It is one of the greatest mysteries of life, and of our faith, that life can only come from death, that joy only springs forth after sorrow, that salvation only comes because of crucifixion.

I have become an avid gardener, quite unexpectedly. I bought my house five years ago, with nothing but a lilac tree and an azalea bush. I now have five raised flower beds out back, filled with dozens of tulips, irises, daisies, delphinium, and some plants I still can't quite pronounce the name of. There are blues and purples and pinks and yellows, all just now starting to burst forth in spring glory. Personally, I like all this rainy weather. For the sake of my plants, of course.

This is the first year I have attempted to start anything from seed.

It's one thing to plant some bulbs in the fall, and wait for them to pop up in the spring, or to order started seedlings from a catalogue and plant them right into the ground. It's another to order this paper packet with tiny, sometimes really tiny, seeds inside. There's this whole new world of warming mats and grow lights, fertilizers and last frost dates.

There are so many danger points, so many things to watch for. First, you've got to time the planting just right, so the seedlings are big and strong enough at planting time. Planting time has to be calculated backwards, from the last frost date. You have to make sure you plant each seed just so, in the right kind of soil, and water it ever so carefully. And each plant has different needs. Then they've got to have just the right amount of heat and sunlight to germinate, then the right amount of heat and water and sun to grow stronger so they can be transplanted into the outside garden at just the right date.

It makes me wonder how it is that seeds ever sprout and grow out there, in the cold cruel world, without warming mats and grow lights and liquid soluble fertilizers.

It frustrates me to no end that the weeds in my garden don't seem to need so much special care, and sprout up like, well, like weeds, with barely any attention at all.

Every day after I planted those seeds, I would look in on them, sometimes several times a day, waiting, watching, wondering what miracle was happening in that dirt. Wondering what was happening to the hard shelled little seed ball that I tapped into the dirt last week.

I wonder if it hurts when the seed casing cracks open? I wonder if the green shoot that finally appears above the soil is hiding inside the seed now, or does it only turn green after it comes out of the seed? Of course, I also wonder if the light in my refrigerator really goes out after I shut the door. I really need to pick a simpler hobby I guess.

Once I plant that seed, it's the last time i'll ever see it again. In my excitement and eagerness to watch for the green shoot of new growth, I forget that the seed I planted has died, that the little round ochre colored seed is no more.

Iwonder if there isn't some less violent way for this green shoot to come into the sun beside having to break open and destroy the seed it came in.

It is a great mystery, a paradox, really, that in order for there to be life, something must break, or die, or be lost.

So many times on my hospital rounds I see patients who have just been told that they have a disease that is eating away at their bodies, some disease or illness that is sapping the life from them. People who have been told that they are nose to nose with death, who have been given weeks, maybe months to live their final days.

There is physical pain, and all sorts of decisions to make. But above and beyond all that, too often, when I walk into their rooms, what I see in their eyes is that look of fear. The terror. the uncertainty.

Nose to nose with death, and they don't know what to do. They don't know what will happen to them. The lucky ones are full of questions without any answers. The less lucky ones can't even formulate their questions. They're just overwhelmed.

And so I take my seat, and settle myself in and we talk.

We talk about their bodies, and about their dying.

And we talk about their faith.

Where is God in all of this for you, I ask?

Death is one of those moments of brokenness, or forsakeness, but there are many such moments. there are thousands of "little deaths" that we suffer through in our lifetime. When we don't get that promotion, when our children get themselves in trouble, when our parents don't understand or listen to us, when friends betray us, when we are lost and lonely.

Where is God in all of that for us?

When we are on our knees, when we feel ourselves collapsing with the weight of all the pain, when we can barely stand the hurt and the terror, where is God?

When Jesus sat at the table, before His crucifixion, and shared His last meal with His disciples, only He knew where this was all going to end. Jesus knew about the way things worked. He knew about seeds, and how they had to break forth from their hiddenness in order to grow and reach the sun. He also knew the agony of it all. He knew about the pain.

And so, before all the agony of the garden and the cross, Jesus took the passover bread and broke it in front of His disciples, hoping they'd remember this, even if they didn't fully understand what it meant yet. Look, He said, this is the way it is. Things have to get broken before their can come into their glory. Look, take, eat, this is for you. Pay attention.

And after His death and resurrection, Jesus walked along the emmaus road with a couple of strangers, sharing stories. They came to the end of their journey, and Jesus found himself their invited guest at a meal again.

Now, normally, if you're the invited guest, you wouldn't be asked to say the blessing. It's always the head of the household who says grace over the meal, and having a guest at the table wouldn't have changed that any. But jesus, bold as ever, takes the bread off the table and blesses it.

Don't you wonder what was going on is His mind? Can't you just hear him muttering under his breath, "please, oh, please God let them remember, I just did this with them a few days again, please let them remember this, let them remember me."

Jesus holds up the bread and breaks it in front of them, and gives it to them.

Jesus, the bread of our lives, breaking the bread for these men, as His very own body was broken. The crust cracks and tears and crumbles onto the table, bringing to mind the cracking and crumbling of Jesus' body as He died on the cross.

And He gives them the bread and finally, finally, finally, finally, their eyes are opened and they recognize him.

And Jesus puts His head down on the table, sighing, and chuckling with relief, "thank you God," he says, "thank you God." and then He disappears. because His work on earth was finally done. It was finally completed.

It was only in the breaking of the bread that they saw who it was.

It is in the crucifixion that the seeds of resurrection are present. It is only after the death that there can be the new life of salvation.

It is both a dreadful and a hopeful thing, this death stuff. Whether it's the thousand little deaths, or the last death of the body. But it is true that it is only in the breaking, the dying, the abandonment, that we see the true life that seeks to raise itself into the Son.

It's sometimes hard to know what to say when you're sitting there, with someone who is dying. whether it's because of illness, or because they're best friend just moved away. Or maybe their heart is breaking into a million pieces and they just wish they were dying, or any one of the thousands of other little deaths we suffer through in the course of our life time.

I don't know what happens to that tiny crusted seed pellet that I shoved in just under the dirt with my pencil point. It seems silly to grieve it's death, and so, instead I eagerly await the green shoot that will sprout, if I care for it, and give it just the right amount of water, and sun, and warmth.

It's all about what we do, and how we get through those times of death. Sometimes we're the ones dying, desperately in need of someone else's hand to hold, and a kind word from someone out there somewhere.

And sometimes we get to be the ones watching, walking along the emmaus road, talking with strangers. Sometimes we get to break the bread, and hope like Jesus did that we can open someone else's eyes to the possibilities of growth and new life ahead of them.

Because of what Jesus taught us, because of the story of his life, we now know that joy only springs forth after sorrow, that salvation only comes because of crucifixion, and that every death, no matter how small, opens us to new life.

Let us pray:

Lord, open our eyes to the breaking of bread. help us see clearly those who need our love and presence, as they suffer through the thousands of deaths in life. Help us to see clearly our own breaking hearts and souls. Sustain in us faith in Your risen Son. Send us Your holy spirit to keep alive in us the sure knowledge, the present hope, that in the breaking open of our hard shells we will find new and glorious life in you, always and forever. We who are your children, nestled in the palm of Your hand, seeking Your words of life in the midst of all our deaths, ask all of this in the name of Your only Son, crucified and risen for our salvation,

Amen.

Guest Speaker

Reverend Jacqueline Rotteveel

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