How to See God (This is my Sermon)

by Meta Herrick Carlson

 First, here’s my playlist for this sermon. Enjoy!

Here are the lectionary readings for Easter 3, Year A. Also, enjoy!

Also, I am moving over to Substack.

Please join me over there!

In Ordinary Blessings, Meta Herrick Carlson celebrates the practice of blessing ordinary things: waiting at a bus stop, washing dishes after a family meal, a warm drink on a cold evening, moving... 

I love this practice because blessing teaches us to pay attention and cultivate gratitude. Blessing can sharpen our awareness of God’s presence in our lives.

And that is exactly what happens in the road to Emmaus story. It is only when Jesus takes the bread, blesses and breaks it for sharing that He is finally recognized.

At the end of our first service here, Chris and I shared a blessing, a prayer called The Pilgrims’ Prayer. What we intended to offer this community was a blessing for the journey we are on together, a pilgrimage back home to our resurrected space.

But I want to suggest this morning that this is not only a parish pilgrimage.

It can also be a personal pilgrimage.

For each and every one of us.

If we choose to experience it this way. 
If we choose to walk with Jesus through this Easter season and beyond. 
With open eyes. 
Open minds. 
Open hearts.

If we dare to ask questions. 
If we let curiosity and imagination be part of our faith. 
Then things could get very interesting.

In my hospital chaplaincy training, before we headed out to visit patients, one of our mentors taught us to say to one another, “Don’t forget to walk with expectation.”

Walk with expectation.

Walk as if, at any moment—around any corner, in any room, in any conversation—we might encounter the holy in a way we did not expect.

Thank goodness I had eight months of chaplaincy training, because it took a while to learn to walk those halls every day with expectation.

But once I began to learn it, something shifted.

I started to notice more. 
I started to listen differently. 
I started to see holy moments I might have missed before. 
Little miracles started to happen.

I cannot tell you how many times I encountered God's presence along that journey.

And that is why I can relate to Cleopas and his unnamed companion on the road to Emmaus.

Because they were walking. 
But their grief had narrowed their vision.

They were weighed down by sorrow and dashed hopes. 
They were confused, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

Jesus had died. 
The tomb was empty. 
And no one quite knew what to do next.

They had hoped—

Jesus was the one. 
The one who would redeem Israel. 
The one who would set things right. 
The one who would free the people from the crushing power of empire.

But that is not how it went down.

Jesus died.

Now what?

So they took a long walk. Maybe they were heading home; we do not know. We only know it was about seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus—a substantial journey on foot.

Long enough to go over the details again and again. 
Long enough for their bodies and minds to let down their guard a little.

And then a stranger comes alongside them.

A stranger who seems somehow oblivious to the story everyone else has been talking about. 
Where has he been? 
How has he missed it?

And yet he knows the scriptures.

Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he opens the story to them. He helps them make connections they had not seen before. They are blessed by his presence.

And still, they do not recognize him.

By the time they reach their destination, it is getting dark. The stranger appears to be moving on.

But they urge him, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”

And then it happens—

At an ordinary table, on an ordinary evening, as the sun sets like any other day.

In the taking, blessing, breaking, and giving of bread, their eyes are opened.

And they see him.

It has been Jesus with them all along.

Then, of course, he vanishes.

That is the wonder of this story.

Not only that Jesus appears and then disappears, but that he is made known in something so ordinary.

A walk down a road. 
A conversation about God. 
Bread blessed and broken. 
A shared table.

Do you see it?

This is the very pattern that shapes our worship.

Scripture opened. 
Bread blessed and broken.

And in that holy pattern, Christ is made known to us.

Week by week, we practice Emmaus here. Week by week, we pray that the eyes of our faith may be opened. And week by week, Christ is made known in the breaking of bread.

But Emmaus also offers us something else.

Only afterward do they say, “Were not our hearts burning within us?”

Only afterward do they recognize what had really been happening all along that long dusty road.

And is that not often how it is?

In the wake of loss, 
in seasons of transition, 
in moments when life has changed, and we are not sure what comes next,

We easily miss the Holy One right there in the midst of the ordinariness of life.

We are just trying to keep going. 
Just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

And that, too, is holy.

Sometimes resilience is built exactly that way—one step at a time.

And, if I may add a small plug for walking here: 

Walking can be healing. It’s great for building cardiovascular health, lowering blood pressure.
It makes us breathe more deeply. 
In walking, we can find our footing again.

But walking with expectation is something more.

It is a way of living with open attention. 
A way of trusting that Christ may be nearer than we know. 
A way of asking God to open the eyes of our faith, so that we may behold him not only in dramatic moments, but in all his redeeming work.

I wish I had learned that earlier in life.

Maybe I would have noticed more. 
Maybe I would have seen more clearly the ways God had been at work. 
Maybe I would have understood my own calling much sooner.

Sometimes we only recognize the holy by looking back over roads we never would have chosen.

After we lost our six-year-old daughter, Meghan, Rob and I went to marriage counseling.

We were grieving very differently, and that is normal. But it was putting a strain on our marriage. We were young. We were each struggling in our own ways, doing our best to put one foot in front of the other after the unimaginable.

The counseling helped us so much.

I will not speak for Rob, but it helped me begin to see some of the patterns in my life.

Looking back now, I can see that something was being opened.

It did not happen all at once. 
The road was not straight by any means.

But there was enough light for the next step. Enough grace for movement toward this call. Enough, eventually, for me to recognize a loving presence with me in every ordinary and extraordinary moment.

Maybe, looking back, you can see moments that did not make sense at the time.

Conversations.
Turns in the road. 
Unexpected companions.

And now, only now, you can say: 
Aha! God was there.

Friends, we are that unnamed companion on the road.

We walk through life distracted, 
grieving. 
hoping. 
wondering. 
trying to make sense of what feels incomprehensible.

And often we do not realize who is walking right beside us.

Christ is so near.

In scripture opened. 
In bread broken. 
In ordinary moments. 
In unexpected companions. 
In blessings spoken aloud and blessings hidden in plain sight.

May God open the eyes of your faith.

May you walk in love and with expectation.

May your hearts burn within you as we break bread in this bold, tenacious, beloved community.

And when your eyes are opened, may you run boldly to share the good news that Christ has risen, indeed.

Amen.

 

The Pilgrim’s Prayer

O God,
Be for us our companion on this walk,
Our guide at the crossroads,
Our breath in our weariness,
Our protection in danger,
Our refuge on the Way,
Our shade in the heat,
Our light in the darkness,
Our consolation in our discouragements,
And our strength in our intentions.

So that with your guidance
we may arrive safe and sound
at the end of the Road
enriched with grace and virtue
may we return safely to our homes
filled with joy.

How to See a Deer (Not my Sermon)

While walking with Sophie on our familiar trail, we came upon a deer. She did not flinch or run away. Sophie stood there transfixed. Even her adorable wiggle-butt remained still for just a brief moment. It was just an ordinary moment. But a singular one.

How to See a Deer

Forget roadside crossings.

Go nowhere with guns.

Go elsewhere your own way,

lonely and wanting. Or

stay and be early:

next to deep woods

inhabit old orchards.

All clearings promise.

Sunrise is good,

and fog before sun.

Expect nothing always;

find your luck slowly.

Wait out the windfall.

Take your good time

to learn to read ferns;

make like a turtle:

downhill toward slow water.

Instructed by heron,

drink the pure silence.

Be compassed by wind.

If you quiver like aspen

trust your quick nature:

let your ear teach you

which way to listen.

You've come to assume

protective color; now

colors reform to

new shapes in your eye.

You've learned by now

to wait without waiting;

as if it were dusk

look into light falling:

in deep relief

things even out. Be

careless of nothing. See

what you see.

~~Philip Booth 

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. And now we stand at the precipice of something entirely new.

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?