SERMON 4.2.06

Is your own death, your own fragility something you think about? Is it something you live with in the back of your mind maybe? Do you think about death now more than you did maybe 15 years ago? I ask this because I have realized that I do, and sometimes I think it’s only because I am 15 years older and clearly more likely according to Life Insurance projections to be prone to death. And, I’ve had cancer and once you’ve had cancer I think perhaps you are more likely to live with the sort of ever present reality of death—it sort of hangs around in the atmosphere. But of course I ask the question because in this morning’s gospel reading when the Greeks come to Philip and say, “We wish to see Jesus,” Philip takes Andrew and they tell Jesus. “Some Greeks say they want to see you.” And Jesus begins to talk about his death—and really I think you’d have to say he talks about our death too. Unless the grain of wheat dies it remains a single grain.. . and so forth. If you want to see Jesus I guess you’d better take a look at his death. Jesus’ death is his moment of glory. His moment of revealing God’s glory. We most of us think about glory in such earthly terms—we think of perhaps accomplishing some great thing. Winning the basketball championship. Having a building named after us—or a scholarship—or some notice given in recognition of what we’ve accomplished. Jesus reckons that his death will reveal the glory of God. And, as if that weren’t enough to start you reflecting on death—there’s that line from Hebrews that describes Jesus as learning obedience through what he suffered. I take obedience here to mean what it means in the Greek which is a heightening of the word to hear. Jesus learned to hear God through his suffering. Really hear. Now that’s not very American of him. I mean really. Jesus was an American wasn’t he? . . . Our culture is focused much more on pleasure than pain, on acquiring than letting go. It doesn’t seem right that Jesus drew closer to God through his suffering. We are folks who take aspirin and other drugs to get rid of pain—that’s who we are. Pain is something we try to avoid—even pretend doesn’t exist. And Jesus himself didn’t seem to seek it out—“His soul is troubled he says, and he wonders if he should ask to be saved from his suffering. As my 14 year old granddaughter might say, “Well, duuh!” But no, …no, it is for this reason that he has come to this hour, he says. This hour of death and glory. When God speaks to Jesus about the glory, the crowd around him hears God’s voice but thinks it is thunder—or some say it is an angel. Not everyone has their ears attuned to God’s frequency. But, Jesus who has learned to really hear through his suffering knows exactly what God has said, and says to the people, “When I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” Lifted up we can only imagine on the cross. That’s when those Greeks and all the rest of us will really see him. See Jesus. I’ve been reading a book recently called Feed. Its about a future when every person has a little implanted chip in the brain that feeds in all the advertising and reality shows we’d ever imagine, and allows us to communicate with others like email only no computer is needed. I think of God in Jeremiah’s text implanting divine law and love in us maybe kind of like that feed—only in our hearts instead of our minds. And when I think of that I can only think of Jesus as the one who seems to have had that divine feed embedded deeply within his heart. And always on--its in connection—not to consumer culture but to divinity. To God within. And of course we Christians, we followers of Jesus we’d say that the thing about Jesus is that he shows us who we all are. All of us have that feed—that heart imprint—that chip of divinity within. That’s most deeply who we are. That’s what is proclaimed in our baptism. And, it’s not just you and me—it’s everyone. All people have that imprint within them. The feed. The problem is so often we aren’t even in touch with it. We don’t listen to the feed in our hearts. We listening to other messages—we’re residing in our brains. We’re reading historical documents, looking at old pictures, dreaming about the future, reading science fiction novels. We’re trying to get control of everything. Or maybe we’re trying to forget or pretend. We are not present to our hearts. We deny our own identity as God’s precious children. We’re afraid to be present to our hearts. We’re afraid perhaps to learn obedience through suffering. This isn’t about joining the Marines and suffering thru boot camp until you learn to obey orders. It’s about learning who we most deeply are and are called to be. Maybe Jesus learned how to hear God—how to really listen for God through his suffering, because in his suffering he was most deeply human. Most deeply vulnerable. Most deeply in need of connection to others and to God. Maybe in his suffering he knew his limits as a human person and could hear the beating of his heart as the divine rhythm within. And, I don‘t think this is just about his suffering on the cross. It’s about all his other suffering—the letting goes he did during his brief years of ministry. His grieving with the widows, his tears over Jerusalem, his frustration with his followers who never seemed to get it, his grief about his friend Lazarus, his exhaustion on those days of too much teaching and too many healings, his pain at seeing the poverty—the illness—the judgment—the rejection. And, his own experience of abandonment, and loss, of ridicule and betrayal. In all of this Jesus learned to listen for God. Just think of it—and think of your own life. Where have you heard God’s voice—where have you learned to listen for God? God within or God coming to you in another? Where in your own suffering have you learned how to tune your ears to the voice? The voice that matters more than any other. We are not called to seek suffering in some masochistic way—but to be open to God’s presence when it comes our way. To be willing to stand in solidarity with others as he does with us. Listen to your life. Listen to your limits. to your humanity. to your suffering. It is there often that your heart cracks open enough for you to recognize the divine law and love written there. To come to know your own preciousness to God. To know your own connections to others in whom God dwells. A few weeks ago in our parish a small group of women began a new ministry of prayer. Each week they collect prayer requests from a God Box in the Living Room. These are the requests and thanksgivings of women at the Living Room. They have dared to share their deepest dreams and hopes, their thanksgivings for blessings received with other women who have pledged to pray those prayers in faith. And what might happen here? Who can say the effects of such sharing and such prayer. But those who have dared to share their suffering and joy, and those who dare to open their hearts to one another will find their hearing attuned—their hearts opened to the truth of God within. It cannot be otherwise. It is the holiest of work. You and I are the Greeks who come here today with one desire, “We wish to see Jesus.” There is no place we cannot go, no person we cannot reach out to, no truth about ourselves we cannot face. Jesus in his weakness, his suffering, his humanity, is lifted up from earth and just then—at that moment when all is lost, he draws us all to God’s love, forgiveness, God’s gift of new life. ------- Feed is by M.T. Anderson, Candlewick Press, 2002.