The Breath of God Gives Me Life

The other day I was sitting at a stoplight when I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed my back window was spotted with rain, so I flipped on the rear window wiper to clear it and waited.  I could hear the little servo motor whirring to life, but the wiper wasn’t moving.  In fact, I couldn’t even see the wiper.  Sometimes it gets stuck though, bumped below the window and needs to be physically moved to get it working again.

So when I pulled up at my dad’s house a minute later, I got out of the car to take a look.

The wiper was gone.

Not just the wiper blade but the arm that holds the wiper blade was gone.  All that was left was a rusty bolt and some broken plastic.

When I explained to my dad that the wiper was gone, he asked me what I thought happened to it.

And I said, “Well, I’m thinking it might have gotten knocked off when you took it to the car wash the other day.”

My dad nodded.  “Yeah, could have been then.”

I continued.  “I warned you that it was possible the only thing holding my car together was dirt and that if you washed it, something like this might happen.”

Back when I lived in Florida and these little annoyances of life popped up, I would head out to the Wetlands or some of the other nature parks in the area and do what the Japanese call Forest Bathing.  It doesn’t mean actual bathing; it simply means immersing yourself in nature, breathing it in, listening to the sounds of God’s creation.  Ideally, it eases anxiety.

Most of the time, I found myself out at the nearby Wetlands with my camera first thing in the morning.  It was a good way to start the day, but sometimes, as my stress levels required it, I would head out later, around noon.

Around noon was lunchtime for the osprey.

That time of day at the Wetlands could be blistering hot depending on the time of year.  Some days the skies were cloudless and the sun so bright it washed out all color.  There were no blue skies only a limitless blinding white.

Somedays, though, there were clouds here and there and I would stare up and watch the osprey circle overhead.  The vultures would appear in another circle even higher than the osprey.  Even the vultures knew to give the osprey space when the bird was feeding.

The osprey always circled above the water.  And if you were patient, as they were patient, there would come a moment when it looked like the osprey had been shot from the sky.  It would fall, dive from above, seemingly reaching terminal velocity in seconds and would hit the surface of the pond in an explosion, a geyser of water, before emerging again, shaking the water from its feathers and holding a fish in its massive talons.

The only thing that rivaled the sheer coolness of that moment was when the bald eagle joined in the fishing.  As big as an osprey is, the bald eagle is even larger and while the osprey dives down from the sky, the bald eagle will swing down low, as if it was getting style points, as if it was posturing, showing off for me, maybe hoping I was with National Geographic. 

This one day, I watched a bald eagle swoop in low, its talons barely cutting through the surface of the water.  I took its picture, freezing it in time.

Think for a moment on our reading today from Genesis 1:2 … “… the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”

Now picture again that bald eagle sweeping over the face of the waters at the Wetlands.

I dare you to spend time immersed in the natural world and not see the Holy Spirit at work.  Genesis tells us that the creation of the world took six days and on the seventh day, God rested, but every time I spend even a second in nature, I see that God’s creation is ongoing. 

What if the story of creation in Genesis is actually three stories, the story of what happened, the story of what is happening and the story of what will happen?  What if God is still creating?  What if God hasn’t rested yet?  What if the world is still changing, still growing—is, in fact, being reborn day after day after day?

Spring was always my favorite time of the year to visit the Wetlands—spring meant babies, not just birds, but alligators too.  I rooted for all the babies.  I rooted for the tiny little gators, yellow striped that emerged from the tall grasses by the water.  And I rooted for the sandhill crane chicks, whose parents demanded they be up and walking the moment they escaped the egg. 

I remember one year during a drought, I watched these day-old sandhill crane babies up to their necks in mud as they struggled to follow their parents to the road.  It was nerve wracking, but they made it and thank goodness because I was sure that if I waded into that mud to rescue them, their parents would have pecked me to death.

But the most awe-inspiring sight at the Wetlands happened on this island a ways back from the road.  You could hear the life before you could see it.  And you needed a good pair of binoculars or a superzoom camera to even see what was happening.

This was where ninety percent of the birds made their nests, Great Egrets, Cattle Egrets, Great Blue Herons, Little Blue Herons, the red-eyed Black Crown Night Heron and the angelic-appearing Roseate Spoonbills.  When all those babies hatched, the island was filled with crying, hungry birds.

In 2 Corinthians 13 verse 13, Paul writes, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.”

When I listened to those hungry baby birds, I felt a communion with them, because I was hungry too, not physically, but spiritually.  It was my Spirit that was crying out.

Once, when I took a friend to the Wetlands so I could show her a Great Blue Heron nest that sat close to the road, she was so focused on the nest, she almost missed an even more jaw-dropping moment when right then, a large, ten-foot alligator, forever known as Godzilla, began a leisurely walk across the road in front of us. 

On the other side of us, a car had stopped, the driver’s side door popped open, and a woman peeked her head out.

And meanwhile I was clawing and slapping at my friend’s arm, trying to get her attention, because she was still walking toward Godzilla, oblivious to him as she trained her camera lens on the birds’ nest.

She stopped eventually and then all three of us, the woman in the car included, held our breath and got very still.

Talk about a spiritual communion.

But at the Wetlands it was more than the Holy Spirit, it was the Word of God.

The Word of God, present at Creation, responsible for Creation as God literally speaks the universe into existence, that same Word existed at the Wetlands.

Whenever I stood in the Wetlands as nature came to life, I felt that Word in my heart.  And that Word was “Wow!”

Some years ago, I was driving somewhere with my dad and he ran his fingertips across the top of my dash.  “What is this?” he asked, rubbing his fingers together.  “Dust?”

I laughed.  “That’s Wetlands dirt.”

“How is it in your car?”

It was in my car because I didn’t always walk the Wetlands.  There was a dirt road surrounding the Wetlands and sometimes I drove that road with the windows down and that Holy Spirit wind, that same hot wind I imagine that struck the disciples in the upper room on Pentecost—that same wind raced through my car and left physical evidence of its presence behind.

I realize that this sermon may now sound like I am preaching against getting your car washed or detailed.

But seriously, on this Trinity Sunday, where Jesus promises in Matthew 28:20 that He is with the disciples always, to the end of the age, I want you to recognize that God is with you always—that the presence of God is always within and without.

There were times at the Wetlands, I was held speechless, both lost and lifted in God’s creation moment.

There were times all I could do was breathe.

I hope that you have had moments like that.

I hope that when you are caught up in our stressful world, you have a place to go where you can feel God’s presence, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

I hope that when your soul cries out in hunger for the presence of God that, at the very least, you can pause wherever you are at and breathe.

And remember this line from Job 33:4, “The Spirit of God has made me; the breath of God gives me life.”

Breathe.

Amen.

 

 

We'll Always Have Those Garage Sales

My grandmother was serious about Saturday morning garage sailing.  I learned this very quickly when I first moved to Florida 28 years ago.  Grandma’s weekend rituals comprised two things, Sunday morning church, and Saturday morning garage sailing. 

I was never that serious about garage sailing.  I’m sure Grandma dismissed that quirk of mine as coming from … the other side of the family, though my mom was also a thrifter.

I just never saw the appeal.  What I did enjoy though was spending time with my grandmother.  My grandfather never joined us, but he supplemented Grandma’s habit with a bag of quarters that he handed to her before we left.  Grandma was a haggler.  And the bag of quarters told you just how much she was willing to haggle.

Grandma was so focused on getting good deals that if you saw her blue station wagon coming down the street on a Saturday morning, you better watch out, because Grandma saw every open garage door as an invitation to shop whether you were selling anything or not.

I enjoyed garage sailing most when Grandma’s youngest sister, Myrna, was in town.  Myrna was this tiny little spitfire of a thing with a Tennessee accent that turned every word into a song.  She laughed a lot.  She refused to take herself seriously. 

But like Grandma she did take garage sailing seriously.  I joined them one Saturday and they put a penny in a cup for each garage sale.  I think we hit more than a hundred that morning.  And I learned some valuable lessons from that experience.  One, bring a snack.  They don’t have time for your hangry whines.  Two, make sure you are completely dehydrated before getting in the car because they’re not stopping for bathroom breaks either.

One time, the two of them were out garage sailing without me and Grandma walked up to a table filled with sunglasses.  She took hers off, so she could try on the others and finally, she settled on one that she liked and went and paid the woman for them.

It was after Grandma and Myrna were on the road again when they realized Grandma had actually purchased her own sunglasses, the pair she had laid down while she was trying on the others.

Myrna had her own stories involving eyewear, like the time she had her hair done, walked into the place with one pair of reading glasses and left with two pairs, having accidentally taken the hairdresser’s glasses as well.

As the years passed, Grandma’s health faded and she wasn’t well enough to go garage sailing, but Myrna still visited often and when she did, we all went garage sailing.  Even when I moved up here, Myrna and my dad’s cousin Debbie would visit, and we would go garage sailing or thrift store shopping.

It was tradition.

I almost never bought a thing when I was with them.  I was there just to be with family.  When there were too many of us to fit in one car, I would drive my car and Myrna would ride shotgun with me.  We would discuss church, her church and mine, what she loved about her women’s Bible study.  Myrna found a family everywhere she went. 

She read my books and when she was in rehab after a nasty car accident last fall, she read a copy of my spiritual memoir my dad sent to her.  And she texted me this when she finished: “I am so proud of you.  That must have been a difficult book to write … God is good.  He guided you every step of the way.  Your faith is remarkable.  You have learned to serve him in so many ways.  (Heart emoji) Aunt Myrna.”

Let me give you another example that describes Myrna and how much she cared for others.  When she was in that horrific car accident, she had shattered her leg/her ankle and broken her nose from the impact with the air bag.  They put her in the ambulance and she immediately called the memory care facility where Grandma lived to let them know she wouldn’t be visiting that day.  At the same time her ladies church group was supposed to be meeting at her house that day and even though Myrna was in surgery, the women still met at her house because that was what Myrna would want them to do.

Last week, our Morning Prayer reading was about the time that Jesus cast out these demons from two men and, per the demons’ request, sends them into a herd of pigs.  The pigs immediately run screaming off a cliff, fall into the waters below and drown.  Meanwhile, the swineherds are there, probably with their hands on their heads saying, “What just happened?”  Their entire livelihood gone in a second through no fault of their own.  They run into town to share what has happened and the townspeople confront Jesus afterward and say, “Yeah, we need you to leave.”

This is what happens, I said last week, when Jesus works a miracle.  It’s not just the two demoniacs that He freed—He disrupts and upends the entire town.  No one’s life will ever be the same.

And so perhaps, I said, thoughtfully—I hope—we need to look at the distractions in our lives or the bad things that happen to us seemingly randomly and think of them as opportunities instead of spending time mourning what we have lost.

And honestly, I look back on what I said last week and want to smack myself.

Because yeah, ideally it might be helpful to look at bad things in our lives as opportunities, but it also sounds a little like toxic positivity.  Bad things happen to all of us.  We don’t have to force or find meaning in them immediately.  It is okay to sit with our pain for a bit and mourn what we lost.

Last week, Myrna celebrated her birthday.  My dad and Barb Facetimed with her.  She was at physical therapy, but she took their call even when they offered to call back later.  Maybe she knew her time was limited.  I texted her that morning wishing her a Happy Birthday.  She got back to me late at night around 11 pm, long after I had gone to bed, and thanked me and said it was a great birthday.

The next morning, she suffered a massive brain bleed and died.

I find myself mourning not just Myrna, the person, but the end of her story, a story that I was a small part of, but a story I will not be able to join again.  No more garage sailing.  No more thrifting. 

I know that her spirit is home now.  I know she is with her husband and her other sister who passed very young, with her son, who also died too soon.  I know she is with God.  I know she is smiling and laughing.

And if I could I would thank her for letting me be that small part of her life, for sharing her story with me.

And I would offer her these words from Isaiah, “[Myrna] arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of God has dawned upon you … the sun will no more be your light by day, by night you will not need the brightness of the moon.  The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory.”

Amen.

WHEN THE E.R. BECOMES HOLY GROUND

The other day, Facebook reminded me that 15 years ago I had been in a minor car accident.  This was during that first year that I found Hope Episcopal church and started the discernment process for becoming a priest.  I spent a lot of time that first year writing, sharing with others where I was encountering God in my life and this car accident was no different.  A friend of mine commented on Facebook something along the lines of “I think these things keep happening to you, just so you can write something profound about them.”

Now, I want to make it clear—bad things happen to everyone.  I am no different, but, yes, the way I cope is by finding meaning, finding God in all areas of my life, especially in the upsetting and unsettling moments.

Almost two weeks ago, I found myself in the ER with excruciating abdominal pain.  I had been living with gallstones for around ten years, and I was very worried that this pain was my gallbladder.  I was hoping it was just gas—spoiler alert—it was not just gas.

My dad drove me to the hospital and both of us were sitting in the ER waiting room for hours, the waiting room maybe uncharacteristically packed for a Thursday night, although the moon was very full that night.

I spent those hours considering my options for pain relief.  Perhaps those two-seater chairs in the waiting room would hold me if I curled up in a fetal position.  What about the floor itself?  At least the floor would be cool.  But no, the hard floor would make my pain worse and getting up again would also be painful and require some assistance.

My vitals that night showed a resting heartrate of 124 and blood pressure at 150/100.  I always love how in these moments they ask you if your high blood pressure is normal and I want to say back to them, “Nothing about why I am here is normal—if anything about my visit to the ER were normal, I wouldn’t be here.”

Adrenaline was racing through me at this point and consequently, I was having to use the restroom quite a lot.  When I stood up for the second time to use the restroom, I discovered that one of the two restrooms was in use and I was stuck with the gross one, the one with the sticky floor that reeked of urine.  But I didn’t have a choice.  I used the toilet, I flushed, took one step and then two to the sink and was suddenly overcome with extreme nausea and the feeling I was about to pass out.

I stopped and leaned over, resting my hands on my knees. 

I hate puking, but my pain had been so intense, I hadn’t eaten much, so I wasn’t worried about what I might wind up depositing on the floor, I was more concerned with the pain of dry heaving.  I was concerned that additional pain might push me over my limit—be more than I could bear.

The nausea continued to build.  The emergency cord was not within arms’ reach or otherwise I would have pulled it.  I realized, suddenly, that I was scared.

And that was when I felt God’s presence.

This calm, still, small voice that speaks to us, to our hearts, to our souls, that reaches us when the noise of the world is so loud.

That still, small voice said, to me, “You are right where you need to be.  Don’t be afraid.”

I took a breath.

My legs wobbled.  I was going to pass out.  But I had a choice.  I could go ahead and sit down on that nasty floor, or I could wait, and faint and wake up with my face on that sticky floor.

So, I sat down, hugged my knees and breathed in and out, in and out.

I remembered—and if you have made it to the end of my spiritual memoir, you will remember me writing about this—the time when I was volunteering as a hospital chaplain and called into a woman’s room, only to find her sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. 

At one point, her spirit clearly aching and in pain, she cried out, “This is how worthless I am; I’m sitting here on this nasty floor.”

I stood there silently for a minute and then I asked her if I could come in.  She said yes.  I asked her if I could sit down.  She said yes.  And then I sat with her on the bathroom floor.  (For the record it was far cleaner than the ER restroom the other night.)

I was thinking of that moment as I found myself on that grimy floor at the ER, because as the wave of nausea passed, as everything stabilized, I realized I was not alone.

God was there with me, on that floor.

Suffering, a chaplain once told me years ago, is a thin place.  That in our suffering, the veil between worlds becomes transparent and we can feel the presence of God.  As a chaplain, myself, I could feel God’s presence in every patient room I visited.

And when I wasn’t a chaplain, when I was a patient, at my very lowest, both literally and figuratively, God was there, because that is who God is.

When Moses asks God for His name, asks God who is sending him, Moses, God says “I am, tell them I am has sent you.”

I am.

He is.

Think about all the times in the Bible when God just … is.

Elijah in the wilderness.

Hagar in the wilderness.

Jesus in the wilderness.

The quiet but profound presence inhabiting every molecule, every atom of creation, and thereby holding us, embracing us, carrying us in His love.

Eventually, I was able to stand up and leave that restroom.  I was admitted a short time later—had surgery some 36 hours after that, and in all that time, I felt safe and loved.

Amen.

Exodus 33:18-19

I begin each morning

with the same sweep

of the arm, drawing back

the curtains to let

the light in,

 

even if it’s just a sliver

of the sunrise, winking, blinking,

rubbing its own crusty, sleepy eyes,

 

even if the clouds are dark

and looming, gloomy and pouty

and promising rain,

 

because even if the daylight

is cloaked and shrouded,

a somber monk appearing

for morning vespers,

 

it is still enough—

the light of day is still enough

to fight back against the night,

to drive the shadows away,

 

to open the window to my soul

and air out all the troubles of yesterday,

allowing them to flit and flutter

and fly up and out, along with the night.

 

And so I pull back the curtain

to the back door to check

on the robin’s nest—she has been

gone for days and I know

how nature works, but still

I hope, and in that moment

of hope, with the house finches singing

their joyful hymn—yes it’s a new day,

a new morning, a new dawn—

 

in that moment, a deer steps out

hoof by hoof by hoof by hoof

onto my back patio.

 

The cat has wrapped himself around

my ankles and I call to him,

“Look, look, look,” because I want to—

 

I need to—I have to share this second,

this breath, this wonder with someone

as the adrenaline pours into me

and then out, surging through my fingertips.

Every part of me tingles.

 

“Look,” I say.

 

And the cat does.

He chirps, he chirrups,

he chortles and the deer

turns her head to me,

and suddenly all three

of us are frozen,

unable to move.

 

She is not ten feet away,

only the window separating us,

but she perceives me,

watches me, unblinking.

 

Yes, time can stand still.

Oh yes, it can and it does,

and in that moment,

in that space between breaths

when all things are possible

and visible and knowable,

 

in that moment,

I am Moses

watching the glory

and the goodness of God

pass me by.

 

And I am alive.

I am wholly alive,

in a holy time that did

not exist just a second ago,

before I dared to let the light in.

 

Where will you catch a glimpse

of God’s glory today?

 

Amen.

Listen

Two years ago, when I was house hunting, I put an offer on the very first house I saw.  The offer was accepted, but after inspections, I decided to pass on the house.

Several houses later, I found another house I liked.  I put an offer on that house but was outbid.

Strike two.

I took a deep breath and began the search again.  But this time, I did something I should have done from the beginning.  I prayed.  I asked God to help me with my search and to direct me to the right house.

And so, when my realtor and I pulled up to this one particular house—almost a last chance house—one of the first things I noticed was that there was a church across the street and a sign on the front that said, “House of God.”

And I said to myself—well there you go.  It’s a literal sign from God.

Oh, we human beings love our free will, but we always look for help when it comes to making decisions.  Ideally, we would look for help from God, but often we turn to other sources, something as simple as checking in with our friends and family and getting their opinions, sometimes something as silly as taking out the good ole’ Magic Eight Ball.

But the key to discernment truly lies in honest prayer.  It means taking a good deep breath, exhaling long and slow, and then turning inward in prayer, beginning by asking yourself this question.

“Is God speaking to me?”

Or maybe this question.

“How is God speaking to me?”

Followed by the obvious.

“What is God trying to tell me?”

Today’s two readings from Exodus and Matthew show two very contrasting ways that God speaks to people.  In Exodus 19:16-25, God descends on Mount Sinai in a dark, smoky, fiery cloud.  There is an earthquake.  The ground shakes.  Moses speaks to God and God answers Moses with thunder.  God calls Moses to the mountain peak and warns him that if anyone else should make that climb, if anyone else should try and break through the cloud to get a look at God for themselves—they will die.

Contrast that to our reading from Matthew 3:13-17 which tells the story of Jesus’ baptism.  The Spirit of God descends not as a fiery cloud, not in thunder, but in the form of a dove.  And when God speaks, it is not just to one person, an intermediary like Moses but to everyone with ears as He declares, “This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

How things change!  Right?

Maybe not as much as you think.

Because God speaks to a lot of people in the Old Testament in a variety of different ways.  He speaks to Moses first in a burning bush.  He speaks to Hagar in the wilderness twice.  He speaks to Elijah as that still, small voice.  He calls out to Samuel while Samuel is sleeping.  He even speaks to Balaam through Balaam’s donkey who is literally given a voice.  God appears to the prophets like Ezekiel through visions.  Sometimes God’s voice is silent, but His actions speak louder than words—so to speak—like when Jonah is swallowed by a giant fish after refusing to obey God’s word and go to Ninevah.

And when God speaks to these people it is for reasons like “calling.” He wants to lead people to their vocation—people like Moses and Samuel.  He speaks to Hagar and Balaam to set them back on the right path—He effectively keeps them alive, when they would otherwise die.  He speaks to comfort like He does when Elijah is deep in a depression after being on the run from Jezebel who wants to kill him.  And He sends Jonah a powerful message, putting Jonah in “time-out” until Jonah realizes he must do what God has commanded him in order that the Ninevites might have one more chance to repent.  Otherwise, a whole civilization might die.

And when God speaks at Jesus’ baptism, it is for very similar reasons.  God’s words that Jesus is His son, the appearance of the Spirit of God as a dove, all send an earthshaking message.  It’s a message of peace, renewal, and promise.  God has called His son for a very specific role and in that role, Jesus will save the human race. 

So you see, God has always been speaking to us.

Always. 

I remember when I was going through the discernment process for becoming a priest, someone else who had already been through the process warned me to never say that God speaks to me.

And I know what she meant, but it was funny, because, like I said, God speaks to all of us.

He speaks to us in prayer.

He speaks to us in signs.

He speaks to us in dreams.

He will speak to us in whatever way we are most likely to hear Him.

Again, though, the key is discernment.  Is that God speaking or is it my anxious soul beaten down by a very loud world?

How do we pick out God’s voice, how do we identify His voice in the chaotic cacophony that assaults our ears every day with social media and phone alerts and a 24/7 news cycle that seems to warn us every five minutes that the world is about to end?

It begins with prayer.

Honest prayer.

And honest prayer begins with this—taking a breath, living in that breath and then breathing out, exhaling, returning that breath over and over.  Our breath is our offering because the Breath of God, the Spirit of God lives within each of us.  And so we breathe in and out remembering that His light and love flow within us.

And then we listen.

Amen.

Hopecore

The other day, I was sitting in the recliner with Pippin when something thumped on the side of the house and at almost the exact same time, my watch buzzed and my phone displayed an alert that there was someone on my back patio.

I immediately leapt up and raced to the back door.

There was no one.

So I went to the front door and stepped out onto the front porch.  Again, there was no one.

Judging by the video taken by my Ring camera, several boys had raced across my back patio and down the narrow path that is overgrown with honeysuckle, grapevine and poison ivy.  Only the deer dare walk that path.  I have a small fence at the street side entrance as a deterrent.  It doesn’t stop the deer and apparently it also doesn’t stop middle school boys.

I went back inside and pulled back the curtain to the window that overlooks that small fence, and there, sure enough, were two boys, their backs to me, crouching behind the fence.  I mean, I don’t know why they were crouching—anyone could see them.

There was a third boy out on the street hunched behind the neighbor’s car.

I didn’t even think—I rapped my knuckle on the window.  Immediately the boys jumped and looked at me.  I gave them my “I’m not impressed teacher face” and made a motion with my hand, shooing them away.

And off they ran.

When I told this story to a friend the other day, she was laughing, but not because my story was funny, but because it reminded her of a scene from Project Hail Mary where the main character, Ryland, is attempting to communicate with an alien (and I will leave it at that as to avoid spoilers—I have read the book but not seen the movie personally).

But my friend’s reaction to the movie, days after she had seen it, is evidence of a movie that is really connecting to and sticking with moviegoers.  My friend was still tickled thinking of the movie.  The movie was still bringing her joy. 

I was reading an article the other day that appeared in The Hollywood Reporter about the resurgence of what is called “hopecore” in movies, specifically Project Hail Mary and the Pixar movie, Hoppers.  Hopecore is simply a feelgood movie.  It makes us laugh, probably, but it also touches that part of us, our hearts, if you’re secular, our souls, if you are spiritual, that makes us take a deep breath.  It releases the tension inside of us that we hadn’t even known we were holding.  Hopecore makes us feel seen and held and as the name suggests, it fills us with hope and hope frequently leads to optimistic thoughts, thoughts like, “Yeah, the world is in rough place right now, but it’s going to be okay.”

In fact, of the ten highest earning movies so far this year, at least half of them, I would call hopecore.  They include: The Super Mario Galaxy movie; Project Hail Mary; Hoppers; GOAT and Zootopia 2.  Four of these are marketed as kids’ movies, but it’s clear a lot of adults enjoy them, perhaps because it reminds them of a time when things were less complicated.

Even in books, you will find people drawn recently to hopecore.  On the New York Times bestseller lists, you will find books like Raising Hare (one of my top books for 2025) about a woman who raises a wild hare.  Also on the non-fiction list a recently released book When the Forest Breathes: Renewal and Resilience in the Natural World.  Among fiction books you will find, once again, Project Hail Mary, but also Theo of Golden, both of which seem to be on everyone’s bookclub lists.

People’s need for hopecore has led to the sudden popularity of cozy mysteries and cozy fantasies.  Basically if Hallmark had written a mystery or fantasy novel.

People are choosing hopecore because it’s the literary and/or visual equivalent of comfort food.

We need to be reminded—we desperately need to be reminded—that there is goodness in this world and that innocence and empathy and peacefulness are not faults but virtues.

We need to be reminded to abide in radical love.

To turn our back to cynicism and pessimism and nihilism. 

We need to be reminded that Jesus’ words in today’s reading from John 15:1-11—His invitation to abide in Him, to abide in His love is not something we should reject.

“Abide” Jesus says eleven times in today’s reading.

“Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”

Abiding in Jesus is to lean into Him, is to be protected by Him, by His love, because—we need protecting.

But it’s not just abiding in Jesus, it’s letting Him in to abide in you, to strengthen you, to encourage you, to drive darkness out and replace it with His light and His love. 

What is it that gives you hope these days?

For me, I get a lot of hope from the natural world. 

I am left in awe every time I look out my back door and see the chickadee and robin who have made nests almost right on top of each other, unafraid to share space, tolerant of each other’s cries and songs.  Those nests are filled with potential.

I also have hope whenever I walk down the street and see the weeds, yes even the dandelions, because that means there is life.  Winter is over.  Spring’s roots are growing deep and much of what looks forsaken now will be overflowing with color and movement and life very soon.

But I also get hope from each of you, from the people in my life, from strangers and friends, from family to new friends.  Yes, I even get hope from the two boys hiding behind the fence in my yard.  Why?  Because they were playing and, for a lot of kids these days, play is luxury.

People give me hope because I see the light in each of you.  And if you only knew how bright your light shined, you would never fear the dark.  It is the light of Jesus abiding in each of you.

Now complete the circuit.

Abide in Him.  Only then can our joy be complete.

Amen.

 

 

The Lady or the Tiger

Let me set the scene for you.

Many years ago, a king has come up with a new way to put people on trial.  It is a trial by fate.  The accused is sent into an arena where they come upon two doors.  Behind one door is a ravenous tiger and behind the other is a lady, specifically chosen to be a good mate to the accused.

If the accused chooses the door with the tiger behind it, he is clearly guilty and the tiger kills him.

If he chooses the door with the lady behind it, he is innocent and must marry the woman.

As it happens, the king’s daughter has fallen in love with a man who the king feels is not worthy of her.  So he puts the man in the arena to face the two doors.

Now, the princess knows the location of both the lady and the tiger.

And her lover knows that she knows.

And now she has a choice.  She can direct him to the door with the lady behind it, saving his life or, she can direct him to the door with the tiger behind it because she cannot bear to see him with another woman.

I think we can agree a decent human being directs him to the door with the lady behind it.

She nods to him, directing him to the door to his right.

But while it may be an easy choice for us, is it an easy choice for the princess?  Has she saved his life or ended it?

Holy Week is a week of choices.

Today is Wednesday of Holy Week and though it doesn’t have a specific Liturgical Calendar designation, traditionally it is called Spy Wednesday, as in the day when Judas chooses to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday, another day of choices.  It is here at the Garden of Gethsemane that Jesus, after asking God to take away the cup of suffering, chooses to submit to God’s will.

And then, of course, Good Friday, where Pilate offers the crowd what he thinks is an easy choice.  Jesus or Barabbas?

Keep in mind that Pilate really wanted nothing to do with Jesus, and that was before his wife told him to have nothing to do with Jesus because of a dream she had.  Pilate could see what was happening, the behind-the-scenes machinations that would lead to Jesus’ death.  Pilate was being used, and he knew it, and being a prideful Roman, he resented it.

So, he gave the crowd what should have been an easy choice.  Free Jesus or free Barabbas. 

All of my life I have given very little thought to who Barabbas was.  Only in my book Witnesses to the Passion of Christ, did I think to give him a voice at all.  I thought honestly Barabbas was a placeholder.  He could have been anyone provided that for the sake of the plot, he was clearly the wrong choice.

Barabbas was a known insurrectionist, a murderer.

But for years, I have thought, Pilate could have chosen anyone or anything to pit against Jesus in this scenario.  Pilate could have said, “Will you free Jesus of Nazareth who has reportedly healed the blind and the sick, fed the hungry and even raised the dead OR will you free this man-eating tiger who has already killed twenty of your widows and young children, and who, if you choose to set free, I will release directly into the crowd here and let me just say, he is a very hungry tiger?  Now who will you set free?”

And the crowd raises their fists into the air and says, “The tiger!!”

This past Sunday, in his sermon, Reverend Greg looked at this choice of Jesus versus Barabbas and it gave me new insight.  First of all, our reading from Matthew 27:16–17 tells us that Barabbas’ full name was Jesus Barabbas.  And if you think giving the people a choice between two Jesuses is a bit on the nose, consider that, as Reverend Greg pointed out, Barabbas means “son of the father.”

Jesus Barabbas was, as I said, an insurrectionist and as Reverend Greg stated in his sermon, Barabbas was someone who fought Rome on Roman terms.  He used the tools and the weapons of Rome to fight Rome.

Or, I could sum it up simply as Barabbas fought fire with fire.

Jesus, on the other hand, our Jesus, Messiah, Son of God, did not fight fire with fire—in fact, He was not fighting Rome at all.

When we wonder how a crowd could have chosen Barabbas over Jesus, we are thinking like Pilate.  We are oversimplifying things.  We are thinking that the choice is simply choosing a good guy over a bad guy.

But the choice is more nuanced than that.

To choose Jesus over Barabbas in this situation is to choose mystery, is to choose the unknown over Barabbas, who everyone knows.

Jesus, who flipped the tables in the temple, upsets the natural order of things.  He heals on the sabbath.  He forgives sins.  Everything Jesus does is brand new to people.  He is a wild force in the world.  I keep thinking to the Narnia books where it is said of the great lion Aslan (a Jesus stand-in) that Aslan is not a tame lion.

Jesus is not a tame lion.  You could look at someone like John the Baptist and the way he dressed and what he ate (those yummy wild locusts) and say yes this man is a wild man.

But Jesus—to choose Jesus—is to choose someone so wild, He rewrites the universe every time He speaks.  To follow Jesus takes such a leap of faith—because you are following Him into the unknown.  And there is no telling what will happen next.

It is very easy to fault the crowd, to judge them, for choosing Barabbas.

It is very easy to say that we would not have made that decision.

Over the years, whenever the passion play has been read aloud in church and the congregation has been asked to yell out, “Crucify Him!” I have stayed silent.

I won’t say those words.

But as Reverend Greg was preaching on Sunday, I was sitting there thinking, “Crap, two thousand years later and we are still choosing the wrong Jesus, aren’t we?”

We’re still fighting the same wars in the same ways rather than choosing another way, rather than wondering how the radical love of the other Jesus might change the world.

We are so quick to judge those who chose Barabbas, to point out the splinter in their eyes, without acknowledging the wood plank in our own eyes.

Earlier I was sharing with you the very well-known story of The Lady or the Tiger, but I didn’t tell you how it ended.  The story ends in the unknown.  The author never tells us what was behind the door, the lady or the tiger.  The point of the story is self-reflection.  Are we the cynic who thinks the tiger is behind the door, or the optimist who thinks the lady is behind the door?  Do we believe the best in people or the worst?  What if the man had not chosen either door?  What if he had refused to play the game?

What if … what if … what if … can we ever be comfortable in the unknown?

Can we ever be comfortable in the mystery?

Because if we can, we may find that the world, the universe, is more wild and wonderful and amazing than anything we could have ever imagined.

Amen.