March 22, 2020

The 5th and final Sunday in Lent 

The Third Sunday in the American Season of Coronavirus
  Ezekiel 37:1-14

John 11:1-57

"Jesus began to weep...unbind him."

         The scriptures this week are rather “on-the-nose,” with the Prophet Ezekiel’s message being one of hope and restoration to Israelites in exile in Babylon; their community is cut off from their place of worship, they have been taken captive against their will, their people    scattered and afraid, coming to terms with how their lives are irrevocably changed.  The    people are reminded that even dead, utterly dry bones can be made to live—not by muscles and sinew and skin being added, but by the very breath of God.  God’s Spirit is what brings life, and it is what God promises, even and especially to a people in peril.

     But then we have the much longer and much more complex story from John 11, when Lazarus has fallen ill and Jesus waits elsewhere until he is dead, and the plaintive mourning of his sisters who hold in their hearts the painful tension of belief in Jesus and their cry, “Lord, if you had been here, our brother would not have died.”

     It’s a difficult story.  It raises almost as many questions as it answers.  It’s important to know that this is the sign in the Gospel of John that causes the Jewish religious leaders to plot for Jesus’ death; whereas the other gospels name Jesus’ act of cleansing the temple of the moneychangers as the issue that incites the anger of the religious leaders, the gospel of John is much more explicit to say that the real issue was the raising of Lazarus.  Verse 47 makes the concern of the Pharisees plain, “What are we to do?  This man is performing many signs.  If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” 

     But this complex, long story was written with a particular frame of reference in mind—the author and the reader are expected to know the end of this story—that Jesus was killed, was resurrected, the church began to spread and finally the Romans did come to destroy the temple in 70 A.D.  The fears of the Pharisees are justified. 

     I would argue that this story is all about who has the power over life and death.

  The act of raising Lazarus shows Jesus as so much more than a healer, but one who has the power of the Creator God, to re-create life where there is only death and chaos. But the act opens up many avenues for deeply troubling questions—why did Jesus wait to come if he could have healed Laz before hand?  Both sisters voice this question, as does the crowd, who wonder aloud in verse 37, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind have kept this man from dying?”  And many who read these verses will be reminded of their own mourning over the death of a loved one, and the wondering, “where was God?  Where was my miracle?”

      Sometimes grief gives way to anger.  Often, actually.  Anger is a stage of grief, but it doesn’t come neatly in order.  Anger can surge boldly or simmer quietly under the surface for years.  Anger can fuel doubt and rash actions, but anger can also propel fierce prayers and deeply faithful and trusting acts of hope and defiance in the face of despair. 

     Often I’ll hear people, amid their own grief, try to tell others, “You can’t be angry at God, this was God’s will.”  I would argue faithfully that you can be angry with God, be     frustrated, sad, confused and still desire to trust God and to hope for a different outcome.     Anger can be hard and destructive if you let it, but it can also be faithful.

     When I was much younger, in my salad-days of questioning the reality of God and the gospel story, I struggled mightily with the idea of a God who would cause suffering, of “sinners” but also of children and the ill and the old, especially confused that God would cause the suffering of God’s own Son.  At the time it seemed cruel, even arrogant.  Frankly, it made me angry, indignant at the thought of innocents suffering needlessly under the thumb of a fickle God demanding praise and worship and offering surprisingly few miracles to whisk it all away.  This anger pushed me into conversations—arguments, really—drove me to study (in order to refute and dismiss, I admit); anger pushed me to examine my discomfort with Christ’s work and anger made me sassy and verbose.

    And then I encountered the idea that Jesus might have been troubled by all of that too, that Jesus struggled with his work and his role.  I found that idea first in Jesus’ prayer in the garden of Gethsemane, “Let this cup pass from me, but not my will be done, but yours.” And I see it again here in the story of Lazarus, and how Jesus is “greatly disturbed” and weeps.  

    Jesus is greatly disturbed twice in the space of five verses (v33 and v38), and it turns out there is more going on in the Greek word for “greatly disturbed” than compassion and  sorrow.  The word is tarassō and is also translated “greatly troubled” and “greatly distressed,” but it also comes with connotations of fear, dread and anger; but who is Jesus fearful of or   angry at?  It does not appear that he is fearful or angry at his disciples or Mary and Martha; there are no words of chastisement or rebuke.  It is unclear if he is upset with their level of faith either, and I think translations have been correct in understanding that Jesus’ distress is   directly related to the grief he is witnessing...the sorrow that he is a part of...the suffering that he can directly address...and dread of the suffering that he will soon experience.

     And so “Jesus wept.”  It’s the shortest and most profound verse in scripture. Strictly speaking, it’s better translated, “Jesus began to weep,” which only intensifies the emotional response of Jesus to the whole situation, and the action that began; scripture doesn’t say when Jesus dried his eyes and wiped his tears away.  It only states—rather clearly—when he began to weep.  If ever I struggled to understand a God who could permit suffering, I am much more moved by a God who weeps.  And a God who suffers alongside God’s people.

   I am led to wonder if Jesus is distressed and greatly troubled not only by the power of death to cause such suffering among those he loves, but also the power death will soon have over himself.  If yet another reason Jesus weeps is for all the struggle that is yet to come, weeps for the inevitability of death, and weeps for his own suffering that will occur as a direct result of his act to raise Lazarus from the dead.  Because Jesus will die, and suffer painfully first.

This is where today’s story gets a little “on the nose.” 

     None of the characters besides Jesus expected healing and resurrection for Lazarus.  Mary and Martha’s grief was encapsulated in the finality of his death, and in the disappointment that the healer did not come in time.  But then Jesus came and did the impossible—he did the one thing that could topple nations, suddenly depriving Rome and authorities of the final power to undo life—he undid death.  The religious leaders would understand this power as one that would invite the strong arm of Rome to fall upon them, would understand that this life-giving hope would destroy business as usual and their grasp on power specifically. 

     The people were shocked at the raising of Lazarus because it was so unexpected—but we certainly hope for it now, and the difficulty we are experiencing is the long distance between our suffering now and future when it will be undone. 

Because right now, death is inevitable for us all.

     That’s the unspoken truth of pandemic and plague, the reminder that lurks on “normal” days that we cannot possibly ignore now—that we will still experience suffering, pain and death  even though Christ has defeated the final power of death.  Someday, sooner or later, we will die. Funerals remind us of this, serious illness reminds us of this, and right now everything reminds us of this: from “social distancing” to getting our groceries and   washing our hands.  Part of our grief is that we can’t even avoid the idea.

But here is the good news:   Death is not the final word anymore.  

Death isn’t the final word ever again.

     Instead, we can trust that the Spirit of God who created the world is also the power to re-create the world as often as needed; to breathe life into dead bones, to restore communities after exile and separation, to take the stink of 4 days dead, the dry and brittle valley shadowed by death and fill them all with God’s Spirit and with Life. 

The only thing that gives life is God, and God will give it. 

      And as for the fear of suffering and death, take to heart the words of Jesus about Lazarus, “Unbind him, and let him go.” 

Let go of your fear.   Let go of your worry.   Be unbound.  Breathe, and live.    Amen.

March 22, 2020

The 4th Sunday in Lent

The Second Sunday in the American Season of Coronavirus

"Why did this happen?"

Psalm 23 (NRSV)

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters;

he restores my soul. He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff— they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.




I didn’t always like Psalm 23. I wasn’t sure I appreciated being called a sheep—sheep being fairly dumb creatures—but now I think it wasn’t so much that I disliked being compared to mutton, after all, the metaphor works because it’s TRUE. 

 I disliked the idea that God would make me do anything. MAKE me lie down in green pastures, lead me beside still waters, restore my soul. Maybe I didn’t want those particular things, maybe I didn’t want to be so closely guarded. I’d make a pretty pig-headed sheep. Exactly the kind they warn new shepherds about.

But now every time I think on Psalm 23, I remember this story I heard back when I was working at Ferncliff Camp and Conference Center, I heard the tale of back when the camp allowed dogs—they had two. Two dogs named “Mercy” and “Goodness.” Because they would follow you all the days of your life. And dad joke is made even better when you realize that Mercy and Goodness don’t just follow you—the word here is more like PURSUE you. Mercy and Goodness will chase you down, will find you whether you want it or not.

And these days, I hope that’s true. I want something good to hunt me down, find me, because I think I need the help. I want someone good to come looking for me.

---------------

The disciples were walking along, and they see a blind man, and asked Jesus, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Given options A or B, Jesus chose C: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned… this happened so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”

I’m caught by the word “this” in the sentence, because to my suspicious ears that sounds a lot like a god who needed a PR opportunity, a chance to flex holy miracle muscles, and I’m not interested in that god.

So look deeper. Translators have long assumed “this happened” meant his blindness (the NRSV translation even goes so far as to insert the words “he was born blind” when they are not present in the Greek).

Furthermore, there is no punctuation in the Greek as we know it, and so there is reason to wonder whether we’ve got the wrong phrasing. If the sentence ends “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.” [Full Stop]...then the next sentence reads, “But in order that the works of God may be made apparent in him, it is necessary for us to work the works of the one having sent me while it is day. Night comes when nobody is able to work.”[1]


This is important, because suddenly this story isn’t about the disciples wrong question about sin, nor my question of human suffering –it isn’t about a God who will capriciously cause birth defects just to show off how great he is--

—it is about God responding in mercy to human suffering. It IS about working the works of God in this moment in RESPONSE to suffering. NOW it is day. Night is coming when no one can work—so do God’s work while you can.

It’s a little on the nose for today, don’t you think? 

So let the text to go further; what if “this happened” refers to “this moment,” as in “this conversation,” or “this presence of God?” The disciples ask the wrong question—why is this man blind?—rather than ask “Lord, what are you going to do with his blindness?” Or better yet, “Lord, what is mine to do for him?” And here’s where things get real sticky.

Jesus made a paste of mud and spit, put it on the man’s eyes and told him to go wash in the pool of the Siloam—and lo, the man came back, able to see. That’s what Jesus did with the man’s blindness. But what did all the other people in the formerly blind man’s life do with his blindness—or sudden lack thereof? What did they do?

Well first they can’t agree—is this the man who used to be a beggar or someone who looks like him? It is as if they didn’t really see him before, never took a good look at him, and now they struggle to see him too. The Pharisees can’t agree either, so after first not believing what the formerly blind man had to say about his own experience, the Pharisees get smart and ask the formerly blind man’s parents, “Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?” and in essence his parents reply, “Yep, this is our kid, and he was born blind, but we don’t know how he was healed. Ask him. He’s old enough.”

The text makes it clear his parents are afraid of the Pharisees so they aren’t exactly supportive in this moment. There’s no hint of joy. It’s actually, surprisingly, pretty cold, as if perhaps his own parents had stopped seeing him long ago. And then of course the formerly blind man defends Jesus, and he’s summarily kicked out of the temple—back to the margins of society he goes.

Suddenly the question “Who sinned,” is a very serious one, because surely somebody had taken the blame for what was seen as a very unfortunate experience in life (looks like the man himself got blamed—he’s the one left begging despite having a family and neighbors). We may not want to admit it, but when any difference, any misfortune, is seen as shameful or somehow catching--the community tends to come up with reasons for treating that person as less-than, and often one that blames the victim rather than helping them.

Hello opening weeks of the American Coronavirus Pandemic. It’s nice to see you.

I cannot help but find this text to be a word of warning and a word of grace in our world situation at this very moment. When headlines and personal diaries ask the same questions: Why is this pandemic happening? Why are people getting sick? Who sinned, that this disease is sweeping through communities so fast? Did they touch their face, or not wash their hands? Who is to blame?

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned… this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him; for As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me.” That bears repeating.

“As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me.”

I don’t think COVID-19 happened because of a government conspiracy, or because God wanted to make a point—either about sin or punishment. I think natural disasters happen because the world is fallen and all creation is groaning for redemption. I don’t think this text is at all interested in finding blame for personal natural disasters either. Take this scripture as a mirror to our present, and I hear Jesus say that this man’s difference —his illness—is not due to sin at all. His condition of being a beggar however, speaks to the community that stopped seeing him long ago, and decided someone had to take the blame.

It’s simply the nature of the virus to continue to spread in our community. But how we respond matters. Blaming those who become ill, isolating them even further than “social distancing” and quarantine require, is to stop seeing people in their need and to make them beggars. And we see it in the social media posts of sarcasm and cruelty. We see it in off color jokes about Chinese food, and in the very real anger people experience if they cough in public. We run the risk of scaring people into NOT being tested, not admitting they are in need of care.

We run the risk of being blinded ourselves by fear. So look again—what does Jesus do?

“…this happened in order that the works of God may be made apparent in him; it is necessary for us to work the works of the one having sent me while it is day. Night comes when nobody is able to work.”

This! Can we be confident that this a moment that God’s works might be revealed? It’s not about why the man is blind, it’s about what God will do with it. And such might be said of what God is doing with you right now.

Healthy or ill, this moment, this moment happening RIGHT NOW when you are reading these words, this moment is so that you might have God revealed to you. The great news is that God goes with you through the storm, and you are not alone. Not even when you feel like you’ve been cast out. “This” happened and God doesn’t go away, God stays; is with us in the dark valley, guiding us through, providing what we need, especially when what we need is rest.

Imagine Psalm 23 on the lips of the formerly blind man, naming who God is to him and what God has already done. Imagine Psalm 23 is for you in this moment too.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—

God goes with me as guide and provider; I am given what I need.

He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; God gives me rest and quiet.

he restores my soul. God knits up my wounds, heals me, comforts me.

He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

He takes an active part in guiding me toward a better future.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil;

I am not promised a safe and smooth road, but I’m not afraid
for you are with me; your rod and your staff— they comfort me;

because I belong to you, I know you will find ways to guide me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

you feed me with plentiful spiritual food, even in the midst of terrible events,
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows;

I am blessed, I am blessed, I am blessed.
You are blessed. You are blessed. You are blessed.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life,

I know God’s loving kindness will chase you down and find You,

everyday,

and you shall dwell in the house of the Lord your whole life long;

Your home will be with God. Amen.






[1] https://leftbehindandlovingit.blogspot.com/search?q=%22John+9%22&max-results=20&by-date=true, by Mark Davis, March 15, 2020.

Birth plans make good boundaries

I was searching through some old paperwork and found this old birth plan, and it reminded me of simpler times--when I was bolder and freer with my words.  I use it here because, well, it's pretty funny.  And it does make a good point about boundaries.  enjoy.

Birth Plan for K. M. Mainard O’Connell, et al.

Dear Doctors, Nurses, attendants, residents, orderlies, and cafeteria workers:

   Herein lies the Birth Plan extraordinaire for our precious bundle of protein, as yet unnamed.  Knowing that the “birth plans” are roundly mocked and often ignored, we have endeavored to make this an enjoyable information dissemination device, and we hope you actually read the damn thing.  We have also added several boxes of Girl Scout cookies as well, as… acknowledgement (not a bribe).  You have hard job, and we are glad that you do them – may you do them with a small sugar high.

And yes, this “birth plan” has been composed in Comic Sans font, because that is precisely how we roll in the MO clan.  Onward!

   Pain Medication

I am a powerful Amazon warrior demigoddess of incredible strength and stamina, belied by my small stature, lack of exercise and layers of adorable fat.  Although the first fruit of my loins broke my waters early and I had to be induced with the wicked (but surprisingly effective) Lord Pitocin, I do know the alluring call of blessed St. Epidural (May She Be Ever Available To Those In Need).  My second loin fruit came forth so quickly as to prevent any pain meds and I was an amazing BEAST of power and self pain management; I passed out  a lot, which was actually quite helpful come to think of it, I’d really recommend using that neat trick of evolutionary medicine if you ask me.    I like to imagine that I don’t need pain meds.  That said, it is the sole responsibility of The One Who Caused This (Dear Husband) to attempt to speak sense to me if I need pain management to progress, for my help or that of the baby.   Really, it’s like his only job,  or at least the one I’ll listen to him for, so if you really think I need something then you’ll have to talk to him.  I have once before taken “Stadhol”, described to me as “like 4 or 5 margaritas, so you feel the pain but you just don’t care,” and this was a vicious lie.  I felt everything and cared a whole hell of a lot, and as it turns out I’m a mean drunk, so let’s avoid that one this time, for your sake as well as mine.

   Caesarian Section

While I will literally do anything under God’s shiny sun to avoid this surgery, should it be medically necessary to save the life of myself or the child, please tie my tubes or something while you’re in there to spare us all the indignity of this happening again.  As one who is now officially “advanced maternal age” (and I’d like to punch in the groin the man who came up with that term) I am more than happy to increases the size of our future family through prefabricated children birthed by others.  “Snip Snip”.

One important funky note: I have a genetic neuropathy Charcot Marie Tooth Disease which makes electrical things weird for me (in brief, my nerves conduct electricity very slowly because my peripheral nervous system myelin protein sheathing lacks a code).  Sometimes electrical measuring tools don’t work as well as they should.  Previously I received a partial of “walking” epidural out of concern for this condition, and it was awesome.  So HEED YE NOW: YON ANETHESIOLOGIST needs to speak with here wench prior to poking.  But I’m open to poking.  Obviously.  (That’s what she said.)

   Emotional Scarring of the Husband

As the due cause of all my long suffering, Dear Husband shall be emotionally scarred by being required to do the following: fetch ice, rub my back continuously, hold my hand as I try to break his fingers, cut the cord, handle the baby, follow baby to any testing, and generally maintaining an attitude of contrite apology.  If you sense at any time that The One Who Caused This is shirking in his duties, feel free to administer a light tap upside his head, or perhaps a good squinty-eyed glare.  It is, after all, his fault.

   Episiotomy

No.  

Just…no.  Didn’t need it twice before, so you’d best have a REAL good reason for suggesting it now, as all my intuition says that humans don’t need a cloaca.  This is The One that I’ll totally complain about later on social media (#prproblems), just saying.

   Baby Penis

 Shall remain fully intact, because efforts by adult men to regrow their foreskin are just sad, and we have one intactivist friend who is just insufferable about it—I mean he talks about his penis all the time (ALL the time) and everywhere, and we would spare our son that shame.  Should baby be blessed with both sets of genitalia, both sets shall remain intact, because God doesn’t make mistakes and maybe we should respect whatever gender identification he/she/ze will develop over the course of his/her/their thoroughly psychoanalyzed and over researched development (I WILL be an awesome mom).  Basically, we love this kid no matter what, so don’t go “helping” by messing with his/her/their junk.  Not that you would, but you hear horror stories, and we still live in Arkansas, which is a lovely state with many fine qualities but did produce the members of our State Legislature this year, who were an abysmal failure and thus make me question the sanity not only of the culture that produced them, but the people who voted them into office.  Remember, only you can prevent legislative shenanigans.  Vote.

   Breastfeeding

 Is awesome!  I am totally all about the crunchy granola goodness of “breast is best” reactive zealotry.  But …sometimes breastfeeding is hard too.  So if for some reason my milk doesn’t come in quickly (though my record is an 8ft stream across the room), let’s whip out the industrial milker and go to town with a few horsepower strapped to my chest.  Seriously though, I’ve been leaking for months now, so I think we’re good to go, but it brings me to point two:

I’ve got this raging jealousy of all other nipples, especially fake ones.  It’s like I’m so concerned about “nipple confusion” that I’ve got “transcendental nipple jealousy” verging on “unrealistic nipple rage.”  My boobs, only my boobs, no formula.  I am momma, hear me roar.  So let’s avoid pacifiers too, until I’m feeling less threatened by small stationary objects.

Unless I really, really, brutally need a nap or I’m unconscious or dead, and then let The One Who Caused This try to feed and soothe the baby, so he may be blamed for any confusion and thus soundly scarred.  It’s ok.  We’re good like that.  Our relationship is one of complete mutuality and respect.  You know the book “Fifty Shades of Grey”?

It’s nothing like that at all.

   Immunizations and Preventative Care of Baby

shall all be given, on time, correctly, because who are these crazy people who want to expose their newborns to completely preventable diseases?  Crazy people, that’s who.  So you drop that silver nitrate in his eyes and smile as you do so.  Make sure he sees you smile.  Shoot him up (still smiling!) with whatever vaccines are now recommended for noobs, because Heaven only knows what that fruitcake down the street has refused for her little disease vectors, and this is the only protection we’ve got against the stupidity of those destroying the herd immunity.  So you go right ahead with whatever schedule you have planned and smile.  We support you.  Science!

   In the event of my untimely death

Please make sure I’m really dead, not just mostly dead, and then DO NOT let anyone pump me full of that crazy goo they use to preserve dead bodies.  So gross.  I’d much prefer to have my organs harvested (for the ciiiiiiircle of liiiiiiiife—but no really seriously I need to be irretrievably brain dead, double triple check) and then cremated. My Dear Husband knows my wishes: to be carefully distributed into hundreds of little dimebags to my friends and family to dispose of as befitting our relationship.  I would love for someone to get my ashes into a pepper shaker at the Vatican, just because that sounds like the punchline to a great joke, so if you think you’ve got an angle on that one, feel free to take a dimebag on your next vacation to Rome.

   Last but not least

I am a pastor and no member of my church is to visit me unannounced and without my express permission.  Jesus loves us all but I am out of my mind with hormones and pain and the second I went into labor I joined the proud ranks of those on maternity leave, and I just can’t handle the collision of my worlds right now.  Please find a kind way to say I’m unavailable, or maybe the ward is quarantined; try not to lie because that’s a sin but I’m asking for your help.  I mean, you and I both know what just happened to my nethers here, but I’m still stretching for that aura of mystery in my professional life and, having not achieved it yet, I’m gonna keep reaching.  Help a girl out.

     The exception are clergy members, ‘cause they’re my buds.

   Please know that I am eternally grateful for your service and assistance in this time of need, but also anything you say can and will end up in an anecdote or sermon.  Like that clueless resident attending my second birth, for whom my son was only her second delivery:  her name was Dr. Highman.  Say that out loud, like a woman delirious with pain.  Dr. Highman on Labor and Delivery.  Paging Dr. Highman.  Let it sink in.

Hymen.

     I will tell that joke until the day I die.  It’s just who I am.

     Thank you for reading this far, may our lives be better for having met each other.  May the grace of God go with you, and I hope I have your favorite cookie here.  You deserve it. 

Peacefully,

Rev. K. M. Mainard O’Connell