The Great Vigil of Easter - March 30

Golden Words

I was all set to preach on a somewhat strident poem by John Updike, "Seven Stanzas at Easter." It’s good. And challenging. Updike, of course, is probably best known as a novelist, but he wrote poetry as well. He died a few years back.

Undoubtedly that poem will show up in a sermon in the near future, but along the way I got sidetracked from the twenty-first century to the fourth century.

Episcopal Café recently published a contemporary remix of John Chrysostom’s Easter sermon (you can read it here.)  I realized the original was one of those many things I had heard about for years, but didn't know.  So I looked it up.

Chryostom was patriarch of Constantinople in the late fourth century.  He was born around 354 in Antioch, Syria. After ordination to the priesthood, became patriarch in 397. "Chrysostom" is an English version of a Greek word that means “golden mouthed." Of course, it was not actually his mouth that was golden, but his words.

Many Episcopalians know his name from the prayer in the Book of Common Prayer that begins, "Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you..."  But well beyond that prayer, he is considered one of the church’s greatest preachers.  His sermons are eloquent and show a surprisingly contemporary sensitivity to the situations and concerns of people in the pew.

In at least one parish I know of, it is the custom to read his Easter sermon every year at the Easter vigil. At least for now, it is not my intent to adopt that custom, but it is too good not to be shared this year.

So hear the golden words of John Chrysostom, much cheerier than Updikes’ I assure you.  Written around the year 400.

Are there any who are devout lovers of God?
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!

Are there any who are grateful servants?
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary with fasting?
Let them now receive their wages!

If any have toiled from the first hour,
let them receive their due reward;
If any have come after the third hour,
let him with gratitude join in the Feast!
And he that arrived after the sixth hour,
let him not doubt; for he too shall sustain no loss.
And if any delayed until the ninth hour,
let him not hesitate; but let him come too.
And he who arrived only at the eleventh hour,
let him not be afraid by reason of his delay.
For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first.
He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour,
as well as to him that toiled from the first.

To this one He gives, and upon another He bestows.
He accepts the works as He greets the endeavor.
The deed He honors and the intention He commends.
 Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!

First and last alike receive your reward;
rich and poor, rejoice together!
Sober and slothful, celebrate the day!
You that have kept the fast, and you that have not,
rejoice today for the Table is richly laden!

Feast royally on it, the calf is a fatted one.
Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the cup of faith.
Enjoy all the riches of His goodness!

Let no one grieve at his poverty,
for the universal kingdom has been revealed.

Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again;
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.

Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free.
He has destroyed it by enduring it.
He destroyed Hell when He descended into it.
He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh.

Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below."
Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with.
It was in an uproar because it is mocked.
It was in an uproar, for it is destroyed.
It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated.
It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive.

Hell took a body, and discovered God.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.

O death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is Risen, and you, o death, are annihilated!
Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down!
Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!

Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead;
for Christ having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be Glory and Power forever and ever. Amen!

Good Friday - March 29

Always We Begin Again

Good Friday has a powerful, overwhelming feeling of finality. Despair.

I think of the old movies where at the end darkness closes in from the sides until only the tiniest point of light is left and then it is gone. Nothing.

Or it’s like a catastrophic slow-motion wreck that we are a part of and are powerless to stop.

Some of the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ passion say that the world went dark when he was crucified. I imagine that experience, not as the shadowy twilight of a solar eclipse as we now know it, but as total darkness. An “I cannot see where I am or where I’m going” darkness. And I am completely powerless to create light.

The end. There is nothing more and there is nothing you or I can do. It’s over.

And yet, as I live into Good Friday this year, for some reason I feel like I have been given some words from St. Benedict. They come from his instructions for monastic life, written in the early 6th century, to guide and order the common life of monks.

Always we begin again, St. Benedict wrote.

Good Friday is about an end as real and as total as beyond our repair as death. And yet, always we begin again.

Maybe that is one of the great gifts of the discipline of the monastic life. To enable us to internalize the assurance that always we begin again. By God’s grace, each day we begin again. Each Advent. Each time the entire psalter is read in worship and then begins again. Each time a monk strays or fails and, by God’s grace, is reconciled and returned to the common life.

The pervasive and holy routine of the monastic life insures that always we begin again.

This isn’t about human perseverance or steadfastness or optimism or even hope. This isn’t about human anything. This is about an end that it is beyond any human ability or power to change or avert. An end that is complete and that we are powerless to overcome.

And yet, always we begin again.

I think we come to this liturgy, do this common work of worship together… immerse ourselves in this day, not just to experience its finality. But also to reassure ourselves that even from this final end, beyond all hope or expectation we are given a place to begin again.

There is nothing partial or qualified about Jesus’ death. He is dead. We killed him.

But we have come to know that there is a beginning even in Jesus’ crucifixion. Therefore we cling to the assurance that there is a beginning in the midst of whatever the darkest place in our lives or deaths may be.

By God’s grace and only by God’s grace, we begin again. Out of guilt, out of despair, out of sin, out of loss, out of failure, out of death, by God’s grace, we begin again.

This liturgy brings us to the cross. But this liturgy does not end at the cross. At the end of our common worship today, there is no dismissal. This liturgy does not reach its completion or fulfillment until the end of the Vigil, after the first Eucharist of Easter.

These words aren’t reported in John’s account of the passion which we heard today, but they are in Luke which we heard on Palm Sunday. From the cross, looking down on those around him… From the cross that we now face, Jesus says, “Father forgive them.” Forgive them.

Always we begin again.

Maundy Thursday - March 28

The Stripping of the Altar

Depending upon your personal preference or parish custom Maundy Thursday is either about a meal or a bath (well, maybe, a sponge bath). Just an ordinary meal and a bath.

The first letter to the Corinthians, actually written before John’s Gospel, tells about the meal. A meal that Jesus shared with his disciples.

John tells how, presumably at that same meal, Jesus bathed the feet of his disciples. It was a servants’ task, but not an unfamiliar one. It was an act of hospitality and everyday cleansing in a land where roads were dusty and much travel was done on foot.

From our vantage point in history we can say that that night and the events of that night had unimaginable significance for all human kind.

But really it was just a meal and a bath. It may be helpful to remember that in many ways it was an ordinary night. The meal maybe was not quite as ordinary as fast food on the run, but it was just that year’s Passover meal shared with good friends. Surely, many other rooms in Jerusalem were filled with shared meals that night. All that was unique about this particular meal was Jesus’ presence.

And in the foot washing, Jesus was teaching his disciples. He was teaching them about servanthood. But it was really just an ordinary act of hospitality. Except that it was Jesus who served.

The readings and the chronology of Jesus’ last days determine that this night shall be about a meal and a bath. But I have had many, many people tell me over the years that the most meaningful and powerful part of this service for them is not something the Gospels or Paul say anything about. It is the much later tradition of the stripping of the altar.

Bit by bit, as all of the trappings of worship are removed, it’s as though all beauty and grace are sucked out of the world. The horror of Jesus’ death becomes inevitable. Only darkness, sadness and loss are left. God is snuffed out. All is barren.

That is what a life without Jesus looks like and feels like.

It was the presence of Christ in ordinary events that made them miraculous, wondrous, full of meaning and grace. Then and now.

When we strip Christ from our daily lives, they are as stark and desolate as this altar will be in an hour or so.

Jesus is or can be just as real, just as much a part of the ordinary events of our daily lives as he is real in the vestments and fancy trappings of the altar. Actually, of course, we all know he isn’t in the trappings at all. But he is at our daily breakfast tables and our family holy-day dinners. He is with us on the thresholds of our homes as we welcome guests. He sits beside us on the shower seat as we sponge bathe an elderly or infirm relative.

If we turn away from or neglect Jesus at our everyday meals, in the midst of our everyday tasks, or in the encounters we have with one another in our daily lives, then our lives will be stripped barren indeed.

Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday in Holy Week - March 25-27

From the prologue to Cyril of Jerusalem's Catechetical lectures to new converts who would be baptized at Easter (language modified and updated slightly):

Already there is an aroma of blessedness upon you, O you who are soon to be enlightened: already you are gathering the spiritual flowers, to weave heavenly crowns: already the fragrance of the Holy Spirit has breathed upon you: already you have gathered round the vestibule of the King’s palace; may you be led in also by the King! For blossoms now have appeared upon the trees; may the fruit also be found perfect! Thus far there has been an inscription of your names, and a call to service, and torches of the bridal train, and a longing for heavenly citizenship, and a good purpose, and hope attendant thereon. For he does not lie who said, that to them that love God all things work together for good. God is lavish in beneficence, yet He waits for each person’s genuine will: therefore the Apostle added and said, to them that are called according to a purpose. The honesty of purpose makes you called: for if your body be here but not your mind, it profits you nothing.

Palm Sunday - March 24

Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion

Our worship together today began with a commemoration of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. We cried “Hosanna!” Even the stones cried out welcome. The voices of children made sweet hosanna ring. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. It’s a wonderful celebration, full of enthusiasm and joy, eager shouts of welcome as Jesus arrives.

I sometimes wonder about the people who came out to welcome Jesus back then, to cheer along his way. Who were they? Why did they come to lay their cloaks along the road and wave leafy branches as they cheered?

Probably some of them had been with him along the way, his disciples. And for them to see this teacher, healer, prophet, Messiah… ride into the great holy city of Jerusalem was very exciting, a great triumph.

Maybe some of those cheered hoped that Jesus would bring political change, freedom from the Roman oppressors. Not so much in Luke, but in other Gospel accounts Jesus is identified as King David’s heir as he enters Jerusalem.

Undoubtedly many were just curious. Who is this guy? What’s the fuss? A parade is always fun.

Then, once Jesus had passed and gone on his way, what did all of those people do? Did they just go back about their lives? They had been a part of the great excitement of Jesus’ arrival. They had cheered in welcome. But what would happen next?

There must have been expectancy but uncertainty. What were the next days like? Many had welcomed him, but they had all sorts of different expectations of him.

Some people certainly stayed with him, wanting to be near his presence. I imagine some went home, thinking their part in the story was done… We’ve cheered in welcome, now we’ll wait and see he does. Actually, I expect a lot of people went home after the parade, sparing only a passing thought towards Jesus over the next few days. Wondering what would be the result, the consequences of his coming? Would it mean anything to them?

He had been triumphantly welcomed. But what would be the consequence of his coming to Jerusalem?

Of course, the direct consequence of Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem was his crucifixion. Probably not what anyone back then expected. The direct consequence of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem was his crucifixion.

This odd holy day that we call Palm Sunday – colon – The Sunday of the Passion commemorates both the jubilant welcome and the consequence of Jesus’ arrival in the holy city Jerusalem. The triumphal entry and the crucifixion.

And we who live in this day and time live our whole lives in the midst of both the joyful welcome and the crucifixion. We cry hosanna, but we also know what the consequence of Jesus’ arrival is. And we also know that the triumphal entry and the crucifixion are linked; they are inseparable. We are the link.

Today’s liturgy reminds us that our voices are both the voices that joyfully welcome Jesus and the voices that cry for his crucifixion. In many of the dramatic readings of the Passion Gospel the congregation takes the part where the people cry for Jesus’ crucifixion. And our voices sang hosanna.

Essentially we say to Jesus: Welcome, Jesus. In triumphant joy, I say welcome. But in a few days, I am going to crucify you. We cannot welcome him without acknowledging our participation in his death. To raise our voices in welcome is also own that is our voices calling for his crucifixion. That’s who we are. That’s how the story ends.

The deep yearning and the excitement for Jesus to come into our hearts, into our lives… that’s a part of us. And our inescapable sinfulness is a part of us. That’s who we are every day. Jesus, I desperately need you; I love you; I welcome you. And I know I will crucify you. Again and again and again.

Back then as Jesus triumphantly entered Jerusalem, he knew that the consequence of his arrival in the holy city would be his crucifixion. Jesus knew that the people who welcomed him would kill him, and still he came. Jesus knew that the voices that cried hosanna would also cry for his death, and still he came. That’s the good news. He also knew then, as we do now, that his crucifixion was not the end of the story.

The Fifth Sunday in Lent (aka St. Patrick's Day) - March 17

St. Patrick's Breastplate

This morning I’m going to talk about St. Patrick’s Breastplate.

I can’t claim that it is directly related to the readings for today. The collect and readings that we heard today are for the Fifth Sunday in Lent. We are not celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. In the rules governing our liturgical calendar very little is allowed to take precedence over the regular celebration of a Sunday. Certainly not a saints’ day. An exception is made if it is a parish’s patronal saint, but you can’t even celebrate your patron saint on a Sunday during Advent, Lent or Easter. Even my former parish in Maine, St. Patrick’s, is celebrating the Fifth Sunday in Lent today.

But I think a reflection on St. Patrick’s Breastplate is appropriate for Lent.

St. Patrick’s Breastplate is a poem, a prayer, written in Old Irish. It has been attributed to St. Patrick since the early 8th or late 7th century. The poem itself can only be traced back to the 6th century. Ancient as that is, it is not old enough to have likely been written by Patrick. Most of the stories told of Patrick are legend, but he was an historical figure who lived in the 5th century. So scholars doubt the attribution of this prayer to Patrick, although as Holy Women, Holy Men says, “it expresses his faith and zeal.”

Most clergy, along with a few choir nerds, know the poem best in a metrical version written in 1891 for use in the Irish Hymnal. That version also appears as a hymn in our current hymnal that begins, “I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity” (Hymn 370). It is chosen as the processional for probably 95% of the ordinations done in the Episcopal Church. So clergy, who attend a lot of ordinations, come to know it well. It’s also often sung, not surprisingly, on Trinity Sunday.

But I strongly associate it with ordinations. And in my mind that first line, “I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity” gets mixed in with the ordination vows. So I’ve thought of this prayer, this hymn, as a sort of extension or affirmation of the ordination vows. This day I vow for all time to support the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church and to bind myself to faith in the Trinity.

But, actually, St. Patrick’s prayer isn’t about vows at all. Ordination vows or broader vows of faith.

It’s about getting dressed in the morning.

Later I’m going to read you a major portion of the prayer, in a translation that was new to me. It begins, “I gird myself today with the might of heaven.” It’s a prayer to be said while getting dressed. While girding oneself with the clothes for the day. Any day, every day. A prayer to be said while getting dressed in the morning. That’s a pretty good thing to think about during Lent, a time when we seek to rededicate ourselves to regular prayer. A prayer to be said in the morning while putting on clothes for the day.

This sort of prayer is called a lorica. Lorica is a Latin word that means body armor. Hence St. Patrick’s Breastplate. Sometimes it is called the lorica of St. Patrick. It may be that this sort of prayer originated with soldiers putting on the armor before battle. A prayer seeking God’s presence and protection to be said while getting dressed for battle.

Legend has it that Patrick sang this lorica (yes, legend! remember that Patrick didn’t actually write or even know these words)… Legend has it that Patrick sang this lorica as protection from the pagan Irish king Loegaire mac Neill and the Druid fire-worshipers who were attempting to prevent Patrick and his followers from reaching Tara where they would proclaim the Christian faith. The power of the lorica caused Patrick’s company to appear to be a herd of deer, sparing them from attack by the pagan king… (W. Milgate, Songs of the People of God; cited in Raymond F. Glover, ed. The Hymnal 1982 Companion).

So loricas may have originated with soldiers. But their use has spread. I couldn’t find specific examples, but I’m pretty sure some monastic communities have prayers to be said while getting dressed in the morning. There are prayers out there that priests say as each particular vestment is put on before divine worship. They are not a part of my training or tradition, but I would not be surprised to hear that some of predecessors said them. But a lorica need not be reserved for people with some extraordinary vocation. St. Patrick’s lorica is a wonderful prayer that could be said by anyone, by everyone, while getting dressed in the morning. Any morning.

Interestingly there’s another Lorica in our hymnal (Hymn 488). A prayer for getting dressed in the morning.

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
all else be nought to me, save that thou art--
thou my best thought, by day or by night,
waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

A prayer for God’s presence and guidance throughout the day.

In a book on Celtic Christianity, David Adam writes about the devotional value of St. Patrick’s breastplate, or potentially other loricas.

The history of salvation and incarnation has to become our own personal history. The Celtic way of ever inviting God into their activities and seeking to become aware of him in everyday events is the most natural way of achieving this. The [sixth] verse of St. Patrick’s hymn is worth a daily meditation: ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me…’ Here we have a weaving of the Presence around our lives like the Celtic patterns on stones and in the illuminated gospels: Christ moves in and out, over and under. We are encircled by him; encompassed by his presence and love. This is not something we create, it is a reality to become aware of, a glory that is ours but that we so often miss.

(D. Adam, The Edge of Glory; prayers in the Celtic tradition, quoted in Glover).

Perhaps we would miss that glory less often if we said a lorica daily. Perhaps we would know the glory of God’s presence interwoven into our daily lives if we said this prayer attributed to St. Patrick every morning as we dress ourselves for the day.

I gird myself today with the might of heaven:
The rays of the sun,
The beams of the moon,
The glory of fire,
The speed of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The hardness of rock.

I gird myself today with the power of God:
God’s strength to comfort me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to lead me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God’s angels to save me
From the snares of the Devil,
From temptations to sin,
From all who wish me ill,
Both far and near,
Alone and with others.

May Christ guard me today
From poison and fire,
From drowning and wounding,
So my mission may bear
Fruit in abundance.
Christ behind and before me,
Christ beneath and above me,
Christ with me and in me,
Christ around and about me,
Christ on my left and my right,
Christ when I rise in the morning,
Christ when I lie down at night,
Christ in each heart that thinks of me,
Christ in each mouth that speaks of me,
Christ in each eye that sees me,
Christ in each ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through the power of the Trinity,
Through faith in the threeness,
Through trust in the oneness,
Of the Maker of earth,
And the Maker of heaven. 

(Robert Van de Weyer, Celtic Prayers, Abingdon Press, 1997)

I gird myself today with the might of heaven and the power of God. Amen.

The Fourth Sunday in Lent - March 10

The Younger Son, The Elder Son AND The Father
 Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

The Gospel story we just heard is probably best known as the parable of the Prodigal Son. It’s a very familiar story. Studies show that Biblical illiteracy is rampant, but I hope that all of you know it backwards and forwards. And probably you have a sense of what it means for you.

If you put yourself in this story, which brother do you identify with? I’ve said before that I identify more with the elder brother. The one who worked had and followed the rules and wanted the world to be fair.

But in this story both brothers are blind to their father’s love. They put barriers between themselves and the love their father offers them. For the younger son, I guess it’s mostly pride. “I can make it on my own. I don’t need or want anyone’s help.” The elder son certainly harbors resentment and perhaps just a bit of envy, too, towards his younger brother. These sins distance them from their father and his love.

Regardless, to both sons, the father is compassionate, faithful, loving, generous, forgiving. These traits have led some to call this parable the parable of the “Faithful or Loving Father.”

We have a tendency to interpret Jesus’ parables allegorically. In an allegorical interpretation, each person or thing in the parable represents or symbolizes some person or thing in the real world. There is a direct one-for-one correlation. An allegorical understanding of this parable casts each of us as either one of the sons, and sees in the father a representation of God.

This allegorical interpretation is helpful and reassuring and there is nothing wrong with it. Jesus’ parables, however, offer us more. They offer us a world, an entire world in which God’s grace is present and active, and they invite us to imaginatively inhabit that world. And in the world of this parable, where God’s grace is vibrantly active, there are people, regular human beings, who act like the father. In a world inspired and motivated by God’s grace, there are people (not just God) who act like the father.

I’m also reminded of something I once heard a therapist say. He said we are all of the people in our dreams. Not just the one that appears to be me. All of the characters in our dreams are us.

The younger son is us. The older son is us. And, the father is us.

You may or may not feel much like the Father. Remember, though, that Jesus was talking to the Pharisees, self-satisfied religious leaders. It’s hard to imagine that they would have identified with dependent children. More likely they saw themselves as the father. Maybe Jesus was trying to highlight the contrast between their actual behavior and a more faithful example of behavior.

This past week in the Lenten class, I talked about the idea of being specially elected or chosen by God. In that class this discussion was part of a consideration of the idea of predestination. The idea that just some people, and not others, are specially elected for salvation. But the idea of election has a much broader meaning in the Scriptures. Often it refers to being chosen by God for a special purpose or responsibility. Not chosen to some special status; but chosen for a special calling.

You remember the scene of Jesus in the temple when he takes the scroll and reads... The Lord has anointed me for… The Lord has particularly anointed me to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, to bring recovery of sight to the blind, and to let the oppressed go free.

There are Christian thinkers who would say that the church, the Body of Christ, is elected or chosen by God for a special purpose. To bring the good news into the world. To make real God’s love and forgiveness. We are chosen for a special role in the fulfillment of God’s purpose.

The father is compassionate, generous and forgiving. Even to sinners like the younger son and the older son. The father shows compassion, generosity and forgiveness regardless of whether or not they are deserved, regardless of what is fair. Regardless of merit. The father is compassionate, generous and forgiving even with people for whom it might seem difficult if not downright inappropriate.

So this parable comforts, comforts us sinners with the reassurance of God’s unconditional love for us. But maybe it also can inspire us. With God’s grace we can be more like the father. We can serve as witnesses to this world of God’s unconditional love. We can be the means of bringing God’s grace, God’s compassion, God’s forgiveness into our world.

In all of the discussions I’ve been a part of concerning this parable, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone say that they naturally identify with the Father. But we fail to appreciate the power of God’s grace in our lives if we imagine that we can never be like the father. We sell God short. We deny the power of God’s grace working in us when we say that we cannot be like the father. God has anointed us to bring love, generosity and forgiveness into the world.

The Third Sunday in Lent - March 3

On the Road Again
Exodus 3:1-15 
Luke 13:1-9 

I’m thinking that if the life of faith had a theme song… if our Christian life had a theme song, it might be “On the Road Again.” Sorry, I know I have cursed some of you with Willie Nelson inside your heads for the rest of the day. On the road. To be living as a Christian is to be on the road. There are a couple of important features of being on the road. One is motion. If you’re on the road, you’re not sitting still; you’re moving, going somewhere. And one of the places you’re going is into the future. To be on the road is to have a future to move into. Both the Old Testament reading from Exodus and the Gospel today, directly and indirectly, speak of being on the road and how we are nudged, pulled, pushed to get on the road, to step into the future.

The Exodus reading is the very familiar story of Moses and the burning bush. There’s a technical word for this sort of occurrence. Theophany. Theos – “God” and phainein – “to show.” A theophany is an experience where a person comes face to face with God, where God is shown to them. When Moses encounters the burning bush, he knows that he is meeting God, seeing God, talking with God. In that particular time and place, Moses encounters God.

But God does not say to Moses what we might expect. God does not say, “Behold me. I am here. Behold and worship me here.” Rather, God says, “Pack your bags and get on the road to Egypt. And I will be with you. On the road. God gives Moses a job to do, Moses’ part in doing God’s work in the world. Go to Egypt and help liberate my people from slavery.

Also in this passage, Moses asks God for God’s name. It’s my understanding that this passage in the Hebrew is difficult to translate. As we heard this morning, God’s reply is usually translated “I AM WHO I AM.” But I gather it can also mean I WILL BE WHO I WILL BE… moving into the future.

One commentator on this passage suggests that what God is saying to Moses is, “You will know me only by traveling forward with me.” You will not find me or know me by staying here next to this bush. We are setting out on the road together to Egypt. And it is by traveling together that you will come to know me, that we will build a relationship.

I imagine that each of us longs for a theophany. A burning bush moment full of the clarity and certainty of God’s presence that Moses knew. Maybe you’ve experienced theophanies. Whether or not as dramatic as Moses’, a time and place when you know with certainty that God was with you. There face to face. And, to the degree that we have had these experiences, they are important milestones along the road of faith. And we can cherish and remember them, but Exodus reminds us we cannot cling to them. We cannot stay in that time and place. God moves on.

The Scriptures do not even suggest that Moses built an altar there by the burning bush to commemorate his theophany. We know that he set out for Egypt, step by step taking up the task God had given him. And that God was with him on the road.

The Gospel reading also talks about being on the road, although the reference may be a bit more indirect that the Exodus story. The people gathered around Jesus ask him if those who suffer are suffering because they are worse sinners than other people. Jesus clearly says, no. Then he goes on. He seems to imply that the people around him are unrepentant. That they are just sitting there with their sins, confident perhaps that because calamitous suffering has not come upon them, they don’t need to worry. Jesus says to them, unless you repent, you will perish. Some way, some how you will perish. Unless you repent. But there is a road open to you, a future that you can move into, and God is there. The road of repentance leads to reconciliation, renewal, new life in God’s presence. Jesus is on that road that lies ahead, offering forgiveness and renewal.

Then Jesus tells the parable of the fig tree. The fig tree that was just sitting there, barren, not producing fruit, not living into the fruitfulness that God desired for it. But the fig tree is given a future, a road forward, an assurance of God’s care and guidance—at least for a time. We are given a future, a road into the future, on which to be creative, to live into our identity as people created in the image of God, beings who create. And God will be there, fertilizing, inspiring and sustaining us if we move forward onto that road.

David Lose, the Lutheran preacher whom I often quote, says of today’s Old Testament reading… It should be titled: Get up off the couch. In your life of faith, get up off the couch. Take a step forward. Get on the road again.

The goal of the Christian life is not to ‘get it all together’ and settle down, it is to keep moving, to be on the road.

There’s a lot to do “on the road”:

There are people to free; vocations to pursue. Tasks to perform as our part of God’s work in the world.

There is the ongoing road of repentance and forgiveness and renewal, which (Lent reminds us) is needful for all Christians.

And there is the road of fruitfulness. Of the God-given joy of being fruit bearers who create beauty, sustenance, and learning for others.

Each Sunday when we come here for worship, we are offered theophanies. The chance to see and know and experience the living presence of God in the living Word of God, in the Sacrament of at the Lord’s Table, through the vibrant Spirit manifest in God’s people. This service offers us that every Sunday, but it also asks the question “what are you going to do tomorrow?” “Where is your road with God taking you?” God is with you on that road. But remember the Christian life is not about just sitting around waiting for next Sunday. It’s about knowing and traveling with God on the road… the road of doing our part in God’s work, the road of repentance, forgiveness and renewal, the road of fruitfulness and creativity. It is on the road that we find and know God and fulfill God’s hope for us.

Lent, perhaps more than any other season is perceived as a road. But we think of Lent primarily as a road that leads us to Easter. But, as I’ve often said, I love the seasons of the calendar for what each of them teaches us about our life in Christ. But, ultimately, we live the seasons simultaneously. We live them all at the same time. We live with both Lent and Easter at the same time, all the time. We are always “on the Lenten road”. And, as we travel that road, we are always accompanied by the risen Christ of Easter.