2026-03-22 "This Thin Space"
John 11:1-45
As a pastor, I get to do some very, very sacred things.
Baptisms.
Baptisms are the very best.
My favorite part of being a pastor.
To hold an infant, or to stand with an adult…
to say the sacred words of promise, words of blessing –
it's one of those "thin spaces" where the line between heaven and earth evaporates.
To place a hand on a forehead is like reaching through to another world.
And because it's a different, holy world, you can never tell what's going to happen.
One baptism, the baby spit up a little on my shoulder.
Not a lot.
Just a spot.
I refused to get the robe dry cleaned.
I consider the spit-up a badge of honor.
A sign of holy privilege.
Like being touched by an angel, with very active digestion.
It's a stained window to a thin space.
The other very sacred time is one I've had here at Trinity.
The first and only place I've done this.
It's when we place a person's ashes in their final resting place in the Memorial Garden.
Jim and Rick dig a hole in just the right location.
The family gathers.
We have a service.
Scripture, prayers.
It's very simple.
And as in a baptism, we say a few, sacred words of promise, words of blessing.
The "thin space" reopens.
It's like we can almost see through.
We say, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,"
and we commit the person's ashes to their final resting place.
And then – and this is a Trinity thing –
as the pastor, I take the bag of ashes –
I am allowed to take them, allowed, blessed, privileged – to hold the ashes, then to kneel, and to reach down into the ground, almost up to my shoulder.
To place them as gently as I can – where they will be safe, and cared for, in a garden.
I am reaching back to our beginning and reaching forward to infinity.
I started crying as I wrote this.
I was at a table at Jitterbug Coffee Shop.
As I wiped my eyes and my nose I glanced around to see if anybody was staring at me.
Maybe thinking, "Somebody should help that old man."
Nope.
Everybody was deep in conversation.
Or staring at their laptops.
Or just vibing to Tom Petty.
Because, you know, life goes on.
And that's the way it should be.
Just because I'm crying doesn't mean everybody has to.
But it IS better – if you've got someone else to cry with.
I get to do these amazing things.
I get to do baptisms, and funerals, and get teary thinking about it all in a coffee shop.
That's when I feel the Holy Spirit pulls up a chair and joins me at the table.
It becomes a holy space for us.
A thin space.
It's good that we can share a coffee and, like a baby being baptized, cry a little, as we spill our guts.
–
We have a long scripture reading today.
It took three people to read it!
We're lucky with our fancy bound-book versions.
Because the Bible didn't come with verse numbers.
Not even punctuation.
No commas, no periods, no points of exclamation.
It wasn't until the 1500's a Parisian print shop owner, Robert Estienne, added tiny numbers
and opened the Bible to common people who could save enough money to buy these things called "books."
And to thank him for all his hard work, the church branded him a "progressive."
He got in big trouble and had to leave the country under fear of death.
He fled to Geneva, where he met John Calvin, the progenitor of Presbyterianism, another so-called heretic, and he went to work printing Calvin's masterworks.
So, to all the people who like citing chapter and verse, we Presbyterians can say, "You're welcome."
There's one verse everyone can memorize.
John 11:35.
John 11:35 is the shortest verse in all the Bible.
The printer must have thought it was important enough to stand alone.
Just two words long:
"Jesus wept."
That's it.
"Jesus wept."
Jesus wept and everyone gathered round the tomb stared at him.
"Jesus wept."
And they could see how much, how very much he loved and missed his friend, Lazarus.
The King James says Jesus, groaning in himself cometh to the grave."
Here, two weeks before Easter,
two weeks before Jesus himself is placed in a tomb,
here in John 11:35,
Jesus reaches out.
He clears his groaning throat and calls out so loud even the rocks can hear.
He shouts, "Lazarus! Come out!"
And the line between what everyone knew to be true and final and dead and buried,
the boundary between life and death and heaven and earth and our beginnings and our infinity
became so thin that the warm rush of Jesus's voice flowed right through it.
"Lazarus, Come out!"
And the dead did rise.
Some people wept for joy.
Some refused to believe.
Two weeks later, the Holy Spirit,
the ground-shaking voice of God
will call Jesus himself to rise from his own grave.
And the space will become so very thin.
And the dead will rise.
Again.
You'll see.
–
I think the question most of us would want to ask Lazarus is,
"What was it like?"
What was it like when you were in the tomb?
When you were bound up in the darkness of your own death?
Did you see angels?
Did you speak to your relatives?
Reunite with your friends?
Make peace with your enemies that in life you had wished dead?
What did they say to you?
What did you say?
And, "In your death did you see God?"
But I think there's a better question.
I think the better question is,
"In your life, in your precious new, second life –
In this life, Lazarus, do you see God, now?"
As you awakened from the cave,
as they unwrapped the cloths from your body,
as your fingers reached again for the sunlight,
as your eyes squinted in this, your second birth-day,
Did you see your adoring sisters?
Did you hear your neighbors gasping, whispering, welcoming, speechlessly crying out wonder?
Did you smell the frankincense and myrrh?
Did you see the wild flowers arranged by the whimsy of seeds cast at your birth by the earth's first sower?
Did the scent of the lilies of this field tickle your full, new lungs?
And then, at the last, did you see your dear, dear friend, Jesus?
Jesus – Wiping tears from his own eyes, and then wiping the tears from yours?
Can you feel his arms wrapping around you,
pulling you tight, so tight –
as his words echoed over and over and over against the walls of your reborn soul?
"Lazarus, come out."
"Lazarus, come out."
—
We are close.
In this thin space of calendar days, we are very, very close to Easter.
Easter -
The day when children wake up to baskets filled with colorful eggs, sweet, sweet candy, and stuffed animal bunnies to hug close and love the fur off.
Easter -
the day when we wrap ourselves in bright, new clothes of the season.
When women wear bonnets.
White, unbroken shoes squeezing the circulation from their toes.
When men comb their hair, button pressed shirts, and ask,
"Does this look alright?"
Easter -
the day when we have hope.
Hope that it doesn't rain.
Hope that the breeze is gentle.
Hope that pulls us from the caves of sleep to handshakes and hugs with dutiful Christian souls we are so grateful to see even once a year.
Easter -
the day that if we listen carefully,
we hear Jesus calling our names.
Calling us into this thin space awakening all around us.
We hear him calling as the children do:
"Come out, come out."
"Come out, come out, wherever you are."
Saying, "Come out. Come laugh. Come cry.
"Come sit beside me at this table.
This park bench.
This garden.
This church pew.
"Come sit in the floor and play with me this mysterious game of 'peek-a-boo' we christen, "Life."
He says, "O my friend. O my dear friend.
"Hold still.
"Hold still and let me unbind you,
and set you free."
[eos]
