Friends,

It’s strange how fast time is going by. The altar guild just got done putting on the red altar hangings in preparation for Palm Sunday, bulletins are getting finalized, and in a weird way I feel like Easter is imminent even though we have eight more services to do before we reach Easter morning. Next week there won’t be a ton of time to sit and write e-mail, edit things and try to do things intentionally. I’m sure the week after Easter we will come up with a list of things to do differently the following year, but right now we are on the cusp of it being too late to much differently this year. Regardless of our preparation level, we will start Holy Week with Palm Sunday this coming Sunday, which sets the stage for the darkness of Maundy Thursday, the absence of Good Friday, then to the new light of the Easter Vigil, and the sheer joy of Easter Sunday. It is going to be an emotional roller coaster, and we will undoubtedly be exhausted by the end of the 10:00 am Easter service. With all of the expectation, nervousness and excitement, I can’t help but still worry about paperwork.

We grew up going to the Roman Catholic Church, and I hated it. Don’t get me wrong, when I was ten, I hated the Episcopal Church too. I couldn’t stand Church for the same reason that I couldn’t stand school assemblies; I was being forced to sit, be still, be quiet and to occasionally do the school motto, prayer, hymn or whatever. It wasn’t like going to the movies where I had some choice in being there. In Church I was a hostage and I learned the liturgy (order of service), for the sole reason of being able to determine when it would be over. In our case, this was immediately after communion, as we didn’t stay for the post communion prayer and final hymn. By sixteen or seventeen I was considering myself a Christian again, and we were all attending the Episcopal Church, and this time we stayed for the whole service. I had warmer feelings for the whole thing at this point, but I always signed up to be an acolyte just so I wouldn’t have to sing the first and last hymn, as I would be carrying the cross in and out. Not having anyone to chastise me if I choose not to sing the hymns is one of the benefits of being a priest. Church is weird.

When we tried the Lenten Burger Night for the first time two years ago, I thought it would be a one-off thing and we’d be lucky to get a crowd of fifty or so. In general, I like the idea of changing up stereotypical Lenten practices that feel penitential for something like Burger Nights, but we took this approach for a very specific reason. We were at the tail end of the pandemic, and we realized that people were simply having a hard time getting accustomed to being back around people. It was hard to be apart, and it was hard to be back together, so we tried to facilitate being back together by creating something appealing. Instead of selling a Lenten event with something like, “you should probably come to terms with your mortality. Join us for some plain soup and uncomfortable conversations.” We said, “Let us make your life easier. Show up, let us feed you with the burger of the week, drop off your kids, and meet someone new.”

Friends,

In midst of chaos, frustration and uncertainty, I am greatly encouraged by some events that have been happening around St. Luke’s.

  Legend has it that the living embodiment of German pessimism, Director Werner Herzog, saved actor Joaquin Phoenix when he wrecked his car in 2006. According to the story, Herzog witnessed the wreck, calmly walked over to Phoenix, said, “just relax” and pulled him from the car. Once Phoenix was safe, Herzog simply walked away to avoid any attention. I find this story remarkable, because Werner Herzog desperately wanted to avoid what most of us would have embraced, which is to be noticed when we do something good. I believe that if I had witnessed that wreck, I would have helped without hesitation, because that is simply the right thing to do. Unlike our hero Herzog, I would have gotten a selfie with the grateful actor to share on my socials.

I am sure most of you are familiar with the Thirteenth Chapter of Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians, which reads:

If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions and if I hand over my body so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part, but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.