Those who have been called from tombs . . .

    Most weeks, I am thrilled that I get two opportunities to preach.  More often than not, the first sermon is tweaked by those who attend the service and greatly improves the sermon for the second service.  This week, I seem to have needed three chances to get it right.  In my defense, it gets hammered into us during homiletics classes, and books on preaching, that we should never ever preach on ourselves.  Preaching is meant to teach the lesson and give examples of application in the world around us.  Preachers who focus on themselves run the risk of convincing themselves, and their audience, that Jesus is not sufficient.  So, when the opportunity presents itself for me to preach about something I did, I always just find another reading.  The problem this week is that I was certain I was supposed to be preaching on Mary’s anointing of Jesus’ feet.  Truthfully, the problem was that the only real sermon illustration of which I could think involved me, and I really did not want to confuse myself or you.

     Thankfully and mercifully, I had this third service at the Fountains today.  We are usually an intimate group, and y’all as sermon hearers, are very experienced.  Euphemistically, we would say you are mature.  I know, most of you don’t speak euphemistically any more.  Each of you is old enough to have seen and heard it all, so I don’t think I will be endangering your souls by mistakenly convincing you that you should place your trust in me instead of our Lord Christ.  Good.  I see the nods.  I have nothing about which to worry.

     My other problem is the fact that, in an effort to avoid preaching about one of my experiences, I ran the risk of preaching a horrible moralistic sermon.  A horrible moralistic sermon on Joh’s reading would be something along the lines of Be like Mary; don’t be like Judas!  It sounds good at first, right?  But as you chew on it, there really is no Gospel in such a sermon.  Our salvation is dependent upon us.  We have to be like somebody and not be like somebody else.  What a horrible burden!  How long does it take most of us to sin?  Since I have to drive home from here, I will be lucky if I make it thirty minutes, given the wonderfully safe driving habits of those in Nashville traffic.  If it is up to me to be like someone else, or not be like someone else, I am screwed!  Why even bother?!

     Some years ago, when I was in my last parish, I was summoned to the hospital in the middle of the night.  I feel like this was when I had a flip phone, but I know it was before smart phones were a thing, or at least a thing that I owned.  But, Fr. Darrin was on vacation.  He had asked if I would cover emergencies while he was gone.  I had, of course, agreed.  So, I received a call from a nurse at Genesis West, asking if I could come quickly to the hospital to give last rites to a man from Darrin’s church who was dying.  An aneurism had burst in Gib’s brain, and he was not going to survive the night.  I got the room number and hopped up, assuming time was of the essence.

     I drove down Grand Avenue to the hospital, went in through the emergency room entrance, grabbed an elevator, and headed up to the room, armed with my oil and my BCP.  I talked to his soon-to-be-widow to explain who I was.  I had put on what I had put in the laundry basket at bedtime, so there was no clergy shirt or collar to signify to her who I was.  I explained that the hospital had called and that Fr. Darrin knew I would be filling in for him in emergencies such as this.  I asked the man’s name and got ready to read the rite from the Ministration at the Time of Death.  In the course of our quick conversation, she had shared that they were big fans of Rite 1 rather than Rite 2, so I knew I would be using the language of Thee, Thou, and vouchsafe.

     I had my book opened to page 462 and was ready to pray the rite . . . and I could not talk.  Now, I have been coming here a couple years, but only once a month.  Except for Bobbie, y’all don’t know me that well.  Me not being able to speak is, itself, a wonder and a sign, right Bobbie?  Seriously, I am more like the donkey in Shrek—the real trick is getting him to shut up.  But here I was unable to read the words in front of me.

     God I tried.

     I tried so hard to read those words.  And I could not make a sound.

     After what seemed like minutes but was likely only seconds, the wrestling match began.  I had a compulsion to pray for Gib’s healing.  I had seen the pictures of the bleeder.  Though I was not a doctor and was sleeping in my own bed rather than a bed at Holiday Inn Express, the picture was fairly clear.  The balloon of blood had popped, and blood was surrounding Gib’s brain.

     What caused my wrestling with God was the false hope I would give his soon-to-be widow.  Gib was in his nineties, and she was in her eighties.  Death was inevitable.  There was no way for doctors and nurses to get to the bleeder and save him in time, even if it was in an easily accessible place.  This was in his brain.  Who knows what they would hurt trying to get to it?!

     After a few moments of wrestling with God, I said fine, I’ll do it.  But this was on Him.  I did not want to pray this prayer forming in my mind.  I was not going to be responsible for giving this soon-to-be widow false hope.  But I could not read the BCP aloud.

     So I apologized to her.  I can still see the confusion and worry on her face at my words.  I told her I could not read the BCP words, that I thought I had a compulsion from the Holy Spirit to say what was about to come out of my mouth.  I was so sorry.  I was so sorry for what I was about to do, but I could not do what I wanted to do, what she wanted me to do.

     And I prayed a glorious prayer of manifestation, during that night during the season of Epiphany, that God would show His healing power to all those in the hospital, that all would know where true healing was to be found.  It was truly almost an out of body experience.  One of the great things about being an Episcopal priest is that we have a prayer for that, whatever that is.  I don’t have to make up holy sounding, articulate, and doctrinally sound prayers on the spot, as some other pastors do.  This prayer was so good, I even prayed not for his widow’s sake or his or even mine, but for those who would see and come to believe.  All of this is to say that, at 2:30 or 3am in the morning, while standing bedside with a member of another flock, I had not composed that prayer beforehand.

     As I was praying over Gib, he sat up and said “Who the hell are you?  Where am I?  Where’s the bathroom?  I gotta go pee.”

     Now, watching the emotions crossing your faces, this requires a bit of scene setting.  I did not realize what had happened.  I know it sounds silly looking back on it, but all I could think of was the danger.  It could not be good for Gib to try and walk to the bathroom with a burst aneurism.  My fears were exacerbated when he tried to get up.  He tried to shove me aside to get up and go pee.  His wife did the only thing she could.  She tried to lay down on him and hold him on the bed.  God, he was pissed! (no pun intended)  He was convinced she had lost her mind.  I knew she had; but I knew she had the same fears as me.  I told her to hold him there while I went to get help.

     Good, y’all are laughing.  When I see it in my mind’s eye, I laugh, too.  But there’s more.

     I hunted down the charge nurse that had summoned me a half hour earlier.  She was caring for a patient down the hall.  I told her she needed to come quick because Gib was trying to get out of bed.  She clucked her tongue and looked at me with that sympathy that nurses have for their crazy patients—some of you may know that look!  Father, I know you want to believe God does things like raise the dead, but He doesn’t.  That man is not recovering from that bleeder.  I pleaded with her to come before Gib hurt himself or his wife.  She just condescendingly smiled in pity and said he was going nowhere.

     I kept on pleading with her.  I’m not sure why she eventually came.  Maybe she wanted to placate me.  Maybe she wondered if I was drunk.  Maybe she was afraid I was disturbing that patient.  But she finally came with me.  I wanted to run, but she was having none of it.  I got a lecture going down the hall to Gib’s room about how I needed to understand how things work.  If I was going to insist on these stupid games, I would not be called for patients in the future. 

     Finally, we made it to Gib’s room.  The scene is forever etched in my brain.  An old man was trying to wrestle an old woman off him on his bed.  God, he was convinced she had lost her mind.  She was doing everything she could do to keep him there until I returned with help.  There was yelling and wrestling.  The scene screamed broken hips and liability for the hospital, at least that’s the expression that appeared on the charge nurse’s face.

     She sprinted those last few steps, hitting the stat button on the wall and screaming nonsense words into the speaker, and then working to separate Gib from his wife, while holding him down, trying not to hurt either.  Have you ever forcefully tried to do something gingerly?  That was the nurse’s problem now.  Gib just wanted to pee, and he was letting everyone know it.  Quite frankly, I don’t have any idea why it never occurred to us to tell him to go where he was.  They could have cleaned him up afterwards.

     Another nurse was the first to arrive, then a doctor.  They joined the fracas.  Others kept arriving.  Eventually, the room filled up.  Gib’s wife and I were forced out of the room.  They were trying to reason with Gib.  They offered him a catheter, which was not well received on his part, I might add.  Nothing would do but he had to pee.  Some doctor finally agreed there were enough medical people present to assist him.  Gib was certain he could pee by himself, but he consented to them helping him to the door of the bathroom.

     After things calmed down, and his wife seemed ok, I headed back home.  Yes, Gib made it to the bathroom.  By now it was after 4am.  I had to be up early to take the kids to school, and I wanted some sleep.  It wasn’t until later that morning when one of my friends, upon hearing the tale, pointed out what had happened.  God had raised the dead, again!

     Have you ever paid close attention to the story we read from John today?  The first detail, I think, we have a tendency to skip.  Jesus has returned to the house of Lazarus, and Mary and Martha, whom Jesus raised from the dead.  Can you imagine returning there as one of Jesus’ disciples?  I know, were I following Jesus around, I would supposed to be paying attention to Him.  But, knowing me, I think my attention would be more distracted by Lazarus.  In all the miracles I would have seen following Jesus, two would have stood out: the son of the widow of Nain and Lazarus!  One does not raise the dead!  Such miracles are uncommon, to say the least!

     Sitting at dinner with Lazarus present, I would wonder what he experienced.  Was he aware he died?  Did He see God?  Heck, did He see Jesus?  Were the stories of the light true?  Or was it more like the stories about Sheol?  Did death seem like a powerful nap?  I see the nods.  You have your own questions.  Death for us is that last great unknown, right?  Death is that problem which you and I cannot solve, isn’t it?  Oh, some of us may trust that science one day will be able to upload us into computers like the science fiction authors write, and some of us may entertain ideas of cryogenic freezing, but death still stands as that one barrier through which we cannot pass.  Such was the case in 1st Century Jerusalem, too.

     Think back to the raising of Lazarus.  How do his sisters greet Jesus when He arrives at their place.  Had You been here, Lord, our brother, whom You loved, would not have died.  Even though Lazarus and his sisters understood Jesus was special, they had no real idea just how special.  He was restoring sight to the blind and casting out demons, but death was something else.  Only Elijah had raised someone from the dead.  The story is well known.  Jesus tells the sisters not to fear, but believe.  And He calls Lazarus out of the tomb.

     I have this image of a man wrapped in bands of cloth, like a mummy, shambling forth out of the tomb at Jesus’ command.  Jesus instructs the those around to let Lazarus go.  John recounts that this miracle causes the Jewish leadership to plot to kill Jesus.  So far are they walking from God that they cannot rejoice at Jesus command over death or the fact that Lazarus will still be able to care for his sisters.  Signs like that have a dual purpose.  Either we are driven to worship and praise God, or we are driven from Him.

     The impact on Mary is obvious even to those of us who are blind like Bartimaeus.  When Jesus returns for our scene today, she approaches Him and washes His feet with perfume.  I have shared with you how the lowest slaves on the totem pole got the job of washing the feet of travelers.  Sanitation in the ANE was not what it is today.  One’s shins, calves, and feet had all kinds of wonderful things on them from other travelers and their animals.  Nobody did this job of their own free will, except Jesus in a few days—that’s what makes His act so much more meaningful to those present.  That is a sermon for Maundy Thursday, though! 

     Mary takes Jesus feet and washes them with perfume made of nard.  Scripture tells us the cost of the perfume was equivalent to a year’s wages.  When I was reading the Holy Cow before accepting a call to Church of the Advent, I learned the average family income here was about $108,000.  Imagine washing someone’s feet.  Now imagine washing someone’s feet with perfume valued at over $100,000.  That is Mary’s response to Jesus.

     She is not done, of course.  Rather than use a towel or even her skirts or a dirty robe, she washes the grime off with her hair.  Ladies, give that some thought.  All the wonderful yucky stuff that was on His feet is now in her hair.  If she had long hair, she is going to have to wash it before bedtime.  That means a night of wet hair, doesn’t it?  If her hair was short, well, the bad stuff is that much closer to her head and face.  Which outcome is better?

     When Mary is questioned for doing this, Jesus defends her actions.  The nard, we are told, was bought by her to anoint Jesus body at His death.  Leave her alone!  There is a lot going on here.  Mary, like some of the other disciples and Thomas especially, understands that Jesus will be dying in Jerusalem.  She certainly has understood her Lord’s instruction about serving others, anticipating His actions in just a few days.  She is simply thankful for the opportunity to be with and to serve her Lord.

     Not everyone shares her enthusiasm, though.

     Judas, we are told, is the one who questions why she is allowed to waste this nard on Jesus’ feet and not sell it to help the poor.  John tells us that Judas’ question was not out of concern for the poor, but rather for himself.  He kept the funds for the group and used to steal from the purse.  Jesus admonishes Judas and instructs him to leave her alone.

     What must have gone through Judas’ head at this exchange.  He thinks he is negotiating in secret to betray Jesus; yet Jesus knows He is about to die.  Like us as children when our mothers found crumbs in our bedrooms or on our shirts or mouths, our hands might not have been in the cookie jar at that moment, but we were busted!

     It is important to remind ourselves that Judas was one of the insiders of Jesus’ ministry.  He was part of the Twelve.  Mary had heard and seen a great deal, but Judas was part of the inner circle!  Not a demon was cast out, not an infirmity healed, no eyes were given back their sight---nothing happened outside the Twelve.  And when they had questions, Jesus often spent extra time teaching them apart from the crowds, to make sure they got His teaching right.  If the choice came down to who should understand Jesus better, Mary or Judas, Judas should be the clear winner!  Yet it is that clear winner who betrays His Lord for 30 pieces of silver.  It is that clear winner in our eyes who betrays His Master with a kiss.

      As we near the end of the season we call Lent, the season of self-reflection and self-examination which began on a Wednesday several weeks ago, what have you learned about yourself and your relationship with God?  Way back at the beginning of the season I encouraged those who heard me to give up those things which distract us from tending to our relationship with God or to take on those practices which might help us draw closer to Him.  Where are you now?  Are you closer to Him?  Are you further away?  Are you just the same?  Put in the language of this, the fifth week of Lent, do you see yourself more like Mary?  Or are you closer to Judas than you want anyone to know?  I know, it’s an uncomfortable question.  It makes us squirm a bit when we consider it; yet this is a season when we are supposed to ponder our sins and our need for salvation.  We are supposed to realize again that we cannot save ourselves and that God was under no obligation to save us.  We are not special in and of ourselves.  In and of ourselves we are dead, and Lent reminds us of that singular truth!  What makes us special is the One who rescues us, who saves us, the One who glorifies us in Him.

     Conversations this Lent have been particularly edifying for me, though I recognize the discomfort in those who have sought me out to talk.  This idea that Lent is individually based in an anathema to many.  We should all be doing the same things because the things of the world distract or help us all in the same way.  We should all be giving up social media.  We should all be giving up chocolate or dessert.  We should all be praying more.  We should all be going to all the services at church.  The lists, do’s and don’t’s, are extensive.  And wrong.

     Don’t get me wrong, nobody’s relationship with God would likely be harmed by an extra few minutes of worship or Bible study or prayer.  But where we are in our walks with God are highly individualized.  What feeds me may not feed you, and what feeds you may not feed me.  What tempts me likely does not tempt you, and what tempts you may not always tempt me.  Or, maybe we are subject to the same blessings and same temptations but just not at the exact same moments in time.  Our relationship to God is individualized even though it takes place among a group of people we call the Church.

     Yet, even in the midst of this individualized relationship, in the midst of how the Father reaches out to His beloved daughters and sons, there is a lesson for the community.  What separated Mary from Judas?  Both were witnesses to incredible miracles.  Both were able to sit at His feet and call Him, Teacher.  Both were able to feel Him, to touch Him, to see the emotions on His face.  So why the different responses?

     Part of what makes Lent so challenging to folks, I think, is the fact that we are called by the Church to contemplate our personal need for a Savior.  As much as we think we would like to be in charge of our own salvation, we eventually learn we cannot accomplish it.  How do we make right the effects of our past sins?  How do we mitigate the effects of our sins on others and on the created world around us?  How do we account for all the ripples that flow from our hurtful, selfish, dishonoring God behaviors?  At some point in that relationship, we begin to understand that we cannot.  At some point, birthed in humility and truth, we begin to recognize we NEED God to save us and that God does not NEED us to serve Him.  At some point in our relationship with Him we learn that we are, in fact, already dead.

     But then, for those who repent and call upon Him as Lord, who ask Him to save, a unique thing begins to happen.  In some ways, most of us gathered here this afternoon have stumbled out of our own tombs dressed in our own fine burial clothes into those arms that once hung on the hard wood of the Cross.  Like Lazarus and the son of the widow at Nain and the son of the widow who hosted Elijah, we dead are called back to true life, the life which He planned for us since the foundation of the world!

     Mary saw it in her brother.  Heck, she saw it in herself.  Her response to that new life was the gratitude captured by St. John and all those around her as she ministered to our Lord like a slave.  When you look in the mirror, whom do you see, Mary or Judas?  When your family and friends look at you, whom do they see?  When this community looks at you, whom do they see?

     I shared that story about Gib with you folks as we looked at the story of Mary’s anointing of Jesus feet for at least a couple reasons of which I am aware.  First, so long as we draw breath, it is never too late for us to repent and to ask God to begin a new work, a new creation, in us!  Never.  It is never too late to ask Him to call us out of the tombs we have hewn for ourselves.  Perhaps just as important to y’all, who live in a community where death is a constant companion, where weekly you each mourn the passing of others who live here and, if we are honest, wonder if anyone will notice your passing that fateful day in the future, that nothing, nothing, not even death can separate you or me from our Lord.  Perhaps He does not reach down enough to satisfy our needs for signs by raising more of the dead like Lazarus and Gib.  Then again, perhaps He does it more than we were aware before we gathered for worship this day and contemplated these stories. 

     After all, that same Lord turned fishmen into fishers of men, widows who had lost their sons or brothers into witnesses of His redeeming grace, a chief persecutor of the Temple into a herald to the Gentiles, has called us forth from our tombs into the life everlasting He has promised!  More amazingly, He has promised to use each of us who pledge our loyalty to Him above all things to herald His coming and His return.  He has even promised that those of us who serve Him, even the most menial tasks like Mary’s today, will share in His glory eternally and that, at that wonderful Wedding Feast to which we are all invited, He will serve us again and again.

     Brothers and sisters, do we understand His call on our lives?  Do we understand what He has done for us?  As we speed toward Palm Sunday and the events of Holy Week, I pray that we have been reminded this Lent, and I pray that our self-examination this season has drawn us closer to Him.  And I pray for each of us that we are reminded that we are those who have been and will be called from tombs, to share in the joy and the adoration and the wonder of Mary and Paul and all those saints whom we admire. 

In Christ’s Peace,

Brian†