I will be quite honest with you, my friends: I do not need to preach right now. In order to make meaning of this most familiar story of Jesus’s suffering and death this year, it would be enough for us to all sit in silence, to let the words of John’s Gospel echo in our ears, and to take in the sheer strangeness of our lives now in the midst of this pandemic.

In previous years, preachers on this holy day would exhort us to stay a while. “Do not be like Peter and abandon Jesus while he faces trial. Do not avert your gaze from the man on the cross, dying one of the most gruesome deaths humans ever invented. Remain at Golgotha. Do not rush to Easter.”

Did you notice, friends, how much more immediate the scripture readings seemed this night? How much more alive, relevant to where we find ourselves at this moment? The Hebrews, enslaved in Egypt, await God’s deliverance at twilight, while a deadly plague swirls around them. A small group of disciples – a family, really – gathers in an upper room for a meal, aware that something ominous is coming. The world outside carries an ill-defined yet palpable threat. Safe for now – but for how long?

Only the next step is visible, and sometimes not even that.

Last evening our Jewish family and friends celebrated the first night of Passover, over three millennia after that hurried meal prepared in the Egyptian twilight. And they asked, as they ask every year, “How is this night different from all other nights?” Only this year, I imagine, the question rang quite differently in people’s ears.

Good morning. Will you start by taking a couple of deep breaths with me, wherever it is that you are watching this? That’s better. I don’t know about you, but I have resisted breathing too deep during the last two weeks. This resistance is one of my defense mechanisms, along with trying to keep myself busy and gorging myself on all the latest news and opinions. And the logic behind those patterns is pretty good. If I’m busy, even if only with endless Zoom calls, then I must still have a purpose in this crazy time. If I know all the latest information, then I can at least predict a little bit ahead of where I am now, which allows me to regain some control. But the question then becomes, control over what? Defense against what?

I miss you all. I miss the children in the play area and the choir in the pews. I miss the hustle and bustle of the 9:00 hour when groups are usually gathered to learn more about God. I miss coffee hour. I really miss Holy Communion. I miss gathering around this altar in a circle. The silence in this resonant sanctuary brings up in me a profound grief for all that is not as it should be in the world right now.

And, at the same time, I am feeling blessed and grateful. I am grateful to have a home from which to work. I am grateful for food to put on my table three times a day. I am grateful that I am safe and loved in my home. I am grateful for the acts of generosity and love the St. Paul’s community has shown to me and to each other in the past week. I am grateful for technology that allows us to be together in a less than perfect way.

When I pray I am grateful for the assured confidentiality that comes with that arrangement.

I can say whatever I want to God, and God won’t tell anyone.

I am also grateful for the grace that comes to me in those conversations. I do not feel harshly judged, or shamed, or ridiculed for the questions in my head or the contents of my heart. Any judgement or shame or ridicule I do hear or feel, comes from a source other than the God of love to whom I am praying.

This gospel story for the first Sunday in Lent always sounds to me like it came from Marvel Comics, or Star Wars. Our hero, Jesus, is challenged by his arch-nemesis, the devil, who, like Darth Vader looming over Luke Skywalker, tries to lure him to the dark side. Will he or won’t he? Is he strong enough and clever enough to resist the pull of temptation, the lure of comfort and safety and power? Will he still be our superhero? Will he save the world?