Palm Sunday, Year A, March 29, 2026

I cannot hear this gospel lesson without thinking of Aretha Franklin. In 1972, Aretha recorded a live gospel album called Amazing Grace at New Temple Missionary Baptist Church in Los Angeles, accompanied by the Southern California Community Choir. One of the songs on the album is “Mary Don’t You Weep,” and Aretha sings this song as only Aretha could. There is something visceral about this album. It is an actual worship service in the African American tradition. You can hear in the background a call and response pattern to the singing and speaking, an organic sort of liturgy where the whole congregation is caught up in this moment of transcendence. This style of worship, this style of singing, the message of the preaching, the message of the songs, is born at the intersection of the best the African American experience has to offer and the worst it has endured. This singing, this faith, holds collective and private trauma in one hand and hope in the other. The late Barbara Holmes, a Black contemplative author and theologian calls this two-fisted faith “joy unspeakable.” She writes: Joy Unspeakable is not silent, it moans, hums, and bends to the rhythm of a dancing universe. It is a fractal of transcendent hope, a hologram of God’s heart, a black hole of unknowing. For Africans in bondage in the Americas, joy unspeakable is that moment of mystical encounter when God tiptoes into the hush arbor, testifies about Divine suffering, and whispers in our ears, “Don’t forget, I taught you how to fly on a wing and a prayer, when you’re ready let’s go!” Joy Unspeakable is humming “how I got over” after swimming safely to the other shore of a swollen Ohio river when you know that you can’t swim. … joy unspeakable is practicing freedom while chains still chafe, singing deliverance while Jim Crow stalks,… [1] (end quote) This music is for a people who have been through something, for people who hurt, for people who need healing, need hope need to experience now a longed-for peace and freedom. In this season of Lent, we have been hearing the stories of people who have been through something. First, at his baptism, Jesus heard the voice of God call him beloved, and the spirit descended driving him into the wilderness, where he suffered loneliness, hunger, and thirst, tasted the temptation to take the quick way out, to avoid pain and patience and meet his own needs instead of trusting God. Nicodemus experienced doubt, confusion, embarrassment in trying to reconcile the God he had learned and the God he met in Jesus. The Samaritan woman at the well had been passed around by 5 different husbands. She had been ostracized by the Jewish people for being a Samaritan, by her own people for being a woman, and by subsequent centuries of mostly male biblical scholars, theologians, and preachers who assumed this woman had lived more like Liz Taylor than that she had been inherited like a piece of furniture by a cascade of brothers-in-law and been treated like a burden her whole life. The man born blind had lived his whole life as a stigma, or a theological exercise, with friends and neighbors, even Jesus’ disciples, assuming that some moral shortcoming— on his part or that of his parents— had caused his blindness. And even when he was healed, these same folks were mad that he had been healed on the Sabbath. And now today, we meet two sisters— Mary and Martha— smack-dab in the middle of their grief. Their brother was sick, but they had connections. They knew Jesus. And Jesus knew them. They loved Jesus, and Jesus loved them. So they sent word, and asked, expected Jesus to come and heal this friend he loved. But Jesus waited. And their brother died. Now Jesus is coming to visit, four days too late. Martha hears he’s coming and goes to meet him. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And maybe it’s in that line that we realize we have been through something too. “Lord if you had been here…” And you can fill in the blank. Lord if you had been here, I wouldn’t have gotten sick. I wouldn’t have lost that job. I wouldn’t be divorced. I wouldn’t need that surgery. Maybe some of us aren’t bold enough to finish the sentence, for fear of cursing God. Maybe if the Lord had shown up for us we would still have any faith at all. Maybe you know in your heart what Martha meant in that question. Maybe you can sense the flutter in your chest, taste the bitter adrenaline, and feel the clinching in your fists that wants to shout, “I thought you loved me! Why would you wait!? Why didn’t you just fix it from wherever you were hiding?! “I know the resurrection is coming one day, but I need you to answer me today , to help me through this now, to fix this now.” Jesus listens to her questions— questions I can only imagine sounded more like accusations— and he asks to speak to Mary. Mary comes not accusing, but weeping. Mary falls at Jesus’ feet, “Lord if you had been here…” And Jesus wept with her. Jesus got up and through tears asked to be taken to Lazarus’ tomb. The whole crying, grieving mass of them went to the tomb, and Jesus grieved with them. Jesus came in their grief, in their anger, in their sorrow, in the stench of death, and he wept with them, he grieved with them, he embraced them, he walked with them right up to the tomb, and he brought life from death, joy from grief, wonder from worry; not by overcoming or avoiding this pain, but by undergoing it. Beloved, this is still the God we worship, this God of solidarity and redemption. We can wish for a god of avoidance and prevention. We can harbor a grudge against a distant god of abandonment and disappointment. Or we can find a two-fisted faith in a God who’s been through something, a God who will go through something with you, a God of joy unspeakable, a God who will cry their own tears before they wipe away yours, a God who will call you by name out of every tomb in which you find yourself, bound and wreaking of death. We can pray to the god we wish we had and always feel abandoned and disappointed, or we can sing to the God Who Is, to the God who is always bringing joy from grief, hope from pain, and life from death. Lazarus would die again. Mary and Martha eventually die too. But I cannot imagine that any of them felt abandoned or disappointed, because they had been through this before. They could hold death in one hand and resurrection in the other, and know that “faith” is what they had in the meantime. They could practice freedom while the chains still chaffed. Lazarus could go on living though the grave clothes still bound him. They could cry real tears and hurl real accusations onto shoulders big enough to hold them. And we can too. We can go through something with Jesus. In the week to come, we can shout Hosannas and wave palms. We can gather around a table, break bread, drink wine, and remember. We can witness the terror of the Cross and grieve with Jesus’ mother and Mary Magdalene. We can walk right up to the tomb, where the one we love has been three-days dead, and call his name into the darkness, “JESUS, Come out!” Then we can unbind him and let him loose in the world. Amen. [1] Barbara A. Holmes, Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church, second edition (Fortress Press: 2017), xvii-xviii.

There is a place in Southwestern Virginia that has been home to members of my extended family for generations. The tiny, isolated community of Possum Creek, VA, sits in a hollow in rural Scott County. While I am sure there must be some other entrance and exit to this cleft in the rock I have only ever been in and out the same way. First you go to Shelton’s Store, named for my mother’s mother’s family. If you go past the store, you’ll come to the only place my father’s father lived as long as I knew him. Across the two-lane highway from here was a grassy hill topped by a cemetery, accessible only by foot or ATV, that was the final resting place of distant and long deceased cousins with anglicized German surnames. Turing back to the store, the road narrows to one lane as it approaches a tunnel whose keystone bears the inscription “1910”. The tunnel is short and narrow and curved, meaning that you cannot see the other end. The local custom is to switch on the headlights, lay on the horn, and proceed with caution. And when you emerge again in the daylight it is dimmer than before. The steep slope and high peaks of the surrounding mountains obstruct the daylight, giving morning and afternoon a shade of twilight. These mountain walls also block the sounds of modern life, with the train, the ubiquitous sounds of low humming electricity, bustling commercial centers, and multi-lane boulevards packed with impatient drivers, on the other end of that tunnel, leaving only the rustling of trees, the singing of birds, and one’s own thoughts. When I was visiting in the 80s and 90s, most homes were on private wells for water, which flowed a muddy brown. Cable TV was not available then, and most folks couldn’t afford satellite. The newspaper was from across the state line in Kingsport, Tennessee. Visiting Possum Creek was like visiting another world, or a different time. Culture, language, even modernity seemed to progress more slowly. It is easy to lose perspective in such isolated conditions. Passing back through that tunnel to the rest of the bright, buzzing world is overstimulating. It’s somehow easier to remain in the holler. In my experience, the Valley of the Shadow of Death is just like this holler. Any time we experience change or sorrow or loss we pass from this bright, busy, modern reality through the small, dark passage way of our broken heart into a dimmer, lonelier place immune to cultural evolution and the passage of terrestrial time. That short, narrow, curved tunnel brings us into this holler of grief and with one way in and out, we would rather not pass that way again. It is easier to stay here, to tune out the outside world, to dwell on bygone eras and anachronistic ways of living. It is easier to choose not to see what we must face if we were to leave this holler, to be led back through our grief and loss, back to the bright, buzzing present. As I read through the lectionary this week, the Lord’s question to Samuel arrested my attention as though it had grabbed me by the lapels and given me a sharp shake. “How long will you grieve?” How long, beloved, will you dwell on the past? How long, All Saints, will you hide in the holler of grief? How long will you grieve for youth programs full pews, long-gone leaders and friends, and modes of being the church that do not meet the needs of our neighbors? How long will we be blind to to what God is doing in the bright, buzzing present because we are beholden to “the way we have always done it”? We may have lost quite a lot. But Jesus wants to lead us through it. Psalm 23 starts in green pastures and still waters and ends with dwelling in the house of the Lord forever. But the path from green pastures to the house of the Lord is the short, narrow, curved tunnel of grief. We can give thanks for the dim light of the holler, for the loss of perspective, the high mountain walls that protected us in our pain from the bright, buzzing present. God is still at work in the holler. But God in Christ is calling us out. Jesus is the light by which we can see the way out. When Samuel comes to Jesse to anoint a new king, David in is the valley and God sends for him. When the man born blind cannot see Jesus, and isn’t looking to be healed, Jesus sees him. When the Pharisees can’t see the miracle because it didn’t happen the way they would have preferred, Jesus teaches the teachers. God is still at work. The path from green pastures and still waters to banquets and overflowing cups in the house of the Lord leads through the valley of the shadow of death, leads through the short, narrow, curved tunnel to the bright, buzzing present. We have known green pastures and still waters. We long to dwell in the house of the Lord forever. But we have lost our perspective in the dim light of the shadow of death. Jesus, our shepherd, God’s anointed, is the light by which we see. Turning our attention to Jesus will light our path out of this dark, lonely holler to the bright, buzzing present. And if we will let our eyes and our hearts adjust to this reality, if we will let Jesus change our perspective, we will find that surely goodness and mercy have always followed us and to follow Jesus is to dwell in the house of the Lord, now and forever. Amen.

What is your deepest, darkest secret? What is that thing that you hope no one ever finds out? What is it you hope to take with you to the grave? Most of us carry something, maybe a few somethings, that we don’t even dare to write in our diaries, a secret shame we are reluctant to share even with our best, most trusted friends pastors, or therapists. While our lives often reveal more about who we are than we may even realize, like most people, we are really good at the PR campaign, doing our best to control what’s said, how it’s said, and to whom it is said. And this control is not only about our deepest, darkest secrets, not about inflating the ego and fostering a sense of pride. It’s about protecting the wounded places in us— places in our lives where others’ perception holds power, where trauma still guards the door, where sin— our sin and the sin done to us— gives us a sense of vertigo before the gap between our true self and what we think is loveable. These are places where we try to convince ourselves and everyone else that these wounds don’t exist deep within us or that somehow we’re capable of healing them on our own. I wonder if this is why, in our Gospel from John this week, we find this woman at the well at an odd time of the day and when no one else is around? It’s noon, in the heat of the day, when this woman finds Jesus at the well. Most other women come in the cool of the morning to collect their water, but not her. Now it’s important to note what we do know about this woman and what we don’t know . We know she’s had 5 husbands and at this time she’s living with a man who is not her husband. Historically and culturally, in all likelihood, she is not promiscuous or some kind of man-eater, but most likely she is a victim: a teen-bride, passed down from man to man, brother to brother, like a commodity, and discarded perhaps due to infertility. She is more a victim of something akin to human trafficking than she is a keeper of loose morals and a short attention span. Bear in mind that, as theologian Francis Taylor Gench points out, “divorce was exclusively a male privilege at this time.” Yet throughout history, she has also been the victim of many writers and preachers, usually male, As Fred Craddock observes: “Many have assumed that the brighter her nails, the darker her mascara, and the shorter her skirt, the greater the testimony to the power of the converting word.” That is, the greater the sinner, the greater the savior. Yet this says much more about the assessor than the assessed. The truth is, we don’t know why she’s been married so often, but from her interaction with Jesus on this day, it is clear that she has a deep, deep wound that separates her from herself and from others. But that wound does not keep Jesus from her. Jesus waits for her at the well and has the longest recorded conversation in the New Testament. Jesus talks with this Samaritan woman more than he talks to his disciples, his accusers, or his family. I imagine this Samaritan woman is at the well as a matter of course a part of the daily routine, hot and tired, lost in her own thoughts, when she realizes there is someone waiting where she went to be alone. Having been so often wounded by the men in her life, I cannot imagine she was happy to find herself alone and vulnerable, surprised by the company of a foreign man. She silently begins the work she came to do when Jesus speaking to her. This, in and of itself, is must have been startling to this woman. Afterall, a Jewish man speaking with a woman who is not his wife is a big no-no. A Jewish man speaking with a Samaritan woman, an ethnic outsider, is an even bigger no-no. A Jewish man speaking with a Samaritan woman, who’s had 5 husbands there are not enough no-nos for that. But the greater risk is borne by the Samaritan woman speaking to a Jewish man all by herself with no witnesses. It is hard to say what might have happened to her if the two had been discovered by a group of Samaritans and not the returning disciples. But Jesus is undeterred. What struck me this week is that when he offers her living water she responds “Give me this water so that I may not thirst.” And Jesus goes straight for her wound by asking about her husband. Rather than avoiding her wound, allowing her to continue to conceal it, Jesus brings healing to that wound We cannot heal what we cannot acknowledge. Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “water finds the lowest point?” Well, beloved, so does living water. The living water Jesus offers finds our lowest points, our wounds, the things we spend so much time trying to conceal, to hide, to control, to numb, to medicate in insufficient ways, and it flushes them out, anoints them with healing oil, and binds them up. Nothing draws more attention to a wound than a bandage. But we cannot heal what we cannot acknowledge. Theologian James Allison describes faith, not as some intellectual exercise, but as a place where we can fully relax into God’s love for us. Faith is fully relaxing into God’s love for us. Did you notice what happens when the woman receives this good news from Jesus? Once the living water found her greatest need, trickled down to her deepest wound, she runs off and leaves her water jar at the well. She becomes the vessel of living water. This often-discarded woman, passed from man to man, family to family, leaves her thirst, her emptiness, her discardedness behind. She is now the vessel of living water carrying the good news of God’s love to the very people who had created her wound. Her healing, her wholeness, becomes their hope for the same. Beloved, the very good news for us this day is that this Jesus waits for you too. Jesus is waiting for you in the very places you go to avoid him, to avoid facing the reality of your woundedness to nurse a thirst that will never end until it finds what it is really looking for. This living water will find your lowest points, your deepest wounds, your darkest shame, your vilest sins. The living water of Christ’s compassion will find us, bringing us healing, wholeness, and salvation. In the waters of our baptism, we are saved by God’s grace and set free to acknowledge our woundedness and experience this healing, to know Christ’s salvation. And, just like this Samaritan woman, we can become living vessels, carrying the good news of living water to everyone we meet! So, what is your deepest, darkest secret? What is that thing that you hope no one ever finds out? What is it you hope to take with you to the grave? Jesus is waiting for you in the very places you go to hide. Come and find the One who knows all your secrets and waits to love and heal you anyway. Amen.

“Where you from?” A truly Southern question if ever there was one. This question is most often harmless, a simple inquiry about what makes you--you. It’s an attempt to see if there are any unknown connections between the inquirer and the inquiree. “Who are you?” “Who’s your daddy?” “Who are your people?” “Which team you pull for?” For some of you this is an easy question. You’re from here, and here you still are. For some of you it’s a little more complicated. You were a military kid, or you had to move after the divorce. Some major life event, a death, a new job, a scholarship to the university, a marriage, something brought you from where you’re from to where you’re from now. Some of you are from somewhere else and just happen to be here now. You’re from Ohio, or you’re from Florida, you’re from Kansas you’re from Wisconsin, you’re from Iowa, and even though you’ve been in Lilburn for several decades when you’re asked “Where you from?” that original place is your answer. When our family moved to South Carolina nearly 10 years ago we were made to feel quite welcome. People there were very kind and generous. and we made a home there. However, we learned quickly that there is one part of the state to which we would never truly belong: Charleston. We were told early on: “If you are not from Charleston, You’ll never be from Charleston.” You may vacation there often, You may have family who live there, You could even move there and live the rest of your life, but unless you’re from Charleston, You will never be frooom Charleston. In today’s gospel, Nicodemus approaches Jesus at night, and in a bold statement, proclaims that Jesus is different – different in the way he acts, different by the signs he performs, different from anyone he has ever known, so different in fact he must be from God. And Jesus affirms Nicodemus’ statement – that only someone ‘born from above’ can see the kingdom of God in such a way. But Nicodemus misses Jesus’ compliment, and instead offers Jesus his confusion – misunderstanding not who Jesus is, but who he is in himself. See, Nicodemus is Jewish – In fact, he’s a Pharisee, which is like having a degree in being Jewish— he’s born into his Jewish heritage, into the family of God. His name is Greek, meaning something like “victory to the people,” giving him the air of erudition and sophistication. He’s in an elite position, socially, religiously, culturally. Nicodemus is Jewish like Charlestonians are from Charleston. Yet, Nicodemus sees that there is something about the way that Jesus is Jewish that is not like the way he is Jewish. There is something different, something miraculous, something supernatural— Jesus is from God. Nicodemus’ understanding of who Jesus is— and quite frankly who God is— is limited by his education, by his pedigree, by his office, by his understanding of his national, ethnic, cultural, and religious identity, by his understanding of the world around him and his place in it. It seems as though Nicodemus can’t understand how he will ever be from God, the same way that Jesus is from God. I can’t help but wonder if one of the things we might need to examine and even confess this Lent is our own limited imagination of who God is and who is welcome in the kingdom of God. Perhaps within the church We have created little Charlestons – Places where outsiders are welcome to come to and not places where outsiders are welcome to be from. Maybe like Abram, you’ve felt the wind of the Spirit and followed it into unknown places only to feel out of place or like you don’t quite belong. Maybe, like Nicodemus, your questions haven’t produced any answers, only bigger and harder questions. Maybe you’re struggling to know if you can still feel this disoriented, this displaced, and this distressed and still call what you have left “faith.” Beloved, if the good news exists anywhere in the Bible, It is in this passage today. See, Jesus meets Nicodemus’ questions and confusion with what Nicodemus would understand – The story of Moses. Just as Moses led God’s people out of slavery, so Jesus would lead God’s people out of death to everlasting life— to the redemption of this life and to the fullness of the life to come. God is at work to redeem not just the Jewish people, but the whole world through Jesus – who does not condemn, but saves, and gives us the power to become children of God— the power to become from God— born not of blood nor of the will of the flesh, but of God! And beloved, this is not our doing, we cannot re-enter our mother’s wombs, we cannot change the place we are born, we cannot muster up enough faith to please God. But this grace, this gospel, the very presence of Jesus, is God’s doing to accomplish in us a new birth, a new identity, a new life, not just for ourselves, or those who are like us, but for the whole world! We are FROM God! We are from the kingdom of Heaven! By the Spirit, we have a new origin, a new identity born not of our DNA, not of our nationality, not of our ethnicity or culture or religiosity, but of the will of God who so loved the world that God sent the Son into the world, not to condemn it, but to save it. Beloved, where you from? You are from the very heart of God. Amen.

Have you ever been tempted? Really tempted? Not “should I have a second dessert?” tempted, but really, really tempted? Like, more cheat-on-your-taxes tempted and less cheat-on-your-diet tempted? Please don’t raise your hands, this is being broadcast on the internet. IRS, if you’re watching, this is purely a hypothetical, rhetorical exercise and not an accusation, assumption, revelation, or confession. Temptation works, not because we don’t know right from wrong, not because we are so evil as to consciously and willfully choose evil, but because we are bound to choose the good and what seems good to us is, in these moments, the unethical, immoral, or temporally more pleasurable option. In fact, we will always choose what seems to us to be the better option. Even if we are choosing the evil option, we are, in that moment, in that choice, convinced that the evil option is the better option. We cannot choose evil without believing it to be good. Our first reading and our gospel reading are both about temptation. Adam and Eve are tempted to be like God, framed in this story as “knowing good and evil.” Jesus is tempted to meet his own needs by means of power rather than trust and obedience. And really, these are the same problem. Adam and Eve believed that if they could know good from evil they could choose the good and be like God. Jesus was tempted to be self-sufficient in the wilderness, making food, making God prove Godself, and taking the shortcut to the Reign of God— that is, Jesus was tempted to be like God as humanity had conceived of God rather than like God as God is. And this is our temptation too, that we could be like God, if we knew right from wrong and had the power to choose. We could be independent, sovereign, without any need or responsibility. So, we set out to keep the Law, to judge right from wrong, and to set about keeping God’s rules. And then, choosing good and abstaining from evil, we will be good and free, just like God. And when we are good and free like God, God will love us, want to be with us, will bless us, protect us. But the dark side of this belief is that when we have done all this good and have enjoyed all this freedom and bad things still happen, loss still comes, death still haunts us, we conclude that the whole story was a lie and we have been duped. Or, we spiral in to shame and despair as we begin to realize that all these rules cannot be kept perfectly and we aren’t measuring up. We begin to see all the good choices we did make like a loincloth of fig leaves, barely obscuring all we’d rather hide. God doesn’t give us the Law so we will know good from evil. God gives us the Law to show us who God is and how God acts, and therefore, who we are and how we ought to act. In this creation story from Genesis, Adam and Eve are banished from the Garden. And God goes with them. God does not stay in the garden. Adam and Eve and God leave the garden. Adam and Eve and God enter the wilderness together. Adam and Eve succumbed to the temptation to be “like God” because they failed to trust that they were already created in the “image and likeness” of God. Jesus does not succumb to the temptation to be like God because he trusts that the Law reveals who God is and how God acts. Jesus reveals that God is with us in the wilderness. We are already loved, not because of what we do or abstain from doing, but because of who God is and how God acts. We have the law to show us God’s mercy and grace and to teach us to act with mercy and grace. We are not the worst things we have done. But neither are we the sum total of all the good things we have done. We are what God says we are, and that is very good. We are chosen. We are loved. We are good. We are guided by the Law of love. And when we have erred, when we have sinned, when we have fallen short, when we have not lived up to who God says we are or acted as we ought to have acted, We are chosen, we are loved, we are good, and we are guided by the law of love because that is who God is and how God acts. And that seems pretty good to me. Amen.