not truly rich without purpose, meaning, curiosity, and introspection – because through those qualities, we find love.

The Samaritan woman teaches us all this lesson. Her story is one of the simplest and yet the most profound of how life becomes more real and meaningful when we add the dimension of depth. Her story is also remarkable – it is one of the longest conversations that Jesus has with someone in the gospel, and he has it with a most unlikely character. As we hear in the gospel - even the disciples were shocked.

Her story begins with a great discovery, one that happened by chance. Jesus was on the way to Jerusalem. At the sixth hour—noon our time—he stopped at the restaurant of his day—a well. It was Jacob’s well on the outskirts of the city of Samaria. While the disciples went to the nearest store to get some food, Jesus sat down to rest his weary legs.

As he sat there, a woman came along to draw some water from the well. She was astonished when Jesus asked her for a drink. For one thing, Jesus was crossing the barrier of the sexist custom which did not allow a man to speak to a woman in public. For another, he was crossing the barrier of racism. Complete amazement at the request of Jesus caused her to blurt out, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman from Samaria?”

To which he replied, “If you knew the gift of God and who was saying to you, ‘Give me a drink’, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” What a strange response. She could have said, “Why don’t you mind your own business?”, as she was trying to mind hers. Or she could have said, “That’s ridiculous.” How could you give me a drink when I have the dipper in my hand?” But she didn’t. She was at the point of making a discovery. What better way to do that than to ask the question, “Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us this well?” Jacob was her hero, you see. Anyone greater than him would have to be God.

With the first part of his answer, Jesus points out something the woman, in her weary role of going back and forth hauling water, was already sensing. You can’t find happiness in life if you live it in only two dimensions. “Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again.” Jesus said, “Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give will never thirst.”

Whoever finds the third dimension of the waters of God’s grace will know the gift of new life that is freely offered. That is the great discovery that the Samaritan woman made at Jacob’s well.

I suppose our presence here this morning indicates that we have also made that discovery. Or maybe we have come here hoping to make it. If you have already made the discovery, then the greatest pitfall is that the water might have become stale. It is not easy to sustain faith as a discovery. What once was greeted with great enthusiasm becomes commonplace. Note that the thing you once discovered with great joy and satisfaction hasn’t changed one bit. If anything, it’s probably improved. It’s our perception, our attitude towards it, that has changed.

Happy is the person who greets each day as a new discovery, each moment with a loved one as a new opportunity. But especially happy is the person who keeps the water of life fresh. Love and grace are meant to become deeper and more meaningful to us.

That really happens through desire. “Sir,” the Samaritan woman said, “give me this water, that I may not thirst.” The psalmist says, “my soul thirsts for the living God.” I believe that just as our bodies have been created with a thirst for water, so our inner beings have been fashioned with a thirst for the divine. Deep within us we cry out for depth. But so often we don’t let that cry come to the surface. The surface desires of our own immediate needs so preoccupy us that we never take the time to focus on the real questions.

Notice that the desire within the Samaritan woman needed to be expressed in worship. Her only problem was she didn’t quite know how to worship. Should she go up the mountain like her fellow Samaritans did to speak to God, or down to Jerusalem to the temple as the Jews did?

Jesus helps her out with one of the great lines to come from his mouth: “God is spirit, and those who worship God must worship in spirit and truth.” The place, Jesus says, is not important even though his custom was to worship in the synagogue each Sabbath. But what is important is the worshipper, their readiness in Spirit to have a relationship with the Divine and their absolute honesty in expressing their desires.

That leads us to the third dimension the woman found at Jacob’s well—direction. She came to the well as an aimless wanderer. The only vision she had was gathering water. She left the well to tell anyone who would listen how her life had been renewed.

For one thing, that new direction meant being honest with herself. She had to look at the truth of who she was and find the direction that would give her new life and hope. We can’t hide from ourselves. And we certainly cannot hide from God. When you stand before God, your whole life stands before God. A life with direction which meditates upon what is true, honourable, just, loving and gracious, is a life that has meaning and depth to it.

But the other direction the woman received, as she left her waterpots, was to go and tell others about what she had learned to be true for her. What a change in direction. Where once she questioned Jesus for talking to her, now she was speaking to men and women alike about this Jesus that had changed the direction of her life.

The direction we are called in is a radical change from living for ourselves to living for others. To help ourselves AND OTHERS find the dimension of depth for life by hearing the gospel and living it out in action. We become the dipper bringing new life to all people.

Discovery, Desire, and Direction. They all add up to depth. The Samaritan woman helps us to discover it. Jesus wants us to desire it. And Lent sets us in the right direction to find it.

Amen