What God has Done...

This is the night.

The darkest, most luminous, most mysterious night of the Triduum; the night we wait together in the dark.

We begin in silence. 
In the hush of grief. 
In the stillness. 
In the great and holy mystery.

Christians through the centuries have kept this sacred time of waiting in the dark. For some, the darkness feels like despair. For others, it carries the faint sense that God is up to something—but what that is has not yet been revealed.

So we wait together, as the first disciples waited, in the silence of this darkest night.

And yet even here, the Church dares to give us words that suggest movement. In the Apostles’ Creed, we confess that Christ descended to the dead—to hell, to the furthest reaches of abandonment and sorrow. Even there, Christ is at work.

And the Church dares to give us hope. The Book of Common Prayer tells us that the Great Vigil of Easter gathers us to hear again “the record of God’s saving deeds in history,” and to ponder them with wonder (BCP, 284–287). On this most holy night, we listen for hope.

In Genesis, God calls light out of darkness. 
In Exodus, God opens a path through the sea. 
In Ezekiel, God breathes life into dry bones. 
In Isaiah, God promises shelter, presence, and peace.

And tonight, all of it rises before us again: 
the light, 
the path, 
the breath, 
the promise.

Tonight we stand with the women at the tomb. 
Tonight we hear the angel’s announcement. 
Tonight we strain to grasp the impossible possibility of resurrection.

This is the night when we contemplate the ineffable mystery of God. And this is the night when even a different translation of Scripture can open the Gospel anew.

This year, Holy Week began with a donkey. And perhaps that is a clue.

Somewhere near Beltsville on Route 1, there is a marker for the first successful telegraph transmission between Washington and Baltimore. The words Samuel Morse sent—words suggested, notably, by a woman—were from Scripture: “What hath God wrought?”

That is the King James translation. In more modern translations, the phrase reads: “See what God has done!”

It comes from the Book of Numbers, from the strange and wonderful story of Balaam—an unlikely prophet through whom God spoke in an unlikely way: through a donkey.

And maybe that is part of the Easter message. When it comes to God, we are never in a position to assume too much. God has a way of speaking through the unexpected, the overlooked, the improbable.

A donkey at the beginning of Holy Week. 
Women at the tomb on Easter morning. 
Life where everyone expected only death.

See what God has done.

The tomb is empty. 
Christ is risen. 
And the first people entrusted with this news are women.

How’s that for Easter grace?

In a world that discounted the testimony of women, God chose women to be the first witnesses to the resurrection. God does not always work through the people the world is prepared to receive. God works through love, through fidelity, through those who remain near, even in the darkest hours.

See what God has done.

I was thinking about that yesterday when I came across some of my grandfather's writings. He had been badly wounded in France during the First World War. During his recovery in Boston, he took a writing class at Harvard. His professor—who also helped tutor Helen Keller as she prepared her autobiography—pressed him to write carefully about what he had lived through. In the folder with the final manuscript was his original paper. On it were his teacher’s edits in the margins and his original grade: a disappointing B-minus.

It made me smile. But it also reminded me that some stories must be told with care, because they are meant to be handed on.

And that is what the Church does tonight.

We tell again the story of God’s saving deeds. We tell it carefully. We tell it reverently. We tell it because it is the story that must be passed down when human hope has reached its limit and God’s faithfulness breaks through anyway.

See what God has done.

Easter does not tell the story of the easiest path. It tells the story of God’s faithfulness breaking through death, grief, and all that seemed final.

Last week, Dame Sarah Mullally began her first sermon as the first female Archbishop of Canterbury with the angel’s words to Mary: “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

That is Easter in a sentence.

Easter teaches us to expect surprise from God. To get used to holy disruption. To make room for the impossible.

I think about our building project—good gracious, see what God has done.

I think about the ways this congregation has kept faith through change and uncertainty—see what God has done.

I think about all the places in our own lives where we had nearly given up hope, and yet grace met us there—see what God has done.

The poet Anne Hillman writes: 

“We stand at a new doorway, 
awaiting that which comes... 
daring to be human creatures, 
vulnerable to the beauty of existence. 

Learning to love.”

Learning to love. That is the heart of Easter after all. Not merely that life returns, but that love proves stronger than death. Not merely that the tomb is empty, but that Christ is risen and goes ahead of us. Not merely that the story continues, but that everything is changed.

What hath God wrought? 
See what God has done.

Choose whichever translation you prefer.

What seemed impossible has happened. 
Love has prevailed. 
And nothing will ever be the same.

Rejoice now, Mother Church, and be glad.

Alleluia. Christ is risen. 
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

What Do You See? A Good Friday Meditation

Artwork part of a Stations of the Cross series by Barbara Barrett

See John 18: 1-19-42

What do you see?

A cross. 
A crown.
That sign.
Blood.  
Mockery. 
Abandonment. 

The ache of watching someone you love suffer while you can do absolutely nothing to stop it.

Is this what love comes to?

Feel free to keep adding words.

The church has given us language for this day. There are solemn collects and ancient prayers. There are theologies of atonement and redemption, and words like “obedience,” “sacrifice,” and “salvation.”

But before any of that—before any careful doctrine, before any polished sentence—there is deep, deep grief.

There is the animal anguish of it. 
The outrage of it. 
The terrible, helpless question of it.

Is this what love comes to?

For some of us, it is familiar.

Feelings may rise to the surface. Let them. Episcopalians aren’t so accustomed to raw emotion in church, but we’ll survive.

Now's the time to ask the hard questions.

Why him?
Why this?
Why is truth so silent while lies seem to shout? 
Why is mercy crucified while cruelty walks free? 
Why does someone so innocent end up being lied about, bruised, broken, mocked, and thirsty? 
Why do people in power wash their hands when they could so easily do the right thing?
Why are scared people so dangerous? 
How does a crowd suddenly turn cheer for death?

Why does this seem to keep happening over and over?

This is part of what makes Good Friday so hard. It is not only that Jesus dies. It is that everything ugly we know about this world shows its face.

Betrayal 
Violence 
Cowardice 
Public humiliation 
State-sanctioned cruelty
Religious self-protection 
The smugness of people who think someone else’s suffering is necessary.

It is all here.

While at the foot of the cross are the ones who love him. They're already grieving deeply.

They’ll be the ones left to grieve when the world goes on. 

"He lived!" They'll want to shout to anyone who will listen.

Say his name! For God’s sake, remember him. 

Anyone who has ever grieved knows this feeling.

His mother. 
His aunt. 
Mary Magdalene. The other Mary.
The mysterious beloved disciple.

The ones who cannot fix it. 
The ones who cannot argue it away. 
The ones who, despite their best efforts,  cannot make it meaningful enough to hurt any less.

They just stay.

And maybe the holiest thing anyone can do today is just stay.

Stay when prayers feel useless. 
Stay when God feels silent. 
Stay when the sky goes dark. When the ground beneath us feels unsteady and unsafe.
Stay when every cell in our body says, run.

Stay when we’re tempted to intellectualize or look for the bright side. To skip ahead to Easter.”

But the church, in her wisdom, does not skip ahead.

There is no alleluia on Good Friday, no triumphant brass. 
No pretending that death is not real, that suffering is not cruel, or that grief is tidy and dignified.

Today, grief gets to be grief.

Today, sorrow has a voice.

Today, we are invited to say: "This is wrong!"

Love is not weakness!
Mothers should not have to bury their sons!
The poor and powerless should not be systematically crushed by disproportionately unfair systems.

It is wrong. It is wrong. It is wrong.

If you’re here with your own grief, Good Friday makes room for you.

Not the brave, cleaned-up, well-behaved version. 

Just You. With your anger, your questions, your bewilderment, your exhaustion…
The you who still prays and the you who cannot. 
The you who says, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and means it.

Because Jesus has gone there too.

That is the terrible wonder of this day: not that suffering is explained, but that God enters it.

Not from a distance. 
Not as a spectator. 
Not with good advice.

God enters it with flesh and blood and a breaking heart.

God enters betrayal. 
God enters torture. 
God enters abandonment. 
God enters death.

So, if all you have today is tears, bring them. 
If all you have is anger, bring it. 
If all you have is silence, bring it. 
If all you have is the strength to stand far off and watch, then stand far off and watch.

But know this: your grief has not exiled you from God.

On Good Friday, grief where God is.

And so, we are brought to our knees today, not because we understand, but because we do not. 
Not because we are unbroken, but because we are. 
Not because grief has been answered, but because grief has been joined by God himself.

This is a brutal day. 
Because this is what love has come to. 

And we will grieve for as long as it takes…

Thousands of years, in fact. Until we finally grasp the God-honest truth.

That God will walk through the fire for us. That this is what love has come to. 

That's what I see. 

What do you see?

The Dinner Party: A Holy Week Reflection

 John 13:21-32

At supper with his friends, Jesus was troubled in spirit, and declared, "Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me." The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples-- the one whom Jesus loved-- was reclining next to him; Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So while reclining next to Jesus, he asked him, "Lord, who is it?" Jesus answered, "It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish." So when he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot. After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to him, "Do quickly what you are going to do." Now no one at the table knew why he said this to him. Some thought that, because Judas had the common purse, Jesus was telling him, "Buy what we need for the festival"; or, that he should give something to the poor. So, after receiving the piece of bread, he immediately went out. And it was night.
When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once."

You are throwing a dinner party, everything seems to be going great, and suddenly you realize someone you thought was a friend is trash-talking you.

How do you handle it? This seems like a question for Miss Manners.

Jesus doesn't have this kind of time. He simply names the situation and discreetly dismisses the guilty party in a way that saves face. A power move and one that allows Jesus to get on with the program of loving the world.

True friends of Christ, there's no time for shenanigans. The world is on fire. Are you in or are you out? 💛

Rise and Shine: A Holy Week Meditation

John 12:20-36
Among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, "Sir, we wish to see Jesus." Philip went and told Andrew; then Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus. Jesus answered them, "The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor.

"Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say-- `Father, save me from this hour'? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name." Then a voice came from heaven, "I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again." The crowd standing there heard it and said that it was thunder. Others said, "An angel has spoken to him." Jesus answered, "This voice has come for your sake, not for mine. Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself." He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. The crowd answered him, "We have heard from the law that the Messiah remains forever. How can you say that the Son of Man must be lifted up? Who is this Son of Man?" Jesus said to them, "The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light."

After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.

I woke up extra early this morning. Spring has been teasing us with extra warm days directly followed by unseasonably chilly ones. I wondered what kind of weather was in store for us today. I opened the door and was surprised to be met by a gentle, warm breeze, slightly balmy, on my face. No birds seemed to be up just yet, but there was a gorgeous, almost-full moon in the sky. The Big Dipper shone bright, off to my right. A peaceful early morning. What a gift.

These thoughts arose as I stood there waiting for the usual cacophony of morning birdsong: "Why are we always waiting for something outside of us? What if what we are waiting for is actually coming from within? What if that arising was soft and gentle as a breeze? We would need to be very calm and still to notice its presence."

In yoga, which comes from the Hindu tradition, our kundalini energy is said to lie dormant until it is time to rise up from the base of the spine, through channels, to the crown of the head. From what I have read, Kundalini is powerful. If it rises too quickly or without adequate preparation, it can cause mental and physical distress. Experts warn, kundalini is nothing to play around with. The practice of yoga can help prepare our bodies and minds. Some say kundalini can be directly transmitted by a guru. 

Jesus doesn't seem to have time for the "Greeks" who wish to see him. He's focused and aware that his time in his physical body is limited. "Walk while you have the light so that the darkness may not overtake you," he tells his disciples. "While you have the light, believe in the light, so you may become children of the light." 

In the Gospel of John, "the spiritual gospel," Jesus takes time to prepare his beloved students and disciples for his ultimate departure and glorification so that they may become "children of  light." Most of them, however, seem to remain in the proverbial dark, perhaps waiting, expecting, imagining something entirely different to happen, despite Jesus' teachings. 

Why does it seem we are always waiting for something outside of ourselves to save us? What if that which wants to arise has been with us all along? 

Be still and know that I am God

~~Psalm 46:10

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

~~Rumi

Money or Love? - A Holy Week Meditation

John 12:1-11

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 
But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 
"Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; 
he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." When the great crowd of the Jews learned that he was there, they came not only because of Jesus but also to see Lazarus, 
whom he had raised from the dead. So the chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well, since it was on account of him that many of the Jews were deserting and were believing in Jesus.

JUSTIN IDE/GETTY IMAGES

Fame can be a scary thing. I've been watching Love Story, the John Kennedy, Jr. and Carolyn Bessette story on Hulu. The kind of adulation and attention the Kennedy family received was over-the-top. Poor John, Jr., and Carolyn couldn't get a break. In the early months of their marriage, they didn't even have a chance to get used to their new relationship, to fall into some kind of routine. These and more are the hazards of celebrity.

I used to think I wanted to be famous. I loved performing. Don't get me wrong, I was terrified by the prospect, but the joy I found in embodying a character on stage was like nothing else I had experienced. Eventually, I made my way into the on-camera and voiceover industry, where I had a small amount of success. This was enjoyable as well, but different. There wasn't time to dig into a character. This work required more mindful attention, as time is money in this industry, and the stress is heightened. I remember being on set one day and overhearing a director denigrate a female star, saying she was one of "the most overpaid, underrated actresses in the industry." It was such an unkind statement that it took the joy out of being there.

The final straw for me came when I was asked at the last minute to do a political commercial. I was in over my head with this one. I wasn't aligned with the candidate the production team was promoting, and I am ashamed to say I had no clue about the opponent they were trying to take down. There was backlash, and it was aimed at me, the actor. I was shocked, but in retrospect I should not have been. Politics and media can be a ruthless combination. 

I had to ask myself. Was I in this for the love or for the money?

That's when I quit.

After the raising of Lazarus, Jesus was getting a little too famous for the powers that be (poor Lazarus, too). The writing was on the wall, and He knew it. Mary seemed to know it as well as she poured her expensive oils on Jesus' feet and wiped them with her hair. Some of the disciples, bless their hearts, were as clueless as I, including, it seems, Judas, who saw a way to profit from Jesus' celebrity and his own inner-circle status.

In the end, we all must reckon for ourselves. What do we love and value
most? What are we willing to risk it all for? What will that cost us?

On Being a Disciple of Jesus in this Moment

 

Watch this sermon here.

Do any of you have certain movies or shows you’re planning to watch during Holy Week? Personally, I love the musical Godspell. Much of the music comes from our Episcopal hymnal. In his director’s notes, Stephen Schwartz writes that the first act of the show is all about the formation of a community – that through play and the telling and absorbing of lessons, the disciples grow as a unit, and that the application of clown makeup is the moment the community is set apart from the rest of society. But each individual’s journey takes its course over time. Precisely when and why this commitment to discipleship takes place is the important choice each actor must make. 

"In order to witness to and be a disciple of Jesus, every Christian has to figure out for him or herself what Christianity is all about."

That's from theologian Kathryn Tanner.[1]

We can come to church. We can listen to sermons and attend Bible study. We can ponder Richard Hooker's three-legged stool till the cows come home. We can go to seminary, get ordained, wear the collar — and still, in the end, no one else can hand us our faith pre-assembled. Each of us has to reckon, personally and honestly, with what it means to follow Jesus.

To add to Tanner's insight:  I’d say we don't figure this out alone. We figure out who God is, who we are, and how we live in light of our faith here — in community, at this table, in the breaking of bread and the hearing of Scripture, surrounded by people who come from all kinds of different backgrounds who are also still figuring it out. Like Jesus’ first disciples, our faith is offered freely to us before we fully understand it. The liturgy has been shaping us all along, even on those days we weren't paying close attention. 

As we stand at the threshold of Holy Week — and as we at St. Mark's stand at the threshold of our own significant transition — I want to ask you, in all sincerity: What is this Christian life about for you? Right now, today?

Is it about belonging to a community that holds you when you can't hold yourself? Is it about service — rolling up your sleeves and doing the work of mercy? Is it about following Jesus into the darkest of places where justice commands our attention? 

If we’re looking to define or refine our commitment, now's the time, folks. The passion of Jesus Christ is a defining moment for Christians. Today we’re reading John, first called “the spiritual gospel” by Clement of Alexandria, an early church father. At St. Mark’s, we’ve tried to point out some of the potential stumbling blocks in John’s narrative, especially in light of rising antisemitism. But there’s always more work to be done. More depth to uncover. 

I'll confess: Palm Sunday for me feels like a bit of a roller coaster. Some of you know that we have a genuine roller coaster expert in this congregation — Logan Bird can tell you everything about how they're built, which ones are the best, and which ones will absolutely ruin your lunch. So, Logan, I'm borrowing your expertise for a moment.

Palm Sunday begins like that first slow climb. It’s exciting. Jesus rides into Jerusalem — not on a war horse, not in a fancy chariot, but on a donkey. The prophet Zechariah saw this coming centuries earlier: "Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey" (Zechariah 9:9). This is not the entrance of a conquering emperor. This is something else entirely. 

St. Paul gives us the word for it in today's epistle: kenosis. Self-emptying. "Though he was in the form of God," Paul writes to the Philippians, "Christ Jesus did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave." . That word — kenosis — is the theological key to everything we will witness this week. God's power looks nothing like what the world expects. God's power looks like a man on a donkey, riding toward his own death, for the sake of love.

The crowd doesn't fully understand this yet. (Do we, really?) They wave their palm branches — echoes of the Maccabean victory celebrations — and they shout Hosanna! We might hear that as a cheer, but it's actually a plea: Save us. Save us, Lord! The air is electric with Passover energy, with rumors about the man who raised Lazarus from the dead, with the nervous attention of both Jewish leaders and Roman authorities who share one overriding concern: crowd control.

This is the top of the first hill. From here, if we dare to lean forward, we can see what's coming next. The drop is going to be fast and steep.

Maybe you're the kind of person who rides with your arms up and your eyes wide open. I'll be the one gripping the bar, white-knuckled, stomach somewhere near my throat.

But here's where the metaphor breaks down — and I think it's important to name this. On a roller coaster, we’re passengers. We strap in, the ride happens to us, and we get off at the end. 

When we hear John’s Passion narrative at the end of this service, we are in it. We are the crowd. We are the disciples. We are Peter, who swears he doesn't know the man. We are the Roman and Jewish officials, the women at the foot of the cross. We are - all of them. And all the while, our eyes are locked on Jesus.

Roller coaster ride that it is, Holy Week is an invitation to participate, to stay until the end.

I'd like to invite you to stay on the journey. Come to the services this week. Not as a passive rider, but as a pilgrim. Walk with Jesus through the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday, where he kneels to wash his friends' feet. Stand at the foot of the cross on Good Friday. Sit in the silence of Holy Saturday, that strange, liminal day when God lies in a tomb and the world holds its breath. And then — then — come to the garden on Easter morning, where Mary Magdalene meets a man she mistakes for the gardener, and nothing after that is ever be the same.

Maybe you've already got this Christian life all figured out. But if you're like me — still learning, still being surprised, still being undone and remade by the grace of God — then come along. There's no purchase necessary. No height requirement. Fair warning: it may get uncomfortable. You may feel the full weight of the story pressing up against your own life.

But you may also find yourself drawn into the heart of a divine mystery so deep and so wide that it reframes everything — what power means, what love costs, what it means to be a disciple of the one who emptied himself for the sake of the world. 

The journey is about to begin. Not a ride – more of a pilgrimage.

Will you come and see what God has done?💛

Extra Credit: My theology prof on what it means to be a disciple

---

[1] Kathryn Tanner, Jesus, Humanity and the Trinity: A Brief Systematic Theology, 1. Fortress Press ed., Repr (Minneapolis, Minn: Fortress Press, 2003), xiii.

Easy Answers

 

Just look at the amazing wrist! My ortho clearly wants me to ponder this as I wait for him to update me on the progress of my distal radius fracture. 

Some very well-meaning people insist that everything happens for a reason. That is just a little too simplistic an explanation for me. I mean, plane crashes, mass shootings, stillbirths….war! Life can be utterly horrible and tragic. I’ve no doubt God is in all the messiness of our lives. I just don’t believe the God of the universe preordains all of it. Many theologians, much smarter than I, have attempted to figure this out, and we still have questions. Why do bad things happen to good people?

The Psalms are a great place to explore this line of thinking. If you want to go down a rabbit hole of theological musing, read all 150 of them! Read different translations. I especially appreciate Eugene Peterson’s The Message translation. Check out Psalm 73, for example. 

My favorite line might be:  “Still, when I tried to figure it out, all I got was a splitting headache. . .”

Be extremely wary of easy answers. 

Here's a new meditation that might help us cope with the uncertainty of it all. https://insighttimer.com/conniebowmanactressyogi/guided-meditations/body-breath-and-spirit-meditation

Your Meditation Toolkit

Body scan meditation should be in everyone's self-care toolkit, especially these days! Body Scan is a popular practice in my yoga classes. Check out this and other free guided meditations on Insight Timer at the link below. Blessings!💛

https://insighttimer.com/conniebowmanactressyogi/guided-meditations/body-scan-for-relaxation-and-stress-reduction

How's Your Spirit?

It seems we're at war. 

During my hospital chaplaincy training, one of our instructors shared that when she entered a patient's room, she would often ask, "How's your spirit?" It was an open-ended enough question to get a conversation going.

So I ask you, "How's your spirit?"

There is a story of a three-year-old girl, the firstborn and only child in her family. Her mother became pregnant again, and the little girl was super excited about having a new brother or sister. The family welcomed a healthy, sweet baby boy, and after only a few hours at home with the new baby, the little girl asked her parents for some alone time with her new baby brother. Specifically, she asked that this be in his room with the door closed. Her insistence on privacy made her parents a little nervous, but then they remembered that they had installed a new baby monitor, so they could keep an eye on things. If anything seemed suspicious, they figured they could quickly get to the nursery.

So, the parents walked their young daughter to the infant’s room, shut the door, and then raced to the monitor. Holding their breath, they watched the little pajama-clad body moving toward the crib. With only the back of her tiny head in view, she poked her face through the bars. The parents leaned closer and listened as the child whispered to her new sibling:

“Tell me about God. I’m starting to forget.”^[1]

How easily it is to forget that pure awareness of who we are, and whose we are. Which is why I firmly believe religion is still relevant, and spirituality, for today and tomorrow’s Christian, is no longer only an option, but a necessity. Both can serve as reminders of our Christian identity. Together, religion and spirituality can help us mature our faith. 

I asked EpiscoBOT, an AI resource developed by and for the Episcopal Church, for working definitions of religion and spirituality:

• Religion is the organized, communal expression of faith: beliefs, doctrines, rituals, worship, and institutions (churches, sacraments, creeds) that shape a people’s life together.
• Spirituality is the personal, interior life of relating to God (or the sacred): prayer, conscience, experience of the Spirit, and the ways a person grows in love, meaning, and holiness.

Not bad, EpiscoBOT!

While the three-year-old little girl in our story and, certainly, the writer of the Gospel of John, also known as the Spiritual Gospel, have a grasp of the importance of a healthy spiritual life, I am not so sure about the protagonists in our two Gospel passages.

See what you think.

Nicodemus, a leader in the Jewish community, has heard about Jesus. For reasons unknown to us, he comes to Jesus by night to ask some questions. He’s curious, intellectual, and eager to learn.  He’s respectful, too, flattering even, but Jesus doesn’t take the bait. Instead, Jesus takes their private conversation from the religious to the spiritual, the mundane to the transcendent. No one can see (perhaps more to the point, sense) the Kingdom of God without being born again, anew, or from above. (We have some choices here.)^[2]

Bewildered and perhaps a bit bewitched by the charismatic rabbi, Nicodemus, taking a literal approach, wonders aloud how one might physically enter back into one’s mother’s womb to be born again. It’s comical. Jesus elaborates using wind as an example of the spirit’s mystifying movement. One can only imagine Nicodemus’ confused facial expression, in the flickering candlelight, as Jesus presses the issue, with more symbolic imagery and language that leave the poor Pharisee more in the dark than he was when he first arrived.

And just like that, John leaves Nicodemus to ponder this clandestine exchange for several more chapters. He’ll be back in chapter seven to testify on behalf of Jesus. And in 19, he brings a hundred pounds of myrrh to the tomb to anoint Jesus, on the presumption that his body will remain dead. 

The Spirit forms us as disciples over time, it seems. Sometimes.

A woman walks toward a well, empty bucket in hand. It’s noon. She’s alone. Again. Perhaps a single crow caws in the distance. I imagine even the field mice have scurried off to cooler places. There’s nowhere to hide in the blazing desert sunlight. Because noontime shadows tend to be forgiving, this is her private time to replenish.

Traditionally, wells were early-morning gathering places where gossip was exchanged, and laughter rang out, signs of kinship and vital community. In the ancient world, wells were where God did new things. Even all alone with her thoughts, perspiration dripping down her back, she senses the promise of new life bubble up when she comes to dip her bucket in the water. As she approaches, she braces herself spotting a male figure sitting on the edge of the well. She notices the tassels on his tunic. A Jew. They would not speak. Jews and Samaritans do not socialize. 

“Give me a drink,” he says.

“You talking to me? A Samaritan?” 

“Yes, and if you knew who you were talking to, you would have asked me for a drink,” Jesus says.

In the longest conversation Jesus has with anyone in scripture, male or female, back and forth they go, like a fiercely competitive singles tennis match.^[3]

Jesus serves. “Go call your husband.” 

“Sorry, don’t have one.” 

“You are right. You’ve had five.” 

Jesus gives voice to her uncomfortable truth. How could he know?

Stunned, she drops everything and runs into the village to tell anyone she can find.

“Come and see someone who told me everything I have ever done!”

This woman has nothing to lose. She was ripe for transformation.^[4]

What might we glean from these two characters for our own spiritual life as disciples of Christ? 

Perhaps that laying down our stories can be the hardest, best thing that can happen to us. That the timetable for our spiritual awakening can be fluid, that gender is inconsequential. 

God so loves the world, the whole world, that God sends Jesus, the word, the truth, the light, the bread, the vine, the way to eternal life. Based on our two examples, a genuine encounter with Jesus will be life-changing. And our response to that encounter will be unique. Like Nicodemus, some of us will participate in the background. Like the Samaritan woman (St. Photini, whose feast day is February 26), some of us will bear public witness. If we’re serious about following Jesus, what happens in the dark will eventually come to light. And, finally, we would do well (pun intended) to expect the unexpected.

At its very best, organized religion supports our discipleship in community. At its best, spirituality also supports our discipleship, especially when accompanied by a spiritually mature, inclusive, expansive theological imagination and regular prayer and practice. 

Without religion, spirituality can become unmoored, subjective, or exclusive. Without spirituality, religion can become empty ritual or mere tradition. The Christian life calls for both: faithful practice in private and in community, and an interior life of repentance and prayer, leading to compassion in action.

 

In this dangerous and unpredictable time, we can no longer afford to be religious but not spiritual. Our spirituality can form us to be the disciples we are called to be – blessed to be blessings, partners with God, serving in ways that seek to love and heal the world so that we may never forget the sweetness of God’s lavish love for each and every one of us. May it be so.

Amen💛

Watch this sermon here.

 

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.

Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated and read by Joanna Macy
Book of Hours, I 59

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^[1] Marcus J. Borg, The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering a Life of Faith (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2015), 113–14.

^[2] Amy-Jill Levine, The Gospel of John: A Beginner’s Guide to the Way, the Truth, and the Life, 1st ed (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2024), Ch. 2.

^[3] Lindsay Hardin Freeman, Bible Women: All Their Words and Why They Matter (Cincinnati: Forward Movement, 2014), 518.

^[4] Rachel Held Evans, Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again (Nashville: Thomas Nelson Incorporated, 2018), 142–46.