A Homily from Easter Sunday, 2017.
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look[a] into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew,[b] “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary wept in the throws of grief. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary dragged herself out of bed after a sleepless night and walked to the tomb in a kind of trance. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary cried—scared, confused, alone. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary thought that the powers of death had the last Word. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, Mary heard a voice in the darkness calling her name—Mary.
Throughout this Lenten season, we’ve examined the ways that the powers and principalities hold us captive—how they push us towards securing our own survival, dominating others, using God for our own agenda. We’ve seen how in Jesus’ ministry, he’s constantly in resistance mode—exposing the powers for what they really are and envisioning an alternative way of living in the world. He describes this way as “the kingdom of God,” the living water we drink so we never thirst again, the light of the world. Jesus invites those who follow him into similar acts of resistance—to free us from the power money has on us by giving it away, to choose to see ourselves as Jesus sees us, resisting the shame that says I’m not enough, to practice Sabbath that contradicts productivity, to untie the grave clothes of someone who’s hands and feet are still tied in the trappings of death.
But all Jesus’ acts of resistance had a cost. All of the times he just wouldn’t shut up, all of the crowds he attracted because he actually noticed those who were normally ignored, the powers finally said enough is enough and put an end to his resistance the only way they could guarantee silence and division—by nailing him to a tree.
Just then, she turned and saw a man the shadow of a man behind her; a man she assumed was the gardener, his face unfamiliar in the darkness. He repeated the question—“Woman, why are you crying?” Thinking that perhaps he knew what happened or worse, that he was a culprit, she begged, “Sir if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him and I will get him.” But Jesus interrupted her pleading, interrupted her desperation, and called her by name from the darkness, Mary.
Mary. He calls her name. Her name. The name that captures the particularity of her life. To the gardener, she would just be the crying woman. At other points in her life, she was the possessed woman, the woman who wasn’t enough, the woman on the outside of the group. Never nameless—but still unnamed. Never not Mary, but still, not known.
Early in the morning, while it was still dark, God defeated the powers and principalities in the ultimate act of resistance—resurrection. The grave could not contain the Lord. Even death wasn’t enough.
In the resurrection, God defeats the powers of death and shows that it’s God who has the final Word. Nothing, not even death, can keep us from being fully known by God. The powers try to have the final say on our names, our identities, the markers by which we measure ourselves, the systems that hold people captive or keep people in oppression. But Jesus calls us out of the darkness by name.
On this Easter Sunday, we hear our Risen Lord calling our names from the darkness—Jesus, the resurrected one, the name above all names, the great I am, the Prince of Peace, the alpha and omega, the light of the world. The risen Lord has spoken.
This is the name unto which you were baptized. As you come forward and mark the sign of the cross on your forehead today, hear Jesus speaking your name from the darkness and drawing you into the light.
From our worship service on the fifth Sunday of Lent, April 2, 2017.
“Is the Lord really with us or not?” “Is the Lord really with us or not?” Why did you bring us all the way from Egypt to let us die of thirst in this desert? At least in Egypt, we had water. At least in Egypt, we weren’t so thirsty. At least in Egypt, we knew what tomorrow would hold. At least in Egypt, we weren’t so thirsty.
But no, that’s not the story they give us. They are hard on their ancestors. They tell how it is. The elders who sat and wrote down these stories understood something about our bodies, who we are and how we work. After all the generations these stories passed through, they tell the truth about how quickly we forget, about how quickly we complain, about how quickly we grow thirsty, about how much we need water.
It doesn’t take long, does it. By the end of this sermon, I will no doubt feel thirsty, not from walking on hard dusty ground in the heat of the day, but just from speaking with you. Most of us wake up in the morning needing a drink. Our bodies depend on water. We cannot live without it. Thirst, then, doesn’t happen only one time. When the Israelites panicked that they had no water, they weren’t only thinking of the present moment. They knew what was coming! We need water to live! Without water, we will die! Even if we have water for today, we will need water again tomorrow! We can drink until we are satisfied, only to know that we will eventually be thirsty for more.
The gospel of John tells a story about a woman who gave up on this question all together. She moved beyond wondering if the Lord was really with her, so confident God had forgotten her that she gave up wondering at all. Born a Samaritan into a world that valued other bodies as better than her body: male bodies, Jewish bodies, even married bodies. Even after encountering Jesus, she still leaves their conversation without a name, numbered as one of many, simply called, “Samaritan woman.” She too, was thirsty. Most believe that her shame led her to drink water in the heat of the day, when no one else would be at the rocky well, when she could get a drink alone, without experiencing the stigma and stares of others. When she came to get a drink, Jesus was also at the well, thirsty himself and in need of rest and water from the long journey through Samaria.
The Israelites complaint for water sends Moses to the only one who can satisfy, the only one who can meet this need. Moses turns to God, “What should I do with these people? How can I satisfy their thirst? I’ve looked around, I’ve checked far and wide, turned the house upsidedown, looked under the seats of the car, at the bottle of every bottle, I’ve even looked for dew on the ground and under the lids of jars and there is no water to be found. Where do we go for water? Is the Lord really with us or not?
The Israelites who wrote down this story and allowed the ancestors to look like desperate complainers who doubted God and tested God, they were onto something. They knew that we are thirsty people. Jesus knew also. All who are thirsty, come! All who believe in me, drink this living water! We are desperate to feel God’s presence, to be bathed in the water of the Spirit, to know that this is not all there is, to feel a sense of belonging to the One who is greater than I. We can only make it so long in the desert, so long wandering from one trial to the next, without a drink.
And yet, Jesus also says, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Notice with me: not blessed are those who are righteous, but those who thirst for righteousness. Not blessed are those who are righteous, but those who thirst for righteousness. Blessed are those who thirst for relationship with God, to know God, to see God.
I wonder, “Does Jesus want us to keep wanting?” Does Jesus want us to keep thirsting? Many faithful followers of Jesus throughout history have never claimed their thirst was quenched, never fully satisfied. You know that moment when you quench your thirst, when you sigh with relief when your throat is at ease once again, that’s the opposite of how many of God’s children have described the life of faith. They describe wanting more, being satisfied at times, while knowing they will be thirsty again.
What will be waiting for you at the rock? Will the water gush out, bursting forth, covering you from head to toe with God’s presence, drenching you in hope, cleansing you from the dust that’s caked to your feet and renewing you for a new day, a new hour, a new moment basking in the presence of God?
What will be waiting for you at the rock? Will the water drip slowly, quenching your thirst for but a moment, giving you just a glimpse of God’s spirit? Will it be so hard to get the water from the rock, that you’ll have to bend down, get underneath that dripping water to try and catch a drop? Will it be just enough for you to know, if only for a moment, that God is really with you? Will it be just enough to satisfy you for this hour, but keep you coming back for more?
What will be waiting for you at the rock? What if it seems like the water has run out, like there isn’t a drop left, the way that Mother Teresa described? What then? We follow her example. She still goes to the rock, over and over again, not to get water quench her own thirst, but to relieve the thirst of God’s other children.
This post was adapted from our sermon series on Interpreting Exodus. Pastor Megan preached this sermon at Butner Federal Prison complex on August 30, 2015.
On Father’s Day 2015, we gathered for worship at the labyrinth in front of UNC hospital, having devoted the month of June to exploring the question, “What happens after we die?” Many have watched their father’s die in this place or other similar spaces. We shared in a time of both remembrance and prayer/meditation, participating in the ancient spiritual practice of walking the labyrinth. A labyrinth is a kind of maze, laid out in a circle.
Tony graciously shared the following reflections from his experience at the labyrinth on the hot June day.
It’s smaller than I expected, stark and hard‐surfaced, with no landscaping for ornamentation or shade. I don’t know what to expect from it… or from myself. But that’s part of the appeal. I stand at the entrance, hesitating, trying to clear my mind. This doesn’t work very well, so I just start walking.
Almost immediately, the path presents itself as a linear and chronological symbol of my life’s journey. Like my physical lifetime, it has a beginning and an end, with an as‐yet undetermined amount between. This could be interesting. I like it so far… although I’m insecure about my style… and unsure about proper protocol. Is someone staring at me? Do I have to meditate? How slowly should I walk? Is it better to focus my thoughts… or to simply let them come? Will I control this thing, or allow it to control me?
I begin to see each step as an increment of elapsed time, an irretrievable expenditure of life energy. I equate my initial discomfort to the natural immaturity of my childhood years. I gradually move beyond it, into metaphorical adulthood. This is much better.
Most of the path is a series of gentle arcs. These are fairly easy to maneuver, like my comfortable life. But these segments are connected by intermittent sharp turns, mostly 180‐degree switchbacks. I see these as representing significant life changes or challenges, requiring more concentration and skill to negotiate. I notice that I am executing some of these turns mechanically, and some more gracefully. I begin to anticipate upcoming turns, and try to maintain good form around each one.
I can’t see much of the path ahead, nor the end. I spend a significant amount of mental energy dealing with this uncertainty, constantly wanting to know my real‐time ratio of “distance walked” to “distance remaining”. This is a recurring distraction.
Today is Father’s Day, and my Dad is on my mind. He recently completed his well‐walked journey, and is now watching me… even if as mere metaphor… or only as an element of my own (self‐) consciousness. I feel his presence embedded in his absence. I’m aware that it’s not only my turn to walk… it’s my only turn to walk.
I think about my children, grandson, soon‐to‐arrive granddaughter, and their descendants. The familiar succession of life, death and new life seems magical, divinely‐derived, and strangely better than living forever. My role is limited, but critical. I love the part, and embrace it.
I am acutely aware that others are journeying all around me. These are friends of mine. We meet, almost brushing, as we walk. The path seems purposefully narrow, perhaps perfectly so. I suddenly understand that it is impossible to walk this close to others without being affected by them. I affect them too… seen as small adjustments in their position or posture. As we meet, I try not to encroach too much, but making sure not to pull away. I put creative energy into maintaining the perfect degree of separation between our bodies. This feels like more art than science… each friend deserving a customized approach. This closeness seems good to me.
There is a much younger walker behind me, getting ever closer. I’m clearly holding her back. Maybe this means that the younger generation wants me to hurry up and get out of their way. I remind myself not to stretch the symbolism too far… as I pick up my pace.
I now see the end of the path ahead. I have been expecting this part to be emotionally complicated, but it is not. The final section is round… large and unrestrictive… a qualitative change from the narrow linear pathway. The circle opens up to welcome me. It is easy to step into, a perfectly natural thing to do at the end of my walk. Inside the circle, I am centered… comfortable… peaceful… thankful.
16 As Jesus passed alongside the Galilee Sea, he saw two brothers, Simon and Andrew, throwing fishing nets into the sea, for they were fishermen. 17 “Come, follow me,” he said, “and I’ll show you how to fish for people.” 18 Right away, they left their nets and followed him. 19 After going a little farther, he saw James and John, Zebedee’s sons, in their boat repairing the fishing nets. 20 At that very moment he called them. They followed him, leaving their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired workers.
This is a story about 4 fishermen, Simon, Andrew, James and John. It’s a normal morning at the docks. Each one of them is going about business as usual. They arrived at dawn, bundled up in the cool morning air and started work without much conversation. Simon and Andrew are working on one fishing boat and see the Teacher approaching. “Hey. There he is,” says Andrew. Jesus from Nazareth. You can’t go anywhere without hearing about him lately. What’s he doing down here?” They paddle back to shore, not wanting to miss any trouble this Jesus fellow might stir up. Simon and Andrew get the beach and Jesus comes over to talk to them. It’s like he had come there that morning just to find these two guys. Jesus didn’t say much, “Come and follow me.” Jesus invited these 2 fishermen to be his disciples, to follow after him, to walk behind him, tracing his every step.
Further down the beach, the same scene repeats. This time, Jesus walks directly up to James and John who are focused on repairing their fishing net. Jesus says the same thing to them and now all four fishermen walk behind their rabbi with no idea of what’s ahead of them.
It’s a big deal! The four normal guys, working a normal job, on a normal morning, decide to follow Jesus. Maybe you’ve wondered like I have, how is it that Simon, Andrew, James and John do it? How do they drop everything to follow Jesus? What were they thinking? How did they feel?
It’s interesting. The story doesn’t tell us. There’s nothing about how they felt. It doesn’t say they were excited, or moved, or scared, or joyful or resistant. This story about four fisherman gives us only verbs. Jesus passed alongside the Galilee Sea. He saw two brothers. He said, Come, follow. Then, Simon and Andrew left and followed. Jesus saw James and John. Jesus called them. They followed him.
This is a story about four fisherman who decided to follow Jesus.
This is also a story about fishing. I’ve been fishing been fishing three or four times. Once I realized that fishing was primarily a crack of dawn activity, I knew it wasn’t really for me. Jesus uses a kind of puzzling image about fishing. He says, “Come, follow me, and I’ll show you how to fish for people.” I don’t know about you, but this I find this to be very strange. I realized this week why his image is so confusing to me. What do you imagine when someone talks about fishing? What I imagine when I hear the word “fish” or “fishing” is a fishing pole, the rod, reel, bait, tackle box, worms, that kind of fishing. So I’ve always interpreted what Jesus said this way.
I will make you fishers of men, fishers of men, fishers of men. I will make you fishers of men, if you follow me.
The road Jesus invites these four fishermen to follow him on will mean casting a net of love and welcome to people that they do not anticipate. Jesus will cast his net into the sea of a broken world, filled with sinners, people who have messed up, people who are outsiders, who don’t belong. Jesus will stay in the homes of poor, be guilty of associating prostitutes and touching the hands of people with communicable diseases. Jesus will throw his net into the sea and invite everyone in. Jesus will eventually be arrested and executed because those in power decided his fishing net included a few too many of the wrong people. This is a story about fishing.
This isn’t only a story about four fisherman, or only a story about fishing. It’s also, and perhaps, most importantly, a story about God.
If this is only a story about four fisherman who decide to follow Jesus, the pressures on you and me! After all, aren’t we too called to follow Jesus? Called to be his disciples? Wasn’t that the invitation you first heard when you first heard about Jesus? God has called us and we must decide. Jesus wants us all to follow him, to be like him, to walk in his footsteps, to do what he does. Of course this story is about that! And they do it, don’t they? Simon, Andrew, James, John, they do it! They decide and they do follow Jesus, imperfectly at that. Still, it’s a lot of pressure, a lot of responsibility. If life becomes all about what we do for Jesus, something is missing.
If this is only a story about fishing, have some of us failed? Is it too late for us? Some of us might not be the best at fishing, not all the great about casting Jesus’ loving net to our brothers and sisters. His net is sometimes, or maybe more than sometimes, a bit more expansive than we might be comfortable with. He calls us to be like him and fish for people, and yet, sometimes we can barely get the net into the water. Perhaps for others, we aren’t even convinced that Jesus would include us in the net at all, no matter how deep into the water he goes. He can really mean me? Would his net really reach me? There’s still more to the story.
This is a story about God, who God is, how God acts, what God does. Before Andrew, Simon, James and John follow Jesus, Jesus finds them. Before they follow Jesus, Jesus comes to them! They don’t have to go searching, they have been found. Jesus saw. Jesus spoke. Jesus called. Jesus said, “Come.“ We don’t follow Jesus in order to find him, to prove our worthiness with what we do, or even by showing Jesus how big our nets are. We follow Jesus because he first came to us. He came down to the beach to meet these four fishermen. He came specifically for Simon and for Andrew, for James and for John, for you and me.
This blog post was adapted from Pastor Megan’s sermon at Butner Federal Prison on January 25, 2015.
The life of faith consists of seasons. One scholar suggests that we can categorize these seasons of life as seasons of being securely oriented, painfully disoriented, and surprisingly reoriented. These generalizations could apply to our self-acceptance, our relations to significant others, and our participation in public or private life. We might think about these seasons as passages of life, stages of growth, or even identity crises. Acknowledging where we find ourselves in a particular season can allow us to be honest about where we are at in our lives and where we are in relation to God.
The Psalms, a collection of prayers, songs, and poems addressed to God, correspond to these seasons of orientation, disorientation, and reorientation. As we read through the book, we find Psalms where the writer is full of thanksgiving to God, securely oriented in life. We also find Psalms that demonstrate disorientation, perhaps categorized by loss, transition, grief, suffering, or even anger. Finally, some Psalms are written from a perspective of reorientation, wherein the Psalmist transitions from a period of being disoriented to being reoriented in relation to God and others.
The Psalms can become our partner in prayer. Giving us words when we have none, we pray the Psalms joining with all those who have prayed them before us and all who will pray them after we are gone. As we pray the Psalms, we find permission to be utterly honest with God about our feelings and situation, free to speak openly and deeply to God about what we are experiencing. Praying the Psalms also helps us to envision God’s future when we can’t see it ourselves. Lastly, the Psalms guard us against religion or merely thinking about God. Using their words in prayer brings us into direct conversation with the living God, in language we may never have imagined would come from our lips.
-Pray the assigned Psalm from the daily lectionary, with set Scriptures to read each day. Click here to see today’s readings, subscribe to the daily readings by email, or download the app.
-Pray the Psalms using the practice of praying in color. Click here for an excerpt from Sybil MacBeth’s book that gives instructions for praying in color. I have the book available if anyone would like to borrow it. You can read more about praying in color on her website.
-Pray a Psalm, followed by journal writing. Consider these prompts: Where do I find myself in this Psalm? Where do I find my community? How am I being oriented to God in this prayer? What images or metaphors do I find striking? Explore the image more deeply.
-Pray through a list of Psalms, one per day or the same one each day for a week.
-Pray them as a family or with housemates at mealtime or bedtime.
-Pray abbreviated Psalms as breath prayers. A breath Ppayer rhythm is simple: Breathe in slow and deep as you whisper or think on a phrase… Hold your breath… Then exhale.
I will sing to my God as long as I am.
Psalm 8: Lord, our master, how great is your name in all the earth.
Psalm 104: Seek the Lord and his power; seek his face forever. Remember the wonders he has done.
-Pray the Psalms using lectio divina. For instructions on praying lectio divina individually or in groups, click here. There are also instructions for doing lectio divina in color from Sybil MacBeth’s book.
-Pray a Psalm from the category of life within which you find yourself—orientation, disorientation, or reorientation.
Psalms of Orientation: These Psalms reflect a confident belief that the world is well ordered, reliable, and life-giving to the person of faith.
Psalms of Disorientation: These Psalms reflect the brokenness of life, when it is no longer orderly but savage. Spoken out of the depths, they are still bold acts of faith.
Psalms of New Orientation: The pit is not the end of life; there is more. New orientation Psalms reflect the surprise of new possibilities that are experienced as pure gift from God. They are full of thanks.
Citations: The Message of the Psalms and Praying the Psalms by Walter Brueggemann and Getting Involved with God, by Ellen Davis.
Joseph’s story opens in Genesis 37 and it’s a long one. Joseph was one of 11 kids, the youngest son. In Genesis 37, the story says, “Now Jacob (Joseph’s dad) loved Joseph more than any of his other sons because he was born when Jacob was old. Jacob had made for him a long robe. When his brothers saw that their father loved him more than any of his brothers, they hated him and couldn’t even talk nicely to him.” Sibling rivalry, jealousy, family drama—maybe a little too familiar for some of us.
Just when you want to feel bad for Joseph, show him sympathy, “Poor kid—he can’t help that he’s the favorite,” Joseph makes himself quickly unlikeable. When Joseph’s head hits the pillow at night, he has vivid dreams about the future, dreams where he rules over his brothers. In one of these dreams, he’s in the field working with his brothers. They each tie a bundle of grain together…I imagine it like a hay bail. His bail rises up, towering and floating in the air above the others, while each of his ten older brother’s bails of hay, bows down to his bail, as if he’s ruling over them like a king. What’s worse—he didn’t keep his mouth shut about his dreams. Nope. He went ahead and announced them at the dinner table. When I imagine this scene, I’m reminded of the importance of friends. He seriously needed a friend to say, “Dude, listen, you have some dreams where you’re awesome and your brothers treat you like a king. They hate you, man. Keep your dreams to yourself.” Joseph lacked such a friend, so he bragged about his dreams—that combined with his fancy North Face jacket that Daddy bought for him only and the favoritism their dad showed him, brought his brothers to plot about how they might rid themselves of this pesky brat forever.
Joseph’s brothers considered killing Joseph, but they settled on kidnapping him and selling him into slavery instead. That way, they wouldn’t have his death on their foreheads, without having to put up with him anymore. They took Joseph’s fancy coat and destroyed it, making it look like a wild animal killed Joseph. This they showed to their father, so that he would assume that Joseph was dead; their dad would never suspect they had any part in his disappearance.
Meanwhile, Joseph was taken off to Egypt where he worked as a slave. Though he did well there and followed all the rules, he became a victim for a second time, when his master’s wife accused him of a crime he didn’t commit. Over a period of 13 years, Joseph worked as a slave and spent years locked up in prison. After a series of unlikely events, some terrible and some remarkable, Joseph rose to power and became the king’s right hand man, his adviser.
With the king’s blessing and support, Joseph led his country in preparing for a famine, putting food away on reserve during seven years of plenty. When a famine struck the land, Egypt was in a good position, able to lean on the reserved food that Joseph had put away. The surrounding lands, including Joseph’s homeland, had to lean on Egypt for food or else they would starve.
Joseph shows his brother’s enormous generosity. He has them go home, pack up and move their entire family, including their elderly father Jacob to Egypt to be near Joseph. Not long after making the trip to Egypt and being reunited with his father, their father, an elderly man at this point, Jacob dies.
And the final chapter of the story opens. Jacob is dead. Their father is gone. Now what?
Realizing that their father was dead, Joseph’s brothers said, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back in full for all the wrong that we did to him?” 16 So they approached[b] Joseph, saying, “Your father gave this instruction before he died, 17 ‘Say to Joseph: I beg you, forgive the crime of your brothers and the wrong they did in harming you.’ Now therefore please forgive the crime of the servants of the God of your father.” Joseph wept when they spoke to him. 18 Then his brothers also wept,[c] fell down before him, and said, “We are here as your slaves.” 19 But Joseph said to them, “Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? 20 Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today. 21 So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones.” In this way he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.
Fear is a powerful force. Fear motivates and fear paralyzes.
It’s a little funny how they phrase the words of their father. The brothers put a great deal of distance between themselves and Joseph. Instead of saying, “Our father told us to tell you…” they say, “Your father to us to tell you…” They distance themselves from Joseph and from the message that their dad supposedly gave them to pass along.
And then, they do it again. “Please forgive the crime of the servants of the God of your father,” his brothers say. They refer to themselves in third person—“the servants of the God of your father.” It’s not “our crime” that “we committed,” but the crime of these others.
Fear not only keeps them from confession, fear also keeps them from receiving forgiveness. They are scared for their lives the moment their father breathes his last, but haven’t they already been through this conversation with Joseph? At the dinner table, when Joseph revealed his identity to them, he tells them not to worry. “It’s ok. Yeah, it was awful, but look where I am! Look at how God has used me to help save those who would be starving now. I’m even saving you!” Joseph has already offered them forgiveness, but they haven’t fully received it. They haven’t believed what he’s said. Perhaps their views of themselves were so low that they didn’t see themselves worthy of forgiveness. Maybe they’ve carried the guilt for so long about what they’ve done, they fear what life will be like without it. It’s become so much an engrained part of their identity, they don’t know who they are apart from the guilt of what they’ve done. They fear receiving Joseph’s forgiveness. They fear forgiving themselves.
To the plea of the 10 brothers, to this made-up, manipulative, last cry for safety, Joseph has two responses. First, he weeps. His weeping—his display of vulnerability and emotion—causes his brothers to begin to weep also. There they are, 11 grown brothers, weeping on the floor of the house. Why did Joseph begin to weep? The story doesn’t say. Let’s notice, brothers and sisters—the road to releasing fear and offering and receiving forgiveness may not come without weeping.
Fear is a powerful force. Fear is an excellent motivator—moving us to do particular things and act in particular ways. But fear not only motivates, it can also paralyze, cause us to freeze right where we’re at, accept things for how they are. This final chapter begins with the brothers saying to one another, “What if…?” What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us…? Fear finishes the sentence, beginning in the words, “What if…?” Fear finishes the sentence. What if…he still bears a grudge against us? What if…we confess our evil to Joseph and he says that’s the end of us? What if…we ask for forgiveness and he denies it—if I say, will you forgive me, and he says, “no”?
“What if’s” sneak into our minds and hearts.
What if…I never get out of here?
What if I fail as a parent?
What if I don’t belong?
What if no one notices I’m gone?
What if I stand up for what I believe is right and it costs me my reputation?
What if I make a mistake at work and lose my job?
What if I risk opening myself up to someone and get hurt or betrayed again?
What if my body fails me?
What if I can never accept that the past can’t change?
What if I’m not worthy of God’s forgiveness or the forgiveness of those I’ve wronged?
What if I can never forgive myself?
We do not have to live in fear. We do not have to be motivated or paralyzed by it. Look at the God that we serve! Joseph explains how God has been with him. He says to his brothers, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.” Does this mean that God wanted or desired Joseph’s brothers to kidnap him, throw him into slavery and ruin his life to avenge their jealousy? No. God doesn’t desire that jealousy and revenge rule our lives. God doesn’t will for us to do evil or to harm other people. Rather, God is able to overcome evil and transform it. God can overcome evil! When Jesus was captured, tried as a criminal and sentenced to death, God overcame death, raising Jesus from the death.
This post was adapted from my sermon preached at Butner Federal Prison on September 14, 2014.
We were gathered at the plaza, right between the giant bull statue and the unattractive fences of a construction site. Luminary bags weighted with rice and lit candles marked the sacred space surrounding 30 of us, one to represent each person who died as a result of domestic violence the previous year in our state. The vigil began as planned, simple, but meaningful, to remember victims of this tragedy and raise awareness about the suffering that takes place behind closed doors. About halfway through the simple service, a woman stumbled into the vigil, interrupting the solemn mood without realizing that a group was gathered and someone was speaking. She stood silent for a few moments, listening to the speaker. When she realized that the speaker was talking about domestic violence, she began to interrupt, asking questions to the speaker, sharing details from her own experience with abuse. “What would you do…what would you do if…?” she cried. Then, as unexpectedly as she joined us and as abruptly as her interruption, she began to weep, uncontrollably crying for the rest of the vigil. A couple of women gathered around her and held her as she wept. Before long, it was my turn to pray. I barely got the words out…I could hardly project my shaking voice over her loud sobs.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,” Jesus proclaims in the second line of the beatitudes. Blessed are those who mourn. How is this weeping woman, this victim of abuse, blessed? She mourns the injustices she’s experienced, her suffering, the ways her life has been shaped by pain and her inability to free herself from her oppression. Jesus says that this woman and all her sisters and brothers that mourn with her are blessed.
The Jewish culture that Jesus was born into has a rich history of mourning or practicing lament, stretching back hundreds of years before he was born. The prophets and the Psalms include poems, songs, and speeches, recounting the words of people gathered together for public mourning. This mourning wasn’t a kind of crying about having a bad day or because of a frustration at home or work. The mourning Jesus is referencing is the kind of mourning that is a response to injustice and oppression, those who mourn the impact of the powers, both material and spiritual, on the lives of the most vulnerable.
Blessed are those who mourn. Another beatitude and another paradox. Once again, Jesus’ words are outlandish and nonsensical. How is it that those who mourn are blessed? Aren’t those who are happy and fulfilled, aren’t they the ones that are blessed? Yet, in this beatitude, in this paradox, Jesus once again exposes the powers and envisions an alternative. Jesus exposes the powers that cause people to mourn in the first place, those who experience unjust suffering and loss, the same injustices that cause people to be poor in spirit. It’s these people, the mourners, that are blessed, Jesus says. These are the people that Jesus came for. In God’s empire, mourners are not written off or ignored as uncivilized, uneducated, or badly behaved. Instead, in God’s empire, they are the ones who receive God’s comfort and consolation; God’s hears their cries.
Our culture tends to restrict mourning or public displays of emotion to something appropriate for home life or private time. Further, spending time in mourning may be quickly relegated to a waste of time or an inactive posture. The expression, “Don’t just cry about it, do something,” illustrates this clearly. But mourning is not a useless waste of time or an inactive practice. Mourn is a verb. In fact, mourning elicits action and engagement. Mourning exposes the powers, shows their true colors. Seeing people in mourning is disorienting. It interrupts the lives we lead that are detached from suffering and injustice, forcing us to take another look, to pause, to listen, and to join.
The woman who interrupted our solemn vigil for victims of domestic violence exposed the powers with her loud wailing. She made me feel uncomfortable, like I wanted to look away and get away from her as quickly as possible. And yet, her cries made it impossible for me to forget her. The sound of her weeping echoed in my ears for weeks following and if I try, I can still hear them now, over nine months later. Her mourning moves me to engage in seeking justice for others who have suffered like she has.
1. James Howell, The Beatitudes for Today. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005., 45.
2. James Howell, The Beatitudes for Today, 46.

Question: What did Mary tell the disciples?
Answer: "I have seen the Lord.".