Sermon: "Dark Night of the Soul"

The Rev. Maureen R. Frescott

Congregational Church of Amherst, UCC

April 18, 2019 - Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

“Dark Night of the Soul”

If you’re here with us tonight – on this Maundy Thursday evening –

it’s likely because you find meaning in the Jesus story.

The story of a baby who arrived in the darkness of a winter’s night.

Born in a stable because there was no room at the inn.

Sung into the world by a chorus of angels and warmly welcomed by star gazing shepherds and wandering kings.

The story of a carpenter’s son who grows up to be a messiah…a prophet…

a radical revolutionary.

Turning water into wine, bringing sight to the blind,

And calling out acts of inequity and injustice

by flipping over tables, pulling the marginalized out of the margins,

and taking the stones out of the hands of those who stand in judgment.

This is also a story about God becoming human.

So God would know what it is to be one of us.

And we might come to better know God.

So we would have a face like our own to picture in our minds

And call upon in our hour of need.

A God who knows what it feels like to laugh, to cry,

to stand in awe before a sunset,

to fall down upon a pair of trembling knees in utter despair.

The Jesus story is one that draws us in

and carries us through the seasons of our lives.

In the hope of spring when new life pushes up from the ground

and old life is resurrected right before our eyes.

In the heat of summer when the days are long and the work to be done seems daunting, yet there are bursts of play and joy that make it all worthwhile.

In the waning days of fall, when the trees go bare and the smell of decay and death fills the air.

In the dark nights of winter, when we’re so desperate to see the coming of the light.

Then a baby is born and the story begins all over again.

The thing about the Jesus story is that in order for it to be truly meaningful –

in order for it to truly reflect what it means for a God to become human –

it can’t all be about miracles, and resurrections, and babies born under a radiant star and a chorus of hallelujahs.

In order for it to be a human story and it has to include the dark nights of the soul.

The nights that never seem to end.

Where we find ourselves trembling in fear over what is to come.

Where betrayers and deserters and deniers seem to be our only friends.

Where we plead with God to take this cup from us, and if that can’t be done,

we beg God not to forsake us in our hour of need.

Easter Sunday would hold little meaning if it wasn’t preceded by a Good Friday, and a Maundy Thursday.

There are Maundy Thursday moments that warm our hearts.

Jesus sharing a final meal with his beloved friends.

Passing them the loaf and cup and a tradition that would carry the faithful through for thousands of years.

Kneeling to wash their feet and teaching them to serve one another in the most intimate of ways.

Giving them a new commandment – a new mandate – to love one another as he has loved them.

And there are Maundy Thursday moments that tear at our hearts.

Judas running from the room to do what he was destined to do.

Friends falling off to sleep because they don’t realize the danger that is lurking in the dark.

Blood soaked tears falling upon the rocks.

Clanging swords, flailing whips, rattling chains.

Thorns and barbs pricking and cutting into tender skin…

and wails of grief from those who dared to stay throughout it all. 

This is a dark night of the soul experience that few of us enter into willingly.

It’s the part of the Jesus story that many would prefer to avoid.

Because it’s too painful.

Too despairing.

Too real and too reminiscent of our own dark night experiences to be helpful or healing for the wounds we still carry.

But if we’re strong enough to go there.

Or desperate enough….or hopeful enough,

There is healing to be found in this vital and very human part of the Jesus story.

Because we enter into this darkness knowing that Easter is on the horizon.

Knowing that the deserters and the deniers won’t fill those roles for very long.

Knowing that the pain and the tears will pass, as all things do.

Knowing that the women wailing at the foot of the cross will soon find the tomb empty – and life will spring up where death once stood.

But what makes the dark nights bearable is not just the understanding that they are impermanent  -

because in the midst of those 3 a.m. experiences,

in our ‘kneeling in the garden waiting for the soldiers to come’ moments,

there is no certainty that we will make it out alive.

What makes the dark nights bearable is knowing that God is kneeling there beside us.

A God who lived and breathed as we do.

A God who laughed and cried as we do.

A God who was born, helpless and vulnerable,

and reliant on the care and mercy of those around him,

and who died in much the same way, just as we do.

My hope for us all, on this Maundy Thursday,

on this dark night of the soul,

is that we not rush through this night,

and the Good Friday to come,

on our way to Easter morning.

That we spend some time in the darkness.

That we sit with the sorrowful reminders of our own grief and suffering.

And mourn the passing of this gentle and caring soul, named Jesus.

Who in his living showed us how to move in the world in a more loving and merciful way,

and in his dying, showed us the face and hands of the God

that we can call upon and lean into in the dark.

Easter is coming.

And this dark night will help us get there.

Thanks be to God, and Amen.

Sermon: "Dinner with Jesus"

The Rev. Maureen R. Frescott

Congregational Church of Amherst, UCC

April 7, 2019 – Fifth Sunday in Lent

John 12:1-9

“Dinner with Jesus”

Dinner parties.

We’ve all been to them, hosted them, enjoyed them, or in some instances,

wished we could get out of them.

When asked to gauge whether a particular dinner party was a success or not a success, our minds are typically drawn to the food.

A popular culinary magazine recently asked its readers to share their biggest dinner party disasters.

One woman talked about the beautiful Cornish game hens she spent hours preparing, only to discover as the guests were being seated that she had forgotten to turn on the oven.

Another shared that she was 2 minutes from taking a roast out of the oven when a guest who was admiring her new range inadvertently activated the self-cleaning function – which locked the oven door and wouldn’t allow it to be opened until the oven returned to a safe temperature. The roast did not fare well.

Another reader talked about the delicious scallops she prepared for a good friend of hers because she had remembered a conversation they once had about the scallops her friend had eaten while on vacation –

what she hadn’t remembered was that was the vacation where her friend discovered she was allergic to scallops.

Finally, one woman shared this:

“There was the time a duck I'd roasted slid off the platter on the way to the table. I confess I yanked it up by it’s little drumstick, threw it into the sink, wiped off the carpet fibers, stuck it back on the platter, slapped a little sauce on it, and brought it out. Isn't it Julia Child who said, "Remember, if you're alone in the kitchen, and you drop the lamb, who is going to know?"

Of course the success or failure of a dinner party depends on a lot more than the quality of the menu.

There’s something about sitting around a table laden with food that seems to bring out the best and worst in us.

We may take note of who is sitting where –

who has the seats of honor at the head of the table

and who is seemingly squeezed in as an afterthought– 

with a table leg to contend with or barely enough room to set their plate.

We may notice who showed up late or empty handed,

who took more than their fair share when the serving dishes were passed,

and who did or didn’t offer to help cook, serve, or clean up afterward.

The dinner conversation may flow freely or haltingly –

depending on how well we know or like our fellow guests –

and how much alcohol has been consumed.

And if the topic turns to politics, religion, or a previous contention between guests, whether family, friend, or foe, there’s a good chance that someone will leave the table in a huff, burst into tears, or otherwise cause a scene that will have the other guests staring awkwardly at the napkins in their laps.

When we look at the stories of Jesus’ life that we have in our gospels,

it is telling that many of the notable events in his ministry happened at dinner parties –in particular, at dinner parties where someone causes a scene.

It was at the Wedding in Cana where – at his mother’s loud insistence – Jesus performed his first miracle turning water into wine –

filling the guest’s glasses and announcing his ministry to the world.

Jesus dined with tax collectors and sinners in a show of extravagant welcome – much to the dismay of the Pharisees who scolded him for doing so.

And it was while eating at the home of a Pharisee that Jesus was scolded once again, this time for not washing his hands – to which he replied,

“It’s what comes out of one’s mouth that defiles it, not what goes into it.”

And of course it was at the Last Supper –

the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples – where he taught them to remember him by breaking bread together in his name.

And where Judas got up from the table and ran from the room

when Jesus told him to go do what he was destined to do.

Judas caused a scene at the dinner party in Bethany as well.

When he yelled at Lazarus’ gentle sister Mary – accusing her of wasting the money she spent on the expensive nard she was using to anoint Jesus’ feet.

But as with most disgruntled dinner guests,

Judas gets a little too much of our attention in this scene.

As we contemplate whether he was right to point out that the money spent on the costly nard would have been better spent on the poor.

And we fixate on the fact that he had his hand in the treasury till  -

proving it wasn’t the poor he was worried about but rather his own ability to profit from the sale.

And we then argue over what Jesus meant when he told Judas to not concern himself with the cost of the nard because the poor would always be with us.

Judas steals our attention in this scene because of his confusing mention of the poor, and because here he gives us a rare glimpse into his relationship with Jesus.

A relationship that is about to crash and burn.

A relationship that begins with trust and ends in betrayal,

A relationship that Judas broke off and walked away from,

because he did not understand who Jesus really was - and is.

But in our determination to understand Jesus’ relationship with Judas, we tend to overlook the relationship that plays out here between Jesus and Mary.

It wasn’t long before this dinner party that Mary was out in the road clawing at the earth at Jesus feet – wailing and shouting at him because he had arrived too late to save her brother Lazarus, who had died four days before.

It was Mary’s grief that caused Jesus to weep along with her.

And it was his effort to alleviate that grief by raising her brother from his tomb that would push the religious authorities over the edge,

and cause them to arrange for Jesus’ arrest and execution in a few days time.

Mary kneels at the dinner table and anoints Jesus’ feet because she understands the inevitability of the events that have been set into motion.

The sweet smell of nard was likely still in the air because Mary had just done such an anointing for her brother, Lazarus, only a week or so before.

Which should cause us to wonder, why is it, with all the questions raised over whether the money for the nard would have been better spent on the poor,

no one realizes that the nard Mary was using was likely left over,

taken from the same jar that was purchased to anoint her brother at his burial.

Mary was familiar with the smell of death and grief.

Perhaps she smelled it on Jesus when he entered her home.

Perhaps she also saw the fear of what was to come in his eyes.

And perhaps what Jesus saw in her that he didn’t see in his disciples –

was a willingness to listen to him and believe him when he said he would soon no longer be with them,

and a willingness to comfort him, and prepare him for what was to come.

In John’s gospel there is no Garden of Gethsemane moment where Jesus begs God to take the cup of suffering from him in a flash of human uncertainty, apprehension, and fear.

In John’s gospel, that moment comes at the dinner table in Bethany,

with Mary kneeling at Jesus’ feet and anointing him, acknowledging his impending suffering and death, and sending him off with her love.

Unlike Judas, who did not love Jesus as Jesus loved him,

Mary’s relationship with Jesus was reciprocal.

As people of faith, we talk a lot about how much Jesus loves us – but we seem to be less comfortable talking about how much we love Jesus in return.

Perhaps instead of wondering how we might be less like Judas,

we should instead wonder how we might be more like Mary.

Do we love Jesus enough to cause a scene at a dinner party –

by calling out someone who speaks or acts in a non-loving way?

Do we love Jesus enough to risk judgment – to be guided by Christian compassion and grace rather than by cultural suspicion and fear?

Do we love Jesus enough to do something extravagant in his name –

like opening our wallets or our table or our hearts to those others deem too costly to feed, to welcome, or to love?

Next Sunday is Palm Sunday –

Jesus will leave Bethany and ride into Jerusalem on the back of donkey –entering the city like a King with cheering crowds waving palm branches in the air.

And he will leave the city as an executed criminal –

his broken body wrapped in a shroud and left in a tomb,

waiting to be anointed with burial oils once again,

this time by another Mary.

If we love Jesus, we would resist the urge run headlong into Easter without taking this journey with him.

We would be like Mary and sit with him in his time of need.

Because this is a journey he took for us.

To show us that out of suffering and grief,

renewed life can and will arise.

Thanks be to God, and Amen.