The Rev. Steven Paulikas
March 29, 2020
Lent 5-A
John 11
All Saints’ Church

At this point, most of us have been stuck in our homes for almost two weeks. We are watching and waiting with caution and fear as this disease continues to sweep across the country and the world. Our city has been transformed into a ghost town as hospitals are crowded with the sick. If you’re like me, you wake up every morning and have a moment before you realize with a sinking feeling what is going on.
 
There is a particular cruelty to the way in which we are isolated at a time when we most need one another. In an unsettling time like this, I would look to the love and support of our church community in person for spiritual sustenance. Instead, Fr. Spencer and I are looking out over an empty church this morning, and it’s hard not to become dispirited. It feels like we are all trapped in our individual cells, deprived of the comforts we would usually turn to in a time of trouble.
 
For me, among the challenges and tragedies of this time, there is also a spiritual clarity emerging. I’m hearing prayers and reading Scripture and seeing new things. Hearing todays’ passage from the Gospel of John is just one of those moments. We traditionally hear the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead late in the Lenten season as we approach Easter. I had always heard the raising of Lazarus as a foreshadowing of Jesus’ own resurrection. This text was meant to prepare us for our feast in two weeks.
 
But this year, there truly is no need for the timetable of the calendar. We are living in the reality of this story right now. Each and every one of us is a figure in this Gospel passage today. Maybe you feel like the disciples as they watched Jesus wander about. It seems like they were always a few steps behind the game, as if life were happening faster than they could comprehend it. Or maybe you are like friends of Mary and Martha, who came and consoled them at the death of their brother. Rarely in recent memory have I received so many calls, texts, and emails from friends and family checking up on me. Or maybe you feel like Mary. Once Jesus arrived at her home, she was simply too exhausted even to go out and meet him. But she didn’t need to, because her sister Martha had plenty of energy, which she used to confront Jesus. Maybe you feel like her right now—energized with anger at the absurdity of this situation. When Jesus comes to her, Martha doesn’t mince words, stating the obvious: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” There is plenty of need right now for some holy indignation at those who should have been there for us when they had the chance.
 
But in reality, the one the world as a whole most resembles right now is Lazarus. His sickness came out of nowhere and was unexpected. There was a very small window of time in which he could have been healed, but that window closed shut. By the time Jesus arrived in Bethany, Lazarus was lying alone in a makeshift tomb, wrapped in bands of cloth.
 
Right now, the world has been placed in a state of suspended animation. We have all been sent to our individual cells and told not to come out. It feels confining, disturbing. It can feel a little bit like we are trapped. And for those who are sick and suffering, the confinement is, of course, even greater. This virus is such that those afflicted with it must contend with their sickness alone, in quarantine, for fear of infecting others. I think that we all have a taste for what it must feel like to be Lazarus right now.
 
This is what I mean when I say it feels like we are living inside the Gospel right now. Or maybe it feels like the Gospel is living inside us. The story of Lazarus expresses the grief, the uncertainty, the fear, the frustrated expectation of our current situation.
 
The Gospel is alive at all times. But at times like this, we can see it living and moving in new and different ways. The Good News for us this morning is that Lazarus’ story does not end in the tomb. Against all expectations and to the astonishment of all, Jesus raises his friend from the dead and releases him from his confinement. At Jesus’ command, fear and sorrow and even death are banished, and Lazarus steps out into a new world, filled with the life that God has given him.
 
Friends, this day will come for us too. I believe Jesus truly did raise Lazarus from the tomb. If I believe that, then I must also believe that he will throw open the doors of our current confinement. This is a time for faith—not blind or misguided faith placed in the powers and principalities of this world, but faith in the God of life, who comforts us in time of need and holds before us the promise of a liberated world.
 
There have been times in the past few weeks when I’ve felt like each and every one of the people in the Lazarus story. I have been confused like the disciples. I’ve been pastoral like the villagers. I’ve been exhausted like Mary and I’ve been angry like Martha. But like all things in the upside down world of the Gospel, it has been when I’ve felt like Lazarus that I have felt God’s presence most with me.
 
Christians believe we must die to ourselves in order to be resurrected in God’s likeness. This is not a one-time deal, but rather a continuous event that stretches a lifetime. In order to show us the way, Jesus himself died on a cross. But on the third day, his own tomb was discovered empty. For us, the sorrow of today never has the last word. Even out of the depths, we cry with the Psalmist out to God, who hears our prayer and promises the life of the resurrection.
 
God never promises that we will be spared the depths. God never promises we will be spared the confinement of the current day. What God promises is far greater than this—a new life on the other side of this one.
 
In the moments when it is possible to contemplate the future, it is become more obvious with each passing day that the world will not be the same after this crisis is over. Once we finally do emerge from our confinement, we will be stepping out into a brave new time. History is accelerating right now so that what would normally take years to unfold is happening in the matter of weeks. Right now, we will support the sick and the healers and lift up those who are losing their jobs. We will comfort one another in our isolation and keep vigil for the future. But we will never lose sight of the future God has prepared for us. And when it comes, we will be ready—ready to step out into the resurrection light, to the honor and glory of God.

​Amen.     

The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
March 22, 2020
Lent 4-A
All Saints’ Church
Watch the Sermon here
 
​In this strange, new time, the Holy Spirit is directing us through the lectionary to perhaps the most comforting text from the Bible: Psalm 23. I invite you to listen to these familiar words with fresh ears, to hear them while mindful of the world around us. For maximum comfort, I’ll read from the old King James Version:
 
The Lord is my shepherd;
            I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
            He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his Names’ sake.
Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
            Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
            And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
 
If you are anything like me, your mind and your soul have been filled with new and unwanted things this week. It’s possible your body has been filled with unwanted things too. That’s especially true if, like me, you’ve been stuck at home with all that food you stocked up on. Stress eating is a physical response that mirrors what can happen to our souls at a time like this. We seek comfort through a diet of news and social media. Pretty soon, those things give rise to frightening thoughts, and things can start to seem out of control.
 
So look at the gift we have been given this morning: the 23rd Psalm. Simple, classic, and holy. God will cleanse and guide us this morning through these words. So take a deep breath. Take another. As you do, breathe in the Spirit of God, and exhale everything that’s out of your control. Now let us hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church in these beautiful words.
 
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
 
Jesus is our Lord. Sometimes the word “lord” can sound unpleasant. It reminds us of power and control. Yet at a time like this, when there is so much confusion and misinformation, isn’t it comforting to know that we have a gracious and loving Lord? The Lord is our shepherd. He is our ultimate authority. Yet he exercises his authority with grace and love. He knows us and looks over us. Unlike any earthly ruler, he leaves us without want or need.
 
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
 
Because we are all confined to our homes for the moment, we are not able to lay eyes on the green pastures or the still waters outside. But they are still there. I imagine that wherever you are right now, you’ve been looking at the same four walls for a week or so now. So try something with me. Close your eyes. Settle your mind. Clear your head, and invite the Holy Spirit into your midst.  Look for the green pasture and the still water in your midst, wherever you are. Do you think the psalmist was looking at an actual green pasture or still body of water when he wrote these words? No. It was a spiritual vision. So you, too, can look at the same valley and lake the psalmist saw, by the Spirit.
 
Now is the time to draw on our inner spiritual resources. Jesus said, “the kingdom of God is within you.” You can trust him and take him at his word. You don’t need to go outside to find the peace of God’s kingdom. Wherever you are, there it is too.
 
He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his Names’ sake.
 
God is a constant source of restoration. Whatever your trouble or fear, God will restore your soul. We need that refreshment right now. The paths of righteousness are wide and crowded—but they are also exhausting. I’ve had the privilege of being in contact with so many of our parishioners this week. I know that you are all fighting the righteous fight. You are health care providers on the front lines. You are compassionate souls checking on one another and giving comfort to the downtrodden. You are volunteers responding to the needs of the vulnerable. You are the patient who are enduring isolation for the sake of all God’s people. These are the paths of the righteous; we walk them, but God is the one who is leading us. We walk these paths for the sake of God, and when we are dismayed, God will restore our souls.
 
Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
 
Friends, we do not know what the future holds. We are under what truly does feel to be a shadow—a shadow of something large looming over us all. It’s such a scary feeling. This is not a valley any of us enjoy walking through.
 
And yet, the psalmist reminds us: there is nothing to fear. Nothing! No evil, no uncertainty, no shadow is greater than God’s goodness toward us. Jesus said, “let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God.” Now is a good time to do as he says. A troubled heart is calmed by faith. For comfort under this shadow, we can feel our Lord’s rod and staff, gently nudging us forward. They hold us together as one flock under his loving care. There is nothing to fear.
 
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
            Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
 
One of the cruelest parts of this time for me is being unable to break bread with others. You can’t have a friend over for dinner, or eat in a restaurant, or, most painfully, share together in the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood. Your table is no larger than your household right now.
 
But God is present, even at this table. These days I am so grateful for every bite of food before me, even as I dine in spiritual solidarity with those I cannot be present with. It is God who has prepared this table, even in the presence of this silent enemy around us. So let your head be anointed and your cup run over with the simple goodness of this life. Let the restrictions placed on us make us awake and alive to the blessings we have.
 
​Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
            And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
 
Even in the worst of times, goodness and mercy are following us. Even if you are confined to your own home, you are dwelling in the Lord’s house. As much as we desperately need science and facts right now, there is no way to prove these spiritual truths. We simply believe them. The Christian faith is a hopeful faith. We believe that the same lord who leads us and comforts us endured the pain of the cross. He knows suffering because he has suffered. And yet, he still leads and guides us. That is hope. That is love.
 
Friends in Christ, there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God. We may be separated at the moment, and the future may look uncertain. But our God, who is gracious and loving, has built a house large enough for us all to dwell in. So, on this strange morning, I greet you, from one room of God’s house into another—wherever you may be.
 
Be strong. Be patient. Keep your faith. Let your heart, mind, and soul be filled with the love of God. God is our shepherd—therefore we shall never want. Amen.  

The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
March 8, 2020
Lent 2-A
All Saints’ Church
John 3:1-17
 
Friends, the season of Lent is one of sacrifice and of doing things we don’t want to do. So let me confess to you that I truly do not enjoy having to preach about today’s Gospel passage. Please consider this sermon part of my Lenten mortification.
 
I dislike this passage because it has been so overburdened with cultural spiritual baggage that it hardly makes any sense anymore. In particular, there’s that famous—if not infamous—verse in John, Chapter 3, Verse 16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”
 
If you haven’t heard these words before, then you have never done any of the following things:
1. Looked at the bottom of a soda cup at an In-and-Out Burger or a shopping bag from Forever 21, each of which bears the inscription, “John 3:16,”
2. Watched Tim Tebow play for the Florida Gators in 2009, when he wrote “John 3:16” on his eye black, or
3. Received an autograph from Duck Dynasty’s Si Robertson, who adds the verse to his personal John Hancock. Or basically watched any college or professional football game, where people have been holding up John 3:16 signs for cameras for decades.
 
What do these things have to do with Christianity? Let me just say: I have no idea. But they have all made people think that there is something somehow magical about this one single verse, as if all of our religion could be boiled down one sentence.
 
And, in fact, that is what the people who have used pop culture as a vehicle to popularize this one verse from the Bible believe. They call it the “Golden Verse,” the key to understanding all of scripture and faith. But that’s even too narrow of a characterization for this campaign. Because this is really an effort to promote a particular interpretation of this one verse as the key to understanding all of Christianity. This interpretation hinges on one word: believe. “...Everyone who believes in him may not perish, but have eternal life.” In this understanding, the key to eternal life is your personal belief that Jesus is the Son of God. If you don’t have that belief, then the verse has another word for you: “perish.” As one respected evangelical theologian puts it, “The point is that Christ is salvation, and those who believe in Christ are saved. That is the central message of Christians.”
 
So there it is: a simple, clear theology that explains everything. If you believe in Christ, you are saved. And because of that, it is the mission of Christians to try to bring as many people to salvation as possible—and to save them from perishing. To do that, they need to get the message out. So why not print the message as a code on paper cups and signs that get seen on TV? It’s all very logical when viewed from this perspective.
 
For better or worse, this is the theology of hundreds of millions of Americans, and an even larger of factor of people around the world. It gives people the comfort of a clean and tidy way of thinking about God and the world. It’s an easily transmittable message and creates a convenient way of forming community: those who believe are in the community, and those who don’t are on the outside.
 
Let me say: there is a deep and earnest piety behind the motivations of most people who share this John 3:16 theology. You may be one of them, and if so, I honor your faith and your conviction. Many people in my own life—family, acquaintances, other Episcopalians—have been deeply influenced by this one verse from Scripture, and I would never want to diminish the authenticity and passion of their faith.
 
I would only ask for a bit of open-mindedness around a question that I makes me skeptical of elevating this interpretation of John 3:16 above all else:
 
If salvation is dependent upon my personal belief in Jesus, then is being a Christian more about Jesus, or about me and my belief? Follow me a little ways on this one. The big John 3:16 push is to get as many people as possible to believe that Jesus is the Son of God, which is supposedly the key to salvation. That means that my salvation depends on an affirmative action by me in something that is sometimes described as accepting Jesus as your personal lord and savior. To me, that seems to give me a whole lot of power. More power even than God. Does it mean that God was not acting in my life before I believed? Does it mean that God will stop acting if I stop believing? And what is the threshold for belief? Is there a test? And most importantly: is God’s action in the world really constrained by our capacity for belief? The fact is that the In-and-out-Burger answer to all these questions puts me in the driver’s seat with God as the car. And for me, well, that’s just not the Jesus I know from the rest of the Bible.
 
I believe the obsession with John 3:16 in contemporary American Christianity has turned our religion into an ego trip. In the name of submitting ourselves to Christ, we are urged to make our own convictions the arbiter of our salvation. I could just as easily point to so many other verses from Scripture that would call this practice sinful.
 
Matthew 23: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your mind and with all your strength.”
 
Or this one from Romans 8, when Paul proclaims, “for I am convinced 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.”
 
Or how about this one: “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” That one is…John 3:17.
 
John 3:16 theology that places salvation in our capacity for belief has given rise to so many of the things that people outside the Church find disturbing about Christianity. Hostility toward people of other faiths and arrogance toward those outside the clearly-defined lines of their spiritual community. A strident and inflexible political agenda based on a narrow reading of Scripture. Hurtful behavior and comments toward members of their own families based on received doctrine. Earlier I mentioned my own family members and acquaintances who subscribe to a John 3:16 faith; those same people largely refused to attend my wedding, because in their view, being gay means I don’t really believe in Jesus, and I guess they didn’t want to support my path to damnation. That hurt.
 
The huge shame in all of this is that Jesus didn’t come to spread hurt, arrogance, and hostility. In the words of John 3:16, that very verse itself, he came to give us eternal life. By his crucifixion and resurrection, he offered himself as a living sacrifice to all humanity. That is the theology of an Easter people, of Christians who are reborn through the waters of baptism and nourished with his body and blood.
 
I do not believe that faith is not about slogans or clever marketing. I do not believe the Bible is an instrument for making us feel bad. And I definitely do not believe that Jesus came into this world to spread fear and distrust, division and false righteousness.
 
I believe that faith is lived out, day by day. I believe that God’s word is the instrument of salvation for all people, and that its depths can never fully be plumbed by the human mind and spirit. And I believe that Jesus belongs to all of us—because that’s what he said.
 
If you Lenten discipline is designed to make you trust in your own righteousness and not God’s, then I’m sorry to say you’re on the wrong track. We’re not getting to heaven by the strength and virtue of our own faith. God’s faith is faith greater than our own. This is one of the great lessons of Lent, and whatever observance you may be following should point to God’s graciousness, not your own.
 
God truly does love the world. So much so that we have been given a Son. This is gift enough. Let your faith in this love grow and flourish, for eternal life is ours from God. Amen. 

The Rev. Steven D. Paulikas
March 1, 2020
Lent 1-A
All Saints’ Church
Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7
Matthew 4:1-11

 We all have our days of reckoning. You know yours. It’s that time when all the short cuts you’ve taken, all the excuses you’ve made, all the things done and left undone come tumbling out of the sky like a bag of bricks and bonk you square on the head. You know you’ve been doing all these things, and you’ve probably had some pretty clever explanations for why you’ve been doing them. Now isn’t the right time. Something else came up. I just can’t. Meanwhile, the things you’ve made your excuses to avoid aren’t just sitting there, patiently waiting for you to come around to them. They are hungry. Voracious, even. They feed off all the things you are ignoring, and they get bigger, fatter, until finally, one day, their combined weight plops right down on your head in that one, great, day of reckoning.
 
Have I gotten you anxious yet? Well, friends, there’s safety in numbers. Because if any of what I’ve said sounds familiar, it’s because it’s an experience common to all humanity. And, actually, one of the greatest sins is to think that your sins are somehow unique. But more about that later.
 
For the past several years, I have been living my life with a huge day of reckoning hanging over my head. I’m in a PhD program, which means there’s a literal date by which I have to have produced a book-length thesis that supposedly advances human knowledge about a particular topic. No pressure. Now, no one forced me to do this; it was my own choice. But it was a weird choice. Do you know those dreams when you’re back in school, and there’s a math test, but you forgot about it or you studied the wrong thing, or you lost your notes? They are one of the iconic feelings of the day of reckoning. Well, for me right now that’s not a dream—it’s basically my life.
 
In January, I had a mini-moment of reckoning when I went in for what’s called an “assessment,” the second of only two in my entire program before the big day of reckoning when I finally turn in my thesis. At this assessment, you walk into a room with two noted professors who have read your materials, and for an hour, they proceed to tell you…all the things you should have been doing for the past few years but didn’t do. Imagine going to Confession, except instead of you doing the confessing, the priest already knows all your sins and just reads them out to you. What do you do? Lie and say you didn’t know? Make more excuses? None of that will work. Because the day of reckoning has already come.
 
Whew. If your palms are sweaty now, just wait—there’s more! In my assessment, one of the professors challenged me on my use of one word: fault. If somehow I haven’t told you already, I’m writing my thesis about the work of a philosopher named Paul Ricoeur. Specifically, I’m interested in what he has to say—and not say—about evil and what we are supposed to do about it. To that end, Ricoeur focuses on today’s reading from Genesis to explain our experience of evil. Like the serpent, evil enters the world with no warning, unexpectedly. Think about it: what is this serpent doing in this story? He is out of place. Evil is fantastical, like this talking snake. And it is evil that causes us to fault, just like the first two people in the garden.
 
There’s a lot to this word: fault. It can mean guilt, as in, it’s your fault, not mine. It can also mean that things are more generally wrong: there’s fault in the world. It can also mean there’s something inherently wrong with you, like, one of my faults is not studying enough. In Ricoeur’s French, la faute can mean something like an error.
 
But I also like the geological definition. A fault is a crack or a seam in the crust of the earth. You know about the San Andreas Fault in California, where the North American Plate meets the Pacific Plate. Seen from the air, it looks like a scar in the land. As these two massive chunks of crust grind up against one another, pressure builds up in the fault, until it snaps, causing a massive earthquake.  
 
Isn’t that what the experience of the fault is like for us, too? The great day of reckoning is like an earthquake. The evil in our lives enters through the fault, the crack in the way our lives are supposed to be, the scar in the fabric of our personalities, our very selves. We try to avoid it as much as we can, to ignore it. But over time the pressure builds and builds, until one day, BAM! The whole world is shaken. You face the exam you didn’t study for. You face your family or your spouse in light of the behavior you know has hurt them. You face the things you have said and done to others that continue to haunt you. You face your neglect in your finances, or your work, or your domestic affairs. You face your complicity in systems and exploit others and are killing our planet. The earth begins to tremble beneath your feet; the walls shake and the ground buckles underneath you. It is the day of reckoning—but it is not the San Andreas fault that causes this earthquake; it is your fault.
 
As an aside, you’ll never catch me living in California! The weather may be nice, but I’m not interested in being there when the Big One hits!
 
Your fault exists. That’s just a fact of living that can’t be avoided. And it’s an incredibly hard thing to live with. But I take comfort in something else Paul Ricoeur says about the fault: that in spite of the tremendous pain our faults cause ourselves and others, in spite of the suffering they cause in the world, the fault is nonetheless a site of potential. When we face our faults, God’s grace is given a place to work.  When we face our faults, we release the pressure our sins force on them. The result is that the day of reckoning isn’t as bad as it would have been otherwise. But there’s more than that. When we face our faults, we learn in new ways how we live by God’s grace alone. This knowledge transforms our lives and the lives of those around us. This is what we do in Lent: open up the possibilities for God by having the courage to own up to the fault.
 
Friends, what matters is not the fact of the fault; what matters is how we deal with it. When you ignore the fault and let it fester, the pressure on it continues to build and build until it is released in a powerful and destructive earthquake. But when you face your fault, it eases the pressure on you and those around you. It takes courage and effort, but it is the very work to which God calls us, especially in this season of Lent.
 
Let’s go back to Genesis. The serpent appears out of nowhere. He is a fault in the fabric of Eden, a thing that shouldn’t exist. But he is not the cause of the tragedy that ensues. Rather, it is the man and the woman’s response to him that causes their pain. They are at fault. And when given the chance to repent and own up to their fault, they lie to God. It is in that moment that the innocence of trust between them and God is broken forever. The serpent really has very little to do with it.
 
This lesson is repeated in today’s Gospel message. Even Jesus is not immune from the fault. The devil places three great temptations before him. Here again is the fault appearing, like the serpent, out of nowhere to cause chaos in the world. People say the devil doesn’t exist. But what other explanation is there for the state of our world? He appears even to Our Lord. But unlike the man and the woman in the garden of Eden, who succumb to the fault, Jesus resists it. He rejects the offer of food when he is hungry. He says no to a magic that is meaningless. He even turns down the devil’s offer of all the kingdoms of the world. Jesus faces the fault and rejects it. And what is the result? He unleashes potential that would have remained dormant had he never been tempted at all.
 
He rejects the devil’s bread, and offers his body as bread for us all.
He rejects the devil’s magic, and shows us that God’s love is no magic at all.
He rejects the devil’s authority over the nations, and humbles himself to become our eternal King.
 
We are not perfect like Jesus is. But that doesn’t mean we can’t reject the fault when given the chance. You know what your faults are. And if you don’t, then as your pastor, I suggest you take a long, hard look at yourself this season and become acquainted with them. I am continually amazed by the strength and persistence of my own faults and the power I give them to sabotage my life. When I refuse to face them, then the pressure on them grows and grows until the earth quakes beneath my feet and life begins to look like a pile of rubble—the great day of reckoning. But when I have the courage to face my faults, I unlock the potential of grace hidden within them, and I allow the good that God has placed within me to ripple out.
 
I believe that is God’s desire for me. I believe that is God’s desire for you. As we embark on this Lenten journey, may you have the strength to face your faults, to acknowledge them and not to allow them to define who you are and how you act. God will give you all you need in this holy struggle. Be firm in your faith, for the sake of righteousness. Amen.