May 3, 2020. Pastor Meagan reflects on today's readings by noting that none of them promise that danger will be eliminated, death will cease to exist, or evil will be no more. Things change and we are not the same. But God does not change. Readings: Acts 2:42-47, Psalm 23, John 10:1-10 *** Transcript *** I was struck, as I read today’s readings, that although all of them mention danger in one form or another, none of them promise that danger will be eliminated. That death will cease to exist. That evil will be no more. Acts 2 acknowledges that there are needs in the community. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” says Psalm 23. And our gospel today names thieves and bandits that attempt to steal and harm the sheep. Our texts do not present a promise that hardship and even evil will be absent, but something else. It reminded me of something that happened when I was young, my first experience of God’s presence in the midst of things that we don’t understand, sadness and confusion. When I was about seven years old, my favorite pastor collapsed after church one Sunday. We went home unsure of what the outcome would be, and being one who likes to have answers, and wants to understand, I went to the source: my children’s Bible. I read it from cover to cover that day, looking for the answer to why someone so good would die like that, if that’s what was happening. I remember finishing, and still not having my answer — and yet realizing that somehow that was okay, because God knew the plan even if I didn’t. Now, lest you begin to think that I have spent all of the intervening years feeling serene and peaceful and hopeful, let me assure you — I have not. Doubts, questions, frustrations, grief, anger, are all a normal part of human existence and I, like all of you, have experienced them all along the way. But this experience was one of those touchstone moments in my life that has shaped me, revealed something of God to me, and has in many ways informed how I experience God and understand life and death. It has made possible a slow, gradual, sometimes painful, unclenching of the need to have answers for everything as I have grown older. Christ Lutheran family, as the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 continues, we are walking together through a time that is full of unanswered questions. Why is this happening? Who is this going to impact? Where is God? What are we supposed to do in this really strange time? And maybe most importantly, how long is this going to last? So much we don’t know and don’t understand. We may sense the thieves and the bandits, feel the weight of the shadow in the valley at times, as we navigate hospital corridors, or grocery store aisles, or cross streets to give our neighbors space as we walk on these sunny days of spring, or stay in our Upper Rooms to keep ourselves and our fellow humans safe. None of our readings today promise us that the thieves and the bandits and shadows will go away, much as we wish they might. For those of us used to feeling safe most of the time, and sure of ourselves and our future, these readings today can often be taken as a promise that we will be protected from the dangers and the sadness of this human life. In this time of COVID-19, when danger and sadness and anxiety and uncertainty seem to be all around us, these readings sound very different. Psalm 23 is so often used at funerals, and there is a reason for that. Psalm 23 names head-on the reality of death, the presence of the valley of the shadow. It speaks of a table of abundance, in the midst of enemies who seek to destroy. A wise woman I know created a painting of that image, a table with enemies surrounding it, and she named the enemies — fear, anxiety, self-loathing, resentment. Anyone else felt those enemies, those internal enemies, hovering close in these days? What does your valley look like in this time? Take a moment to name that for yourself, and if you would like to, share that in the chat. Psalm 23 names the valley, and it claims the promise that God the shepherd is there with us. God is with us as we walk the valley, leading us toward places of stillness and healing and renewal. Even in the presence of enemies, the table God provides is ready, abundant, overflowing, and open to everyone. Where are your still places in this time? Where are you finding healing and renewal? Take a moment to name that for yourself, and share in the chat if you wish. Jesus the shepherd, in our gospel, comes to us bringing life to the full. Thieves and bandits, whatever shape they may take in our nightmares, or our imaginations, or even our daily news feeds, may bring death, and lack, and a reason for fear, but our Risen God brings life, and guides us out to pastures that have all we need. And if we wonder what to do as we navigate the valley, feel the shadow, sense the presence of the thieves and the bandits, we can take courage from the story of the early church, as shared in Acts today. They experienced daily threat from Roman soldiers, and all of the stresses of living as an occupied people. They, like us, were separated from their primary place of worship, as the temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed. They, like us, were coming together to live out their faith in new ways, to make sense of what was happening, and to be church together. When — not if — people were in need, they shared what they had. They prayed and they broke bread together. And they gave thanks to God for what they had. We at Christ Lutheran are called to follow their example, even, and perhaps especially, in this time of transformation. Pray. Break bread together. Share what we have with those who are in need. And most of all, give thanks! Fr. Slattery did die that day, and following his funeral life proceeded in many ways as normal from that day forward, as if things were the same. And yet, it was not quite the same. I was not the same. And we living through this time of COVID-19 will not be the same. But one thing will not change: God is with us, guiding us and leading us to green pastures and still waters, places of healing and renewal. We, the Christ Lutheran family, will continue to pray, and break bread, and share what we have with those who are in need. The voice of Jesus our shepherd calls us, and we know that voice, perhaps more clearly in times like this than usual. And in this moment, as we gather together via Zoom and phone and email, and in our homes, and as this crisis passes and we slowly return to our church building, wherever we are — we will dwell in God’s house, forever. Thanks be to God! *** Keywords *** 2020, Christ Lutheran Church, Webster Groves, sermon, podcast, transcript, Pastor Meagan McLaughlin, Acts 2:42-47, Psalm 23, John 10:1-10, coronavirus

Reading: John 20:19-31 *** Transcript *** Is anyone else tired this week? I will admit that I am. Easter is over, Jesus is risen, the adrenaline of the fast-paced adjustments of the last several weeks has worn off — and I am a little worn out. And yet, all of the reliable sources on the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 indicate that we're not done yet, and we'll be sticking together while staying physically apart for a while yet. The nightly news is not hopeful, for us who long for the widespread testing and successful management of the virus that will allow us to open the doors of our Upper Rooms, and come out safely to resume our regular routines, to travel, to go to parks and movies and museums and restaurants, like we did every day until just five weeks ago. Think about that — just five weeks, and how much has changed. And I wonder, if the disciples didn’t feel a similar weariness, waiting in their Upper Room. The news they heard from outside wasn’t good, either. Jesus, their friend, with whom they had eaten the Passover meal, who had washed their feet, who had shared the promise of God’s love and forgiveness and mercy, had been arrested. And Jesus was tortured. And murdered. And Jesus had been betrayed by Judas, their friend, who was now dead too. All of the hopes they had for freedom and justice and change in their world had seemingly died, on the cross, with Jesus. And they, the followers of Jesus that they were, were vulnerable also. Peter especially knew that — he had been noticed, as he waited for word on what was happening to Jesus in the sham trial held by the religious leaders and the Roman occupiers. And he was afraid that he himself, and maybe his family too, would also be arrested by the religious leaders. So afraid that he had denied not only Jesus, but his own ideals and hopes, multiple times, in order to protect himself. They were all afraid. And so they waited, hidden away in their Upper Room, perhaps the same Upper Room where they had their last meal with Jesus. The witness of Mary Magdalene and Mary, mother of James and John, that Jesus’ tomb was empty, corroborated by Peter and the other disciple reporting on the linens left abandoned where Jesus had been buried, and Mary Magdalene’s claim that she had actually seen Jesus, could stir hope, but not enough to set them free to leave their place of safety for good, and return to their normal lives. It was all too confusing, too hard to believe. We hear today’s gospel story every year, and it is so familiar. How Jesus came to the disciples as they hid. How Thomas wasn’t there, and refused to believe that Jesus had come while he was out. And how, when Jesus came again, Thomas demanded proof from him of who he was, proof of the good news that he brought. And how Jesus invited Thomas to touch his wounds, and Thomas then believed. “Doubting Thomas,” as he has been dubbed, gets a bad rap often, in our Easter story. And I always stick up for Thomas, point out how often we too need proof in order to believe, how Jesus sees what Thomas needs, and offers him the opportunity to touch the wounds in his hands, his feet, his side. But this year, as we wait still in our Upper Rooms for good news that will allow us to venture out again, a question occurred to me about this story of the disciples in their Upper Room. Where was Thomas, when Jesus came the first time? It’s easy to take this for granted, to let it pass as insignificant to the story we are hearing. But in this season of COVID-19, a new light is shed on this throw-away phrase from our gospel. And I wonder, where was Thomas, the so-called doubting one? From our new point of view on this ancient story, from our Upper Rooms, this feels strangely significant. Given the circumstances, I don’t think Thomas was out just for fun, attending a party or going to the local baths. I suspect Thomas was out with a purpose, perhaps trying to get news on what was happening, in a world without TV or internet to help the disciples stay informed. Or perhaps he was getting food and supplies, so they would have what they needed while they stayed safely hidden. Thomas may have, for some reason, been least at risk of arrest by the Romans, and so was the one sent out while the rest remained, not having any idea that Jesus was going to come through that locked door. Having been the one at home and the one to go out during this time of physical distancing, I can imagine how they all felt. Thomas, hearing the whispers of fate that awaited any followers of Jesus, having perhaps seen armed soldiers searching the shops and the streets, having maybe even had to quickly cross the street to avoid coming face-to-face with someone who might betray him, gets back to the Upper Room, breathing a sigh of relief as he locked the door behind him again. And he doesn’t have a chance to tell his friends what it’s like out there before they tell him the news: Jesus had come while he was out, breathing life into their place of refuge, bringing hope to a situation that felt completely hopeless. How can Thomas reconcile that with what he has just seen? And the rest of the disciples, having seen Jesus, have had their minds blown, one more time. The hope of being with Jesus, hearing the promises, seeing the miracles, shattered on the cross. And just when they thought there was no way to redeem the situation, Jesus shows them that everything they thought about him, and what he was going to do, was wrong — and right. Coming to terms with the resurrection isn’t something we think about a lot, is it? And yet this year, we know more than ever what it means to be afraid. What it means to be closed away. What it means to long and grieve for nothing more than what has been and what we had hoped for, for the people who we have loved and lost, for what was familiar and comfortable such a short time ago. It takes time, this process, and we are just at the beginning. And Jesus, he was so patient, so understanding of the fear that the disciples felt, and how hard it would be for them to embrace their new reality and understanding of who Jesus was, who God is. He breathed on them, promised them peace, and came not just once, but many times, as many times as it would take for the disciples to finally get it. And we are being transformed, as people, as a community of faith, as a human family, just as Thomas and the disciples were transformed. We are being renewed and prepared for something we can’t yet imagine or understand. And the promise of God is with us, here and now. There is grief in transformation, and there is hope and life, too. We can be patient with one another, patient with ourselves, and lean on each other through this time. Jesus breathed the Spirit on his disciples, and he breathes on us gathered here this morning. “Peace be with you,” my family. Peace be with you. Christ is alive! Thanks be to God. *** Keywords *** 2020, Christ Lutheran Church, Webster Groves, sermon, podcast, transcript, Pastor Meagan McLaughlin, John 20:19-31, coronavirus

Reading: John 13:1-7, 31-35 *** Transcript *** A few years ago when I was in Tanzania, we had the opportunity to “break bread” many times, in many places. We had a rich meal with many different foods, spread on a large table, in the home of a bishop. We had cakes and tea, served with a face-splitting smile by the mother of three young boys living with a degenerative disease, as we sat on bales of hay in their living space. And we had a meal of peanuts, which our hosts poured into the hands of guests sitting on the floor of their one-room village home. “You can’t leave until you take something,” said the boy’s mother. And so it was, everywhere we went. Always there was food, something to nourish our bodies. And always there was that profound joy in having something to share. And always, there was a washing of hands. In the Bishop’s home, and in the restaurants, there was a sink with running water in the corner of the dining space, at which we lined up to wash our hands before the meal was served. In the mother’s home, there was a pail of water and a cup for pouring water over our hands before we took the cakes. And before the peanuts were divided among the guests, a banana leaf, broken open to reveal its moist inside, was passed around so all could receive that rare treat with clean hands. The breaking of bread and the washing are central to Tanzanian culture. And, they were central to the culture shared by Jesus and his friends, and their surrounding community. This story of the Last Supper is not the first time we have heard about washing in our gospels. There is perhaps most notably the poignant story of the woman who enters Simon’s house, when Jesus is there, to wash and anoint his feet. And when people chastise her for “invading” the home of a temple leader, sinner that she was, Jesus chastises Simon for not having offered Jesus the opportunity to wash his feet when he arrived. There are many reasons why washing is so important to different cultures and different times. For many people of faith, it's a sign of spiritual cleansing. For us as Lutherans, the use of water in baptism is a way of claiming our identities as children of God, a way of entering into the community of faith, and the promise of forgiveness. For we humans, at our essence, water is life. And the use of water for washing can be a reminder of the water that exists in our bodies, our very cells. For the disciples who lived in a hot, dry land where travel by foot was the norm, even when there were miles to cover, the opportunity to wash one’s feet upon entering a home was very basic hospitality. And washing feet was essential for health and well-being, in a way that we often take for granted — washing feet that were covered with dust and dirt, blistered and cut and bruised from walking for days, was necessary to ensure that they could walk another day. And in this season, this time of the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, we are more aware than ever of how important washing is. “Wash your hands” has become a mantra for us these days, as we see more clearly than usual that doing this simple ritual is not only a way to keep ourselves clean, but to stay healthy, prevent disease, and indeed to show our love for others as we contribute to the health of our whole community. The disciples gathered with Jesus over 2,000 years ago in an Upper Room in Jerusalem. Jesus broke bread with them in that Upper Room. And before they ate in that Upper Room, Jesus washed their feet for them. And he said, “Do this in memory of me. Do for others, as I have done for you.” “You can’t leave until you take something!” And tonight, 2,000 years later, we are here, all of us in our Upper Rooms, preparing to break the Eucharistic bread together for the first time in a few weeks. Separated by space but not by time, we have come together at the table of God, which knows no limits. We will hear those words of Jesus — this is my body, this is my blood, do this in memory of me. And together, separated by space but not by time, as so many have done before us, we will wash. We will wash for our health. We will wash out of love for those with whom we live, and those with whom we cross paths in this time of isolation — at the grocery store, at the pharmacy, on the sidewalk, or in the hallway. We will wash to remember our baptisms, and our identity as children of God, always seen and known by the one who is present with us in our Upper Rooms. We will wash with water to claim the promise of life. As people across all times and places, all the cultures, all faiths have washed themselves and one another — for health, for hospitality, for spiritual practice — so we tonight, each in our Upper Rooms, wash one another, or wash ourselves, in preparation for the meal that we are about to eat. *** Keywords *** 2020, Christ Lutheran Church, Webster Groves, sermon, podcast, transcript, Pastor Meagan McLaughlin, John 13:1-7, 31-35, coronavirus

March 29, 2020. The readings today include the Valley of Dry Bones from Ezekiel, and Jesus raising Lazarus to life from the Gospel of John. Pastor Meagan preaches on these texts, on the death that is already happening in our world with the pandemic we are facing, and the life anew that we know is coming from the breath of God. Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45 *** Transcript *** Twice, I've been present in the room at the moment when someone took their last breath. Stood at the bedside, waiting and watching, holding hands, praying and singing, as breath by breath, life slipped away. In both cases, I and those I stood vigil with listened closely, wondering which breath would be the last one — this, or this, or this. In the end, when the final breath was released, we collectively held our own breaths until we were sure: the final exhale had indeed signaled the end of this unique life in human form, the body still warm, but quickly cooling. The bones God leads Ezekiel to in that valley have no warmth. There is no indication that they ever had breath, and for my money, if I were the betting type, no hope that they would ever breathe again. It’s kind of like the feeling I would get being out in our yard in Minneapolis, after the snow melted, but before any buds had popped or grass had appeared. It just doesn’t seem possible that life could return, it all looks so dead, twigs and sticks and brown. If I had been Ezekiel, I might have said, “No way!” in response to the question of whether these bones can live. “Are we looking at the same thing? Not possible.” And Mary and the other mourners say basically the same thing to Jesus, when he says he wants to take the stone away from Lazarus’ tomb. “It’s going to smell! He’s been in there for four days!” Jesus persists, because he knows something that the others don’t know. Even when death is so final that you can smell it, when breath has been gone for so long that the bones are literally dry, God can still bring life. The winds, the Spirit, moves, in concert with Ezekiel’s prophecy, and the breath enters the bones and they live! When the stone is rolled away from Lazarus’ tomb, we have to imagine the stench of certain death was terrible, and yet in response to Jesus’ cry — Lazarus, come out — Lazarus comes! My family of faith, the pandemic that we are facing is like the stench of death from Lazarus’ tomb, or the rattle of bones from Ezekiel’s valley, or the brown, lifeless branches in my yard before spring begins. Signs of death, undeniably. Death is already happening, and beloveds, there will be more before this passes. And, the Spirit is still at work. The wind is blowing, ready to bring life out of the bones that have no flesh left on them. The stone is rolled away, waiting for Lazarus to step out into the fresh air. In our yard here in South City, our cats are discovering every green blade, all the new plants they've never seen before. This coming of life is not a passive thing. We human beings living this human life are invited to be active, breathing participants in the life-giving movement of the Spirit around us. God asks Ezekiel, “Can these bones live?” and he says, in effect, “I don’t know, can they?” And God says, “Prophecy to these bones. Tell the winds, breathe on these bones, and they might have life.” In other words, claim the promise, Ezekiel, and proclaim the promise, that God brings life where we can only see death. Lazarus’ sisters, and their gathered community, are invited to participate in Lazarus’ re-birth by unbinding him. Letting go of old ideas perhaps of who he was, letting go of grief, opening their minds to receive the new life that stood before them. We, too are invited to witness to death, family of faith, as Ezekiel did in the Valley of Dry Bones, as the mourners gathered smelled death at Lazarus’ tomb. God witnesses with us all the griefs we experience, all the losses we bear now, and those yet to come — not as a passive observer, but weeping alongside us, as Jesus wept for his friend, Lazarus. We, too, are invited into the promises of the living God, family of faith. We, too, are invited to prophecy with Ezekiel, to join the mourners in unbinding new life when it appears. And when we are the dry bones, when we are sealed in a tomb as dead as Lazarus, the community here gathered prophecies to you, and for you, and unbinds you, that you might find life again. Because we can’t always see it for ourselves, in the midst of the tomb, in the midst of the valley. I don’t know about you, but I suspect I am not alone in having experienced dryness the last couple of weeks. I will confess to having had a temper tantrum over a minor inconvenience a few days ago, to having felt overwhelmed by all the changes we have been asked to make in a brief two weeks, to having felt the helplessness of wondering how my family is, from a distance, as I know many of you have as well. Anyone else felt dry, keenly aware of fear and grief and tiredness this week? And yet, I have also felt the wind blowing, and the Spirit moving. Your worship team gathered, and a new life entered into our imaginings about how to celebrate Holy Week and Easter together, while we are still physically apart. Our youngest cat figured out he can climb the wooden fence in our yard, much to his delight and our chagrin. A neighbor down the block hosted her own block concert this week, with a professional sound system set up on her porch. My brother’s family posted a photo of their family taking a run together in their neighborhood. A mentor sent me a link to an acapella recording of “It is Well” that brought tears to my eyes. And all of you, family of faith, are caring for one another so well, in these days. When we are dry and can’t speak, we prophecy to one another, proclaiming that we know the breath of God will come, bringing life anew, however that looks, on the other side, whenever that is. Family of faith, no matter what happens, life is coming. We are here, and so is God, and we are in this together. Life is coming! Family of faith, God is whispering to us, “Mortal, can these bones live?” What is your answer this morning? *** Keywords *** 2020, Christ Lutheran Church, Webster Groves, sermon, podcast, transcript, Pastor Meagan McLaughlin, Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45, coronavirus, COVID-19, St. Louis

March 15, 2020. Bishop Susan Candea preaches on the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, and building bridges to connect people, as we celebrate the Installation of Pastor Meagan today. Readings: John 4:5-42 *** Transcript *** Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Creator, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. Whew! There is a lot going on, isn't there?! In some ways it feels so surreal, this whole coronavirus pandemic thing. Did you ever think that we would be talking about a pandemic? Things are rapidly changing, and it's hard to know what is the appropriate response. How should we be feeling? What ought we doing? Are we taking enough precautions? Are people overreacting? How are we supposed to feel? Are we supposed to cancel everything? Keep going on? What kind of adjustments? It really feels like a lot, doesn't it? And in the midst of all of this, we're in the season of Lent — a time when we gather more intentionally as a church, to engage in the disciplines of repentance and prayer and acts of charity and fasting, when we hear and respond even more deeply to the invitation to return to the Lord our God. And on this Sunday in Lent we have this long gospel that is full of all kinds of stuff: a Samaritan woman being approached by Jesus for a drink, and the whole bit about Jews don't have anything in common with Samaritans, launching into this discussion of living water, the strange detail about the woman having five husbands (what is that all about?), the disciples coming back with food only to be told, "My food is to do the will of the one who sent me," then launching into a conversation about harvest and reaping (where did that come from?) ending with the Samaritan woman bringing people to meet Jesus. Whew, there's a lot going on in this story, isn't there? Oh, and by the way we are also installing your new pastor! After many months of discernment and transition, you are officially welcoming a new pastor, embarking on a new relationship with one another, stepping into the future of which God is calling all of you. That's a big deal. There's a lot going on: lots of excitement, lots of changes. Because we all know we're each different. She's different. You're different. Things are going to be different. So you get to explore and experience and grow in this new relationship. Have I mentioned that there's a lot going on? So in the midst of all of this, what is the gospel? What is the good news that we are invited to hear this day? Well first of all, the good news always begins with Jesus, so let's start with him. And what we see in our gospel is that Jesus is the one who reaches out to the Samaritan woman, even though Jews have nothing to do with Samaritans. What we see in our gospel is Jesus offering living water, Jesus having a theological conversation with the woman — in other words, talking about God with her. And then, that is what brings more people to seek out Jesus and to hear and experience him as the Savior of the world. In other words, Jesus builds bridges that connect people — connect people with God and connect people with one another. And that is the theme of my sermon this morning: Jesus builds bridges to connect people. Jesus builds bridges to connect people. Let's start by talking about why building bridges is even necessary. Well, that's pretty easy, isn't it? We all know why: because we are a divided people, with what sometimes seems like huge chasms between us. In Jesus' day it was the Jews and Samaritans who had nothing to do with each other because they did not share things in common. In our day there is a long list of groups of people who have nothing to do with each other, seeing their differences rather than seeing what holds us in common: our humanity, the reality that we are all children of God. We divide people along religious beliefs and political affiliations, along their immigration status, their race, their gender, their sexual orientation, their age, even where they live. In my first congregation that I served in western Kansas, one of the local boys went off to college and met a young woman who had grown up in the city. When she came to meet his parents, because they were getting pretty serious, she encountered all these new things on the farm and thoroughly enjoyed these new experiences. But afterwards they came to tell me that they were quite concerned about their son becoming too serious with what they called a "city slicker." It was just going to be too different. It would never work out. They got married, and to this day they're just fine. I understand why we put people into categories. It's easier to deal with groups and then just make assumptions, rather than engaging people in their own uniqueness and complexities, which can be part of the group that they belong to. But we don't just put people in categories, do we? We take a further step. We put them into categories and then we move the box that we have put them in away from our box, and the divide gets even larger. But Jesus (remember, the good news always starts with Jesus) comes along, and he not only ignores the dividing lines, the barriers, the categories, but he crosses right over them, to connect people who are on the other side. In seminary I had a professor who said that we need to be very careful when we divide people into "us" and "them" because Jesus is always on the other side with "them." I've heard that phrase many times, and it has always stuck with me. And we see that truth over and over again throughout the gospel, Jesus including those who have been excluded: tax collectors and women and lepers and Samaritans, and eating with them and touching them and teaching them and calling them and becoming one of them. He hung on the cross between two thieves. So that there's no longer an "us" and a "them" but a "we" — a we, who are part of the reign of God where there are no dividing lines. Not only does Jesus, in his actions interacting with the woman at the well, show us what the reign of God looks like, but Jesus also enables us to participate in that reign by offering us living water. "The water I give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life, so that we might experience the reign of God." I came across a wonderful image as I was working on this sermon. And it said (an author wrote): living water can purify our hearts of hatred and hostilities, and form us into a diverse people of God on earth. During the season of Lent, we focus on honestly confessing our sins, owning our baggage — which includes our own prejudice and fear and hatred and insecurity. The living water not only cleanses us of that, but actually wells up in us, so that we can grow in ways that are beyond what we might imagine, growing in ways that connect us to God, that connect us to one another, that connect us to the world, growing in ways so that we understand that the eternal life that we are offered in Jesus is all about relationships. No wonder that the woman, after experiencing this relationship with Jesus, this understanding of life that connected her to something more, went and told her friends and said you've got to come, hear this, and know this. This is the savior of the world. Wow. In the midst of everything that's going on, this gospel reminds us that Jesus is in our midst, building bridges across our fears, our anxiety, our worries particularly in this time, to connect us to one another, even in times when we may not be able to be physically connected. And that, my friends, is a great job description for a pastor. Pastors are called to proclaim the gospel, the good news which builds bridges and connects us, not only to each other, but to the whole church and the wider community. Pastors are called to have these theological conversations. So when a pastor brings up God, yeah that's part of our job. So that we can talk with one another about our relationship with God which connects us to one another, so that we can actually be honest about our own fears and prejudices, our own hostilities. We all have them. Pastors are the ones that call us into these confessions, that both challenge and comfort us, to get out of our boxes and connect in wonderfully diverse ways. But pastors do not do this in isolation. They do this in partnership, in mutuality with all of you. Did you notice, at the beginning of our gospel story, that Jesus went to the woman and asked her to give him something to drink? It was a mutual ministering and serving one another back and forth. And did you notice who it was that went and told all the other neighbors about Jesus? It wasn't Jesus. It was a woman. Jesus empowered the woman to become an evangelist. So while it is a pastor's call to proclaim the good news, it is a call of all of us to be evangelists, to share the good news. Think about all the bridges that we can build together. Think about the ways that we can share the living water. Think about the impact we can make. That's what this is all about. That's what we are celebrating, even in the midst of everything else going on. So my friends, my partners in ministry, let us move forward — not only in this new relationship, but during this season of Lent and even during this time of a pandemic. Let us move forward, continuing to care for one another, continuing to connect to one another, continuing to be a strong witness to the good news, to be refreshing and life-giving sources of hope and comfort. How appropriate — I know this is not what you signed up for, Pastor (like you said, it's your third Sunday) — but how appropriate that at this time, in these circumstances, during this season, you began this new relationship to participate in God's activity and mission. Because my friends, the world needs us. The world needs you. This is our time to be the people of God, and together be proclaimers and builders of hope. Amen. *** Keywords *** 2020, Christ Lutheran Church, Webster Groves, sermon, podcast, transcript, Bishop Susan Candea, John 4:5-42, Pastor Meagan McLaughlin, Installation