Luke 24:44-53

The disciples of Jesus have been on a roller coaster. They experienced the excitement of following him; the devastation of his suffering and death; the fear and hope of his resurrection. Now, forty days later, Jesus tells them that there is at least one more twist in the plot.

Jesus says, “I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed from power from on high.” Then Jesus leads the disciples out to Bethany, and lifts his hands to bless them. While he is blessing them, he withdraws from them, and is carried up into heaven.

If I were there, I would have plenty of questions about these events. What kind of power is Jesus talking about, that will come from on high to clothe the disciples? Where exactly is Jesus going, as he rises up into the sky, and how is it happening? Why is Jesus leaving again so soon, and will we ever see him again?

I would have lots of questions, but according to our scripture, the disciples are unfazed by what they hear and see. They receive Jesus’ words and his rising as a gift. They return to Jerusalem with great joy. They spend lots of time in the temple blessing God and waiting for whatever will happen next.  Stay tuned until next week for the feast of Pentecost.

This gospel text is one of two texts we have that describe Jesus’ ascension. The other one, somewhat different, is in the book of Acts. The ascension of Jesus is right here in our scriptures, described twice and alluded to many other times.  But we rarely talk about it in the Protestant branches of the Christian church, unless we are reciting a creed: “He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father.”

The story of the ascension assumes several things that we may have trouble believing here and now. To start with, there’s the idea that Jesus’ physical resurrected body literally ascends, levitates off the earth and rises up into the sky.  There are some great pieces of art that try to capture this. In some, like on the bulletin cover, only Jesus’ wounded feet are visible as he rises up above his followers. In other images, it  seems like Jesus is leaping up into heaven, or reaching out towards God’s heavenly hand, ready to help him up.

This all may seem very strange to us, but it does have some biblical context. In the book of Genesis, Enoch, the father of Methusalah, walked with God for three hundred years of his long lifespan. Then, he was no more, for God took him (Genesis 5:21-23).  In the second book of Kings, we learn that the great prophet Elijah also had an unusual end. He was taken up into heaven by God in a whirlwind (2 Kings 2:11).  Other stories of an ascent directly from earth into heaven were common in the time of Jesus, from Greek and Roman and Jewish traditions.  So, Jesus’ followers would have known that such a thing could happen, and that it happened to people who are particularly holy.

Another piece of this ascension story that may be hard for us to wrap our minds around is the concept of the universe that existed at the time. In the time of Jesus, the universe was understood to contain three realms. First, there is earth, where we are now. Below the earth is the place of the dead known variously as the underworld, or sheol, or hell. Above the earth, in the midst of the sky is an invisible dividing line called the “firmament.” Beyond the firmament is the third realm, the realm of God, or heaven.  In this understanding, going into God’s presence means literally going up.

What do we do with a story like the ascension today, with such a different cultural context, and scientific understanding? How can the story of Jesus’ ascension help in our understanding of Jesus or our understanding of human life and death?

According to Christian tradition, Jesus exists from the very beginning of time up until the very end of time. He is our Alpha and Omega, our A to Z, our beginning and our end.  The story of Jesus that we celebrate each year between Advent and Easter marks a tiny portion of Jesus’ eternal presence.  Sometimes it’s drawn like a graph, where Jesus is going along and along and along and then briefly is incarnated, lives, dies, is resurrected, and then makes a return trip back to where he started.

The ascension story is Jesus’ return home. In European artistic tradition, this part of the story usually appears like a royal court scene, complete with thrones: God in the center, Jesus on God’s right hand. I like to imagine, though, a more affectionate reunion between Jesus and the one he called his Abba, his daddy. Perhaps there was an embrace, or a celebration.  And those of us who prefer a less human idea of God might have a completely different, more abstract vision of what it would be like for Jesus to be fully reunited with God after his time on earth.

This timeline idea of Jesus carries powerful messages. God has always existed; Jesus has always existed. And yet, for Christians, because Jesus came down, and went back up, our relationship with God is changed forever. Our ancestors got to know and learn from Jesus, and pass their knowledge on to us.  God came to know about human experience and human suffering from the inside. God came close to us, as close as it gets. And, that closeness didn’t end when Jesus ascended.  Jesus continues, and we are now his body: the church. The spirit comes down to breathe in us and clothe us with power.

As extraordinary as the story of Jesus is, his story also gives us a powerful way of thinking about human birth, and life, and death. What if we are not so different from Jesus?  We are made in God’s image. At the heart of each person, is a piece of God, that has become incarnate – embodied –for a brief span of time.  Then, after death, our spirit returns home to God – a prodigal daughter or son – welcomed with great joy.

This past week, one of our own, Bill Andrews, passed into God’s arms. Many of us are mourning him. Many of us are mourning others.  This weekend, we remember those who died in service to our country, as part of our armed forces. And each of us have our own mortality to contend with,  as well.

In both life and death, Jesus is our vanguard. He goes before us, to show us the way.  Jesus is a path, showing us how to live well in a body, and find God on earth. Jesus is a path, showing us how to return into God’s complete embrace, after our time on earth has to end.

Jesus, thank you for accompanying us: beyond all time and also in our human lifetimes. May our knowledge of your eternal care ease the pain of grief we feel for others, and may it give us courage to follow in your footsteps, until we follow you finally into the arms of God’s mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the company of the saints in light. Amen.

Exodus 25-40

How does the story of our people start? The biblical story?

You may remember that in the book of Genesis we meet Father Abraham and Mother Sarah, and they are given God’s blessing and called to begin a journey.  God’s blessing then passes down the family line, to Isaac and Rebecca, to Jacob and Leah and Rachel and Bilhah and Zilpah, to Joseph and his eleven brothers and his sister Dinah. Over time, one couple becomes a people whom God names “Israel.”

This people Israel travel down to Egypt to escape a drought. They receive mercy because Joseph has found favor with Pharaoh. But in time, a new king arises over Egypt who does not know Joseph. The Israelites are enslaved. Years pass – generations – and these people Israel who are blessed by God suffer.  Finally a little boy named Moses is born, and miraculously survives childhood to witness God’s presence as a burning bush on top of a mountain. There God tells Moses: “I am the God of your ancestors, and I have heard the cries of my people. So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.”

After much protesting, Moses and his brother Aaron follow God’s guidance and lead their people out of Egypt. Together they escape across the Red Sea and travel through the wilderness to Mt. Sinai. Returning to the mountaintop, Moses receives instructions for a new chapter in this holy story.  Now God establishes a covenant – a holy promise – that binds God together not with one person, or one family, but with a whole people.  God lays out the terms of the covenant, including the instructions that we know as the 10 commandments, and gives many other guidelines for the people’s life together.

If you read the bible from the beginning, the books of Genesis and Exodus, you may find yourself really enjoying this story, right up until you hit Exodus 25.  At that point in God’s instructions, God begins to give chapter after chapter after chapter of extremely detailed commands about where the Israelites should worship while they continue their wilderness journey.  You can read in these chapters about the measurements of each span of acacia wood, about the exact placement and number of the golden cherubs, about the intricate design of the cups – shaped like almond blossoms — about the ten curtains of fine twisted linen, and blue, purple, and crimson yarns. It all sounds glorious, but as reading material it is maddeningly precise and repetitive.

Why? Why would God care so much about the place where She is worshiped, how it is built and decorated? Why would our bible contain so much detail about the tabernacle, and the tent of meeting? This text argues that creating and setting aside a special place for worship is very important. It should be beautiful, made of the best materials, crafted by gifted craftspeople, tended by faithful leaders: the best that we can offer to God and one another.

Moses and the people receive these instructions, and they do their best to carry them out. But Moses is more concerned about the journey he will take with the tabernacle than its precise measurements. He tells God, “See, you have said to me, “Bring up this people,” but you have not let me know whom you will send with me.” And later, “If your presence will not go, do not carry us up from here.”

God reassures Moses: “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” And, indeed, when the tabernacle is made, it is consecrated by God, and filled with God’s glory. The cloud of the Lord is on the tabernacle by day, and fire is in the cloud by night, before the eyes of all the house of Israel, at each stage of their journey.

Here at West Concord Union Church we have spent three and a half years trying to decide how this meeting house should be renovated. Unfortunately, God did not provide chapters and chapters and chapters of instruction for us. The result of our efforts has been imperfect, both in process and design and in process. But I do believe we are doing our very best to honor God and one another with our efforts.

It’s hard to make a change from what is familiar to us, what is beloved. Looking around today, though, I wonder: how did the holy space we have now come to be? How is this a reflection of the callings and generosity of previous generations?

Our covenanters, whose name are on a plaque at the back of the room, began gathering in January of 1889. The first place they met was a community building called Warner Hall. Once they had gained in numbers and capacity and calling, these people erected our first church building, dedicated in 1894; you can see that building in the upper left hand corner of the cover of your bulletin. The next picture to the right shows how in 1910, the building was rotated on its foundation and significantly expanded and improved, creating the heart of the building we know today, including our lovely stained glass windows and our beautiful ceiling and our cross.

If you keep following the pictures, you can see how in the 50s, the chancel was filled with furniture, with one central pulpit and a communion table in front of it. In 1960, the education wing was added, with a Bauhaus-style entrance. In 1971, our beautiful tracker organ was installed in the back of the sanctuary to replace another organ that had failed.  The next picture shows the chancel as it was in the 70s and 80s, with paneled furniture and choir seating in the chancel, and what appears in some pictures to be orange shag carpet.  I’m still looking for confirmation on that from someone who was there at the time.

1986 marked our last major renovation, including the current Pine Street Pedestrian Entrance, as well as the chancel you can see today. Our modern elevator and its tower were added just a few years back, in 2009, the result of an amazing effort to expand our welcome during an interim time; you can see the tower in the last picture on the bottom right.

The meeting house of this congregation has changed a lot.  Each change was made in an effort to serve the ministry that was happening: to accommodate growth, to enhance our music, to mark shifts in theology and practice.

Consider, for instance, the sacrament of baptism. Members were baptized at the very first gathering of the church in Warner’s pond. When this building was made, the chancel was constructed to hold a large baptismal pool in the center, perhaps as a result of the Baptists who were part of the congregation. In 1987, a new font was purchased that could be brought out among the people, dedicated in honor of Elizabeth Debinder, daughter of Pat and Todd. Records show that over one thousand people have been baptized here in the past 125 years, including many current children and youth, as well as many children and grandchildren of our current members. A few adults who are here now were baptized at WCUC as well, including Pris Clark, Carlin Andrus, Andy Carlisle, Andrew Southcott, and others.

Communion has been celebrated at at least three different communion tables during the course of the church’s life. This one was dedicated in 1987 in honor of Winifred Carter, mother of Bob Carter. It was made at the same time as the pulpit and lectern, which were dedicated in honor of Charles Comeau.

There have been at least 439 weddings here. Many current members have had children married here, and some who are among us now or of recent memory were married here themselves: including Sue and Gary Lanchester, Polly and Keith Jenkins Man, Annie and John Holt, Carolyn and William Robinson, Janice and Thomas Hart, Charles and Beverley Bartlett, Norm and Marilyn Cousins, Caroline and Holly Holden.

We have had many memorial services here, for beloved members, too many to count.This sanctuary also has a wonderful musical history, including two different organs and one grand piano.  The dedication to musical excellence is clear throughout our history records.

In renovating the church this summer, we are following an established tradition.  We are trying, to the best of our ability, to modify our building to the current needs and practice of our shared ministry. But it is still hard to imagine it changing. How will it look, how will it feel?

As we prepare to travel this summer, and then to re-enter a renovated building, a changed sanctuary, it is natural to have grief about what we are leaving behind: the pine street steps, most of the sanctuary pews, our table, and font, and lecterns, the lights, our current kitchen. It is natural, too, to feel some hope and uncertainty and excitement about what we are headed towards: greater safety, accessibility, flexibility, and environmental responsibility.  All of us here will have different and sometimes conflicting emotions about the changes we are about to undertake. We need to be gentle with one another.

Whatever we are feeling as we face this journey, there are two questions that are most important. The same ones that Moses asked.  Will we all go together? And, Will God be there?

On this front we have good news. You love one another enough to keep worshiping together in new circumstances – even if it means traveling all the way across the street, or two miles across town, or returning here and sitting in chairs.  We will go together. As for God, as the Israelites learned, She travels with us, and dwells with us, even if we are on the road.  Her glory will fill and consecrate any space we worship in.

Let us pray. Holy God, Great is your faithfulness to all generations. We thank you for our past. We ask for your support in this time of grief and anticipation.  Help us to stay close to one another. Fill every place we meet with glory.  Stay always before us, and lead us on. Amen.

I Peter 2:2-10
John 14:1-14

Near the end of the 14^th century, a woman known as Julian of Norwich wrote a book called Revelations of Divine Love.  It is, as far as we know, the first book written in English by a woman.

We know very little about Julian; we don’t even know if that is really her name. She probably came from a privileged family. She may have been educated by Benedictine nuns. We do know that she was an anchoress, someone who lived at least a part of her life in seclusion, devoted to prayer. Beyond that, we can only be sure of what we read in her book. Julian writes that at the age of 30, she suffered from a serious illness and experienced visions of Jesus. She describes these visions in detail in her writing, and includes further thoughts on their meanings.

One of the most striking parts of Julian’s book for modern readers is her description of God as a Mother. Julian describes God in Jesus as conceiving, nursing, enduring labor, and providing nurturing care; forgiving us our sons, and loving all people with great devotion. God, Julian writes, is a Mother – and so much more.

When God says “It is I,” Julian writes, it is as if God is saying, “I am the power and the goodness of the Father, I am the Wisdom of the Mother, I am the Light and the Grace which is blessed love, I am the Trinity, I am the Unity, I am the supreme Goodness … I am the One who makes you love, I am the One who makes you desire, I am the never-ending fulfillment of all true desires.”

Julian is a Christian mystic: someone who experiences a rare intimacy and unity with God. Her book is an attempt to share her experience with others.  She wants to break open our concept of God, to make it live and sing. Julian uses words to meet the hunger that lives in so many of us, the hunger to know: what is God really like?

In our scriptures today, we meet Jesus as he gives his farewell discourse in the gospel of John. This is Jesus’ long goodbye before his crucifixion. Jesus tells his disciples that he is leaving them, and then he tries to reassure them.  They will not be alone after he goes. The Holy Spirit will come to guide them, and then, finally, when the time is right, Jesus will come to them again. He will lead them to join him in the eternal home that God has made for them.

These words are comforting. They’re so comforting that we often read this passage during memorial services, to remind us of how our loved ones have found a home in God’s care beyond death. The disciples, however, are far from satisfied by Jesus’ reassurances. Thomas worries he won’t be able to find the way to this mysterious destination. Philip has a different concern. He doesn’t want Jesus to leave before he truly understands and experiences the nature of God. Philip says, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”

Of course, Jesus has been trying to show the disciples their God ever since he met them. He has taught with parables and questions.  He has performed healings and dramatic miracles.  And he has shared his love with them, love that is from God, love that is God.  How many more ways can Jesus show them God? But Jesus tries to explain, again:  “ If you know me, you will know my father also… Whoever has seen me has seen the Father… I am the Father and the Father is in me.”

What is God really like? Many of us have particular names or images or metaphors that we like to use for God.  But our tradition resists the idea that any one word could capture the nature of God. Some Christians think it is impossible to describe God with human language at all.  They prefer silence in favor of any language that falls short of the fullness of God. It is better to be silent, or to say what God is not, than to pretend we can say anything entirely true about God.

Our Scriptures, and mystics like Julian of Norwich, take another tack, using what we might call expansive language, using every possible word and image they can imagine to help us try to grasp God.  Just in the two scriptures passages from this morning, God is called Father, Son, Lord, way, truth, life, living stone, cornerstone, and even, nursing mother. And Julian, in the space of one paragraph, describes God as power, goodness, Father, wisdom, Mother, light, grace,  trinity, unity, love, desire, and fulfillment.

We can seek God in silence; or in expansive language. Or we can seek God in a person: the person of Jesus of Nazareth, the person of the eternal Christ, the person who God sent down to be God among us. But with all of these avenues, many of us still end up feeling incomplete, uncertain. Who is God, really? What is God like?  With Philip, we demand, “Show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”

Here is the good news. While we may struggle to know and describe God, ultimately finding God is not our job.

God is our creator, and our destination. God is the ground of our being, and we are made in her image.  God is as close as our next breath, and God is the spirit that animates our bodies. God first loved us, and God pursues us: whether we go to heaven, or to hell, or the farthest reaches of the sea.

If there is in you a hunger to know God more deeply, give thanks for it. May that hunger help you along, to greater understanding, and deeper trust.  But we will never have a long enough silence, or a big enough vocabulary, to completely know God. God is beyond our knowledge. As it says in psalm 139: How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!   How vast is the sum of them! I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.

In the end, the practice of faith is a surrender to presence and mystery.  We follow our hearts and minds until we can’t find the next step, and then we fall into the arms of a God who was there all along: a parent more perfect than any human parent; a home more final than any human home; a love too large for human understanding; the fulfillment of every true desire. Thanks be to God.

Psalm 23

I have a friend and colleague named Tom who lives in Sudbury.   He’s a UCC pastor.  His wife Rachel is a lactation consultant. They have three kids and a house full of really great toys. They’re a fantastic family, full of love, not so unusual. Except in one thing. Their second child was born biologically female, and now lives his life as a boy.

Max has always thought of himself as a boy. When he was 2, he asked a face painter turn him into The Incredible Hulk.  During his early years, he asked his parents for a short haircut again, and again and again – he estimates 245 times. When kids at school wondered if he was a boy or a girl, he didn’t know what to say. Finally he asked his Dad – is it ok to say that I’m a boy?

Tom and Rachel used a family trip to let Max experiment with a different haircut and different clothes, just to see how it felt. After going to the barbershop, Max says, “My life changed, because I felt good in my skin.” Soon, Max and his family were ready to enroll him in school as a boy, with his new name.  They noticed a difference in him right away. Tom says, “He just seemed more alive.”

Going through this process has been easier for Max and his family than it would have been for many people. His parents were receptive and supportive. So were their family, their friends, and their congregation. Max lives here, in greater Boston, where attitudes are relatively accepting.

Still, it hasn’t been simple. Tom and Rachel check in with Max often to see how he’s feeling about his choice. They want him to be completely sure that it doesn’t matter to them if he changes his mind.  They have some anxiety about the medical choices that will come as Max approaches puberty, and about Max’s safety and health in a country that is struggling to acknowledge and protect people like Max. And there’s grief: grief to lose the daughter that Max used to be.  But mostly, there is love: love, and out of that love, a fierce determination to protect Max against anything that could harm him as he lives out the life that God has created him for, the life that God has called him to.

People tell Tom and Rachel that they are brave and courageous. But they don’t really feel like they had any other choice. They want Max to be happy. They want him to be safe. And the best way to make that happen is to support him in how he understands himself.

Now, not only are Tom and Rachel supporting Max in his choices, but they have become active in sharing their story with others and defending the rights of all transgender people. One recent protest poster went viral. On it is a picture of Max, an adorable 8 year old boy. It says:  Not a threat to: you, your kid, your school. Only a threat to: Pizza, mud puddles, video game bad guys.

Our psalm for today is the most beloved ones out there. Maybe you can remember a line from it without looking in the bulletin. Maybe you could say it all by heart, perhaps the King James version. Psalm 23 is beautiful, and comforting, and so we keep reading it, and setting it to music, and teaching it to our children.  This psalm reminds us of so many important things that God offers us: rest, guidance, protection, companionship, nourishment, blessing, abundance, mercy, shelter.

Sometimes, though, words like this from scripture may ring hollow. Something happens, and we face great uncertainty, or suffering, or loss. We can no longer be sure that we or our loved ones will be safe in body, mind, or spirit.

This psalm may seem like cold comfort in moments like these. It’s worth remembering, though, that this psalm comes right after the psalm we read on Good Friday, the psalm that says: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” Our scriptures are much more honest than we usually are about how hard life can be. Psalm 23 comes, then,  not as a denial of pain and suffering, but as an answer to it. It reassures us that when we find ourselves in suffering or in trouble, God has not forsaken us.

Psalm 23 reminds us of who God is, and what God does, even in a world in which there are other forces at work.  If you’re looking for God, God’s the one doing the caring, and the comforting; the walking-alongside-us-in-the-valley-of-the-shadow-of-death; the protecting of the innocent and the vulnerable; the making of the feast, the giving of the blessing.  God’s doing all of that, all around us. That is happening, also.

Our work is to notice this. To give thanks for it. And also, as a church, to be a part of it: empowered by God’s Spirit to make a way out of no way, alongside all of God’s beloved children: children like Max, and like you, and like me.

God, my shepherd! You keep giving me what I need the most:
A lush meadow to rest in, Quiet pools to drink from, Rest for my soul.
Your guidance sends me in good directions.
Even when my way goes through valleys of death, I am not afraid.
You travel with me. Your shepherd’s crook makes me feel safe.
You provide an abundant meal that nourishes me as my enemy sits across the table.
You bless me as one of your own and fill my cup to overflowing.
Your goodness and mercy chase after me every day of my life;
So I return to you, again and again, and call your heart my home. Amen.

Acts 2:14a, 36-41

In the reading from the book of Acts today, we press fast-forward on the story of the Church. Peter is speaking to a great gathering on the day of Pentecost, which we won’t celebrate until the beginning of June.  On that day, followers of Jesus who have spent the 50 days since the resurrection in fear and uncertainty are out in the streets. Also there are faithful members of the Jewish Diaspora, in Jerusalem for the festival. All of these people have just witnessed something extraordinary – the miracle of Pentecost —  wind, and flame, and a miraculous multilingual exchange about God’s deeds of power. People are amazed and perplexed.  No one is sure what to make of it. Some even suggest that the whole crowd has had too much wine to drink.

Peter has a different explanation. He tells the crowds: God did great things through Jesus among you, wonders and signs. Then Jesus was killed, but God raised him up, freeing him from death. Now Jesus has poured out the Spirit of God among us, as the prophet Joel described.

So far, so good. I imagine the crowds nodding their heads. Everything is starting to fit together, and it is all good news. But then, Peter continues.  He says, “Know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.”

This Jesus who you crucified. Wow.  According to Peter, God is doing amazing things, but the people have done something truly awful. They have killed their own messiah.

Now, of course, this Pentecost crowd wasn’t directly responsible for Jesus’ death.  Some of them weren’t even in the city when he was killed. Ultimately it was the Roman state who executed Jesus.  But Peter tells the crowd: you are complicit. You failed to recognize who Jesus really was. You chose not to follow him. You were too afraid to protect him when things got tough.  This was your messiah, and you did not stand between him and capital punishment.

I am amazed that Peter is brave enough to say this to the crowd.  He could have gotten in deep trouble. Instead, something amazing happens. “Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?”  And Peter said them, “Repent, and be baptized in the name of Jesus so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you, and for your children, and for all who are far away…”

Peter’s Pentecost sermon about God’s amazing grace and the people’s collective guilt is met not with resistance or a riot, but with repentance and renewal. About three thousand people are baptized, receiving God’s forgiveness and the Holy Spirit.

For many decades now, if not longer, there have been voices confronting us with a new terrible truth.  The earth, God’s creation, our home, is suffering and is in danger of death. And not only that: we are the ones carrying out the crucifixion. We are the ones who are killing it.

Of course, no single individual among us is completely responsible for this phenomenon. And yet, collectively, we are all responsible. We are the ones living in a way that is not sustainable. It is our cultures and economic systems that have accelerated the rate of natural abuse.  It is our governments that have failed to curtail the damage. It is our ignorance, our denial, and finally our cowardice that have created this crisis.  Temporary profit and comfort for the wealthiest are prioritized about the health and safety of earth and all of its creatures, including humankind.

Voices have been confronting us with this terrible truth. But unlike those gathered in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost, we have mostly refused to take responsibility or change our habits. This approach has gained us nothing. On the contrary, it has cost us precious opportunities to turn things around. And still, we argue amongst ourselves about what is happening and who is to blame and what to do about it, if anything.

But there is another way.  The way that crowd on Pentecost chose. The way of repentance, and humility, and shared effort at forming a new way of life.

Yesterday, people gathered to march for the climate. They gathered because they had come to believe the terrible truth that we are harming the earth. They gathered because there are still too many who refuse to acknowledge this truth, or respond to it. Among that number are our new President and his administration, which has worked to roll back environmental protections and stop collecting and sharing data on climate change.

So people gathered to march. There were people in DC, tens or hundreds of thousands of them, and people at over 300 sister marches or rallies around the country and around the globe.  In Augusta, Maine, protestors spoke up for marginalized communities. In Tampa, Florida, marchers shared their concern about rising sea levels. The weather conditions weren” great. In D.C., there was record heat. In Denver, it snowed. In Chicago, it rained. People came anyway.

All kinds of people marched. There were environmental advocates, expressing anger but also resolve. There were water protectors, reminding us that water is sacred, and water is life. Nurses marched, because pollution is a health issue.  People of faith marched, including UCC folks in Boston, and our own Polly and Keith in D.C., and so many others, because we believe in the value of God’s creation and in the wellbeing of God’s people. And of course there were the unions and immigrants, indigenous people and coastal dwellers, and so many children: all of them especially vulnerable to a changing climate.

You would think that such gatherings would be a somber affair. But they were not. Or not only somber.  There was creativity and even joy. People rode stationary bikes to power loudspeakers. Someone put on a polar bear costume. A fisherman came with his 24-foot oyster boat, to let people know that climate change effects jobs. People wore flowers in their hair and carried children on their shoulders and made signs saying things like, “May the forest be with you.”  There were brass bands and so many drums. The drumming, they say, went on forever.

It is a human instinct to stop our ears against bad news and avoid responsibility for terrible tragedies.  But when it comes to the earth – and everything else – God demands honesty, responsibility, and repentance. This may sound awful, but it’s actually part of God’s magnificent good news. Because once we are willing to face the truth and acknowledge our role in it, we are free. God forgives our sins, so that we need not carry them anymore. And as an extra bonus gift on the far side of grace, we receive the Spirit. The Spirit. That’s what we see, when climate marchers dance in the streets, and share snacks, and imagine a better world, and sing in the face of all that is happening.

God has given us this earth, and we have done terrible things to it. But God’s good work does not end with the making of creation. She offers us a chance to repent, and be forgiven. She grants us the power of her Spirit for wisdom and courage and joy in whatever comes next. This promise is for us, and for our children, and for all those are far away. Thanks be to God.

John 20:1-18

How did she come to believe?

We don’t know much about Mary Magdalene. You may have heard stories; most of them aren’t true. Mary Magdalene gets mixed up with all the other Marys in the New Testament, as well as several unnamed women. We don’t know much about Mary Magdalene, but we know a few very important things. She was a follower of Jesus. She suffered from seven demons, which Jesus cast out. She was there when Jesus died, and when the empty tomb was discovered. She was the first preachers of the resurrection and a central leader in the early church.

In this morning’s text, we learn something else: even for her, it was hard to believe.

Mary comes back to the tomb early on the first day of the week, while it is still dark. Her teacher has died, and she wants to be with him. She goes to sit by his grave, but when she arrives, she sees that the stone has been removed from the tomb. Mary does not rejoice. She does not guess what has happened. She cannot even bring herself to investigate. Mary runs to Simon Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved, and says, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

Simon Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved go into the tomb, and look. They see that the body is gone. They see the linen wrappings. The disciple whom Jesus loved believes something – we don’t know what. Both of them return home.

Mary does not rejoice. She does not even ask the other disciples what they have seen, or what they believe. She stays by the tomb, and weeps. Maybe it’s the first time that she has been able to cry. Maybe she has been encased in grief ever since she saw her friend on the cross. But now the tomb is open, and so is she.

Finally, Mary looks into the tomb herself. She discovers two angels in white, sitting where Jesus’ body had been. The angels ask, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  But Mary does not rejoice at the sight of angels. She does not even express fear or wonder. She just says, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

Then Mary turns, and sees a figure in the garden. It is Jesus, risen from the dead. He says, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”  But Mary does not rejoice. She does not even recognize him. Thinking he must be the gardener, she says: “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

It’s not until Jesus says, “Mary!” that she finally wakes up. It’s not until Mary hears Jesus’ story from his own lips that she begins to believe. Only then does Mary leave the tomb behind, and go to tell the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

Some of you may have heard another remarkable story, the story of Matthew Sanford. Matthew was only 13 when his family was in a car accident that left his legs paralyzed. What kept him alive at first, Matthew says, is how much his family needed him to survive. But for years that survival was limited. Matthew decided that in order to cope, he had to separate himself from his past. One life was over: the life that included his childhood, and the use of his legs. Now, he had a new and very different life.

In his new life, Matthew was guided by doctors and therapists who undertook important repairs to his body. He went through operations and rehabilitations, necessary but extremely painful adjustments. He learned that his arms must serve as both arms and legs. He was encouraged to ignore his legs altogether.

Then, about ten years later, something changed. Searching for pain relief, Matthew started to practice yoga.  Through his yoga practice, he began to be aware of some sensation in the lower part of his body. It wasn’t that his spinal column had regenerated. His body could not go back. Still, he could feel … something.  It was as if, he said, he was making his way across a room in the dark. It wasn’t the same as travelling in the light. He couldn’t see clearly or directly. But he became more and more aware of the texture of the darkness.

Yoga changed everything for Matthew.  He realized that the earlier decisions he had made to separate from his past were no longer serving him.  He realized that the advice he received to ignore his legs was ultimately misguided. He found a way to reconnect with his childhood memories. He found a way to reconnect with memories of his trauma. He found a way to reconnect with his paralyzed body.  The conversation between his mind and his body had been disrupted, he says, but not completely cut off. Now, his body has a new voice. Now it whispers. He has to really listen to hear it; but it’s there.

Matthew has continued to practice yoga. And he has begun to teach. He teaches abled bodied people. He teaches those who need physical modifications. And most recently, he has begun teaching disabled army vets how to move and breathe with greater ease in the bodies they have now.

The message of Easter is hard to understand and to trust. It is often misrepresented. The good news of this morning does not erase the tragedy that came before it. The betrayal of the disciples who denied Jesus, the cowardice of the religious leaders who arrested him, the bloodthirstiness of the crowd that called for his crucifixion, the ultimate immorality of the state that executed him  – all of that cannot be undone. Mary and all of Jesus’ followers will always be marked by what they experienced. And Jesus – even Jesus, the great exception, risen from the dead – even Jesus is not the same as he was before. “Do not hold onto me,” he tells Mary. He has left regular human existence behind for something entirely different.

The good news of Easter is not that all past wrongs are erased, but rather that tragedy can occur in our hearts and in our bodies, and yet, through the power of God, we can still rise.

All of us experience at least a little death. The death of loved ones. The death of hopes or dreams for ourselves, or for others. The death of a relationship. The slow or sudden death of our physical abilities.  At the time of loss, we may need to make a clean break: before and after. Whole and broken.  But resurrection requires connection. Resurrection requires discovering the both/and. Resurrection requires both brutal honesty and an openness to the possibility of joy.

For Mary, it did not happen all at once. She had to go out and find her way while it was still dark.  She had to see the open tomb, talk with her friends, cry, speak with angels unaware.  Then, finally, she spoke with Jesus himself. He said, “Mary.” He spoke her name in that familiar, beloved voice.  And through his gentle presence, and his loving persistence, Mary came to believe that Jesus really was with her in a new way. In time, she would discover that losing him, and finding him again, had changed her so profoundly that she would dedicate the rest of her life to sharing that good news over and over and over again to whoever would listen.

What deaths are you grieving now? Our gospels tell us that death is not the end of the story. Instead, we are invited forward in the dimness of our grief, onwards towards awareness and, ultimately, surrender.  If we stop pushing, and start feeling; if we breathe in and out; then, perhaps – when we are ready –  we will recognize the voice of Jesus, calling our name, inviting us to believe in new life. Thanks be to God.

Matthew 21:1-11

What kind of a strange parade was this?

On Palm Sunday, many of us who were raised in the church anticipate a festive event. We shout Hosanna, and we wave palms, and we sing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.” We fold palms into crosses if we have the right kind, or we use our palms to fight one another. Some churches go even farther in their celebrations. A church I served as a student Pastor gets a mariachi band each year and marches through Manhattan with children taking turns riding on the back of a pony.  Who doesn’t love a parade? Maybe next year.

These festive celebrations are part of our tradition. But in marking that tradition, we may forget just how strange Jesus’ parade was.

Parades were a familiar event in the Roman Empire.  When a military commander led Roman forces to victory, that victory was celebrated with something called a “day of triumph.” The general became a kind of king for a day, wearing a crown of laurel and robes of purple embroidered with gold.  He rode in a great chariot led by strong horses on a long route leading into the heart of Rome.  Great crowds cheered him on and showed him honor  as he passed, followed by his army, marching in formation. When the whole procession finally made it into the city, the general went to the temple of Jupiter to offer sacrifices. There were feasts, and public games.  A day of triumph.

Jesus’ parade was… different.  He was not a military commander. He had won no victory. And he chose not Rome, but the holy city of Jerusalem as his destination. As far as we know, Jesus didn’t have a special outfit.  He didn’t have a chariot, either, or even a horse; he rode on a donkey. Actually, in the gospel of Matthew, which we read this morning, it’s even worse than that – Jesus straddles both a donkey and its colt at the same time, in what must have been an extremely awkward procession. Jesus had no army marching in order behind him, but a ragtag bunch of fishermen and children and tax collectors and scarlet women and people with illnesses and disabilities.

Jesus’ parade can’t have been very grand. But the crowds go crazy anyway. Jesus’ reputation has been growing throughout his short ministry. The people who have come all the way to Jerusalem to mark the feast of Passover are thrilled that this celebrity Rabbi is joining them. So they show him honor, throwing branches and cloaks into the street to make a kind of red carpet. People go ahead of him, and come behind him, waving palms and shouting “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

Jesus is king for a day – king of the Jews. But not everyone is prepared to celebrate. Our gospel tells us, “When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?””

In so much of what he does, Jesus challenges us. He teaches with stories that contradict our common sense.  He teaches with questions that disturb our equilibrium.  Only rarely does he come out and give an actual instruction, and then, the results are similarly jarring: Let the children come to me. Go, and sell everything you have.  Love your enemies, and bless those who curse you.

In the events of Holy Week, we see Jesus teaching again, using a different medium. This time, Jesus teaches through what you could call performance art, or street theater, or civil disobedience, or non-violent resistance. He brings his disruptive presence right into the heart of religious and political power and refuses to be anyone other than exactly who God has called him to be.

Palm Sunday is a day of triumph, in a sense. But many of those who shout with joy on this day turn to silence, or even condemnation, by the end of the week.  By then, Jesus has disappointed everyone. He has shown that he is too peaceful to lead a military movement; too unpredictable to bolster the religious establishment; too powerful to be ignored by the colonial overlords.  And so, by Friday, instead of public games, there is a public spectacle.   The crowd demands his crucifixion, and watches as it is carried out.

Holy week starts with one kind of triumph, and ends with a very different one on Easter morning. But none of it makes sense unless we pay attention what Jesus is teaching us, and walk with him through the middle passage. None of it has meaning unless we consider the resonance of the whole story in today’s events, and in our own lives.

Let’s notice, then, the strangeness of this parade, and all that comes afterwards.  Let’s journey into this week with Jesus, to learn from his final teaching.

Some people say I have an unusually peaceful aura about me. I don’t know if that’s always true but I think I’ve always had a gift of courage. I believe I’ve had it so that I could deal with the challenges I’ve had to face in life.

Like my mother said earlier, I have Prader Willi Syndrome. Prader Willi is a genetic condition with a few different symptoms. But the main thing about Prader Willi is that you’re born without the signal that tells you when you’re full. So people with Prader Willi always feel hungry.

You might think Prader Willi is the biggest challenge I’ve faced in my life. But it’s not. Getting diagnosed with Prader Willi made my mom and me really happy! I wouldn’t say knowing made my life any simpler. But it explained a lot—like why I have small hands and feet and why I was always really good at puzzles. For the first time, there was a reason why aspects of my life seemed different. And it was a huge relief to know I wasn’t the only person who had gone through some of my issues. But Prader Willi has not been my biggest challenge in life. Growing up without my dad, moving a lot when I was a kid, and having a hard time in school were a lot tougher. That’s when I needed my courage.

I’ve always been drawn to people and places where the Love is big and easy to feel. The dance studio where I dance several times a week is like that. It’s a place where everyone is glad to see each other and where we’re free to be ourselves. It’s like there’s a Love in that place that’s bigger than all of us. But we are all a part of it if in our own ways. All I have to do is walk in the building and I feel it. West Concord Union Church and Sunday Fellowship are like that for me too. So are certain people. And so is Nature. They’re the places I know where I can always go to recharge my batteries and fill up on Love.

My best friend Madeleine was one of those people too. She drove a taxi service I used a lot and I would be with her most Sundays. Being with Madeleine always made me feel such love. But along the way, I found out she had ALS. It was very hard for me to admit she was going to die. But when I saw her getting the signs of ALS so rapidly, I had to face it. And that was a much bigger challenge than finding out I had Prader Willi.

My mom and my friends often say I’ve taught them a lot about how to “live in the now”. I guess that’s true because I don’t hold on to my problems. I know how to look for the people and the places where the Love is big and easy to feel. Thanks be to God.

Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41

Our gospel story starts out simply enough. Jesus and his disciples come upon a man who has been blind from birth.  Jesus spits on the ground, spreads mud on the man’s eyes, and tells him to go and wash in the pool of Siloam. The man goes, and washes, and receives his sight.

The story could have ended there. Instead, it goes on – and on – and on, adding more and more characters, more and more conversations (you saw how many people we needed to just represent most of the groups in the scripture).

A man has received the gift of sight from a stranger. His life is utterly transformed.  But the story goes on. And somehow this event that could be a blessing for him turns out to be a problem for everyone else.  His neighbors don’t throw him a block party, or help him get started on a new career.  His rabbis don’t offer him spiritual counsel in his time of transition, or give thanks to God. Even his parents don’t have his back.

Everyone’s first reaction is doubt. They doubt his identity, his honesty, and his faith. They subject him to a long series of interrogations, and try to get him to change his story. This man is driven out of town for being on the receiving end of a miracle and refusing to lie about it.

Finally, Jesus hears what has happened and comes to find the man. Jesus explains that he is the Son of Man; and the man who is no longer blind is moved to believe in Jesus.  Now this man has both sight, and a savior. Still, no one will believe him. No one will believe the true story that he has told again and again and again.

Why is this story in our scriptures?  Many scholars believe that this story is about the Johannine community – the community out of which the gospel of John emerged. They argue that this community is telling its own story through the story of the man who was born blind.

Many of the early followers of Jesus were outcasts.  They were poor, or sick, or disabled; they were tax collectors, and sinners. They didn’t fit in, and they suffered because of it.  But each of these people had an experience that changed them forever. Through Jesus and the Jesus following community, they learned that their differences were not a punishment from God; that their differences could not separate them from God’s love; that their differences did not separate them from other believers.

These outcasts were utterly transformed.  But what was a blessing for them turned out to be a problem for everyone else.  People they had known all their lives were mystified and frightened by their beliefs.  Religious authorities saw them as a threat to orthodoxy. In discovering how they could finally fit in, these followers of Jesus got pushed further out of their society.

Everyone kept telling the followers of Jesus that they had it all wrong.  Their faith grew anyway. The Johannine community became so committed to their faith, that they were willing to endure suspicion, experience exile, and even risk death.  No one would believe them, but they kept telling the truth about their own experience.  As a result, we have this gospel; and millions of people’s lives have been changed.

In our society, in the past 50 years and more, something extraordinary has happened.  Many people who used to be outcasts have begun to find acceptance. Movements for civil rights, for women’s rights, for gay rights, for disability rights, for trans* rights, for the rights of the mentally ill, for a right to health care, for a living wage, for religious liberty; these movements have gained traction and changed both hearts and laws.

This change has happened, at least in part, because people trusted in that principle so fundamental to our democracy: that all people are created equal.  This change happened, at least in part, because people believed that message found at the core of so many religious traditions, including our own: that every person has sacred worth.  Outcasts in our society kept claiming these truths, and sharing their stories, even when no one would believe them. And slowly, painfully, those at the center, full of power and privilege, including myself and my ancestors, we found ourselves forced to begin to acknowledge and accept those we had dismissed.

Right now we are experiencing a strong backlash to this process.  Some among us who do not have much to call their own are struggling with the idea of including everyone.  Some among us who have much more than enough are struggling with the idea of sharing it with everyone.  Prejudice continues to be alive and well.

What should we do, and what should we say, in this moment?

What should we do, and what should we say, and how can we tell the truth that we have come to know  – in our national conversations, and in our personal conversations?

Unlike the man who was born blind, and unlike those in the Johannine community, we are unlikely to be rejected by our neighbors because we follow Jesus. Sure, we live in New England.  Some neighbors may think it’s odd or quaint or a little bit backwards to go to church.  Sure, we are in the United Church of Christ.  Some relatives and friends may question whether we are following Jesus in quite the right way.  Still, admitting to following Jesus is unlikely to get us driven out of town if we are brave enough to say anything about it.

There are other areas, though, in which it might feel more dangerous to express the truth that is in us, even to ourselves.  Some of us have an old wound that has never been exposed to light and air in order to heal. Some of us are struggling with illness, or addiction, or depression; with a strained relationship or financial distress; and have not yet been honest enough with ourselves or anyone else to begin to address the problem.  Some of us may be neglecting a surprising gift or an inconvenient calling. All of us have something we could be more honest about, if we want to heal and to grow.

It strikes me in the gospel story that the man never asks to receive the gift of sight. The fact that Jesus gives him sight without his consent flies in the face of modern sensibilities.  Regardless, the man takes hold of his new reality with gusto. When Jesus puts mud on his eyes, he goes immediately to wash in the pool of Siloam. He tells the truth to everyone about what happens, no matter the consequences. And by the end of the story, he declares to Jesus, “Lord, I believe.”  While so many of us hide our hurts and our gifts and our beliefs, this man is a model for how to share our testimony with the whole world.

How can we tell our truths today? How can we tell God’s truth?

It’s an uncertain business. People may not believe us. People may even become angry if what we have to say contradicts their assumptions, or their interests. But we can’t let fear rule our hearts. After all, there’s nothing  we could reveal that can separate us from God’s love. God loves us all, and She has a particular fondness for oddballs, and outsiders, and sinners of all stripes.

God invites us to live in the light. She invites us to tell the truth about ourselves, even the parts we really wish weren’t true.  She invites us to tell the truth about her Love, even if no one believes us.  She invites us to tell the truth about one another: about how we are all made in her image; and how we all belong to each other, one beloved body, one holy creation.

It’s only when we tell the truth, that things begin to change, within us, around us. So let’s tell the truth, no matter what. Who knows what could happen..  Maybe something extraordinary. Thanks be to God.

Joyce DeGreeff, who directs our Youth Ministry and supports Adult Enrichment, offered a sermon on March 19th.

Abide with Me: The Power of Presence
John 4:5-42

Have you ever tried to put a young child to bed? Whether they are your own children, your grandchildren, nieces or nephews, or perhaps a child that you’re babysitting, I wonder if you can relate to this scenario that is pretty typical in my house these days:

After several books, back rubs, snuggles, and tuck ins … I gracefully leave my 3 year
old’s bedroom only to hear seconds later a pleaful cry: “Mommy, I’m thirsty” to which I reply “You already had some water when you brushed your teeth, remember?” “Yes, but I’m reeeaaallly thirsty…just one more sip?”

We go back and forth like this for a few rounds and usually, I give in, returning to Juliana’s room with a small cup of water. After a very quick sip (for we both know that she’s not really thirsty) she asks: “Can you stay with me for just a little bit longer?” Now, as a busy and tired mother of four kids, I have to admit that some nights I have more patience with this shenanigan than others. But when I can step back and listen to what she’s really wanting, somehow I feel more generous about giving in to the cup of water. “Can you stay with me for just a little bit longer?”

This morning’s gospel passage, the story of Jesus’ unlikely encounter with a Samaritan woman at the well, is remarkable for many reasons. First of all, that this conversation is happening at all is a surprise. It was not typical for Jews to interact with Samaritans as they were considered social, political, and religious outsiders. So for Jesus, a Jew, to strike up a conversation with a Samaritan is unusual in and of itself. And then what makes this encounter even more remarkable is the fact that she is a woman AND, given her shady personal history, most likely someone who was ostracized even from her own people. What it says about Jesus’ openness and compassion for the marginalized and most vulnerable people in society could be the subject this entire sermon. It’s a familiar tale in the life and teachings of Jesus and one that resonates with many of us, especially now with the challenges that we face in our country.

As I was re-reading this story in recent days, however, something new caught my attention. “Jesus, tired from his journey, was sitting by the well alone.” Then a Samaritan woman comes to draw water from the well and he asks her to give him a drink. I found myself wondering: Is he truly thirsty? or is he, like my 3 year old daughter, really asking: “Can you stay with me for just a little bit longer?”

It seems here that the later might be true, because Jesus has a lot that he wants to say and in fact, after their lengthy conversation, he never receives a drink of water from this woman yet he appears satisfied by her company, her questions, and her staying power. He puts himself out there, by opening up a conversation and she in turn takes considerable risk in engaging Jesus with questions about his identity and about this “living water” that he’s offering. Their ability to be vulnerable and to trust each other in this very unlikely situation is the beginning of a deeper connection that’s about to
develop.

Their conversation continues with questions and answers about this mysterious gift of “living water” and then Jesus reveals that he knows about the woman’s troubled past. We don’t get all the details, but Jesus mentions that she has had five husbands and that the man she is with now is not her husband. And this knowledge, coupled with the fact that he’s taking this time to talk with her, is enough for the woman to realize that he is someone special – a prophet, perhaps even the awaited Messiah. There at that well, after both Jesus and the woman have had plenty of time in the solitude of their own thoughts, they give each other their undivided attention. Within their conversation I see vulnerability, curiosity, and a willingness to listen. It is as if each is saying to the other: “I see you. I hear you. You matter to me. I will stay with you a little bit longer.”

Some of you might know that this year I have been leading a Walking Prayer group at Walden Pond every Monday morning. We meet on the beach for some check in time to share whatever joys and concerns are on our hearts and then we head out to walk in silence around the pond with the intention of quieting our minds, noticing what we see and hear around us, and inviting God to journey with us. When we return, we offer personal reflections and a closing reading. Our routine is fairly simple and it’s one that doesn’t require a great deal of planning or preparation. And yet, what has happened there, at least for me, has been pretty profound. It is a time set aside in our day, unencumbered by our “to do list” and without the distraction of our phones and computers, where we can just BE together. Through shared conversation and through silence we are able to connect with our own hearts, with one another, and with God in a way that feels rare in our otherwise busy lives. Walden Pond has become a well for me and our Walking Prayer there has helped me to taste the “living water” of which Jesus speaks. In our time together at the pond, I have witnessed tremendous vulnerability, curiosity, and a willingness to listen. It is as if the gift of solitude somehow widens our capacity for empathy. And that empathy, experienced through deep listening, in turn, offers both insight and inspiration.

Such is also the case in my experience with our amazing group of teenagers at this church. In addition to our regular opening ritual of sharing joys and challenges at the beginning of each class, this year I’ve added a time of silent meditation where we all just sit and breath together. Not unlike the ancient tradition of Christian centering prayer, this practice helps us to really pay attention to what’s going on inside of us and allows us to be more present to God and to one another. This new practice has been particularly helpful this year, as several of our youth group members have faced significant personal and family challenges. Time and time again, I have marveled at the way that these teenagers create a safe space for sharing and for listening. Their ability to show empathy for their peers – through raising a prayer concern, making cards, writing in their journals, or sometimes just by sitting together and being ok with not knowing exactly what to say – is a great witness to the “living water” that flows through that small room in the basement. We may not have answers to all of our questions, but God’s abiding presence is palpable there. “I see you. I hear you. You matter to me. I will stay with you a little bit longer.”

At the end of the conversation that the Samaritan woman has with Jesus, some of her questions remain unanswered and she is still not completely certain that he is the Messiah. She doesn’t fully understand the gift of “living water” that’s being offered by Jesus, and yet, what she experienced in their encounter, is compelling enough to leave her water jug and return to the city to share her testimony with other Samaritans. Through the attention and empathy that Jesus offers, this woman experiences the power of God’s company and unconditional love. This new and unexpected insight inspires her to invite others to “come and see” for themselves. And when the Samaritans return to meet Jesus, scripture tells us, Jesus stays with them for two more days. Two more days! That’s staying power!

What a gift – this power of presence. This “living water” offered by God to each of us so that we might be less thirsty in our lives and more present to one another. To me, this is one of the greatest blessings of belonging to a community like West Concord Union Church. This is a place where we can offer our real selves, being vulnerable with one another in trust that while we may not always have the answers or know the perfect thing to say, we will be here to listen and to learn. Because we know the power of God’s deep and abiding presence, we can have “staying power” with one another even when it might feel awkward or uncomfortable.

The most poignant memory that I have of experiencing this kind of deep personal connection held by the power and presence of the Spirit, involves a former member of this church that some of you may remember. His name was Walter Hansen – otherwise known as Bud. I got to know him as his wife Ruth was nearing the end of her life. They had just moved from their house here in West Concord to the Walden Rehabilitation and Nursing Center where Ruth could get the care that she needed. I remember feeling a bit nervous the first time I went to meet them. Would they feel comfortable getting a visit from a stranger at such a vulnerable time in their lives? Would we have anything in common? What would be talk about?

These fears quickly subsided as I soon realized that what they wanted was company. Sometimes Bud would want to tell me stories about his life, sharing memories of how he met and fell in love with Ruth, recounting times of both joy and hardship in their long life together. Other days, he was content to sit by the window working through his stack of reading material, while I would sit with Ruth and read to her from our Sunday bulletin or sing to her some familiar hymns. After Ruth passed away, I continued to visit with Bud whenever I could. Ours was an unlikely friendship – but it was one that captured my heart.

About three months later, Bud, at the age of 97, reached the end of his life. I got a call from his son one morning in October asking if I wanted to come to say goodbye. All the nerves of that very first visit came flooding back: What do you say to a dying man who was a stranger to you only months before?

Turns out I didn’t have to say anything. I just sat there and held his hand while he slept. And then something in me started humming an age old hymn that had been one of his wife’s favorites: Abide with Me. After I hummed a few lines of this, Bud sat up, opened his eyes, squeezed my hand, and then drifted quietly back into his journey towards death. It was a Holy and grace-filled moment. No words were exchanged that day, and yet I can still hear echoes of the Spirit’s voice, flowing like “living water”: “I see you. I hear you. You matter to me. I will stay with you…now and forevermore.” Amen.