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It is said that when Oliver Cromwell had his official portrait painted, he asked that it be a true portrait with “warts and all”. You may say that the resurrected Christ appeared with “wounds and all”. Here is the resurrected Christ in his glorified body, who could pass through locked doors, appearing with the wounds of his crucifixion. He is resurrected, not simply resuscitated, in his glorified body still bearing the marks of his passion and death. Why, if he is in his perfect resurrected body, does Jesus still bear the marks of his passion and death? It is an interesting paradox that the woundedness of our lives can be what makes us who we are. There is a story told about a man in therapy: When he first met the counselor, he was asked to draw a picture of himself; he drew a picture of a vase with a crack in its side. After many years of therapy, the counselor showed the man the picture he had drawn. The man asked for use of the crayons. He took a yellow crayon and drew yellow strips just above the crack in the vase. When asked why he did that he told the counselor, “The crack is where the light can get in.” Leonard Cohen summed it up well in his song “Anthem”: There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. By showing the apostles his wounds, Jesus is reminding them that the wounds, the pain is not the end of the story. Many of us bear wounds from our past; they are what make us who we are. Part of the journey is the struggle. When we reach our destination, we can look back and see how the struggles made us who we are. Elbert Hubbard, the founder of the Roycrofters, once said, “God will not look you over for medals but for scars.” I am sure the disciples looked over the past three years and saw how the struggles made a difference; their time with Jesus made them new people.

Growing up on the family dairy farm, there were many difficult things we experienced. Certainly, there was much hard, physical labor. But among the hardest things we experienced was caring for sick animals, and in particular, caring for cows that had been injured or lost muscle strength and were unable to get themselves up to a standing position. This typically would happen around the time of calving and might be due to a nerve injury during birth or mineral and metabolic imbalances that affected muscle strength. We called them “down cows”. What was so hard about dealing with down cows was really two things: one, the size of the animals — often 1000 lbs. or more — made it difficult, if not impossible, for us to help them physically if they had little or no muscle strength of their own. Secondly, and more profound, was the emotional burden that weighed upon us as their caregivers. We wanted them to get better and be back on their feet. We loved our animals, as all farmers do, and we wanted the best for them. Although we could help them with support therapies and medicine with help from our veterinarian and made sure they had feed and water at all times, it felt like there was only so much in our control. And the longer a cow was down, the less likely it would be that she would ever rise again. Some never did. That outcome happened frequently enough that it was a real possibility. And there is nothing that was more discouraging for us as farmers than a cow we could not help to get better. It cast a pall over our days and robbed us of hope and joy — really, robbing us of life — replacing them instead with weary discouragement. Late one Lent going into Holy Week, we had one of these down cows. It was a year not unlike this one, with the signs of spring beginning to emerge in early April. My father used to say the best thing we could do for a down cow was to get her out of the barn and out onto the earth in the fields or pasture, where there was no concrete and better footing. So we did, and we were able to get this cow out of the barn and into the hayfield behind the barn. There, day after day, we would take her food and water, administer medicine to her, and roll her over from side to side, to make sure she did not lose circulation in one hindquarter or another. If she seemed like she wanted to get up, we would try to get enough people to see if we could help her get up. Although she ate and drank, she did not get up, and as Holy Week wore on, it felt like she wasn’t going to. That discouragement set in as a constant droning undertone to everything we did throughout the day, seemingly getting louder with each passing day. Whether we were thinking about that down cow consciously or not, it seemed to affect our outlook and demeanor in everything we did. Late one night that week, my father, brother and I were finishing evening milking. It was after dark; we were at the far end of the barn, near the door going out to the hayfield. As I came out from between two cows holding the milking machine, I turned towards the open barn door and was shocked when I found myself face to face with the previously down cow, standing there, head poked in the barn door, chewing her cud! I shouted to my father, “Dad, she’s up!” We all ran over to the barn door, peering into the darkness of that night to see this risen cow. I will never forget what my father said next, turning to us and smiling: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.” In that instant our demeanor changed. The discouragement was gone and we were filled with joy and hope. There was a lightness in our step as we finished chores that night and the following days. We knew the end of the story, and this illness was not to end in death. Everything was going to be OK! I have to imagine our Passion and Easter experience on the farm those many years ago was something of what the disciples experienced when they encountered the empty tomb, the message of the angels, and ultimately the Risen Christ. I have to imagine that joy and hope that we felt that night was some small measure of the joy and hope that filled and animated them when they encountered the Risen Christ, whom they deeply loved and who deeply loved them. They finally knew the end of the story, and came to know that it did not end with death. Brothers and sisters, we too have the benefit of knowing the end of the story. We too know that it does not end in death, but in Christ triumphing over death, not only for himself, but also for us! It is this rising to new life that we celebrate in every Mass, in every Eucharist, in every Sacrament, and especially tonight, as we celebrate with our Elect their rising to new life with Christ in the waters of Baptism. So let us be filled with Easter joy and hope, as we should be, for we know the end of the story: He has Risen, He has Truly Risen, and we with Him!

A parent of a young child recently shared with me that their child asked a simple, yet profound question: “Why do we call it Good Friday?” A good question to consider, indeed. Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is betrayed by one of his disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is handed over to authorities and arrested and treated as a criminal? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is abandoned by His disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is denied by a disciple? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is scourged, brutally and bloodily tortured? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is painfully crowned, mocked and beaten? And why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is rejected by those he came to save, and put to death by crucifixion? In all of these sinful human acts, in what is done and what is failed to be done, there is nothing good. But there is a fundamental Good on this day in the sacrificial giving of God and the obedience of Christ, who despite the betrayal, abandonment and abuse, rejection, and torture to death, remains faithful to the Father and steadfast to us. God the Father gives, without holding back, his only begotten Son for our sake, providing the Sacrificial Lamb, once and for all. God, who in effect says to us, “I love you so much; see how much I love you, that I give the life of my only begotten Son that you might be healed, restored, redeemed, and brought to Eternal Life with us!” And Christ, God the Son, willingly and obediently accepts the rejection and suffering and sacrifice of His life: all of which is His Passion, all of which is the eternal sacrifice of the Father. He does not turn away but remains steadfast in his commitment to our salvation. It is Christ who, in effect, says to us, “I love you so much. Even though rejected and wounded, I do not turn away from you. I will never turn away from you, and I will not abandon you. Ever. I give you my body -- my flesh, my blood -- that you might have life, and have it more abundantly. I want you to live, truly live!” In the actions of God the Father and Jesus Christ is nothing more, and nothing less than this: so great a Love for us that they would go to these lengths, give so deeply, endure this suffering, make this final sacrifice once and for all of time, in the face of rejection, sin, and death. To triumph over rejection, sin and death. Two thousand years ago and here, today, for our sake, that we might be restored, redeemed, made whole, one with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and with each other. And that is why it is called Good Friday.

Today is BOGO Mass -- we have two gospel readings. The first came just after we blessed palms and before we processed into the church. The second came during the Liturgy of the Word and was the narrative of the passion and death of Jesus. Both have a different feel; the first tells the story of why we bless palms on this day, how Jesus arrived on a donkey and the people wave palms as he entered the city. The second gospel tells what happened after Jesus came to Jerusalem. Jerusalem is the city where he was crucified and died. As Jesus enters the city the people wave palms and shout, Hosanna to the Son of David; blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord; hosanna in the highest. (Matthew 21:9) This word Hosanna has a meaning different than what we may expect. The word may be translated as 'Save now’. This is the cry of an oppressed people, a cry for deliverance and in their day of trouble. It is an oppressed people’s cry to their savior and king. This word is taken from Psalm 118: This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice in it and be glad. LORD, grant salvation! LORD, grant good fortune! (Psalm 118:24-25) As with the disciples, the people were expecting a messiah who would overthrow the Romans. When they realize Jesus is not a messiah who will overthrow the Roman occupiers their cry soon turns into “Crucify him”. It is only in hindsight that we see that the action of Jesus on the cross is about salvation. This will become clear as we journey through Holy Week. On Good Friday we will venerate the torture device that has become a sign of hope for all place faith in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. When I helped with youth retreats, the lunch on Sunday was lasagna, since it could be made beforehand and heated up for lunch. As the retreat team served lunch they sang, “Lasagna in the highest.” After spending a weekend reflecting on the love of our God, we could sing with joy, “Lasagna in the highest.” On this day we sing, "Hosanna in the highest.”

And Jesus wept. These three words are a pivot point in the Gospel passage we hear today. A pivot point between Jesus prophesying about the resuscitation of Lazarus, prophesying about the promise of eternal life for His believers, and testifying to His Divine nature as the Resurrection and the Life. A pivot point between Christ’s prophecy and testimony and Christ acting in His Divine nature as God the Son, calling Lazarus out of the sleep of death, out of the tomb, resuscitating him to life. And in that pivot point, in those three words — “And Jesus wept” — is the fullness of the humanity of Christ. For we profess a God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who is fully Divine and fully human. And what could be more human than to weep? Biblical scholars note that the word “wept,” translated from the original Greek term, in this Gospel means literally that he burst into tears; he is sobbing. It is not the same Greek term used to describe the weeping of Mary and Martha, which is translated as crying and wailing aloud. Jesus’ is a more quiet grief expressed by a profuse flowing of tears. In His incarnation Jesus took on flesh to become one of us, fully human — and there may be no more profound expression of Jesus’ humanity than his sobbing at the tomb of Lazarus. Psalm 116 tells us that “Dear in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his devoted one” (Ps 116:15). What more dear, more sincere way could God express his love for us than to weep for His beloved, to weep for us? There was a very popular 1970s television war comedy-drama called M*A*S*H . Most of us here today know and remember that television series well; some of us grew up with it. For those of you who have never heard of M*A*S*H , it was a series set in the 4077th M obile A rmy S urgical H ospital — hence M*A*S*H — operating in the early 1950s in Korea during the Korean War. It was humorous, punctuated with the quick verbal wit of Drs. Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper John McIntyre, and BJ Hunnicutt — and, at the same time, it was also poignant, laying bare the suffering of humanity — physically, emotionally, and spiritually — amidst the tragedy of war. In one episode, the 4077th receives a wounded soldier with a superficial head wound who has no dog tags. When asked what his identity is, the soldier responds that he is Jesus Christ, and continues to insist so in a calm manner to all who approach and ask him in the hospital ward.  The staff learn through Army intelligence that this man was a highly decorated bombardier named Captain Arnold Chandler, a farm boy from Idaho who had flown over 50 bombing missions in North Korea before his B-29 bomber was shot down. Believing this man might be deeply wounded psychologically, the 4077th doctors bring in the Army psychiatrist Major Sidney Freedman to evaluate him. In the poignant exchange between Dr. Freedman and the man, Sidney asks the man how long he has known his true identity, that of Arnold Chandler, and then goes on to give him a short synopsis of his life and military career. The man responds to a series of questions, stating that he is not Captain Chandler, that he is not from Idaho, and that he is not a bombardier and gently insists, “I am Christ the Lord.” Sidney, going along with the new identity, counters by saying, “But you died,” to which the man responds, “I rose”. Sidney replies, “That was a long time ago. Where have you been since then?” The man responds, “I live on in all [mankind].” Sidney then asks, “What are you doing here in an army hospital?” The man responds, “I’m Christ. Where should I be?” Countering the man’s question, Sidney asks further, “Should you be in the nose of a B-29, dropping bombs?” The man responds, “Bombs. On people?” At this, the expression on the man’s face becomes troubled. Sidney replies, “On the enemy,” to which the man responds, “I have no enemies. I love all men.” Sidney counters, asking “Even the North Koreans?” The man looks up, away from Sidney, tears welling in his eyes; now deeply troubled, he says, “They’re my children. Why would I hurt my children?” A tear runs down his cheek. And Jesus wept. Do you suppose Jesus Christ, our Resurrected and Ascended, fully Divine and still fully Human Lord, weeps today? Does He weep for his children who fight and destroy, who suffer, hurting and killing each other today? I suppose He does. Jesus is wounded and suffers in and through his Body, that is, all of us, through whom he lives on. All of us, made in the image and likeness of God. We, who are God’s handiwork. We, who are God’s creation. O Jesus, may your grief and weeping give us to know that the actions of humanity hurt you. May the well-spring of your tears be the living waters that extinguish our thirst for anger, animosity, revenge, and violence. May they be the waters that wash away our blindness, healing us, reviving us to life again. May the tears that well up from your eyes wash over us like the waters that flowed from your side upon the Cross. And may your tears fall upon us like the rains of the Great Flood, flow over us like the waters of baptism, and make an end of our vice and a new beginning of our virtue. And Jesus weeps.

Today we are given an image of a disciple, an evangelizer. The woman at the well becomes a disciple as she meets Jesus. We are tempted to consider her a sinful woman, because she comes to the well at mid-day rather than when it is cool in the morning. Is she avoiding others because of her sins? Does she use more water than others and need to come to the well more frequently? It doesn’t matter why she is there at midday. The important thing is her encounter with Jesus. No matter her past, the woman goes on to be a disciple. I love the line at the end of the gospel: Many more began to believe in him because of his word, and they said to the woman, “We no longer believe because of your word; for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the savior of the world. (John 4:41-42) The woman has no name, so this means we are all the woman. Becoming a disciple begins with meeting Jesus. Our Elect and candidates have been meeting Jesus for a long time and now they are preparing to be welcomed into the body of Christ through Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist. Like the woman at the well, they will be given living water. They, like the woman, will preach knowing Jesus by the way they live their lives. The gospel story tells of the faith journey of a woman. Many of us are here because of the example of a woman. When we read the scriptures and history, we discover women who have, like the woman at the well, told others about Jesus. We have been reading from the book of Exodus and I am amazed at the faith of the midwives who saved the Israelite children because they chose to listen to God rather than the pharaoh (Exodus 1:15-21). This week we honored St. Catherine Drexel, who chose to minister with the blacks and native Americans in our country. And what about the 'new Moses', Harriet Tubman, who led so many to freedom in the 19th century. In this season of Lent we are all invited to thirst for living water. Like the woman at the well, many will come to know Christ by the way we live our lives. Let us pray we may go forward to be good disciples.

The last line of our gospel speaks of saying yes and saying no:  Let your ‘Yes’ mean ‘Yes’ and your ‘No’ mean ‘No’. (Matthew 5:37) When we say ‘yes’ to one thing, we may be saying ‘no’ to another. Sometimes our choices are among goods. We may need to prayerfully consider what to say ‘yes’ to. The words of Jesus imply that once we have made a choice, we need to stick with it. Too often we say ‘yes’ and later regret what we said ‘yes’ to. It may take time to grow into the choice we have made. We may need to stick with it for a time, and in time, our choice may feel right. When I took on my first assignment as a pastor, Bishop Hubbard advised me, “Make no large decisions the first year.” I found this to be sage advice. I found it takes time to get to know others and to find my way. Those who are in recovery are advised not to enter into any new relationships in their first year of recovery. This is also sage advice; the first year is about focusing on a new life of recovery, it is not the time to begin a new relationship. In time things make sense. I recall the words of Tevye and Golde in Fiddler on the Roof : (Tevye) "Golde I'm asking you a question..." Do you love me? (Golde) You're a fool (Tevye) "I know..." But do you love me? (Golde) Do I love you? For twenty-five years I've washed your clothes Cooked your meals, cleaned your house Given you children, milked the cow After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now? (Tevye) Golde, The first time I met you Was on our wedding day I was scared (Golde) I was shy (Tevye) I was nervous (Golde) So was I (Tevye) But my father and my mother Said we'd learn to love each other And now I'm asking, Golde Do you love me? (Golde) I'm your wife (Tevye) "I know..." But do you love me? (Golde) Do I love him? For twenty-five years I've lived with him Fought him, starved with him Twenty-five years my bed is his If that's not love, what is? (Tevye) Then you love me? (Golde) I suppose I do (Tevye) And I suppose I love you too (Both) It doesn't change a thing But even so After twenty-five years It's nice to know. The most important ‘yes’ we make is a ‘yes’ to the Lord. It may take time to figure out what this may entail. This was true for Mary when she said ‘yes’ to the angel. Jospeh also had to say ‘yes’. Neither knew where that ‘yes’ would take them, and so it is for us. I am reminded of the words of Michel Quoist in his book Prayers of Life : Help Me to Say ‘Yes’ I am afraid of saying ‘Yes,’ Lord. Where will you take me? I am afraid of drawing the longer straw, I am afraid of signing my name to an unread agreement, I am afraid of the ‘yes’ that entails other ‘yeses.’ And yet I am not at peace. You pursue me, Lord, you besiege me. I seek out the din for fear of hearing you, but in a moment of silence you slip through. I turn from the road, for I have caught sight of you, but at the end of the path you are there awaiting me. Where shall I hide? I meet you everywhere. Is it then impossible to escape you? But I am afraid to say ‘Yes,’ Lord. I am afraid of putting my hand in yours, for you hold on to it. I am afraid of meeting your eyes, for you can win me. I am afraid of your demands, for you are a jealous God. I am hemmed in, yet I hide. I am captured, yet I struggle, and I fight knowing that I am defeated. For you are the stronger, Lord, you own the world and you take it from me. When I stretch out my hand to catch hold of people and things, they vanish before my eyes. It's no fun, Lord, I can't keep anything for myself. The flower I pick fades in my hands. My laugh freezes on my lips. The waltz I dance leaves me restless and uneasy. Everything seems empty, Everything seems hollow, You have made a desert around me. I am hungry and thirsty, And the whole world cannot satisfy me. And yet I loved you, Lord; what have I done to you? I worked for you; I gave myself for you. O great and terrible God, What more do you want? * * * Son, I want more for you and for the world. Until now you have planned your actions, but I have no need of them. You have asked for my approval, you have asked for my support, you have wanted to interest me in your work. But don't you see, son, that you were reversing the roles? I have watched you, I have seen your good will, And I want more than you, now. You will no longer do your own works, but the will of your Father in heaven. Say ‘Yes,’ son. I need your ‘yes’ as I needed Mary's ‘yes’ to come to earth, For it is I who must do your work, It is I who must live in your family, It is I who must be in your neighborhood, and not you. For it is my look that penetrates, and not yours, My words that carry weight, and not yours, My life that transforms, and not yours. Give all to me, abandon all to me. I need your ‘yes’ to be united with you and to come down to earth, I need your ‘yes’ to continue saving the world! * * * O Lord, I am afraid of your demands, but who can resist you? That your Kingdom may come and not mine, That your will may be done and not mine, Help me to say ‘Yes.’

Deacon Greg Kandra tells the story of meeting a person who chose to convert to the Catholic faith. He asked why this person chose to convert and was told, "because of my boss.” Deacon Kandra asked why and was told, “He seemed to glow with the light of God and I decided I wanted what he had.” I am reminded of the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, “What you do speaks so loudly I cannot hear what you are saying.” It is not the words that attract people to the Lord; often it is how we live our lives that makes the difference. Jesus reminds us not to hide our light under a basket. The prophet Isaiah gives us a list of how we shine our light in the world: Share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them, and do not turn your back on your own. Then your light shall break forth like the dawn... (Isaiah 58:7-8) Many will stand on soap boxes and proclaim how good they are. It is not their words that speak to us but their actions. This is what Emerson is speaking about and what that person’s boss proclaimed. They did not hide their lamp but let their good works speak for them. St. Mother Teresa of Calcutta spoke about this in her poem Anyway : People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered; Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; Succeed anyway. If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway. What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway. The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you've got anyway. You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God; It was never between you and them anyway.  (Inscribed on the wall of Mother Teresa's children's home in Calcutta) In these cold dark days, we are invited to share the warmth and light of the spirit of our God with those who we meet.

THE SEARCH by Shel Silverstein I went to find a pot of gold That's waiting where the rainbow ends. I searched and searched and searched and searched And searched and searched, and then— There it was, deep in the grass, Under an old and twisty bough. It's mine, it's mine, it's mine at last.... What do I search for now? So often we look at life as a destination. How often as children did we bug the driver of the car with the endless question, “Are we there yet?” The spiritual masters remind us that life is not about the destination, but the journey. How much we would miss if we didn’t take the journey. The Prophet Zephaniah encourages us to “seek the Lord”. One way we seek the Lord is by our poverty of spirit. We are blessed as we begin to recognize that I am not in charge, God is the one in charge. I let God set the agenda. One aspect of wisdom is knowing I am not wise. St. Paul, in his letter to the community at Corinth, speaks about true wisdom: God chose the foolish of the world to shame the wise, and God chose the weak of the world to shame the strong. Sometimes it is the foolish who get it: the foolish see that the journey is the goal, not the pot of gold under the rainbow. The challenge is learning to live day by day and let God be the one in charge. Sometimes God acts to remind us of who is in charge. The storm this week reminded us that we are not in charge. Our plans needed to be changed to address the issues of the storm. We had a choice; we could have cursed the storm or adjusted our expectations. We are on a new journey. The pot of God may have hidden in the people and projects we addressed this week. In a few short weeks we will begin the season of Lent, a journey we take toward the most important days of the year. Holy Week lays out for us the mysteries of our faith: the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of our Lord. How will we take this journey? How will we seek the Lord? Lent is a search, not for pots of gold, but for a deeper relationship with the Lord. I went to find a pot of gold That's waiting where the rainbow ends. I searched and searched and searched and searched And searched and searched, and then— There it was, deep in the grass, Under an old and twisty bough. It's mine, it's mine, it's mine at last.... What do I search for now?