Fifth Sunday of Easter, cycle A

John 14:1-32

For anyone who has studied the Bible, I think the Gospel of John is always a challenge. The Jesus who speaks in this gospel doesn't sound anything like the one who speaks in the other three. And when he does speak, sometimes he's very hard to understand. And sometimes when we think we understand him, it doesn't sound as though what he is saying is consistent with our experience. So how do we deal with a passage like the one which we've just read? Because Jesus says three things which people have argued over for centuries. First he says, “In my father's house there are many dwelling places; if there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you?” Most of the time we think Jesus is talking about heaven; and some people point to this passage as evidence that there will be lots of variety in heaven – Catholics here, Methodists there – we'll all have different clouds to sit on.

But the only other time Jesus refers to his Father's house in the gospel of John is when he drives the money changers out of the temple. And when asked to explain his actions, he says, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up” and the author goes on to say that he was speaking about his body. So Jesus may not be talking about heaven here; he may be talking about the fact that in the olden days God dwelt in the Jerusalem temple, but in the New dispensation, he will dwell in Jesus and in the temple made up of Jesus' followers who are members of his body. Jesus is going to prepare a place for you and I in this new temple, this new reality, which already exists, which we are already part of – and it's clear that the work is still going on; Jesus is still preparing a place for you and I. Not a place to dwell in, but part of the building itself. And this work began with his resurrection from the dead.

The second hard saying is when Jesus tells Thomas “I am the way, the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father except through me”. Doesn't that seem a little arrogant? What about all those good people who belong to other religions, or even have no religion at all? And if what Jesus is saying is literally true, then you and I will have a lot to explain when he asks us why we didn't try harder to convert our friends and neighbors, who are now excluded forever from heaven. Or perhaps we will be like the theologian Karl Rahner, who put forth the theory of the anonymous Christian – the idea that people striving to lead good lives but who did not know of Christ were in some way united to his body anyway.

But maybe Jesus is telling Thomas something different, something in keeping with the next part of the gospel where he tells Philip, “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.” And remember that he did tell Thomas “You know the way”. Because the way to the Father is not what you know, but how you live. Jesus is saying that if you want to find the way to the Father, then do what Jesus does, live as he lived. You take a stance in the world of acceptance, of turning the other cheek, of answering the needs of the people you meet along the way. You put God first, your neighbor second, and yourself third, just as Jesus did. The words on your lips must be the words of Jesus, “Not my will but yours be done”. When we look at Jesus, we see what kind of God we have – because if we see him, we see the Father.

Finally, the last hard saying is “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” I don't know about you, but there have been a lot of times I wished I could work a miracle – I've prayed over and over that God would intervene – in my life, in someone else's life – and I haven't seen it happen, at least in a clear and unequivocal way. But again, Jesus is probably not talking about miracles. He is predicting that his followers will surpass any works that he did. And we can see evidence of that. Jesus fed a huge crowd; his followers are always feeding the hungry, thousands of times over that huge crowd. Jesus loved to teach; all over the world, his followers set up schools and universities to teach in his name. Jesus loved to heal, and in most parts of the world, even in Muslim countries, you can find hospitals set up and run by the followers of Jesus. Jesus is doing all these things through his followers, because he is with the Father, and we see what the Father is like when we see Jesus.

So that gets us back to the beginning of this passage, when Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled...” The apostles know that something is going to happen. Jesus has been predicting his death, sometimes in veiled terms and sometimes directly; and here they are and he is saying goodbye to them. Why does he have to leave? Why does he have to die? And what about you and I who have never had the joy of accompanying him as he walked the roads of Galilee two thousand years ago? But Jesus is saying that it's time we took over; it's time we became the temple of God on earth. It's time we look to Jesus' life to inform our own lives. And it's time we see that we do more to do the works that he did, by our own gifts of time, talent, and treasure.

There is a story about a young man who graduated from agricultural school. His teacher asked him, “Are you going home to take over the family farm?” The young man answered, “Not yet, my grandfather hasn't let my father take over yet.” This gospel passage from John tells us that indeed Jesus is letting us take over. We are the temple in which the Father dwells. Are we up to the task?

Fourth Sunday of Easter, cycle A

John 10:1-10

When I was in Catholic grade school back in the dark ages, I heard a sermon based upon this passage of John's gospel. The idea was that we Catholics had good shepherds in our pastors, because they stood in the place of Jesus the ultimate good shepherd. And those thieves and robbers who climbed over the walls to get at the sheep? Look no further than the protestant minister down the street, who were always trying to steal sheep from the Catholic church. An awful message, I agree, but it was probably the mirror image of what protestant ministers were saying about Catholic priests.

There is no question that priests and ministers and rabbis and imams all have a vested interest in keeping their sheep in their own sheepfolds, and even gaining sheep, sometimes at the expense of other flocks. After all, if you don't keep your flock, you are out of a job, but more importantly, you've failed at your vocation. And I'm not saying there is anything wrong with that. It is an inducement for those who lead flocks to continually try to improve, to reach out, to teach better – to do everything possible to form a loyal and fervent community – as long as it doesn't lead people to hate, as long as it doesn't turn people into mindless followers.

But when you look at today's gospel and think a little bit about how shepherds were in those days, a few surprises may pop up. First, some background. Shepherds at the end of the day would try to find a shelter for their sheep. Sometimes it was a cave, sometimes it was an enclosure made up of stones or logs, or whatever was handy. Each shepherd might be responsible for twenty sheep or so. Several shepherds would often herd their sheep into one enclosure, and then take turns guarding the entrance. The one guarding the entrance was the sheepgate; to get to the sheep, you had to go through him.

In the morning the shepherds would call their sheep – by name – and each flock would follow its shepherd out to pasture where the shepherd would look over each sheep one by one, tending to tangles in its wool, pulling off brambles, maybe patching up cuts, while the rest of the sheep would graze. If you were a sheep, this was the best part of your day. Going back to the sheepfold was hell – you had to crowd in with strange sheep, you were separated from your shepherd, there was nothing to eat, and it was dark and scary.

And I think sometimes we think of our church as a sheepfold. It's kind of a refuge from the world, it's full of people who believe pretty much what we believe; our services are familiar, the prayers and sermons and readings are often comforting, and we feel close to our shepherd. And then we leave and soon forget that we have a shepherd who is calling us by name, who wants to lead us to abundant life, to green pastures. As important as church is, the abundant life Jesus calls us to is not to be found in here. It is when we engage with the world, it is when we bring Jesus' presence into the world, it's when through our efforts we make a difference in the world, that we find that abundant life. Jesus himself modeled this for us; those who experienced his miracles and his teaching were out in the marketplace or on a fishing boat or on the shores of a lake.

Jesus is the shepherd, but he's also the sheepgate. We concentrate on the fact that the shepherd being the gate is willing to fight for the sheep in the fold, even die for them and that's certainly a reason Jesus calls himself the sheepgate. But again, the object is to get the sheep out of the sheepfold in an orderly way, so that they can go where they can find abundant life. To be gotten out by being stolen, being carried over the walls by a wild beast, is almost certainly not going to get that sheep to a green pasture; instead, he is likely to end up as dinner. Those who are in charge of sheep – priests, yes, but parents, teachers, people who run businesses or are otherwise responsible for directing other people – have a role in bringing sheep to the green pasture, but this role can only be fulfilled if the shepherds follow the good shepherd, if they go through the one who is the sheepgate.

Finally individual sheep need to be taught to hear their shepherd's voice. This is a lifelong goal for each of us – and we all can tell stories about people who were once ardently following the shepherd but no longer have anything to do with Him. Somewhere along the line, they stopped listening to his voice because some other voice became louder and more insistent. Good shepherds need to be aware of those voices so that they can oppose their message before it does it's damage. And we sheep need to stay close to our shepherd so we can hear him better. And mayb e that's the point of our weekly worship service. We come here to hear his voice again, to understand what he says. Matthew Kelly, whom some of you have heard about, I'm sure, says that we should all have a mass diary. The object of the diary is that when we come to Mass, we should listen for the one thing God wants us to carry away that day. Not several, not a list, but one thing. It may be a passage from scripture that we hear, maybe something the preacher said, maybe part of the Mass that strikes us in a new way – or maybe just a random thought that the Holy Spirit blows into our soul. But the idea is to write it down and think about it.

So on this good shepherd Sunday, let us remember that where we really need to listen for His voice is out there, in the world, in our homes, in our workplaces, because he leads us out of the sheepfold, not into it. And let us remember our own role as shepherds; how can we help those we lead find abundant life?

Third Sunday of Easter, cycle A

Luke 24:13-35

When you and I look at the crucifix, we see it as the symbol of our Catholic faith. Our protestant brothers and sisters don't like the body hanging from the cross, preferring to show an empty cross, preferring to emphasize the resurrection. But a cross means Christianity. It wasn't always like that. Our earliest Christian ancestors would probably say that the symbol of their faith was a shared meal.

I think most people enjoy an opportunity to eat with friends. Whether you are on the preparing end or the receiving end, there is something special about getting together over food with someone you haven't had contact with for a while. Eating together is also a good way to get to know someone. Around the supper table we feel less threatened, we are more likely to move to a more intimate level of conversation than we do in casual meetings. And when we eat with other people we usually hold back on controversial subjects knowing that there is nothing like a heated argument to spoil a good meal.

The shared meal is common to all cultures, from primitive tribes to sophisticated civilizations. And in Jesus' time it wasn't any different. In fact, as you read the gospels you can't help but notice how often Jesus was sharing a meal with someone, or in one case, at least, inviting himself to supper. We even have little glimpses of the kinds of conversation that took place at these gatherings – his exchange with Martha in which he told her that Mary had chosen the better part; his exchange with Simon the Pharisee about the woman who washed his feet with her hair – and of course, his discourse at the Last Supper. In fact, and someone else figured this out, not me, if you read the gospels you will find more space taken up by Jesus eating a meal with someone than by miracles or healings or teaching. Check it out if you want to.

So it is no surprise that Jesus uses the occasion of a meal to reveal himself to Cleopas and an unnamed disciple. And you can almost feel the progression. They meet a stranger on the road; they gradually reveal to him the reason for their poor spirits. He in turn speaks to them of the prophets and how this all relates to what has happened in Jerusalem. But it isn't until they sit down around a table that the level of intimacy is at the point where they recognize who it is that has been walking with them; it is when they share the bread. Up till then, the stranger could have been anyone; but when he sits down at a meal, they just know it has to be Jesus. And it says their eyes were opened and he vanished from their sight.

One of the things that happens when you have a particularly enjoyable meal with someone is that you look forward to the next time you get together. When our children were small, we always looked forward to visiting their grandparents in Maryland. We could expect a feast, often featuring blue crab from the Chesapeake bay. Even today when we get together with our children and grandchildren over a meal, there is a bonding that takes place; and even though we are all related, we grow closer in that relationship. Shared meals have a way of uniting people. If you've ever been to one of the meals Saint Mary's puts on in the course of the year, you walk away feeling a bit closer to your fellow parishioners; you feel part of something bigger.

And isn't this what the Mass is all about? We miss the point sometimes. But it's interesting to me that Jesus left this as his memorial. And in the earliest days of Christianity, the shared meal was almost a sacrament. The people would gather in someone's home and bring along something for the common table. Saint Paul tells us how it wasn't supposed to be done – with the rich eating at their own table of the food they had brought, and the poor at another. The shared meal was supposed to be just that – an opportunity where everyone fed each other. And only after the meal did the Mass take place, when the leader took bread and pronounced the words of institution, and passed around the cup containing the precious blood.

So we are all on that road to Emmaus – you and I are the nameless companion of Cleopas. And when we come to Mass, we greet each other, we listen to the scriptures and an explanation of them, and then we proceed to the meal where we do what Christians have been doing from the beginning.

Luke, our gospel writer, uses some interesting language in his account of this event. The very last sentence we read says “Then the two recounted … how he was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” But the Greek says “how he was being made known to them in the breaking of the bread”. A subtle difference but it has meaning to us. Because it is in this breaking of the bread that we know Jesus. And the more we participate, the more we look deeply into the Mass that we are attending, the more we can come to know Jesus.

And one more thing. Notice what the disciples did when Jesus vanished. They went out to announce the good news. They proclaimed that they had witnessed Jesus alive. Jesus reveals himself in the breaking of the bread not just for us, but for the whole world.

So now perhaps you can see why Jesus was so insistent that we remember him in a shared meal – because he wants to be with us, and he wants us to be one with each other, and sharing a meal is a universal way human beings deepen relationships, make peace and form bonds. And now perhaps you can see why the Church is so insistent that the bread truly becomes the body of Jesus and the wine becomes his blood and that our priest stands in for Jesus when he breaks the bread. For two thousand years Christians all over the world have participated in the one sacred meal that those two disciples ate at Emmaus and Jesus is constantly being made known to them and us in the breaking of the bread. So today try to see the Mass as the early Christians saw it – a time to nourish the body, the soul, our relationships with each other, and our relationship with God our Father.

Second Sunday of Easter, cycle A

John 20:19-31

Have you ever been responsible for someone coming into the church? I wish I could say that I had been instrumental in converting someone. But when I think about people I've known who have come into the Catholic church, it seems as though I haven't had much to do with it. There was one exception. When I was on the staff of the cancer center in Buffalo, a young physician training to be a cancer specialist expressed an interest in becoming a Catholic. He had been raised in a progressive Protestant denomination, and currently attended an Episcopalian church. We had many discussions about religion. After his two year fellowship he took a job out in Indiana. I didn't hear from him for a couple of years, and then one evening I got a call. He was having a party to celebrate his entry into the Catholic Church, and he called to thank me. For some reason he considered me the tipping point. I felt flattered, humbled, and grateful to God for using me. Maybe I've helped other people enter the Church. I don't know. Maybe I've helped lukewarm people become more devoted. But I think if I've done anything, it's probably to help people who belong to other denominations appreciate their Christian faith more – after all, during my career the people I hung out with belonged to all kinds of churches, even different faiths. And if I've helped people appreciate their faith more, it's not because I'm a great missionary; I'm pretty cowardly, but I do try to live like I imagine a Christian should live, and I never hide the fact that I pray and go to Church and believe what my Church teaches.

One of the things we Christians are supposed to do is witness our faith so that people are attracted to it. We are supposed to, as Saint Peter said, “always be prepared to give answer to everyone who asks you to give reason for the hope that you have.”

In the gospel today, we see two events. The first is when Jesus appears to the disciples after his resurrection. We are reading the gospel of John, but if we looked at the gospel of Matthew or Mark, they would have told us that the apostles were quaking with fear, because they believed they were seeing a ghost. John left out this detail. But the point is, the apostles ended up believing in the risen Jesus. As they told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord!”

But imagine how the apostles must have felt when Thomas, who has been with them for those three years, says “Unless I put my fingers in the wounds on his hands and put my hand into the wound on his side, I will not believe!” Here they were, telling their brother, their fellow apostle, their friend, that Jesus had risen from the dead and he doesn't believe them. But Thomas is not without faith or love or courage. After the raising of Lazarus, Jesus told his disciples that he was going down to Jerusalem to die, and Thomas said to the others, “Let us go down and die with him.” Certainly you couldn't question his commitment. He also said at another time, “Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” Thomas wasn't someone who uncritically believed anything you told him. When questions came up, he wanted answers. And so maybe it's not a surprise that Thomas doesn't believe the other apostles. He has a critical mind. And that's not a bad thing.

Put yourself in Thomas' place. You've seen Jesus die. You've seen him rolled up in spices and pushed into a tomb. And now you are being told that he rose again? I sympathize with Thomas. Several years ago there was a young woman in a coma and the story went that she was in some way a conduit for miracles. People would gather outside her home and pray. I had a friend whose silver rosary turned to gold while she was praying, at least that's what she said. But you know, I didn't go. And I don't have any great desire to go to Lourdes or Fatima or Medjugore, because I always figured that if the Blessed Mother wants to talk to me, she knows where to find me. Thomas was not faithless; he was probably more faithful than the rest. He probably believed that if Jesus wanted him to witness his resurrection, Jesus knew where to find him.

And the other thing. Thomas might have asked himself, why are these guys still hiding from the Romans? After all, if Jesus really did rise from the dead, everything he taught was true, and he said a lot of things about how his followers would ultimately triumph over persecution. He said that the Holy Spirit would put the words into their mouths; He said that they were blessed if they were persecuted; he said do not be afraid; he made them apostles, which means, “the ones who are sent”. If Jesus really did rise from the dead, why were they still hiding in this room?

And then Jesus shows himself, and offers Thomas the opportunity to prove to himself that the Resurrection really occurred. And Thomas perhaps surprisingly, does not take up the invitation; in the gospel it does not say that he actually put his finger in those wounds and his hand in Jesus' side. He simply falls to the ground and says “My Lord and My God”.

So here is a very devoted, very holy man – a good Jew, a person who is thoughtful and not gullible. He has shown his devotion and his courage. And the apostles were still not able to convince him that Jesus had risen from the dead. And why was that? Because they did not show him Jesus. It was only when Jesus himself appeared to Thomas that the conversion took place, and Thomas from that moment on preached up and down the shores of the Persian gulf and on into India, leaving Christian communities all through that area.

We are supposed to be instruments of conversion. We are people who have been commissioned to bring the gospel to the people we know. And perhaps the lesson of the gospel this weekend is that in order to convert our friends and neighbors and members of our family, we not only need to tell them that we have seen the Lord, but we need to show them Jesus Christ. And if they see Jesus Christ in us, perhaps they too will fall at his feet and say, “My Lord and My God.”

This is Mercy Sunday. God is always offering us his mercy. And he offers other people his mercy as well – and we are often the instruments of that mercy, if we allow him to work through us.

Easter, 2017

Matthew 28:1-10

Afraid yet filled with joy, the gospel says of the two women who witnessed the empty tomb. Have you ever felt that way? I certainly have, many times. When I got married – my whole life was changed and there was this other person that would enter into every decision I made, every action I took. That was a huge change. I was afraid. And yet I was filled with joy, because I wanted nothing more than to be with the one I loved, and that was finally happening. And when our first, and second, and third, fourth, fifth and sixth children were born – joy because we loved the new life that we had brought into the world, we and God; and at the same time, we recognized that we were bound to that child for the rest of our lives, that even in old age, even when the child was fully grown and independent, we would always worry like parents do. Afraid, yet filled with joy.

We are here because at some level we believe the central doctrine of Christianity, that Jesus Christ truly died, and truly rose again. He did not just come alive again; he returned to life changed. He was able to appear and disappear; he was often not recognized until he allowed himself to be recognized; he could ascend into heaven; and yet you could touch him, see him, hear him. And he bore the marks of his suffering on his resurrected body, and will do so for all eternity. But most important, he had conquered death and assured his followers that death could no longer conquer them either.

This is great news. But I think most Christians, even those who believe that the Resurrection really happened, are indifferent to it. Does the fact that it happened impact on their lives? Often, the answer is no. There are other Christians, unfortunately, who explain away the Resurrection. Maybe it was wishful thinking on the part of the apostles. Maybe it was a mass hallucination. Maybe it was the way the apostles expressed their conviction that Christ continued to work through them. And yet Paul tells us that if it did not take place, we are the most foolish of men. And he goes on to tell us that at least five hundred people personally witnessed Jesus' resurrection.

But the third group of Christians, and perhaps it is a very small group, are like the two Marys. They are afraid, yet filled with joy. Filled with joy we can understand; Jesus lives! Death is conquered! Heaven is assured for those who love him and follow him. Everything he promised before he died can be guaranteed – “I have promised, and I will do it” said the Lord to Ezekiel the prophet.

But afraid, because they realize that Jesus' resurrection is life changing. We have mixed feelings about Jesus, let us face that.

We like that he taught love, but we aren't sure about his command to love our enemies.

We like that he helped the unfortunate, but we aren't sure about his command to go sell what we have and give the money to the poor.

We like that he threw the money changers out of the temple for cheating the people, but we'd just as soon continue to buy clothing and food at prices that don't allow their producers to live a dignified life.

We like that Jesus is a friend to tax collectors and sinners and even lepers, but we'd rather not form true friendships with people who are beneath us socially or different from us in terms of race or religion.

And I could go on. I think you can see that the more you think about the Resurrection, the more you see that if you take it seriously it is life changing. And no one likes to be changed.

But Jesus invites us to enter into his Resurrection not at the end of our lives, not at some distant day in the future, but right now. And we can't say he doesn't tell us how to do this. He says, “whoever seeks to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” He says, “All who love me will do what I have commanded, and the Father and I will come and make our home with him”. He says, “Come Blessed of my Father, enter into your inheritance. … Whatever you did to the least of my brothers, that you did to me.” And if we are still in the dark, John the Baptist can shed even more light: “He must increase,” he tells his followers, “and I must decrease”. And we should all be saying that.

We lost someone in our extended family just recently. I didn't really know her too well, she lived a long way away, and it was usually at family gatherings that we might exchange a few words. At her funeral and the reception that followed, what I had noticed about her was confirmed by everyone else who had known her – she was someone who always put others first, someone who was always seeing to it that you were fed, that you were comfortable; she was happy only if you were happy. During her last days, she would ask those who visited her, “How are you doing?” And she would listen with interest. And she planned and paid for her own funeral and the reception afterward, not because those who loved her would not have done so, but rather, I'm sure, because she wanted to extend hospitality to all those who came to wish her farewell; she wanted one last joyful party. And she told someone that as her time got closer, she was worried. Her friend assured her that she had nothing to worry about. And she replied, “I'm not worried about myself – I know I'm going to heaven. I just worry about my husband and my parents and who will take care of them when I'm gone.”

Afraid yet filled with joy. Because if we become Jesus, and we can – that's what the Holy Eucharist is all about – and if we lose ourselves so that Jesus can live in us, then we too will be resurrected. That's the guarantee.

Palm Sunday, 2017

Matthew 21:1-11 and Matthew's Passion

During the Easter Season our liturgies take on a strange look. Holy Thursday – foot washing, reserving the Blessed Sacrament in a special altar; ending the Mass in silence, without a dismissal. Good Friday – no Mass at all, the one day of the year when we don't celebrate the Holy Eucharist. And Holy Saturday – the Blessing of the Paschal candle and its procession, the long readings from the Old Testament, and usually, someone gets baptized or confirmed or receives first Holy Communion. And of course there is today, where we always begin with the Gospel of Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem, and then we walk with him through his passion and death. And we always wonder, perhaps, how those people who cheered him and lay palm branches before him could turn around and scream for his blood a few days later.

According to some scholars, it wasn't quite like that. First of all up to that point Jesus was an itinerant preacher; sure, people knew about him, but the vast majority of Jews, especially those who had come from far distances, had probably never heard of him. Second, as the Jews began their solemn celebrations it was the practice of the Roman administrator to parade his troops through town, sort of to remind the Jews that if they were tempted to rebel, it wasn't a good idea. Third, very few Jews had any love for the Romans; like conquered people everywhere, they despised their conquerors.

And then Jesus enters the city. It's almost like he is mocking the Romans. They are coming in on war horses with armor and weapons. He is riding a donkey bareback, his feet probably scraping the ground. The Romans had come through the main gate; Jesus had entered through a smaller side gate. And the people noticed, and they loved it. They joined in the mockery, laying down their cloaks and waving palm branches – these would be things that the Roman governor would have to pay people to do to honor him. And why? Why would Jesus do this? Well, he knew he was going to die and had made peace with that fact in the Garden of Gethsemene. Perhaps his purpose was to make himself known to as many people as possible before his Passion began – because it would be from people who knew of him that his apostles would later form His church, and probably by the time of the crucifixion everyone in Jerusalem knew what was going on.

The same scholars that came up with that idea also felt that the people screaming for Jesus' death later on would not be these crowds of ordinary people; the people who began by hating the Romans weren't going to change their minds. The ones calling for his crucifixion were after all within the court of Pilate, not out in the streets, and they were undoubtedly the people who wanted to stay on Pilates good side – maybe some of them were even being paid to demonstrate.

So Jesus begins his passion by showing his contempt for power; and power fights back as only power can, with violence and death. And Jesus goes on to show his contempt for power by rising from the dead, and no power can ever touch him again.

And when you think about it this way, we lose our sympathy for Pontius Pilate, who is usually portrayed as being forced against his will to condemn Jesus. But maybe Pilate was seething mad and knowing that Jesus had not committed any crime, put on a show trial so that no one could accuse him of not following Roman law – because oddly enough, Romans took their law very seriously.

So when we think about that moment when Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey, perhaps we should see that part of being holy is refusing to be intimidated by power – even power that can put you to death – if that power is standing in the way of the Kingdom of Heaven; if it is standing between us and what God is calling us to do.

Fifth Sunday of Lent, cycle A

John 11:1-45

They say there is nothing as certain as death and taxes. Another thing that is almost as certain is to experience the death of a loved one. That isn't a universal experience, to be sure; but it is very common, and very hard to go through. I still remember the first time I did so – it was the death of my grandfather John. I remember him as a grumpy old German farmer, who nevertheless demonstrated a sense of humor, a sort of dry wit that my wife tells me is wierd. He and my grandmother had sold their farm and moved to the little community of Belt, which held about 600 families. And it wasn't too long after that that he became ill and after a few weeks, passed away. He was waked in his own living room, and I remember standing there looking down on him. Suddenly death was real to me. And it was many years later when my father died suddenly at the age of fifty-seven when I had an overwhelming reaction to the death of another person. I was in my first year of a fellowship in cancer medicine and in those days most of my patients would die sooner or later. My father's death resulted in several weeks of waking up with panic attacks and having nightmares about being in a coffin with no way out.

The gospel we've just heard contains a lot of deep theology. We could listen to Jesus assure us that He is the Resurrection and the life; we could marvel at the miracle. Or maybe we could listen to an all-too-familiar story and not react at all.

But in reading this story once again, I was struck by the fact that both Martha and Mary say the same thing to Jesus: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died”.

We've met Martha one other time in the gospels when she asks Jesus to tell her lazy sister to come out to the kitchen to help with supper. And Martha is apparently her same self here. She goes out to meet Jesus, and maybe there is a little accusation in her statement; is she angry that Jesus has delayed his coming? Probably. I would have been. And Jesus responds to Martha by talking about what she believes, what her own faith teaches her and what she believes about Jesus. Despite having lost her brother, despite being angry that he has not provided a miracle she knows he could have done, she does not lose her belief that Jesus is the Messiah and the Son of God. The loss of a loved one is always a threat to one's faith – who hasn't prayed that God will send a miracle? And who hasn't been disappointed and maybe even angry with God?

And when Mary speaks the same words, you can hear those words not as accusation but as part of her grief. She falls at his feet, it says. Like Martha she expects nothing from Jesus at this time, but only invites him into her own grief. He has delayed his coming; does he care that his friend has died? And at that point, Jesus himself experiences deep emotion – his weeping is not an act. The Greek words mean “he groaned within himself”. And Mary and the other mourners see from this that Jesus really loved Lazarus.

It is then, of course that Jesus prays and commands the stone be rolled back. We pass right over this statement, but if you were there on that day, why would you have thought Jesus asked that the stone be rolled back? Along with the other mourners, he was weeping. No one expected a miracle, John makes sure we know that. Lazarus has been dead four days, and everyone knew the soul lingered around the body for three days, then went to the afterlife. Martha doesn't expect anything but the smell of a rotting body, even though she has just finished professing her faith. Sometimes we tell each other that if only we have enough faith God will provide a miracle. But in this particular story, no one has faith, no one is expecting a miracle; dead is dead, four days dead is really dead.

And Jesus works the miracle, and Lazarus returns from the dead, lives the rest of his life, and dies again.

So what can we take away from this Gospel story, this famous story of the Raising of Lazarus? First of all, it confirms the words Jesus speaks to Martha – “I am the Resurrection and the life, whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” When we lose someone we love, this is what we can cling to, this is our certainty because Jesus demonstrated to that group of people that he was the source of life. Our faith is real, but maybe like Martha's it is not perfect; but Jesus nevertheless promises that eternal life is yours and mine and our loved ones as well. Second, I think we learn that when we mourn, when we feel completely alone in the depths of our sadness, Our Lord feels what we feel and weeps with us and is moved as we are moved. Our world is the way it is because God gave us freedom, and for freedom to exist there must be consequences of freedom. But when we experience those consequences, he is not a bystander; he shares our grief.

And the third thing he teaches us is that it isn't within our power to bring about a miracle; there is nothing we can do that can change what God has in mind. In this story no one expected a miracle and yet one took place. We should never say, “If only I had more faith ---” or “If only I had prayed harder...” or “If only I had been a better person ...” I might have changed God's mind. As Jesus hinted in this story, miracles are to show God's glory as they did here; they are not rewards.

So when you lose a loved one, and you will and I will, reflect on this story and see yourself in Martha and Mary, and let your faith be strengthened and know that in your sorrow God weeps with you, and accept Jesus' assurance that those who believe in him will never die.