Easter Sunday

It would have been enough,
yes Lord!,
it would have been enough
for us to have the good news of God With Us
in your lessons, in your life, in your death.
But you determined that it was not enough…

…that although it was good for you to walk with us
through fear and death,
you knew that we could be freed of the fear of fear
and even the fear of death,
so that we could stop walking
and start running the race set before us;

…that although it was good for you to touch us and heal us,
you knew that if we were truly steeped
in the foundation of something
as impossible as resurrection,
then we would be empowered
to touch and heal others in our daily lives;

…that although it was good for you to feed us and welcome us
all to the same table,
you knew that if we would just lay down
our skepticism and doubt
then we could multiply bread and fish and juice
to feed crowds by the thousands.

So you gave us the good news of resurrection,
the assurance that nothing whatsoever
can separate us from the love and life and light of God!
You gave us this foundation —
a complete, holy, miraculous, mysterious, unbelievable
gift that gives us the freedom

to live boldly,
to live without fear,
to live fully and joyfully in a responsive “Amen!”
to your “Yes!” in Jesus Christ.
So let all of God’s people say,

**from today’s Easter sermon at Grace UCC, entitled “Amen!”

Lent 40 (Holy Saturday)

Jesus. Jesus!
How could you leave us?
How could you let this happen?
Being with you was the most natural thing in the world
but now, now…
Now I would rather curl up into a cocoon
than face this day of uncertainty.
Jesus. Jesus!
I miss you.
The bluebells ring silently in mourning.
They miss you too.
Don’t you see:
in the breath of a moment since your death
the wars have escalated
the poor have abandoned hope
the women have lost courage to knock on the judge’s door.
No one stops anymore to care for a stranger
beaten and tattered by the side of the road.
No one knows how.
We rejected and ridiculed you,
but you chose to leave us.
You left.

Lent 38 (Maundy Thursday)

You are
even here.

With thanksgiving, I pray:
You are
even here.

Even here
in the dead of night.

Even here
in the sting of betrayal.

Even here
in a meal, in a crowd.

Even here
in the starkness of a hospital room.

Even here
where the rubber meets the road.

Even here
in muscles that ache, in life that bleeds.

Even here
in the dead silence after the POP! of gunfire.

Even here
amidst the accusations, the denials, the pleas.

Even here
at a table, in bread and juice.

I hold on to this good news as the shadows deepen:
You are
even here.

Even here.