Good Morning, Jesus!

Preached by Michael Cheuk
March 23, 2008, Easter Sunday
John 20:1-18

“Good Morning!”  Have you ever had someone say that to you while you were still deep in sleep?  I remember as a boy when my mom would have to repeatedly call out my name and shake me from my slumber in order to get me to wake up for school.  It can be a hard thing waking up in the morning, and while some of us get over that as we grow older, I daresay that there are a few of us here who still have trouble getting up early in the morning-right Margaret Stombock?

Now, there are many ways to be awakened from sleep in the morning.  One can use the old standby alarm clock, the one that beeps incessantly until you turn it off.  Or you can use the clock radio-there’s nothing like letting Francis Wood wake you up.  Or you can try the gentle, soothing approach to waking up.  In the last ten years or so, engineers have designed alarm clocks that make gentle nature sounds to slowly draw you to an alert state, clocks that gradually infuse the room with light to help your body adjust to morning, clocks that plug into your I-pod so that you can wake up to a different song every day of the year, etc.  And then, there are masochistic ways to get up.  I remember attending youth camp where counselors scream out, “O what a beautiful morning . . .” or trumpet out “reveille.”  In our family, as some of you may remember, we have … the infamous bunny alarm clock!  Now, if that doesn’t annoy you into getting up, almost nothing will!

But as we all know, there is a difference between being up and being awake.  This past week, Beth and I have been recovering from the flu, and I tell you, there were mornings when it was nearly impossible to get up out of bed, but once out of bed, it didn’t mean we were fully awake either.  And in our Gospel lesson this morning, it seemed that Mary Magdalene was having the same trouble becoming awake on that first Easter morning.  In those pre-twilight hours when it is darkest before the dawn, it was almost as if Mary was groggy and sleepwalking through a fog.

From Cheers to Jeers

March 16, 2008, Sixth Sunday in Lent
Matthew 21:1-11; Matthew 26:14–27:66

For Palm/Passion Sunday, instead of having a sermon, we decided to let the Matthew reading speak for itself. For the first half of the service, we celebrated Palm Sunday and read Matthew 21:1-11 for the “cheers” part of the service. Then we used a script based on Matthew 26:14–27:66 taken from The New Handbook of the Christian Year by Hoyt Hickman, Don Saliers, Laurence Stookey and James White (pp. 135-141). Several members of the congregation read parts out of the script. That reading served as the “jeers” part of the service. An .mp3 of the reading can be found here.

It was a lot of scripture of being read this past Sunday in worship, but sometimes, I think it is important to let scripture speak for itself, especially during Holy Week, when there were so many events leading up to Christ’s crucifixion. And as someone who believes in the perspicuity of Scripture, this Sunday was an opportunity for the Holy Spirit to work through the clear meaning of the written word to impress upon us the depth of love shown to us by the living Word.

Rising Sign of Hope

Preached by Michael Cheuk
March 9, 2008, Fifth Sunday in Lent
John 11:1-45

This episode from the Gospel of John has often been called “The Raising of Lazarus.” And yet, it is interesting that in the forty-five verses it takes to tell this story, only two verses are devoted to the actual raising of Lazarus, and they take place almost at the very end. For forty-two verses, the Fourth Evangelist tells a story about loss, mourning, grief, questioning and yes, even anger in the face of the sickness and death of a loved one. And who among us has not experienced the fear and uncertainty over the sickness of a loved one? Who among us has not experienced the grief, mourning and even anger over the death of a loved one? Who among us has not questioned why a loved one had to die? Who among us has not second guessed all the things that we or others could have done in order to prevent the death? If you have experienced those feelings, then you are not alone, for Martha and Mary also experienced all those feelings when their brother Lazarus fell sick and then died.

When Martha and Mary first learned about their brother’s grave illness, they sent an urgent message to Jesus and his disciples, who were staying a day’s journey away from Bethany at the Jordan River in the wilderness near the Dead Sea. Jesus and his disciples were there because the Jewish authorities from Jerusalem were seeking to kill Jesus. Martha and Mary sent Jesus a simple message: “Lord, the one you love is sick.” Now, Jesus loved Lazarus and Martha and Mary, and so it seemed unusual for Jesus to stay where he was for two more days before heading back up to Judea. We might think that Jesus put off returning to Bethany, so near Jerusalem, because to go back meant risking his own life. But Jesus makes clear that he has other reasons for staying away, and he was certainly not indifferent to Lazarus’ plight.

When Jesus finally reached Bethany, the funeral for Lazarus was well under way. He had already been in the tomb for four days. According to popular Jewish belief, the soul of the deceased hovered near the dead body for three days, only to depart for good on the fourth day. Jesus waited to return to Bethany on the fourth day, when he knew that Lazarus was good and dead. The whole town was out, mourning the loss and trying to comfort the grieving sisters.

Blind Faith and Seeing Unbelief

Preached by Michael Cheuk
March 2, 2008, Fourth Sunday in Lent
John 9:1-41

Once upon a time, there was a man blind from birth. From the moment he was born, his eyes were shut to the world. No light. No shadows. No shapes. Darkness was his constant companion. When he was younger, perhaps he cursed the darkness and denounced his disability. But then again, perhaps he didn’t, because the world of darkness was all he ever knew. He had never seen light. He didn’t have anything else to compare it with. He didn’t know any different.

But yet, he knew he was different. He might be blind, but he could hear. And from what he heard, he knew he was different. He heard the whispers of people behind his back: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” He heard the condescending tones of travelers: “Get outta my way, you blind man!” He heard the innocent questions of children: “Mom, what’s wrong with that man’s eyes?” But there was nothing he could do about it. So eventually, he saw himself not as a man who happened to be born blind, but as a blind man. Blindness became the defining part of his identity. And every morning, he would leave his home, make his way to the edge of town with the help of his walking stick, sit down outside the town gates, and shake his little tin cup, hoping to receive a coin here, a piece of bread there, morsels that could help him make it to another day. That was the world he knew. Yes, it was a small and limited world, but he knew his place in it, and that brought a measure of security and comfort.

One Sabbath day, while begging at the town gates, the man heard the usual whisperings, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Same old question, that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the answer: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the work of God, the glory of God might be displayed in his life. . . . While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Now what could that mean? But before he could even think about it, he heard a spitting noise, and then he smelled and felt something like mud being applied to his eyes. And the next thing he heard was a voice that gently said: “Go wash in the Pool of Siloam.” Too shocked to do anything else, the man did what he was told. And as the water from that pool trickled down his face, streams of light began streaking through his eyes. He could see! As he adjusted his eyes to the light, he tried to identify the man who was the light of the world. But his healer was no where to be seen. He had simply disappeared and left a man healed of blindness.

A man healed of blindness. What a blessing, right? Who wouldn’t want that? Who wouldn’t want to be healed of blindness and receive sight? Well, if you had a chance to ask that man, perhaps he would tell you that the day he received his sight was not the day his troubles ended, but the day his troubles began.