Unyielding Faith: Lessons from a Hidden Jewish Anthem

Good morning. Good morning. It is always a delight to be with you all.

So I have a confession to start with.

This morning, at about 6 a.m.

Or so, I was in my home office staring at two computer screens.

Each screen had a sermon.

Two different sermons for this day.

I actually was praying that through the help of caffeine and the Holy Spirit,

that I might decide where I would land.

But I continue to be haunted by a choral anthem that I heard some months ago.

The choral anthem is entitled Even When He Is Silent, and it was composed by

a gentleman named Kim Andre Arneson.

This simple piece of music was inspired by a short text written by a Jewish

man hiding to avoid capture in World War II.

After the war, these lyrics were found etched on the wall of a cellar of a home in Cologne, Germany.

Here are the words that were etched on that wall.

I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining.

I believe in love even when I feel it not I believe in God even when he is silent.

Those are heart-wrenching lyrics. A man,

hiding, to avoid capture, to be sent to a concentration camp,

lonely, maybe starving,

living daily under the threat of imprisonment. Still waiting.

Still hoping.

Still believing in love when faced with tremendous hate,

still believing in God, though day after day his bitter longing was not answered.

Hope in the face of despair.

Truth be told, that's the reality for many today.

It has often been said that we are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.

That statement and those lyrics etched on that wall have been on my mind a lot.

These past months,

especially during Lent.

We have been through a lot in these last eight months in Western North Carolina.

The impact of Helene, as many of you know and many of you have experienced, has been catastrophic.

In our diocese, 26 of our churches were damaged, several severely,

where they're still not able to occupy them today.

Towns that have been completely wiped away, homes lost, and 107 people lost

their lives, including some of our own parishioners.

And, in the aftermath of such devastation, we faced another divisive political season and election.

The effects, which are hard to ignore,

that are impacting many of our neighbors with tremendous concerns and even fear

by many of what may still come.

Now before you all panic I am not going to get in some political sermon,

But I am going to make you uncomfortable.

Because you see as the bishop Of 28 counties 17,000 Episcopalians,

On more than one occasion Over these past months In parish visits In emails in letters,

people have expressed sadness and a profound loss of hope.

With many of them saying, Bishop, what do we do now? How do we go forward?

It has weighed heavily on many, including me.

This gospel story you just heard this morning Is also set A backdrop of uncertainty

And a fear Of what has happened and what may come,

But yet in this profound And powerful story Jesus not only extends to Peter

forgiveness and restoration,

But he makes it clear If you love me,

feed my sheep.

In the midst of despair, in the midst of uncertainty, Jesus reminds that there is indeed hope.

And more importantly, there is work to be done.

There is a mission still to love and care for all of God's people.

There is hope. There is resurrection.

As you all know, and I thanked your rector at the forum, and I thank all of

you as well for your generosity in reaching out to the cathedral after the storm and hosting them here.

As we thought about Holy Week services at the cathedral, we decided to make

a decision that we would celebrate Good Friday in that space.

Didn't have an organ only had some lights to shine a little bit in that sanctuary space,

but we were in there for the first time,

after the ravages of the storm with simple fold out chairs long extension cords

going to generators giving light,

And just prior to that service, as I was standing behind the altar on basically

loose boards that were acting as a floor,

one of the members of the cathedral came to me and said, Bishop, I am devastated.

I am sad. This is a difficult and traumatic day.

Without hesitation, I looked at her and I said, I'm hopeful.

And God bless her, like a good Episcopalian, she said, tell me more.

And I said to her, in the midst of that tragedy, in the midst of that despair,

we're here. We are here.

This space, that cathedral has been there to witness all kinds of despair and

devastation, not only in the community, but throughout the world.

And yet, with those simple lights, there we were, testifying that death and despair was not the end.

We know we know that death and sorrow stand nearby for all of us,

whether it is a physical death the loss of a job imprisonment the loss of a

relationship the loss of a dream,

but resurrection also waits waits to be noticed at the edges of our life.

Hope is found in those small moments The Easter story is not a one-time event,

It is a way of everyday life Of everyday being The resurrection of Jesus created

the hope in Christians That death is never the end Rather, resurrection is,

We not only look forward to an eternal life with God but we also have the opportunity

to experience those Easter moments in the midst of our everyday lives.

I think it's fair to say that we have all known at some point the wonder of

healing, the wonder of forgiveness, of reconciliation, of a new love,

a new dream being born out.

Being born out of the agony of the hopelessness.

You see, making Easter a way of life means that we are unwilling to settle for death in any form.

We are unwilling to give up hope and belief that new life is always,

always being offered to us by God.

We are unwilling to be ground down by grief When God's goodness is extended to us all.

Making Easter a way of life means that we turn towards resurrection with each

day and each opportunity, searching for its signs, believing in its truth and living into its glory.

Being people of hope in the midst of despair.

You see, we are Easter people when we, in the midst of a culture that says that

we worry about ourselves We seek and serve Christ in all persons,

loving our neighbor as ourselves,

to strive for justice and peace among all people.

We are Easter people when we live in the sure and certain hope of the divine

ironies, that it is in giving that we receive, in pardoning that we are pardoned,

in forgiving that we are forgiven,

and that in dying, we are born to eternal life.

That, the topsy-turvy divine reversal is the Easter message.

Now, I was born at night, but not last night.

And so I know, sadly, that the truth is there are people who are constantly

looking for chances to take hope from us.

And in every age, from Pharaoh to Pontius Pilate to today, the voices pretty

much shout the same thing.

Hope, not here, not now, not possible.

The voices say hope, love, peace, joy, genuine change.

Maybe in heaven, but not here.

Maybe later, but not now. But yes, now.

And every single one of us, not just those who are renewing their vows or being

baptized or being confirmed, have a role to play.

We must leave this place being a light everywhere we go.

Resurrection, new life, is not passive. We don't stand by and wait for God to do things.

We play a role, one by one, two by two.

The Easter message first announced to those women 2,000 years ago in an empty

tomb and repeated throughout history is that the powers of death,

the powers of hopelessness, of evil cruelty, of suspicion, of hate,

the powers of brute political force, and fear may do their worst.

But the place for hope Love, peace, joy And genuine change Is here and now Thanks be to God.

So I leave you with this.

Every day and every choice, Jesus is asking you all,

do you love me?

Not just with your words, but with your lives. Do you love me more than your comfort?

Do you love me more than your success? Do you love me more than your failures?

Do you love me enough to serve others, even those who you do not agree with?

When Jesus asks, do you love me? it's not because he doesn't know.

It's because he wants you to know. He wants you to wrestle with the depth of that statement.

And then to let that love shape your life. Amen.

Thanks for listening to 60 Church Street, a podcast of Trinity Episcopal Church in Asheville,

North Carolina.

Now, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

The Homily

was guided by Karin Marie Fredrickson.