St. Luke's Live - Sunday, March 29

Bulletin for March 29, 2020

Last night, at about 9PM, the horn sounded from the Sea Cliff Fire Department. The horn is an ominous sound, a loud howl that tapers off like the roar of some ancient Sea Creature. It calls me to prayer for the sick and injured, as well as first responders. It calls volunteers to the station, to don layers of protective gear and to board the ambulance. In the night, though, if it's past their bedtime, it calls my kids from their slumber. 

It’s par for the course, crying children are a small price to pay for a fast acting medic corps. Last night was no exception and my four year old woke up crying for her mother. Meredith went into the girl’s room, laid beside Martha and comforted her back to sleep. As she was getting up to leave, Martha said, “I’m still scared, I want you to sleep with me all night.” “Not tonight Martha,” Meredith said, “I’m going to get back in bed with Dad.” Martha said, “Oh yeah, he gets scared easy, too.”

You know she wasn’t half wrong. I have been worried at the sound of the ambulance horn and the fire alarm. There’s heightened concern these days for the men and women who jump to the aid of those in distress. 

Jesus said again and again, don’t be afraid and Lord knows I’ve preached it. But if we’re not careful, it’s a message that runs the risk of alienating all of us, at any given time, because being scared is normal. It’s an important biological response. It keeps us safe. 

If it were a normal Sunday, whatever that means, I suppose I’d pull from this morning’s gospel a reflection focused on Mary, Martha or Lazarus. Together we might consider the dark tombs in which each of us has found ourselves. In the midst of this pandemic it would make obvious sense to talk about illness and death and our belief that God in Christ weeps for those who suffer. 

There are endless sermons, and we’ve got plenty of Fifth Sundays in Lent, this Sunday though, it’s the disciple Thomas who leaps from this story. When Jesus hears the message that Lazarus is at death’s door, he doesn’t exactly rush to Bethany. 

We get it though, he’s got a powerful point to make, but I imagine the disciples are somewhat relieved, to go towards Bethany is to enter the country of Judea, a gauntlet for Jesus and his followers, there’s detractors on one side and would be executioners on the other. 

When Jesus says it’s time to mount up, the disciples, you know you can hear the fear in their voices, they remind him that his own people were trying to kill him. Come on Jesus, Lazarus will be alright. Let’s keep warming ourselves by the fire pit. 

From out of the hesitation, as from his own tomb of fear and self-concern, Thomas (who we always consider as the doubter, the one who questioned Jesus’ resurrection) rally’s the twelve: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

It’s not that Thomas’ fear somehow vaporized, the thought that he might die because of his devotion to Christ and his bond to the other disciples would have never left him. It was his companion. But it did not keep him from answering the call. 

There are many things that we can consider this morning, not least of which is the power of God through Christ, to call us out of our tombs. But this morning, I’m thinking of Thomas, not doubting Thomas, not Thomas the twin, but Thomas the courageous. This morning I’m thinking of first responders, firefighters and medics, of doctors and nurses and hospital staff. Those folks around the world who are on the frontlines. 

These folks carry with them a heightened awareness of their own mortality and still, they respond. In Lent, we are all called to an awareness of our mortality. It should not paralyze us, neither shall we suppress it. It is a companion on our way. Reminding us that life is short. Reminding us that we are called to serve...our God and our neighbors.