Sermon for the 5th Sunday in Lent: April 6, 2014

5^th Sunday in Lent: April 6, 2014

John 11:1-45 The Raising of Lazarus

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

"Lord, this stinketh."

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I heard a news story this week about a university student in Nebraska who has created a cologne called “Eau de Death”. Apparently, this chemistry post-doc has figured out how to combine three chemicals which, when mixed together, closely mimic the smell of rotting flesh. Now, aside from wondering why your pastor is beginning her sermon this way, you might be wondering how this cologne would ever be useful. I’m so glad you asked! It would be very useful, says the inventor, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, because we all know from the movies that zombies only eat living people. The stink of “Eau de death” would act therefore, as a sort of “Off” spray, except it would keep away the walking dead instead of mosquitos. 

“Eau de Death” caught my attention this week for sure. And, in fact, this story is strangely related to a few verses of this week’s Gospel lesson which I could not get out of my head! In fact, I found myself going back to the King James Version of the Bible (a rare occurrence indeed) because these verses are even better in that translation. Hear again the Gospel according to John, the eleventh chapter:

38 Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. 39 Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.

Friends, this week, the words of Martha, sister of Lazarus, have been on my lips as well: “Lord…this stinketh.”

It stinks to share the news that I will be leaving this summer to serve in global mission in Jerusalem. It stinks to say good-bye to people I love. It stinks for you, to know you will not only have to say goodbye to me and my family, but also hello to yet another pastor. It stinks for Pastor Paul and the rest of the staff, too. Even though we trust in God to provide, and even though we believe in the call of God through the church, this week many of us at Bethany Lutheran are a bit like Martha of Bethany, standing in front of Jesus with our arms crossed, saying “Lord, this stinketh.”

This stinketh indeed! In John chapter 11, what stinks is Lazarus, who has been dead for four days. But Mary and Martha are pretty sure Jesus stinks, too. Both sisters confront him with the fact that he didn’t come when they called, but decided to wait around for two days with his friends: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” Now, Lazarus is dead, and he’s starting to smell. The whole situation stinks.

Martha and Mary were certain that because Lazarus already stinketh, there was nothing Jesus could do about it now. But we know, of course, that Jesus did do something about it. He may have been a couple days late, but Jesus rolled the stone away from the tomb, prayed to God the Father, and then called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus, stinky Lazarus, walked out of the tomb. In spite of the unbelieving disciples, in spite of the man’s angry sisters, in spite of the stone blocking the entrance to the tomb, and in spite of the fact that he had already been dead for four days and was starting to stink, Jesus raised a dead man to life. Thanks be to God!

The raising of Lazarus is a miracle, and in the Gospel of John it is the last of a series of signs meant to prove that Jesus speaks and acts with God’s authority. Jesus tells the disciples plainly why he did not go immediately to Bethany: “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe.” Feeding the five thousand, turning water into wine, and healing the blind man—these were all impressive. But raising a dead man to life, especially if he was so dead he was starting to smell, removed any question about who this Jesus really was. It also removed any question about what would happen to Jesus next, for this event caught the attention of the authorities, and set in motion his trial, conviction, and public execution on the cross.

Many people who were there that day came to believe. And for us today, the raising of Lazarus is still a powerful proclamation that “Eau de death” may keep away zombies, but nothing keeps Jesus from raising the dead to new life. Sin and guilt, fear and death stink to high heaven, it’s true! But Jesus is the resurrection and the life, and he stands at the door of every tomb calling in a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!”

Sisters and brothers, this is Good News we all need to hear, because we spend way too much time and effort trying to mask the evidence of sin and death. We may scoff at “Eau de Death”, but we’d be the first in line to purchase “Eau de Perfection” and especially “Sinless #5”. We don’t want anyone to know how bad we really stink, or how much help we need, or how hopeless we feel, least of all God. So we cover up the smell, wrap ourselves tightly, and stay hidden away from the attacking hoards of “perfect people” we’re certain are just outside the door. Little do we know, those supposed “perfect people” are just as unreal as zombies, and the only one standing outside our door is Jesus. When we’re in our darkest place, it’s always Jesus who comes near, and he’s there not to condemn, or to turn his nose up at the smell of our humanity and our mortality, but to bring what he always brings: life, life, and more life. Where Jesus is, there is life. Where Jesus speaks, there is life. Where Jesus acts, there is life! “I am the resurrection and the life” he proclaims. The cross of Christ has defeated the power of sin and death to remove anyone from life with God.

Earlier this week, before I made my big announcement to the congregation, I had a long conversation with a church member. His is a story that bears repeating, and in fact, he’s given me permission to share it with you today, as a testimony to the power of Jesus to raise the dead.

Our brother Ray enlisted in the Army shortly after World War II. He signed up because he wanted to go to college, and his family could only afford to send his older sister. It was 1949. With the war over, the Army seemed like a great way to earn money for college and get some experience in the world.

He could never have guessed that our country would soon be in another conflict, this time in Korea. While there, he did what soldiers are trained to do: he killed people. The first one, he told me, he remembers in painful detail. He’s not sure how many came after that, and he wouldn’t want to count. He did what the government trained him to do. He did his job.

When he came home from Korea, Ray went on with life. He got married, raised a family, and worked hard. He had always been a believer, and while he may not have made it to church every Sunday, he was especially involved with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Everything seemed fine on the outside. Ray gave off the aroma of being a family man, a patriot, and especially a man of faith.

But Ray had a secret! For more than 50 years, he had been covering up what he thought was an odor even God could not stomach. For 50 years, Ray lived in fear that God would not, in fact could not, forgive him for what he did as a soldier. Didn’t Scripture say “Thou shalt not kill?” Didn’t Jesus say “not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished…Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven?” These words kept him bound up by guilt and wrapped tight with fear. Ray seemed to have it all together, but in reality he was the walking dead. A zombie. He was Lazarus in the tomb, not for four days, but for five decades. And it hath stinketh.

But then, not too long ago, something happened. Jesus called out to him again. He said, “Ray, come out!” Actually, the way Ray tells it, it happened when he finally shared his fears and instead of condemnation, he heard these words: “Ray, all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. You have nothing to fear. In Christ, you are forgiven. You have always been forgiven.”

True, he had heard these words before. Who knows why these words made a difference on this day, in this conversation, with this particular person! All that matters is that this time, he knew he was forgiven. This time, his dry bones came together, and flesh came upon them, and skin covered them, and his breath returned to him. In Christ, our brother Ray was raised from death to life. It was his 81st birthday.

Dear friends, I started this sermon declaring that we are all Marthas, standing at the tomb and complaining about the stench. But the truth is, every one of us is also Lazarus, and sometimes we just stink. Sometimes, life stinks too! But hear again the Good News: there is nothing in this world-- neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come; not our fear of the future; not our past mistakes or our inability to accept forgiveness; not our unbelief or anything else in all creation—that is able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Jesus is the resurrection and the life, and all who believe, even though they die, shall live. Jesus is enough. So come out, Lazarus! Come out and live. Amen.

All Saints' Day: November 4, 2012

ALL SAINTS’ DAY SERMON 2012

John 11:32-44

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

"Unbind him, and let him go!"

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last November, as I stood here before you as your new senior pastor, I was remembering a beloved member of my former church. Iva had died just a few days before All Saints 2011 at the age of 98.5. On that All Saints Sunday, I was mourning not only that she had died, but also that I would not be the one to preach at her funeral. The truth is, I was mourning the fact that I was no longer the pastor of a community I loved. It was a gift for me, on that All Saints Day, to remember Iva’s life by sharing her with you in a Sunday sermon.

This year, I’m no longer the “new pastor” at Bethany—someone else has taken that role, thanks be to God! And in the year I have been your pastor, together we have walked through grief we could not have imagined twelve months ago. When I interviewed for this call last summer, I asked Gene Bengston how many funerals the church averaged per year. “Six” said Gene. And that was the truth—he promises me that he checked that figure. Bethany is demographically a young congregation, and funerals are generally few and far between.

But since January of 2012, in defiance of statistics and breaking our hearts, the Bethany community has already suffered the loss of seventeen beloved members.

We’ve mourned the tragic deaths of not one, but two, teenagers; the father of 3 young children; a star teacher who was a lover of music and the arts; our church librarian; a nurse who spent her career caring for others; a young mother of unwavering faith who fought cancer for 14 years; and a host of other saints who lived long, full lives, but who nevertheless leave gaping holes in our hearts.

When I stood before you on this day last year, all of these saints were still among us. One year ago, we couldn’t have imagined the loss and the grief that was in store.

 On days like this, it can seem that All Saints is nothing more than a day for us to join in the chorus with Mary, the sister of Lazarus, who cried out, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!”

This morning, as we light candles, read names, and ring bells, it can seem that all we are doing is remembering how Jesus didn’t save our loved ones. Jesus didn’t answer our prayers. Jesus didn’t show up when we needed him!

And if that’s what All Saints is about, then these candles feel very empty. If today is about death, and failure, and promises not kept, then these rituals are just that—rituals, traditions, and empty actions, designed to make us feel better, but holding no meaning beyond comforting our broken hearts.
And it that’s the case, then I think All Saints Day is no different from Halloween.

Halloween has its rituals, which we know well: On October 31st we all dress up, go outside, parade around, light candles in pumpkins…and hope to get something good to eat.

On All Saints Sunday, we also have our rituals: we dress up, go to church—and then parade around, light candles, and hope to get something good to eat!

But if this day is only about death and rituals to commemorate the dead, then the end result will likely be just like Halloween:  we’ll all go home with a stomachache.

In other words, there must be something more. This All Saints Day, set apart by Christians since the earliest days of the church, must hold something else for us besides being a commemoration of death and the dead.

We need only look to the Gospel of John to see what that “something else” is.

In John chapter 11, the story begins where we began today, with Mary crying out to Jesus, “Lord! You forgot us! You weren’t here! I was counting on you, and you didn’t show up. And now my beloved brother is dead. It’s been four days, and he’s already beginning to smell.”
But then Jesus, greatly disturbed, arrives at the tomb and yells, “Lazarus, come out!” And out walks the man, still wrapped in his burial cloths. Jesus tells the others to “unbind him and let him go.”
Unbind him, and let him go.

First, it’s important to acknowledge that if I were grieving the loss of my child, or my husband, or my mother, or my dear friend today, I might not like this Jesus story at all. I might ask the question the Jews were brave enough to say aloud: “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” And could not this Jesus, who raised Lazarus after four days, also raise my loved one? If he could do it after four days for Lazarus, why not after 4 months, or 4 years—or 40 years?
But then, seen in this way, we might be putting ourselves in the wrong place in the story.
For on this All Saints Day, it seems to me we hear the story of the raising of Lazarus not to be reassured that Jesus can, indeed, if he chooses, raise the dead to life—but so that we can be reminded that Jesus does indeed, in all times and places, call each of us out of our tombs, unbind us, and set us free to live.

Sometimes, when I look out at you, my beloved congregation, I don’t see people, but a rather…a herd of turtles. Much of the time we are all just large turtles, going through life carrying not shells or our houses, but our tombs on our backs. Fear seems to be the most popular model: we go through life weighed down and closed off by fear of death, fear of something bad happening to loved ones, fear of foreclosure, fear of disappointing someone. Fear keeps us from the life we were created to live, and the stone blocking the entrance is most often too large for us to move on our own.

Other times I think we walk through life like a character in the best Christmas movie of all time, “A Christmas Story.” I hope you know the movie I’m talking about—if not, never fear, because it’s November, and I imagine we’ll start seeing it running on a continuous loop on cable in a week or so!
There is a scene where the little brother, Randy, is being dressed by his mother to walk to school in the snow. He is first stuffed into a snowsuit, and then a hat, boots and gloves, and then a scarf is wrapped completely around his head. Finally, in desperation, he cries out: “I can’t put my arms down!”

Sisters and brothers, consider how you, like Randy, are bound up, wrapped tight, even immobilized by your fear, your grief, and your pain. You, like Randy, can’t put your arms down, much less raise them to praise God, reach out to serve others, or to wrap around the ones you love. And you, like Randy—and Lazarus—long to be set free.

But on this day, we come together to remember how a merciful God, through Christ Jesus our Lord, has called out, unbound, and raised all the saints to new life. All. The. Saints. Yes, Jesus has called our departed loved ones by name, and we give thanks that Robert, Richard, Jean,  Lox, Eileen, Wayne, Jennifer, Jody, Paul, Robert, Sheldon, Connor, Ruth, Richard, Wendy, Grayce, and Frank have found their permanent places at the table, and are even now sitting at the heavenly banquet that has no end. They have been unbound and set free from every sin, every indignity of cancer or old age, every struggle of mental illness, every injury from terrible accidents, and every imperfection of this life on earth. Amen! Thanks be to God!

But we also rejoice on this day that Jesus, our brother, who knows our pain and suffers with us, stands at the door of our tombs and calls, “Come out!” You, who are grieving—come out and live! You, who doubt that you are loved—come out! You, who live in the darkness of depression—come out! You, who deny your true selves—come out!

 You don’t have to wait to die to be a saint.

For God, who loves all of creation, desires that we would have life, and have it abundantly. God, who is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, has set us free from the bonds of sin and death through the cross of Jesus Christ.

Sisters and brothers, fellow saints, Jesus stands at the door of your tomb today, and invites you to be free. He has looked sin, pain, grief, and fear in the face and said, “Unbind her, and let her go!” 

By all your saints still striving, for all your saints at rest, your holy name, O Jesus, forevermore be blessed! Amen!

7th Sunday after Pentecost: July 15, 2012

7^th Sunday after Pentecost: July 15, 2012

Isaiah 43:1-7

Song of Solomon 8:6-7

John 11:1-6, 17-35 

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie B. Smith

"Many Waters Cannot Quench Love"

Grace and peace to you from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Lately I’ve been following the story of a friend on her CaringBridge site. She’s a cyber friend, really—a woman I met through an online support community for infertility and pregnancy loss. Kendrah had a massive stroke in April at just 35 years old. She is still in the hospital, struggling to walk, to talk, and to care for herself. Her three young children are being raised by relatives while she recovers. Her husband , a doctor himself, is at her bedside every moment that he’s not caring for his own patients.

Kendrah’s story has been inspiring to read, and she’s made great strides considering she was not expected to live, much less recover. But the other day her husband wrote that in spite of her physical victories, Kendrah is struggling spiritually. He teased her one day as she was working on her walking exercises: “Come on, have a little faith”, and she snapped right back: “I have no faith…it’s all used up.”

Most weeks, I would have read this and stopped to say a prayer for Kendrah myself. I might have written her an encouraging note, reminding her how God is with her in her struggles, how Jesus knows her pain, and how the Holy Spirit gives us strength beyond measure. 

But this week, her words “I have no faith—it’s all used up” hit too close to home for me. Our faith has surely been tested here at Bethany the last few months. There has been too much sadness, too many funerals, too much cancer, too many young people, gone too soon.

Monday morning I called the Kearns family to let them know I was thinking of them on what would have been Jennifer’s 20^th birthday. And then Monday night, barely 12 hours later, I was in the hospital watching a strong, handsome 18 year old young man lie in a bed that could barely hold his 6 foot 1 inch frame, as a machine breathed for him. I prayed and read Scripture with Connor’s mom and dad, but I could hardly believe it was happening again. Another young life cut short senselessly. Inside, I was crying out: “Why, God?” What is the purpose of so much suffering? How much can one family, one congregation, one community take? How much can one pastor take, for that matter? In the words of Psalm 13:

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?  How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?”

If you came to church today so your pastor could tell you all the answers or explain why this had to happen, I’m afraid you’ll be going home disappointed. I have at least as many questions as you. Here are a few that may sound familiar:

Why do young people die? 

Why should any mother or father have to bury a child?

Why do 8 year old girls get brain tumors?

Why do talented teachers get Parkinson’s and lose the ability to speak?

Why don’t we have a vaccine for cancer or a cure for mental illness?

Most of all, this week, I would like to know: Where were you, God, when Connor was in the water on Monday? 

Believe it or not, seminary didn’t provide me with all these answers. 

As I sat vigil with Jan and Brian at Connor’s bedside this week, I  knew I didn’t possess any good answers or magic prayers. But I did have time, and a Bible—and so I turned to Scripture.

The readings we heard this morning are a few that spoke to me this week, and I hope they might speak to you, too, as we struggle through this grief together.

The first verses I came across were from Isaiah, chapter 43: 

“But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Saviour.” 

At first, these verses hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to throw them back in God’s face to say: “But, wait! When Connor passed through the waters, they did overwhelm him! Where were you!”

But then I went back to read the first part again: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are mine.” 

Before Connor was ever in the Fox River, he passed through other waters. Connor was baptized in water right here at Bethany. His mom and dad brought him to this very font when he was 2 years old, and it was there that he heard the words, “Connor Nelson, you are baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” And then, as a cross was traced on his forehead he heard the words, “Connor Nelson, child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.”  

In baptism, God called Connor by name. From that day forward, he belonged to Christ. Our faith teaches us that our baptism gives us our identity. It is a great comfort to me to know that no matter what the newspaper headlines say, Connor will never be the “Crystal Lake man pulled from river”, but he is and always will be “Connor Nelson Priesz, child of God.” 

Another Scripture passage that jumped out at me this week is from a rarely-read book of the Bible, the Song of Solomon. This entire book is basically a long love letter, often interpreted as being about the love God has for humankind. From Song of Solomon, chapter 8: 

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.” 

“Many waters cannot quench love.” This is most certainly true of the love Connor’s mom and dad had for their son. Jan barely left his side for three days, and Brian’s tenderly written eulogy in yesterday’s service speaks volumes about his love for his son. But this love letter from the Song of Solomon isn’t about parental love—it’s about God’s divine love for us. “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm” says God. In other words: Stick with me. You can even tattoo my name on your arm—because my love isn’t going anywhere. These verses call to mind the words of Romans 8, which proclaim that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” 

These verses may not explain why the waters overwhelmed Connor that day, but they do reassure me he wasn’t there alone, and God’s love for us is bigger than any river. 

Finally, you heard the story of the raising of Lazarus this morning. It might seem strange for us to hear the story of a man who was raised from the dead by Jesus, when we are grieving the fact that our prayers for healing went unanswered this week. 

And yet, this story has a few things to say to this situation. 

Verse 21 says that even Mary cried out in anger: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” It is good to know that our anger, our confusion, and even our lack of faith can be laid at Jesus’ feet. 

But it is perhaps even greater comfort to read verse 35 (every Confirmation student’s favorite memorization verse): “Jesus wept.”

Jesus, the son of God, our Lord and Savior, cried real tears at the death of his friend. This fact assures me that we don’t have to approach death with a holier-than-thou, everything will be fine, “It’s ok, he’s with Jesus” attitude. Jesus wept, and so can we.

After turning to Scripture this week, I also turned to my seminary preaching professor, Dr. Craig Satterlee, for some guidance and prayer. I posed the same questions to him: Why? Where was God on Monday? Was God in the water with Connor? 

And this is what he said (via Facebook chat, as I sat in the ICU):

“Jesus was in the water with Connor. "God" is too impersonal for me. Jesus was drowning with Connor. St. Ambrose says Jesus is buried with us, whether we are buried in water or dirt. And Jesus will raise Connor to new life. That Jesus did not do so on Monday is beyond comprehension. So we can only raise our fists to God, who loves us enough to receive our outrage. And we can dare to trust God to raise us from this death to new life. But it comes slowly and takes a long time.”

My only response—after a few tears—was to write to Dr. Satterlee: “Thank you.” Thank you for preaching to me. Thank you for having faith for me when mine was being tested. And thank you for giving me the strength to continue this walk with Connor’s family, and with Bethany, my church family. 

Sisters and brothers, I give thanks to God for each of you, and for the opportunity we have to walk together in our grief, to hold one another in prayer, and to serve the God who has called us each by name, and who never lets us go. Amen.