3 ½ years ago, St. Mary’s was an off-beat little church at the end of the road. (Okay that’s still what we are, stay with me). We’d been experimenting for about a decade with doing church differently: sharing our thoughts on Scripture during sermon time, circling up to offer one another communion, always out, actively serving in the community. But things were changing as our leaders were retiring, facing serious health problems, moving away.
And right into this experiment trying to figure out where it was headed next, walked Sue and Bob Savereide. We weren’t easy to figure out, but they persisted, and so did we. With their help, we remade ourselves once again. We found new ways to be church, children through elders, listening, crafting, learning, praying together. And Bob and Sue became new leaders for us–Bob working on the building, Sue sharing the Sunday joy in word and photos on social media, and just generally inspiring every family in the faith community to join in shaping our future.
And with their leadership, St. Mary’s kept growing in God’s love. We made our worship more inclusive. We connected even more strongly to the communities outside our walls. In the Diocese of Minnesota, St. Mary’s became an example of what a thriving small church can be.
In many ways, the folks in this funky little small-town church remind me of Jesus’s followers: that ragtag bunch of fishermen (I’m pretty sure just about everyone not with us today is rod in hand on a lake right now.), tax collectors, and ordinary folks dealing with loss and pain.
For about three years, those disciples traveled with Jesus, learning as they walked. They came to see Jesus as the Messiah, the chosen One of God. And along the way, Jesus challenged everything they thought they knew about what the Messiah really was.
For example, they would have grown up with the prophecies of Zechariah, foretelling that other nations–like Rome–would plunder the nation of Israel. Then one day, the Lord would descend from the heavens and stand on the Mount of Olives. On that day, the mountain would split, creating a great valley surrounding the city of Jerusalem. The enemies of God’s people would run in fear for their lives, the Lord would reside in Jerusalem, and the wealth and the people of all nations would then serve the one true God. We see similar language in today’s Psalm, where God “subdues the people under them and the nations under his feet.”
In that time, Zechariah says, there would also be a great equalizing where “every cooking pot in Jerusalem and Judah” would be as holy to the Lord as the holy altar in the Jerusalem Temple. Then there would no longer be traders in the temple courtyard because sacrifice through the temple priests would no longer be required.
At first, to the disciples, it must seem like Zechariah’s prophecy is coming true. In the week before he dies, Jesus goes with them to the Mt. of Olives and then enters Jerusalem. People wave palms, throw their cloaks in the road and shout Hosanna, Save us! Then Jesus goes to the temples and kicks out the traders. It looks like the moment has come.
And then, Jesus gathers his disciple in a room. They eat a meal together, and he tells them–I am the sacrifice. And then he dies, humiliated, on a cross.
The disciples believed they would be sitting in glory beside their Messiah, rulers of the new kingdom, with no more Romans or temple leadership telling them what to do. But the kingdom they’d been hoping for has come completely undone, and they are the ones hiding in fear for their lives.
When he comes back, they are amazed and joyful but still so confused. Jesus comes and goes. Breaking bread and suddenly disappearing. Breathing new things into their souls and leaving more questions in his wake.
So, Lord, is NOW the time when you restore the kingdom to Israel? they ask him, still hoping, somehow, that this, maybe, is the time that all they had been taught would come to pass.
And Jesus says, that’s not for you to know. But you will receive power. The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.
And then, once again turning Scripture on its head, he leads them out of Jerusalem to the Mt. of Olives. And there, instead of God descending, appearing to save the day, the son of God mysteriously disappears, ascending like Elijah into a cloud.
I imagine the disciples standing there looking into the clouds, open-mouthed, wondering: WHAT the…? What just happened? Now what do we do?
What happens next is what we celebrate next week on Pentecost, one of the Big Feast Days of the church year, even though most of us in Minnesota are out fishing and completely miss it.
But the disciples aren’t there yet. And I can relate. I imagine you can too. Like the disciples, I feel rooted in one spot where strange, unsettling things just keep happening, wondering what to do.
The trial of the decade has just ended. A guilty verdict is in, and most of the world breathes relief and feels, here, justice has been done.
But brown folks still crowd our border, escaping unjust regimes. A young black man has shot blocks from the trial. The verdict means a man committed to solitary confinement, probably for the rest of his life. Jesus, echoing Isaiah, taught us to set the prisoners free.
The pandemic is ending. We can see the end of a brutal year of isolation, loneliness, fear, and death in sight.
But so many people remain unvaccinated. Schools keep experiencing outbreaks. People we care about are still at risk. And suddenly, two days ago, we were told–the mandate has been lifted; if you’re vaccinated, take your masks off, inside, outside! And so yesterday morning, Will and I found ourselves pausing outside the Piragis Outlet, masks in hand, wondering: what to do.
And here we are, gathering today, together, some of us in-person for the first time in over a year. We’re outside, practicing care for one another, happy to finally be gathered in this circle. But those two people who walked in the door 3.5 years ago? This first day of regathering is the day we say goodbye to them. The sun is shining brightly, but some precious folk will soon be beyond our sight.
So what do we do next?
Well, in today’s story in Acts, just like on Easter morning, it takes some mysterious beings in white robes to come along and say, Men (and Women) of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? Go to Jerusalem.
And so the disciples give themselves a shake, and they–not the Lord of Hosts–they, the confused, rag-tag disciples, make their way from the Mt. of Olives back to Jerusalem.
Because the way Jesus tells the story, the presence of the Lord, the one coming to save us, is, actually…us.
We are the ones sent out to heal and unite the nations—the brown, the black, the white; the frightened and the scornful; the young and the old; the weak and the strong. The church is the bearer of Christ in the world. God isn’t going to save us without us.
But God is still, also, with us, breathing light and strength into our spirits. And even when those we love must leave us–beloved family members, beloved friends, beloved leaders of our church– the invisible string of love remains. The vine still connects the branches.
As Eunice said last week, it might take four of us to do the work of one Sue or Bob. Maybe it takes centuries and millions of us to do the work of Jesus, to slowly, baby step by baby step, bring in the kingdom. But maybe that’s the point. God isn’t going to save us without all of us. All we need to do is give ourselves a shake and start walking.
Sunday Morning Words 