Even Though They Die -- Fifth Sunday in Lent

John 11:1-45

March 22, 2026

 

            For many children the first time they must deal with death, loss, and grief is when they lose an older family member or a beloved family pet. For me, my first real confrontation with the things of life and death happened in second grade. In second grade I received the book Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White for my 7^th birthday. I need to be clear that I didn’t just read Charlotte’s Web, I devoured it. I don’t want to give too many spoiler alerts for those here who may not have experienced this wonderful and poignant story, but it is about a spider named Charlotte, a pig named Wilbur, a rat named Templeton, a little girl named Fern, and a host of other barnyard characters. Charlotte saves Wilbur’s life, but like all living creatures, she dies.

            I was spellbound by this story, so when I came to the moment where Charlotte died, her death broke me. I mourned her like she was a real spider, a real friend, and not a character in a story. My best friend, Cynthia, read the book about the same time as me and she also loved it like I did, do. We made a bet to see who could read it the most. I don’t know how many times Cynthia read this story, but I read it over and over again. I would finish it only to start again. And each time I read it, each time I reached the moment where Charlotte dies, I would weep like it was the first time I’d read the words. One time my older brother came home and saw me in bed sobbing. He went and told our mom. She came upstairs and when she saw that I was rereading Charlotte’s Web, she lost her patience.

            “Amy Louise,” she said,” Charlotte always dies.”

            Charlotte always dies. I knew that. Even at 7, I understood that what I was reading was a story. It wasn’t true. But knowing that it wasn’t true did not minimize the grief I felt. Knowing that it wasn’t true did not diminish the lesson I learned about living and dying from reading that beloved and beautiful book.

            All of us will die. We began this season of Lent with Ash Wednesday, when the truth that from dust we came and to dust we return was literally marked on us with ashes. And on each Sunday in Lent, we have seen Jesus in different scenarios and situations, meeting different people, and revealing more about himself as both human and divine as he – and we – travel closer to the cross. Jesus has been tempted as we are tempted. Jesus shares the truth that he came into the world to love the world, not condemn it because God loves the world and does not condemn it. Jesus stops by a well in the territory of a so-called enemy, feels thirst and need and is vulnerable, but he also knows that there is one water for the body and another living water for the soul. That soul-water is water that he provides. Jesus gave eyesight to a blind man, but he could not force sight and insight on those who would choose to live in spiritual darkness.

            And that brings us to today. That brings us to the raising of Lazarus, this long and really kind of strange story. As is typical of John’s gospel, a multitude of things are happening in this story. There is the text that we read, and then there is subtext and even more layers of meaning. And as I so often feel when I read John’s gospel, I think I should love this story but I struggle with it instead. I freely admit that I don’t really understand or grasp it. It seems to raise more questions than it answers.

Such as, when Jesus gets the message from Mary and Martha that their brother Lazarus was gravely ill, why does Jesus delay going to him? Why does he stay two days longer than necessary instead of going right to him? Must everything have to be an object lesson in this gospel, even the death of someone Jesus loves?

            Also, why do we read this passage today, before Easter? Why do we get stories of the dead being raised to new life now, when we are still in Lent. Both this passage and our passage from the prophet Ezekiel point to the new life that is coming. So, is this a way for us to experience resurrection in lowercase letters before we get to RESURRECTION, all caps, on Easter Sunday?

            Perhaps. But I wonder if what we really need to spend time with this morning and at this point in this season is not the new life that comes from death, although that is the foundation of our faith. No, what captures my attention and my imagination today is Jesus’ grief. Even with all the strangeness leading up to Jesus’ arrival at Lazarus’ tomb, the delays, Jesus stating that this will reveal the glory of God, still Jesus weeps for his friend. Jesus grieves. If each Sunday of Lent reveals another aspect of Jesus to us, then this Sunday we see Jesus grieve. When I was I child, the easiest verse to remember was “Jesus wept.” The NRSV New Revised Standard Version, elongates this verse to “Jesus began to weep.” But either way, Jesus weeps. He breaks down into tears. We see plainly that Jesus is not immune to the heartbreak and loss and grief that comes with death. He lives it too. So I think that of all the things that are happening in this story, it is the grief that I think we need to contend with.

            And it is not just Jesus that grieves. John writes about Martha and Mary meeting Jesus in a very calm and faithful fashion, but I suspect that there was more emotion going on there than what the text conveys. I imagine Martha storming up to Jesus, crying out to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” And then, trying to get control, trying to remember all that she believed, all that she was taught, saying, “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”

            And when Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again,” I hear Martha repeating back to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day,” in a dull voice, as though her mind knows this but her heart refuses to believe. Because grief does not care about what we have been taught to think, at least not at first. Grief can overwhelm even the most faithful of person. Grief hits us at a place deeper than rational thought or intellect.

            And even though Mary comes to Jesus in a posture of belief, kneeling before him, her words are like Martha’s. “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died”

            There is anger in the sisters’ words, anger and heartbreak and betrayal. They are feeling all the emotions that come with grief. They are feeling and experiencing and expressing what so many of us have felt and experienced and expressed when someone we love has died, when the grief of the world feels too much to bear – Lord, if you had just been here, this would not have happened, this person or people would not have died! Lord, if you had just been here. And underneath the claim, “Lord, if you had been here,” is the real question: “Lord, where were you? Why weren’t you here? Why. Weren’t. You. Here?”

            Jesus hears Martha and Mary’s grief. Jesus witnesses their tears. And he sees the tears of others around him, the tears of those other unnamed people mourning Lazarus, and it becomes too much for him. He weeps too. He grieves with them. He mourns his friend who has been in the tomb for four days. He mourns the one he has lost, and as one commentator suggested, maybe he is also mourning what will come, what lies ahead. The raising of Lazarus is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. When Jesus raises Lazarus, the authorities finally say enough is enough. This guy has gone too far. This guy has revealed too much power and too much influence and now we need to find a way to stop him. In the verses that follow our passage, the high priest Caiaphas proclaims that it is better, more expedient for one man to die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed. So this is it. Raising Lazarus is what sets all the players in motion. Jesus surely knew this. He surely realized where this was all leading. He knew there was no turning back.

            So maybe Jesus was experiencing a mixed bag of grief, grief for his friend and grief for himself and even grief for the people who would hasten him to the cross. Jesus grieved. He wept and grieved because death is real. Death is real and cannot be avoided or denied. Death is real and even though new life waits on the other side, resurrection can only come through death. We cannot get to new life without the grave.

            I know that this is not the sermon some of us want to hear. It’s not really the sermon I want to preach. But death is real. We all die. Now, I want to make it clear that even though we all die, that does not mean that all death is just. Our world is filled with unjust, untimely, unnecessary death; death that comes through violence and oppression. As the church, Christ’s hands and feet in this world, we are called to work against this kind of death. We are called to rail against this kind of death. Just because we all die does not mean that death that is unjust should be allowed to pass without response or reproof.

            But death, no matter how it comes, is real. And grief is real. And just like the game we used to play when I was a kid about going on a bear hunt – you know the one, you can’t go around it, you can’t go over or under it, you gotta go through it. I used to believe that grief was something that you got over, but the older I get and the more people I lose, the more I realize that grief does not go away. It does not dissipate. It remains, and you learn, somehow, to work it into your life. You learn that as you go on living, your grief becomes a part of you. I read somewhere that grief is the consequence of love. Because we love, we will eventually grieve. Jesus loved Lazarus, and when he died, he grieved. Ezekiel must have felt enormous grief standing in that valley of dry bones, feeling the loss of all those who died there, because he loved his people, his countrymen, and grief was the consequence of that love.

            Grief is the consequence of love. But here is the good news. God made us for life not death. God took on our humanity not only to defeat death, but so that we could have abundant life. God is still working, still creating life. We were created for life, for love, for joy. Even though we die, God is still bringing life out of death. Even though we die, even though we grieve, death does not have the final say. Even though we die, at the end which is the new beginning, we are unbound from the wrappings of death and set free to live. Even though we die, we were created for life not death, and life, abundant life, God’s glorious new life, will overcome. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

Now I See -- Fourth Sunday in Lent

John 9:1-41

March 15, 2026

 

            If you are ever feeling blue and need something that will make you smile and cry at the same time, look up videos of babies and children hearing for the first time. You can find them in reels on social media, and on video sites like YouTube. In these videos a baby or a child who is hearing impaired will be fitted for hearing aids or has had cochlear implants, and the moment recorded is the instant when sound enters their life for the first time. Sometimes sound disrupting silence is overwhelming and the baby will cry. Sometimes being fitted with their hearing devices is scary to the little ones and they cry or look distressed but then comes the moment when they hear their name, when they hear their parents’ voices for the first time, and even watching it on a video, you can tell the whole room is filled with joy.

            The doctors and the nurses are celebrating. The parents are celebrating. Family members who came along to support them are celebrating. This time of joy and exultation is recorded for posterity. I realize this is just one small moment in the lives of these children, these families, but it is a profoundly beautiful moment to witness. It is a miraculous moment to witness. And I can understand why everyone involved is so overwhelmed with joy, why children and parents alike are crying. A child can hear her mother and father’s voice for the first time! That is worth celebrating. That is a miracle! That is a reason for joy!

            And then we have another long and unique story from John’ s gospel. This is a story I struggle with because no one celebrates that this man born blind can now see. No one celebrates that this man who navigated a world of darkness can now see the sun as well as feel it, can now see the ground below his feet, can now see the faces that belong to familiar voices. No one whoops for joy at this miracle. No one celebrates that this man born blind proclaims, “Now I see.”

            His parents don’t celebrate and rejoice at the sight he has been given. The people who knew him before don’t celebrate. The religious folks don’t celebrate and exclaim with wonder. His newfound vision, which should have been a source of joy and delight, is instead treated with suspicion and fear.

            From the beginning of the story, we are introduced to this man not by name but by his condition. He is not Bob, and by the way Bob happens to be blind. He is the man born blind. His blindness is his identifier. He is not a man with a congenital condition or someone who was born with a random issue. His blindness is who he is. He is the man born blind. That’s how the disciples see him. When Jesus and the disciples come across this man, the disciples see only his blindness and their one question to Jesus is, “Who sinned?”

            “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

            Jesus’s response seems straightforward.

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”

But wait. Does this mean that Jesus was saying God afflicted the man with blindness so that someday when he was an adult, he could be used as an object lesson for other people? I don’t think so. I think a deeper, more accurate understanding is that the man’s blindness was a chance condition of his birth. But Jesus knew that through this man God’s glory could and would be revealed. When Jesus encountered the Samaritan woman at the well, he spoke to her not just of water she could carry in her buckets, but of living water that would revive her soul. Jesus told Nicodemus that it was his birth, his forming and shaping, in and by the Spirit that would give him salvation and new life. So too, this blind man would see. He would see not just the physical world around him, but he would see and recognize the revelation of God’s glory. 

            As one commentator noted, Jesus’ actions to heal the man take on a baptismal quality. He spits on the ground, makes mud, and spreads the mud on the man’s eyes. He tells the man to go and wash in the pool of Siloam. The man did this, and when the mud was washed away, he returned able to see, both the world around him and God’s glory. 

            Shouldn’t this have been the moment when the celebration began, when the joy at the man being given his sight bubbled up? But that did not happen. When the man returned from the pool of Siloam, from following Jesus’s directions, he was different. Maybe he walked taller. Maybe he held his head higher. He would no longer be forced to beg. He was no longer just the man born blind. Maybe that’s why his neighbors and the other folks who knew him before didn’t recognize him. Speculation began. Some of the people believed that it really was him. But others refused to believe, saying, “No that’s not that guy. It looks like him, but it’s not him.”
            Yet the man kept insisting that he was who he was. He was the man who had been born blind, but now he could see. He said to anyone who would listen, “I am the man.”

One scholar points out that this man is the only other person to use the phrase, “I am” except Jesus. I am the man. So the neighbors asked him, “How did this happen? How did you receive your sight?” The man told his neighbors exactly what Jesus did. Jesus spat on the ground, made mud, then he spread the mud on my eyes and told me to go wash. I did everything he told me to do, and now I see. Now I see.

            Once again, this would have been another perfect moment to get the party started. It really is him! It really is the man born blind. But now he can see! Someone go and get the fatted calf. Someone go and bring the wine. Someone go and tell all the folks to come and celebrate because this man was born blind, but now he can see! But no. That’s not what happened. It was all too suspicious. No one is born blind then given sight. 

The man was brought before the Pharisees to investigate. The Pharisees also questioned how he received his sight. He repeated his story once more. Yet rather than rejoice in this miraculous healing, this giving of sight, the Pharisees became more concerned about the timing. This strange and suspicious healing happened on the Sabbath. Obviously, Jesus was not “from God” because he willingly broke the Law. No one truly from God would do that. Tell us again, how you were supposedly blind, but then miraculously received your sight. He was forced to retell it many times, but the man’s story never changed. He told the Pharisees exactly what he told the other people. He was blind, but Jesus gave him sight. He was blind. Now he can see.

            John tells us that the Pharisees are divided. Jesus broke the Law, so he must be a sinner.  But how could a sinner perform such signs? This man could now see. The Pharisees then questioned the man about Jesus. What does he say about him? He’s the one who was given sight by Jesus. All the man will say about Jesus’ identity is that he is a prophet.

            The Jews – we need to understand here that John is speaking of the Jewish religious authorities, not just Jews in general – decided that it wasn’t possible that this man was actually born blind. So they tracked down his parents and put their questions to them. “Is this your son and was he born blind?”

            The parents were afraid. They were afraid of being forced out of the synagogue, out of the community and its fellowship. It was already known that anyone who gave credence to Jesus would suffer those consequences. Out of fear, they handed over their own son. They threw him under the proverbial bus.

“We know that this is our son. We know that he was born blind. But we don’t know how he’s seeing now and we don’t know who made him see. Look, don’t bother us anymore. He’s of age. Ask him.”

            Once again the religious authorities called the man in for questioning. “Give glory to God,” they tell him, “we know that this man is a sinner.” This wasn’t an invitation to praise God for what Jesus had done. It was a warning. This Jesus, this sinner must be denied, and any authority he might have, undermined. But the man refused to back down. He refused to speculate about or categorize Jesus in anyway. 

            “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” 

            This is the beating heart of this entire passage. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see. The man would not let them take that away from him. He would not let his experience of moving from blindness to sight be hijacked to accommodate the power driven agendas of others. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.

            The Pharisees couldn’t accept this. They reviled the man. They accused him of being a disciple of Jesus, a sinner, while they, the good and righteous people, were disciples of Moses. The man didn’t take their bait. He even took them to task for their lack of understanding. 

            “Here is an astonishing thing! You do not know where he comes from and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to the one who worships him and obeys his will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could nothing.”

            For the Pharisees, that was the final straw. This man born of sin would not, could not teach them anything! How dare he?! They drove him out of the synagogue and out of the fellowship of the worshipping community. 

            At this point Jesus returns to the scene. We haven’t seen him since he gave the man back his sight. When Jesus heard that the man was driven out of the synagogue, he went looking for him. Jesus asked the man one question, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” The man born blind only wanted to know the identity of the Son of Man, so that he may worship him. Jesus answers, “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he.” With that, the man believed.  

            A fellow pastor remarked that in this entire story, every person involved with the man objectifies him. They treated him as a thing to be argued over, fought over, used. Jesus was the only one who saw him as an individual, who through no fault of his own or anyone else, was blind. Jesus gave this man, this individual, this unique creation of God, his sight. And from this powerful experience, the man believed in Jesus as the Son of God, the Son of Man. 

            One thing I do know that though I was blind, now I see. 

            No one was able to take that experience away from him. No one could convince him that what he knew was false or delusional. It was real. Now I see.

            And not only did he see in the physiological sense. He saw the truth of Jesus, his full identity. He saw the Messiah standing in front of him and believed. But the righteous people, the people who had never spent a day without sight could not see. They may have been able to pass an eye exam on the first try, but they were blind. They could not see nor accept what was right before their eyes: Jesus, the Son of Man; the Son of God. 

How are we blind? While I would rather relate to the man who could see both physically and the glory of God in Jesus, I know that I am really more like the Pharisees. I see what I want to. More accurately, I don’t see what I don’t want to. How quickly I find myself stuck in the groove of my own righteousness. I think that I know what’s true and what isn’t. But when I read this story, I get a glimpse of another truth. I may be able to see, but I can also be blind. Blind to the revelation of God’s glory because it sometimes appears in ways and in people I don’t like.  I’m blind because the glory of God Jesus reveals can break the rules that I insist are absolute. I’m blind because encountering Jesus in a way I’m unprepared for scares and challenges me. Clinging to my spiritual blindness keeps me from realizing that I must change, that I need transformation. So, I ask the question again, how are we blind?

As we continue to walk through this season of Lent, reading the stories of God’s revelation through Jesus the Son, may our eyes be opened to God’s glory in the people around us. May we see, even that which we would rather not see. May we let go of the blindness that clouds our hearts and minds and see all people as God sees them, with grace and mercy and abiding love. And as we draw closer to Good Friday, may we also proclaim, “One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” Now I see. Let us celebrate and rejoice.

Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”

 

 

 

 

 

           

Give Me a Drink -- Third Sunday in Lent

John 4:5-42

March 8, 2026

 

            When Brent and I were dating, he told me that when we don’t allow someone to do something kind for us, to do something generous for us, to help us in some way, that we deny that other person a blessing. Letting someone else help us, letting someone else do something kind for us is making room for that person to receive a blessing along with the blessing we receive from being helped.

            Some of you may remember when I broke my right wrist three years ago. When you lose the use of a limb, asking for help at times becomes necessary. This was a hard lesson for me to learn, and I had to relearn that when I broke this wrist in 2023. I had to relearn that because, unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time I broke it. I broke the same wrist back when Phoebe and Zach were in early elementary school. With that break, I required surgery, followed by a eight weeks wearing an intense cast with an external fixator to keep the bone in place.  

            I went back to the pulpit about a week after my surgery. I wasn’t allowed to drive, so I was grateful that my parents lived nearby because my dad drove me everywhere. My parents drove me to church that first Sunday back in the pulpit – and for many Sundays after – and after church we went out to eat. I was in a lot of pain, and I was worn out from preaching and leading worship that morning. I started to feel sick and woozy. I needed to go home, so my family dropped me off at the house and then took the kids for a while to give me some quiet time. I knew that I would need to take a pain pill when I got home, but I didn’t consider the fact that I would not be able to open the pill bottle by myself. I tried everything I could think of to open that bottle. I tried to brace it against the counter and open it with my left hand. That didn’t work. I tried to wrench open the top with my teeth. I realized the only thing that would do was break a tooth. I even thought about stomping the pill bottle with my foot, but that would create a mess I didn’t want to clean up. I needed help. This was in the days before everyone had cell phones, so I couldn’t reach my parents because they were still out, away from their landline. I tried my next door neighbor. They weren’t home. The ground was covered in snow and ice, so was afraid to walk around looking for someone and risk falling again. Then I thought about our friends who lived on the street behind us. Maybe someone was home at their house. I called and Ericka, my dear friend, answered. By this time I was in so much pain, I was getting sick. I was crying from pain and frustration. I was embarrassed. When she answered, all I could say was, “Ericka, I need help.”

            She was at our house in a matter of minutes. She got me my medication. She got me water. She helped me get settled. She offered to get me anything else I needed. She offered to stay with me. I told her I would be fine and thank you and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry for calling her, for bothering her. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t do for myself. She kindly but firmly told me to knock all that mess off. She was glad to help, and I would have done the same for her. And I would have. But that didn’t make asking for help any easier. Yet, when we deny someone the chance to help us we deny them a blessing.

            I wonder if Jesus knew when he sat down by that well that he would have an opportunity to give a blessing to someone else. I don’t know. John’s gospel implies that Jesus knows what and why he’s doing something at all times. So, maybe he knew this Samaritan woman would come along or maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. What I do know is that Jesus needed help.

            The sun at noon would have been scorching. We know from the text that Jesus was tired from his journey, which is why he stopped and rested by Jacob’s well. His thirst must have been intense, and it could also have been dangerous. Dehydration could happen fast, and it was not something you took lightly. Jesus needed help.

            But he was at the well at the wrong time of day. Carrying buckets of water was labor intensive; most women would go to the well early in the morning to get their water for the day, rather than wait until noon when the heat was at its most intense. But as Jesus was resting there, a Samaritan woman came to draw water from the well.

            Jesus needed help. He needed water and he asked for it. This woman saw a stranger. The text does not say that she draws water for him, but we can assume that she did. But she does not do it without asking this question.

            “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”

            Jews and Samaritans were bitter enemies. Their enmity was centuries old and deep-rooted in both cultures. That enmity is why Jesus’ parable about a Samaritan helping a man robbed and beaten by the side of the road was so scandalous and shocking to its original audience. Jews and Samaritans were bitter enemies.

            But Jesus needed help. When he spoke to this woman, when he asked her to give him water, the fact that he was in Samaria at all, was crossing boundaries and lines that were not supposed to be crossed. He was a man alone speaking to a woman alone. He was a Jew speaking to a Samaritan. The woman understood all this, which is why she asks her question of him. Why was he, a Jew, speaking to her, a woman of Samaria?

            Jesus responds to her question in typical Johannine fashion.

            “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

            The woman takes Jesus’ words literally at first. You don’t have a bucket. The well is deep. You asked me for water, but you want to give me living water. Where would you get this water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob?

            But Jesus’s response reveals the deeper meaning to his words. Everyone who drinks from this well will be thirsty again. But those who drink from the living water that I offer will never be thirsty. The water that I offer becomes a gushing spring of eternal life in those who drink it.

            The woman still thinks he is offering her literal water. Sir, please give me this living water, so that I don’t have to keep coming back to this well. Give me this water so I don’t have to carry these heavy buckets anymore.

            This is the moment when all the preconceived notions and interpretive misunderstandings about this passage and this woman kick in. Jesus tells the woman to go and call her husband and bring him back with her. But the woman responds that she has no husband. Jesus says,

            “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true.”

            This statement of Jesus, this moment, has influenced centuries of misinterpretation. This woman has had five husbands and now she is currently living with a man who is not her husband. That must mean that she is a fallen woman! That must mean that she is a terrible sinner and an outcast among outcasts. But is Jesus condemning her? Is he calling her a sinner in need of forgiveness? There is nothing in the text to suggest that. He is just stating a fact about her. She has had five husbands and she is living with a man who is not her husband. If there is condemnation there, it is because we have added it.

            This woman, like every other woman in that time and place, would have had not control over her marital status. It is possible that she was married to five brothers in secession, each one dying and passing her to the next brother. This was a condition of the Levirate law. Perhaps she was divorced from one of these husbands, but that divorce would have happened to her. She could not have instigated a divorce. And there is nothing in the text to suggest that she was living with a man who was not her husband for an immoral or sinful reason. It was quite possible that she was living with a man for protection. A woman was vulnerable. And a woman had little or no power. Men and marriage were protection.

            All we know at this moment is that Jesus shows the woman that he knows her. He knows her life. He knows her story. He is, as preacher and teacher Fred Craddock said, alerting her that in meeting him she is encountering the transcendent. He is alerting her to the truth of him by telling her truth. She is encountering the transcendent, and he offers her living water. He offers her salvation. He is the messiah that the woman says she knows will come.

            What the woman does next is powerful. She leaves her water. She runs back to the city, calling the people to “come and see,” just as the first disciples did just a few chapters earlier. Come and see this man who told me everything about my life. Come and see this man who knows me. He cannot be the Messiah, can he? Come and see.

            And the people believed her! She was not dismissed or ignored. Her words and her witness were not written off as “an idle tale,” as we read in Luke’s gospel when the women tell the disciples about the risen Lord. The people believed the woman and they believed in Jesus. They went to see Jesus for themselves, and they invited him to stay with them for two days. They got their own taste of the living water and they believed.

            Jesus needed help. He asked for help. In asking the Samaritan woman for help, he violated social mores and crossed social and religious boundaries that were not supposed to be crossed. But Jesus also opened the door for that woman to receive a blessing and to be a blessing – to him and to everyone with whom she shared the good news. She was a helper and she was helped.

            How often do I read these stories from scripture seeing myself only as a helper, only as the person on the top, only as one who is called to serve and not the one who is served? And yet Jesus repeatedly and without fear or shame willingly shows his vulnerability. Jesus is fully human and to be fully human is to be vulnerable. To be human is to need help, to ask for help. Jesus needed help. He needed water, and he asked for it. And blessing upon blessing upon blessing ensued. It sounds so simple, but it must not be because so many of us have a hard time asking for help.

            Maybe because we think that asking for help makes us look weak or needy. Maybe asking for help reminds us of our vulnerability, and that scares us. Yet Jesus was not afraid to ask for help. Jesus was not afraid to be vulnerable. To ask for help is to open the door for blessing – for the person helped and the person doing the helping.

            In this season of Lent, we are reminded of our vulnerability. We are reminded of our humanity. We are reminded that we all need help. And I think, if we allow ourselves to be helped, we are better helpers as well. If we allow ourselves to be helped, we give blessings as well as receive them. If we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, to be fully human, than we might be able to see the humanity in others, even those who are supposed to be our enemies.

            May we be helper and helped. May we be blessing and blessed. May we be willing to ask for help, to ask for a drink of water.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

For the Whole World -- Second Sunday in Lent

John 3:1-17

March 1, 2026

 

            If I were asked to recite a Bible verse when I was a kid, I would quickly and confidently say, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes him may not perish but may have eternal life.” Only, I said, “believeth” and “shall not” and “shall” because back then I only knew the King James version of the Good Book.

            I knew John 3:16 like the back of my hand. I could repeat it all day and night. It was the one verse of the Bible that I really knew and thought I understood. But it wasn’t until many years later that I paid as much attention to the story around this beloved verse as I did to the verse itself. It wasn’t until many years later that I read more thoroughly the story that verse 16 is centered in. It is about a pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews, coming to Jesus by night. These verses include Jesus’ word to Nicodemus that “ no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Born from above is also translated as “born again.” The concept of being born again has become a cultural and theological lightning rod, and that lightning rod is also why I feel a tremor of dread whenever this story rolls around in the lectionary.

            Being “born again” is not just a reference to this story from John’s gospel. It is an identity marker for groups of believers under the larger umbrella of Christianity. People identify themselves as “Born Again Christians.” For the people I know who identify this way, that means that they can name a date and a time and a place when they accepted Jesus into their hearts, when they were saved. For many people, not all, this means that to be a true Christian, to be a true believer, you must be able to do that, to name a date and time and place. For some folks, if you want to be a card carrying Christian, then you must be born again. That is not my belief. That is not me. I do not identify as born again. I cannot name one date or time or place when I have recognized God’s presence and pull in my life. I can name several. Being born again is not my litmus test for faith.

            Please do not misunderstand me. I am not critiquing born again Christians for this. That is their expression of faith and I respect them for it. It’s just not mine. But that doesn’t mean that I, and others who are not born again, don’t have our own litmus tests for our faith. I believe it was Martin Luther who called John 3:16, “the heart of the Bible, the Gospel in miniature.” Essayist and theologian, Debie Thomas, referred to this verse as “Christianity in a nutshell.”

            And I would agree with her statement. This verse is the condensed gospel, and if we just assent to it, agree with it, accept it, then we get what it means to be followers of Christ. If you want to be a card carrying Christian, then all you need to do is state John 3:16. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

            But I am beginning to wonder if trying to narrow the gospel to one verse or one idea is correct. Let’s look at the larger story surrounding verse 16. Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night. He comes in darkness. Light and dark as metaphors is a predominant theme in John’s gospel. Darkness is not just the physical darkness we experience when the sun goes down. We live lives of darkness, we live in darkness, when we cannot or will not accept the Light that God offers through Jesus. To live in the light of God through Jesus is to live abundant lives. So, when Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night, he is coming to Jesus from that metaphorical darkness as well as physical darkness.

            Nicodemus recognizes something of God in Jesus. He calls him, “Rabbi.” He tells him that they know he is a teacher who has come from God. No one can do the signs and things that Jesus is doing without being from God, without the presence of God. But what was Nicodemus after? What did he want to know? Did he want Jesus to tell him plainly that, yes, Nicodemus was spot on when he recognized Jesus was from God? Jesus was absolutely from God. Did Nicodemus desire simple reassurance, a statement of fact, that he could then take back to the others?

            If that’s what Nicodemus wanted, he didn’t get it because Jesus answers him not with plain speech as we might understand it, but with mystery.

            “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

            Born from above or born anew or born again. You can hear the incredulity in Nicodemus’ response back to Jesus.

            “How can anyone be born after growing old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”

            Nicodemus is speaking literally, because he is taking Jesus literally. If we were to put this into more contemporary language, I could hear Nicodemus saying, “What are you talking about, Jesus? What are you talking about being born from above or born anew? How can you be born when you’ve already been born? How can somebody be born again after they’re grown up and old? Nobody can return to the womb. Nobody can go through the process of birth a second time.”

            But Jesus is not speaking of literal birth. Jesus is speaking of the Spirit. “Listen to me, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit. When someone or something is born of flesh, they are flesh. But when someone is born of Spirit, they are Spirit. Don’t be surprised by this. You don’t know where the wind blows or where it comes from, but you don’t question it. It just is. That’s the way of the Spirit.”

            If I had been Nicodemus, I probably would not have had such a literate response as Nicodemus did. Nicodemus asks Jesus how all this can be? I would have just said, “What?” That is my response whenever I read this story “What?”

            Jesus tells Nicodemus that the folks who don’t believe him when he speaks of earthly things, things of flesh, then how can they believe or get it when he speaks of heavenly things. Jesus is speaking of mystery here, the mystery of God, the mystery of the Spirit. It seems to me that he is speaking to Nicodemus in this way not to confuse or misdirect him, but because there is so much more to heaven and earth, of God, than any of us can possibly understand or grasp or get our heads around. But what it comes down to is that God loves the world. And because God loves the world, God’s Son came into the world not to condemn it but to save it. Moses lifted up the serpent on a stick to heal the people in the wilderness. And the Son will be lifted up so that the people who believe in him can be saved as well.

            See! There it is! There is Martin Luther’s gospel in miniature! There is Thomas’s Christianity in a nutshell! For God so loved the world. Jesus came for the world. Just believe this and we will all be fine. Ha!

            Except … here’s the thing, Thomas writes that when we reduce our faith down, even with the best of intentions, we also reduce the mystery. God cannot be contained in one verse or one idea. Being born again is of great importance to the believers who adhere to that concept. But God is not contained in that. For God so loved the world that he sent his only Son to save it not condemn it is a source of the greatest comfort and hope to me, but God is not limited to John 3:16.

            Nicodemus wanted plain speech, but Jesus responded with mystery. Jesus responded with the knowledge that God is bigger and wider and deeper and just more than one idea or one understanding can hold. God is more. God is more than what we can imagine. God is more than the images we place upon him. Let’s be honest, to some degree, in some form or fashion, we all try to create God in our own image. But God is more. And trying to grasp the idea that God is more than we can comprehend or understand or hold onto might be why we reduce God and the gospel down to one verse or one understanding or one way of being. We try to reduce God down to a date or time or place because we need a God that we can hang onto, and yet as Jesus tells Nicodemus, God is more.

            Maybe that’s what it really means to be born from above, to be born anew and again. Living into the mystery of God, the Son, and the Spirit, is allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. And what is more vulnerable than a newborn? A baby is helpless and completely dependent on those around her for her care and protection. A newborn is utterly dependent. To be born again is to be vulnerable, to be completely dependent on God, to put one’s whole trust in God and God’s care.

            And what about the word believe in verse 16. In Thomas’s essay, she refers to Diana Butler Bass. Butler Bass pointed out that our word believe comes from the German word belieben, which is translated as “to love.” When we believe in God, we don’t just intellectually assent, we love. We love. We trust. We believe. For God so loved the world, the whole world, God so loved the people we understand and the people we don’t, the people who look like us and think like us and act like us and the people who don’t. For God so loved the whole world, and we are called to believe, to love in response.

            In this season of Lent, maybe one of the things we need to let go of us is our need to narrow God down to one way of being, to one way of thinking and understanding. Maybe in this season, we need to let the mystery of God wash over us and envelop us and lead us. Maybe we need to be like Abram and go, not because we understand but because we trust, because we believe, because we love.

            Let all of God’s children, in fact the whole world that God loves, say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

The Tempter Comes -- First Sunday in Lent

Matthew 4:1-11

February 22, 2026

 

            “The Devil went down to Georgia; he was looking for a soul to steal. He was in a bind, cause he was way behind and he was willing to make a deal. When he came across this young man sawing on a fiddle and playing it hot, and the Devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said, ‘Boy let me tell you what.’ I guess you didn’t know it, but I’m a fiddle player too. And if you’d care to take a dare, I’ll make a bet with you. Now you play pretty good fiddle boy but give the devil his due. I’ll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, cause I think I’m better than you.’”

            Charlie Daniels’ hit, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” was released in May, 1979, and as far as my memory serves, it hit big. I don’t remember listening to a lot of country music at that stage in my life, but that song was everywhere on just about every radio station I had access to. I knew that song, and so did all my friends. I remember sitting on the steps of Blair School of Music in Nashville with a young guy about my age. We were both waiting for our parents to pick us up after our piano lessons, and we spoke/sang “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

            The next year, my freshmen year of high school, the entry into the one act play contest was “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” and I attended every performance of that show that I could. I had grown up hearing the phrase, “The devil made me do it.” I had seen images of a person trying to decide right from wrong with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, both trying to lead the person down their particular path of either good or evil. I grew up seeing the Underwood Deviled Ham cans that bore – and still bear – the logo of the devil with horns, a pitchfork, and a tail so long that it wraps around the image in a circle. Lyrics about the devil and a young fiddle playing boy named Johnny made for great music. I had grown up hearing about the disaster that Adam and Eve brought on themselves and the world when they listened to the snake in the garden, and I definitely knew about the fire and brimstone of hell from my fire and brimstone preaching grandfather.

            The point of all this is that images of the devil were common in my life and in the culture, more common than I realized. I knew the devil was someone to be avoided. Hell was not where you wanted to end up, and when it came to temptation you just had to listen to the angel on your shoulder. I didn’t really think a lot about the devil or the temptation he brought, and I always believed that when it came to choosing between what was wrong versus what was right, that the choice would be obvious. I thought that the real temptations of life would show up in the big choices, and those I was pretty sure I could spot. My real fear of the devil was the punishment that he would wreak on anyone who did end up in hell after they died. I didn’t spend much time thinking about the temptations he offered in life.

            But it is temptation that we wrestle with each year on this first Sunday of Lent. We wrestle with it throughout this season. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all offer their own versions of Jesus facing temptation in the wilderness, and today we also revisit Adam and Eve and the talking snake in the Garden of Eden.

            Tradition and our translation of scripture dictate that Eve is the one who is originally tempted, then she in turn tempts her husband. That tradition has not served Eve or women in general well. But the Hebrew offers a contradiction to traditional interpretation. The conversation we read in Genesis may have been between Eve and the serpent, but the grammar asserts that Adam was there as well, a silent, complicit partner in all that happened.

            Adam and Eve eat of the forbidden fruit; they give into temptation and everything changes. They are forced to leave the garden; their idyllic existence is disrupted and their relationship with each other and with God is changed forever.

            That is one powerful story about temptation. Yet, we also have the gospel story. Here is another story of temptation, only this time it is Jesus who is tempted.

            Jesus has just been baptized by John in the river Jordan. And now he has been led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights and afterwards he is famished.

            And it is then, when he was at his most vulnerable, that the tempter appears. After that long without food, it is an understatement on Matthew’s part to say that Jesus was famished. He must have been weak with hunger. He was weak with the kind of hunger that would make most of us vulnerable and desperate for any sustenance someone offered. The tempter appearing at this exact moment can’t be coincidence. Temptation is at its strongest when we are at our weakest.

            The tempter comes to Jesus at his weakest. His first temptation is to offer Jesus bread. The word translated as “if” here would be better translated as “since.” The tempter is not trying to throw Jesus’ relationship with God into question. He is trying to find cracks in that relationship.

            “Since you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”

            Jesus answers him with scripture, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

            Then the devil transports him from the wilderness to the holy city and places him on the summit of the temple. Looking down across the multitudes, the devil says, “Since you are the Son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, and on their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.”

            Jesus returns scripture for scripture, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

            Then in the final temptation, the tempter takes Jesus to a high mountain and shows him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. 

“All these I will give you,” he says, “if you will fall down and worship me.”

            Jesus commands, “Away with you, Satan! Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.”

            At this the tempter leaves and angels appear to wait upon Jesus.

            If you think about it, all these temptations sound … good. Turning stones into loaves of bread. Think of the poor that Jesus could feed. Throwing himself down from the pinnacle of the temple and having angels bear him up. Surely that would be a miracle that could convince even the most skeptical of skeptics. Having power over all the kingdoms in the world? We must believe that Jesus would govern them with justice and mercy.

            Real temptation often tempts us to do what we think is good and right for others as well as for ourselves. My internship supervisor once told me that true temptation does not come to us as darkness, it comes to us as light. Temptation slips in under the guise of good.

            But the tricky thing about temptation is that what seems good now may not be so good in the long run. Jesus understands this and turns the tempter on his head.

            Yet later in his ministry Jesus does some things very close to what the tempter offered. He takes loaves and fishes enough for just a few and feeds thousands. He walks across the water as a sign of his divinity. And certainly, we believe him to be the true ruler of all that is in heaven and on earth. So why was this time in the wilderness seen as temptation? Maybe because as I said before, the tempter wanted sever the relationship between Jesus and God. He was trying to weaken it, to distract Jesus from his obedience to God.

            If we think about it, the temptation the tempter offers when he comes to the garden and to the wilderness is power. Think about what he offered Adam and Eve. Power. Power to be like God. If they were like God, knowing good from evil, then they wouldn’t need God anymore. They wouldn’t need to rely on God. They could rely on themselves and they would be just fine. It wasn’t about eating some forbidden fruit, it was about power.

            And what about Jesus and power? Our theological claim is that God is all powerful, omnipotent, completely in control, and if God is this then surely his Son must be as well. I’m not saying that all of the above isn’t true, but it seems to me that Jesus turned our notions of power upside down again and again. Jesus did feed a multitude of people, but if he used his power to do that it was not to feed himself but to feed others. Jesus did not exhibit his power for the sake of spectacle but for the purpose of call and trust. And finally, when Jesus could have used his power to walk away from a criminal’s death, he chose death. There is no greater example of relinquishing power that I can think of then Jesus going to the cross.

            When the tempter comes to Jesus in the wilderness, he offers him the kind of power that we understand. But Jesus turns the tables on him by claiming the power of God that we can barely wrap our imaginations around. Jesus makes it clear to the tempter that he underestimates the true power of God.

            The tempter’s temptation to Adam, to Eve, and to Jesus is power. If you trust me, you will have power. You will be like God. Adam and Eve can’t resist that. And they give into temptation. Jesus is God, but Jesus is also human, and I believe that his temptation was real, bitterly, vividly real. How much did it cost him in that moment of vulnerability to say, “no”? I suspect it cost him more than we can realize. But Jesus knew that the tempter’s offer of power was a way to distract him from his ministry and from his purpose. Jesus knew that the real power lay in becoming powerless.

            Temptation in the guise of good. Temptation in the guise of power. Temptation to think that we can be like God and that we don’t need God. That is the true temptation. When I look back over my life, I know that the times when I have really messed up, when I have given into temptation and experienced the consequences have been when I have thought that I knew better than God. I’m grateful that I have survived those consequences and hopefully learned from them. This season of Lent offers us a vivid reminder that the opposite is true. We are not God. We are tempted and we fail. We choose what we think is good only to discover that it was otherwise. That is part of the messiness of being human. And Jesus experienced that messiness too. Jesus was fully human. He understood our frailty because he lived it.

            But Jesus kept walking toward God, walking with God. He knew that power was not something to be grabbed but something to give up. And the good news is that we can learn that lesson. The good news is that we have the same ability to see through the tempter just as Jesus did. The good news is that we are not God and we don’t have to be. So in this season of Lent, let’s just keep walking trusting that God is walking with us. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

           

Through the Dust -- Ash Wednesday

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17/II Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

February 18, 2026

 

            In this month’s issue of The Christian Century, editor and publisher, Peter W. Marty, briefly tells the story of Bette Nesmith Graham. You may not have heard her name before, but you have probably seen her invention – Liquid Paper. If you are old enough to remember working on a typewriter rathe than a computer, you have probably used Liquid Paper to correct mistakes or typos.

            Graham was a single mother and painter in Texas. To support her child and herself, she worked as a secretary at a bank in the 1950’s. She was an artist not a typist, so it is not surprising that she made mistakes in her work. Again, if you have ever used a typewriter, you know that fixing errors is challenging. Graham realized that painters did not try to erase their mistakes on canvas. They just painted over them. So, she took a fast drying white tempera paint and would spend her evenings experimenting with mixing the paint and other substances, such as starch and resin, to make a liquid that could cover typos and dry fast. Liquid Paper. A mistake that she didn’t catch cost her the secretary job, but she went on to launch a multi-million dollar business instead.

As an aside, when I first read Marty’s column I thought that Graham’s story sounded familiar. But it wasn’t until I focused on the name Nesmith that I figured it out. Brent told me this story from the perspective of her son, Michael, or as some us know him, Mike. Mike Nesmith, one of the four members of the group The Monkees. In fact he was my favorite Monkee.

            However, back to Bette Nesmith Graham, Marty writes that it would be good if the inspiration of Graham’s Liquid Paper “could somehow translate into a similar invention for fixing our moral and spiritual lives.” How much easier would it be if we could swipe spiritual Liquid Paper over our mistakes, our errors, our flaws, and our foibles? How much better would it be if we could cover up our sin with a supernatural brush? But as Marty indicates, covering up our offenses is not the point of the Christian life. And this day, Ash Wednesday, brings that truth into sharp relief.

            I realize that Ash Wednesday as a church holy day is not found in scripture. But confession is. Penitence is. Wearing sackcloth and covering one’s head with ashes is. Ashes are an ancient sign of remorse, regret, and sorrow. Over and over again, through story, through songs, and through the prophetic voice, the people of God are called to pour ashes on their heads to show God, to show others, and to show themselves that they have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. 

            So we observe Ash Wednesday for that same purpose. We wear ashes to show God, to show others, and to show ourselves that we have sinned and fallen short. But this is also why Ash Wednesday is probably not everyone’s favorite day on the church calendar. Our daughter, who has been a participant in many Ash Wednesday services, told me once that she really doesn’t like this day or this service. To her it is depressing and kind of a downer. And I know that Phoebe is not alone in thinking this. Several years ago, I read about a trend that was focused on making this day more palatable, nicer, easier to bear. Glitter was being added to the ashes, so they became more of a cool fashion statement rather than a sign of penitence.

            While that initially sounds kind of cool, the reality is that this day is a day, the day where we are invited to stop fooling ourselves, to stop denying what we have done and what we have left undone. Today we are called to confront ourselves; to see ourselves with blinders off. We are called to face the sins we have committed and the harm we have caused – to others and to ourselves. It’s not comfortable nor is it easy to do this. But, especially as we begin the season of Lent, this season when we walk step by fateful step to the cross, it may just be necessary.

            There is also discomfort around this day because our liturgy and our spiritual practices declare in no uncertain terms that death is the outcome of life. And I realize, the older I get, that denial about death is rampant, in my own life and in others. So, yes, I can see why our daughter and other folks see this service and this day as a downer. It seems to scream, “We are sinners! We will die!”

            But I no longer hear these words as a scream, rant, or wail. I hear them as a statement of fact; and it’s not a fact designed to cause fear, but to turn us around. Ash Wednesday quietly but firmly states that we are sinners and yes we will die. Remember that from dust we came and to dust we will return. But we come to this day and this service so that we can turn around.

            The prophet Joel writes, “Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart.” Return to me with all your heart. Return to me with all your heart. Turn around, turn back, reverse course. It seems that God longs for us to repent of our sins and our misdeeds, our mistakes and our offenses, not because God wants to smash us into oblivion like a supernatural foot stomps out a bug, but because God wants to welcome us back with open arms. But first we must stop kidding ourselves and admit, as the psalmist admits, that we know our transgressions and we know that our sin is ever before us. God wants to, as the psalmist sings, create in us a clean heart and put new and right spirits within us. Ash Wednesday compels us to do just that.

            And it compels us to face our own mortality. It would be easier and less painful to skip over Lent and go right to Easter. It would be easier to overlook the cross and move directly to the empty tomb. But resurrection does not happen without death. New life is born out of dying. And I’m not just referring to life after life, that eternal life that we all look toward someday in the future. The fullness of life in God that Jesus came to bring to fruition happens in the here and now. But we can only make space for that fullness of life when we acknowledge the dust that is our beginning and the dust that is our end.

            I cannot think of how many times I have read about someone diagnosed with a terminal illness who claims that they didn’t begin to fully live until they understood and accepted that they would really die. I don’t want you to think that I am minimizing death or suffering or the grief and the trauma that comes with it. Too many of God’s beloved children die too young. Too many of God’s beloved children suffer needlessly, and needless suffering is just that – needless. God does not glory in that kind of suffering. I’m not asking us to run headlong toward death, just that we bear the truth that it will happen. And that we bear the truth that the suffering of God’s children is too often connected to our corporate sin, to that which we have done and that which we have left undone.

            Tonight we face these two truths: we are sinners and we will die. But even now God is calling us to return to him. Even now God is calling us to rend our hearts. Even now God longs to welcome us home. And when we accept the truth of death, then we can truly live. When we accept the truth of death, we can also see how very beautiful and fragile and awesome this life we have been given is.

            No, this is not a happy go-lucky service of worship. But I am so grateful for its power to help me see more clearly my shortcoming through the lens of God’s grace and my life through the dust. From dust we came and to dust we return. Thanks be to God.

            Amen and amen.

Indescribable Glory -- Transfiguration Sunday

Matthew 17:1-9

February 15, 2026

 

            Our last worship service on my trip to the Middle East took place on the top of a mountain. We had returned to Jordan, and there we drove to the top of Mount Nebo. This is the mountain in the Bible where Moses stood and saw the Promised Land – a land that he would never enter.

            I don’t remember who led us in worship that day, although it was probably our professors leading the trip. I imagine that we heard the reading of scripture, and prayed, and maybe sang a verse or two of a hymn. But what I do remember was standing in a circle and passing the peace of Christ. It was a powerful moment, standing on top of this ancient mountain, sharing the peace of Christ with each other. I was overwhelmed by the whole experience.

I was overwhelmed at being at the top of a mountain. I was overwhelmed at being at the top of that specific mountain. How was it possible that I was standing at the top of Mount Nebo?! Standing on that ancient land, I felt like I had stepped back in time. In that moment, I felt close to every person on that trip with me, and even more, I felt so close to God. I was filled with awe and reverence and joy. It was a mountain top experience, literally.

            The mountain top experience is what we focus on this morning. Today is Transfiguration Sunday – the last Sunday in the season following the Epiphany and the last Sunday before Lent begins. Every year on this Sunday, regardless of whether we are reading from Matthew, Mark, or Luke, we hear the story of Jesus taking Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. When they reach the top, something strange and scary and wonderful happens. Jesus is transfigured before them. Matthew writes that his “face shone like the sun, and this clothes became dazzling white.”

            It must have seemed like a dream to the disciples. One minute they were looking at their rabbi, their teacher, Jesus. The next minute he was changed, glowing, dazzling, shining, covered in an indescribable glory. And just when it couldn’t get any weirder, it did. Moses and Elijah appeared with him. We don’t know if they were glowing and shining like Jesus was, but they were in conversation with him. Peter being Peter, he needed to say something, to do something. So he speaks up and says,

            “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

            But before he could finish saying those words, a bright cloud enveloped them. And from that cloud they heard a voice saying,

            “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

            And with that the disciples fell to the ground overcome and overwhelmed by fear.

            Each of the gospel accounts of this story is remarkably similar, but Matthew adds a detail that Mark and Luke do not. When the disciples are cowering on the ground in terror, Jesus comes and touches them. We don’t know if he lays a hand on their shoulders or on their heads, but he touches them and says,

            “Get up and do not be afraid.”

            With those words, the disciples, perhaps still trembling, raise their heads and it is just the four of them once again. Jesus is no longer shining. Moses and Elijah are gone. The cloud and the voice are gone. Their world, as they knew it, has returned. Then they go back the way they came, back down the mountain, and Jesus tells them to keep this to themselves until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.

            This is Transfiguration Sunday, and I will be honest that I kind of dread this Sunday all year long. It’s not because I feel antipathy toward the Transfiguration itself, it’s just that I think I have run out of ideas about how to preach it. What do we do with this story? What does it mean for us today? I have spent countless hours trying to find analogies for the transfiguration. I have spilled countless words trying to describe a glory that is indescribable. And still, I don’t really know what to do with this.

            Theologian and essayist Debie Thomas, writes that she doesn’t really like Transfiguration Sunday. She grew up believing that the mountaintop experience of faith, of which the transfiguration story is the greatest illustration, was something that she should have on a regular basis. And because she didn’t have mountaintop experiences on a regular basis, that must mean that she was a spiritual failure. It must mean that her faith wasn’t good enough or strong enough or fervent enough. God is present on the mountain and therefore we should always seek him on the mountain, and Thomas fears that this kind of theology is spiritually addicting. If we are always seeking out the mountaintop experiences, we forget that God is also in the valley. God is also present in the ordinary, the everyday, in the small, daily tasks, the small daily moments.

            And Thomas points out that the disciples must have felt this too, because Peter’s words about building dwellings are his way of trying to contain the glory they are witnessing. He is trying to hold onto it, box it up, make it manageable. But the glory that was made visible on that mountain is anything but manageable. That glory is not something that can be contained or boxed or held onto. It can’t be made small. It can’t be made safe.

            There is nothing safe about what happens on this mountain. I think the disciples witness something far stranger than Jesus suddenly shining. They get a glimpse of him in his full divinity. They witness a moment when the line between earth and heaven is blurred. They see not only the world as they know it but the world to come, the world as it should be. They see Jesus talking with two of the great figures of their faith, Moses and Elijah. They hear the voice of God from a cloud. There is nothing safe about any of it, so I understand Peter wanting to make it manageable, wanting to make it contained and controllable. There is nothing safe about it, and I think it’s good that the disciples – and we – are reminded of that. It’s okay that we can’t contain or describe the indescribable.

            But that doesn’t make the valley any easier either. It doesn’t make the ordinary any safer or easier. And it does not mean that God is any less present in the valley than God is on the mountain. Our lives are not grouped into two different categories – sacred and secular. The sacred is not reserved solely for the mountaintop. Our most ordinary moments are infused with the sacred too, and it is reassuring to remember that.

            Maybe that’s what the disciples needed most on that mountaintop. Reassurance. Maybe they needed to be reassured that when they left the mountaintop and went back down to the valley, back down to the people, the struggles, the daily grind, the ordinary, that God was with them in all of it, through all of it. Maybe they needed reassurance because what lay ahead was going to be so much harder than what they had experienced so far. What they were going to see and experience and witness was more than they could imagine even though Jesus was trying to tell them what was to come. The six days before that this story begins with refers to Jesus telling them openly that he would suffer and die and be raised again.

            So, the road they were called to follow in the valley promised to be difficult; perhaps more difficult than any road they had traveled down so far. And they needed courage to face it. They needed reassurance that God was with them. They needed to hear the words, “do not be afraid.”

            I think we need those words, that reassurance as well. We are about to enter the season of Lent once more. It is the season where we are called to pay attention to each step we take, to look long and hard at the valley we walk through, to understand that it is our time symbolically, figuratively, and sometimes literally, to walk through our own wilderness just as Jesus walked through his.

            And we need reassurance for the days ahead; the days of Lent and every day beyond that. We need to have a glimpse of a glory that defies logic, reason, our senses, and our vocabulary. We need to be reminded once again not to be afraid. There is so much in our lives, in our world that makes us afraid, so many circumstances that sends our fear soaring, but Jesus told the disciples and he tells us to not be afraid. Do not be afraid because Jesus, God’s beloved, is with us. Do not be afraid whether it is in the face of this indescribable glory on this mountaintop or in the face of all that we encounter in the valley below. Do not be afraid. Listen to Jesus. Listen to God’s beloved. Listen to him and let go of our fear. It’s time to walk back down the mountain to face whatever waits for us in the valley below but remember that God is with us. God is with us on the mountaintop or in the valley, in the extraordinary or in the ordinary, in times of joy, in times of struggle and hardship and loss, God is with us. God is with us, and the glory of that truth, the joy of that good news is indescribable indeed. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.