Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Assumptions

April 5, 2026

Acts 10:34-43
John 20:1-18

It’s very difficult to get through the day without making decisions based on assumptions. Absent any reason to believe otherwise, I assume that the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening, and I act accordingly. I assume that gravity will hold me to the ground and that when I breathe in, I’ll take in good air. I assume that water will satisfy my thirst and that eating will satisfy my hunger.

I have to say that those assumptions have held up pretty well over the years.

There are other assumptions that I tend to check. I’ll give a sniff to the package of grated cheese in the refrigerator before I add it to anything. Lately with our rather chilly mornings I’ve been checking the temperature outside before picking up a jacket – even though I feel somewhat cold in the house. It might be warmer outside; who knows?

Then there are the things I avoid making assumptions about. When driving, I take note of people’s turn signals, but you know what? I prepare myself for other drivers to do things they haven’t signaled. It’s not very trusting, I know, but it’s helped keep me from accidents. And anyone who has watched me with my keys has seen me tap my pocket – or reach into it – before I close a door that will lock. I always put my keys in the same pocket. But do I trust them to be there?

No.

On that first Easter morning, assumptions were front and center, as is common for human beings. Most of the assumptions were completely normal ones, things that we assume as well from one day to the next.

The first assumption was so human that John didn’t bother to name it. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb…” John didn’t mention her reason, because he didn’t have to. We mourn at graves and tombs and columbaria whether the death was recent – like Friday – or years and years ago. Look over a cemetery sometime. Look at all the floral displays. Each one marks a visit in love and grief.

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb assuming that things would be as they’d been on Friday, and that was the first assumption to give way that morning. She saw the stone had been rolled aside. For the moment, she didn’t even look inside. She ran back to the place where some of the disciples were staying. She’d made an assumption, I think: she assumed that they could do something to help. It didn’t turn out to be a good assumption. They ran out to the tomb themselves, but once they arrived, what could they do? They looked inside. They saw the discarded grave cloths. One of them believed – though it’s one of the mysteries of this text what he believed – and then…

They left. Whatever Mary Magdalene had hoped for from the two men, she didn’t get it.

She was left now with, perhaps not an assumption, but a conclusion. Something was wrong. Beyond the terrible loss of Jesus’ life, now his body had disappeared. Someone who had been cruelly put to death could not even be left to rest in peace.

She looked into the tomb for the first time that morning, and found it, not empty as I’m sure she assumed, but occupied by what John described later as two angels in white. I’m sure she assumed that they were ordinary people, because she didn’t ask them anything. She just told them why she was crying.

Then the final assumption. Outside the tomb stood another person, a male figure in the morning light. He asked her who she was looking for – an important question. As Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “This is the third time this question has appeared in the Gospel, every time asked by Jesus. They are his first words to the first disciples, with the only difference being ‘what’ instead of ‘whom’ (John 1:38). To ask this question of Mary here takes the reader back to the calling of the disciples and implies that Mary, too, is considered a disciple.”

Of course she was wrong. It wasn’t a gardener. It was Jesus. In that moment of realization, so many assumptions came crashing down. In the normal way of things, the powers of the city leadership, the priesthood, and especially the Roman Governor should have been close to absolute. If they decided to execute someone and to further humiliate him after his death, they could do it. They did do it to people over and over again.

On that Easter morning, Mary found that the normal way of things wasn’t. The normal way of things had given way to something greater. Her assumptions had to be laid aside and left behind.

As Dorothy A. Lee writes at Working Preacher, “Mary does not reach the heights of faith without a struggle. This is a characteristic feature of John’s stories, in which faith comes through layers of misunderstanding. Step-by-step, the exemplary characters of the Gospel, including Mary herself, come to a spiritual comprehension of what is happening, moving from the material to the spiritual level. In this process, matter is not dismissed or set aside. On the contrary, the material is itself the means by which God in Christ is revealed, just as the flesh of Jesus in the incarnation radiates the divine glory (1:14).”

Her assigned task – to tell Jesus’ other friends and followers that he had risen – is the reason she has been called “the apostle to the apostles” for centuries. It’s worth noting that they don’t seem to have believed her. They had to make their own journey through misunderstanding.

On this Easter Day, what assumptions can we, might we, possibly even should we leave behind?

I think we might start by building on Mary’s assumption that that Sunday morning would be like any other morning. It was a uniquely heartbreaking morning, but familiar. We begin most of our days, even the heartbreaking ones, believing that they will be more or less predictable, that while they might bring some surprises, even those unusual things will fit within our basic expectations.

Perhaps we might consider each day as a potential setting for a miracle.

In a sense, miracles happen every day. On the worst day I’ve ever lived, I have been living, and life itself is miraculous. The natural world is resplendent with beauty of sight, sound, smell, texture, and taste. Human love, expressed through conversation in person or over the ether, fills the heart. Each day is filled with miracles.

But each day is also one in which God’s uniquely overwhelming love might make itself felt – any morning, any noon, any evening, any night. At any moment, we might find our hearts moved by something that is the compassion of God, the embrace of Jesus, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. At any moment, we might find ourselves surprised to find that death does not have the power we assume, that oppressive earthly authorities do not have the last word, that sin and evil cannot stand against the power of love.

What would it have looked like if Mary had come to the tomb on a day that could have included a miracle?

She might have viewed the moved stone with wonder. She might have fetched the disciples to join her in awe. She might have recognized the angels as angels, and she might have asked them, “What has happened?” rather than continuing to assume that she knew what had happened.

Finally, she might have recognized Jesus before he said her name. She might not have shown it – even in a mind ready for a miracle, I’d have probably been speechless – but when Jesus did say her name, when he did demonstrate that she was one of his flock, whose name he knew, when he called her, I’m pretty sure she’d have done exactly what she did.

Rush to embrace him.

What would it look like for us to see each day as a potential setting for a miracle?

I’m pretty sure we’d appreciate the daily miracles better – sunrise, sunset, sea foam, birdsong, mountains, flowers, and above all else the wonders of human companionship. Those are worth celebrating.

We’re also likely to approach the sadnesses and trials of our days with more hope. Pain and sorrow are real, but in any day God might just do something to comfort them. We still have to work to make things better, but we can do so confident of God’s aid.

Most of all, we live each day prepared to say, “I have seen the Lord,” I know that my Redeemer lives, I have heard my name, I have been held in loving embrace, I have a story to tell and to share from it.

Let today be one in which you celebrate the Easter miracle, and rejoice in the life of Jesus.

Let tomorrow be one in which you anticipate new miracles, and rejoice ever and always in the life of Jesus.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Regrettably, the sermon was not recorded this morning.

The image is an illumination on parchment by Unknown author (ca. 1503-1504) – This image is available from the National Library of Wales. You can view this image in its original context on the NLW Catalogue, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44920216.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Assumptions

Sometimes people are glad to be wrong about their assumptions. Easter morning was like that.

Here’s a transcript:

Well, now it is Holy Week. And there is a lot to think about.

I could be thinking about the Monday Thursday text, and indeed I will be. I could be thinking about the seven last words of Jesus, which we’ll read on Friday from noon to three, and indeed I will be. At the moment, though, I am thinking about the twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel (John 20:1-18, John’s account of the discovery of the resurrection.

Most of the time we tend to say that we’re talking about the stories of the resurrection, but we’re not. In most of the Gospels, the resurrection occurs outside of anybody else’s sight or awareness. They learn about it when they come in some of the Gospels to an empty tomb, or in John’s case to a tomb where there are a couple of angelic messengers saying that Jesus is not here.

In John’s Gospel, it’s Mary Magdalene who went to the tomb. She found it empty, rushed back to the city, brought Simon Peter and the disciple that Jesus loved. They looked at the empty tomb and went away. Mary then encountered this angelic messenger whose words didn’t seem to make any impression upon her.

She realized that there was somebody else in the garden with her. She assumed it was the gardener and asked him where Jesus was.

It was, of course, Jesus.

When he said her name, “Mary,” she realized who he was and rushed to embrace him.

The discovery of the resurrection.

It strikes me that there are so many assumptions people made on that first Easter Sunday. The first and the easiest and, frankly, the one that makes the most sense, is that everybody assumed that Jesus had died — as he had — but that he continued to be dead as he hadn’t.

That would be the assumption they were most grateful to find was incorrect.

Mary ran back to the city to find Simon Peter and the disciple that Jesus loved, assuming that they could do something to help. As, of course, they could not. Mary assumed that these words she was hearing weren’t meaningful to her, as they were. Jesus [Ed. Correction: Mary] assumed that this other person moving around the garden had to be a worker and she was wrong again.

And as glad to be wrong as ever a person was glad to be wrong.

The story of the discovery of Easter, the learning of the resurrection, the realization of what had happened: doesn’t it say something to us about the assumptions that we make about the world? How likely is it that the things that we firmly believe turn out to be wrong?

Perhaps the world is a more wondrous and miraculous place than we have let ourselves imagine.

Is not the world one in which Jesus of Nazareth lives again?

Happy Easter to you.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons, Uncategorized

Sermon: Help Us!

March 29, 2026

Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 21:1-11

As Jesus rode the donkey – maybe two donkeys, according to Matthew – into Jerusalem, the crowds gathered and shouted. They quoted Psalm 118, a song of thanksgiving and, quite possibly, related to an ancient religious procession from the city entrance to the area of the Temple at the city’s summit. They also called “Hosannah to the Son of David!”

That was a pretty bold thing to say.

As D. Mark Davis writes at LeftBehindAndLovingIt, “The word “Hosanna” is only found in the entry stories of the NT. The Greek term Ὡσαννὰ [Hosanna] seems to be a transliteration of the Hebrew הושיעה־נא [Hoshiana]. When הושיעה־נא [Hoshiana] appears in the OT, such as in Psalm 118:25, it was translated in the LXX as σῴζω [sodzo], “to save.”

Calling for help and aid doesn’t sound so bold, but calling for it from the “Son of David” was. “Son of David” was a royal title, indicating a legitimate claim to the traditional throne of Israel and Judah. It was just short of calling Jesus, “King Jesus,” and not all that short of it.

Bold.

It could well have been even bolder, because it wasn’t just the city’s residents in the city at the time. At JourneyWithJesus.net, Debie Thomas writes,

In their compelling book, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus’ Last Days in Jerusalem, [Marcus] Borg and [John] Crossan argue that two processions entered Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday; Jesus’ was not the only Triumphal Entry.

Every year, the Roman governor of Judea would ride up to Jerusalem from his coastal residence in the west.  Why?  To be present in the city for Passover — the Jewish festival that swelled Jerusalem’s population from its usual 50,000 to at least 200,000.

The governor would come in all of his imperial majesty to remind the Jewish pilgrims that Rome was in charge.  They could commemorate an ancient victory against Egypt if they wanted to.  But real, present-day resistance (if anyone was daring to consider it) was futile.

When the crowds shouted “Hosannah! Save us! Help us!” to Jesus, they did so aware that the ones they wanted help against – the Romans – were present, armed, and prepared to bring violence just the other side of the city.

Help us!

A bold cry, or a desperate one, or sometimes maybe there isn’t much difference between desperate and bold.

Jesus chose an odd prophetic image to emulate with his donkey and colt. Jesus could have done things to look more like a traditional monarch. He might have sent his disciples to find a horse. He would have looked great on a horse. Everybody looks good on a horse – at least until it starts moving. After that it helps to know how to ride. It would have even matched a prophecy from Jeremiah rather than Zechariah.

If you want to look like a king, get a horse. Not a donkey.

They were bold and they were desperate, and they shouted, “Save us,” because even on a donkey Jesus was the best they had.

As D. Mark Davis writes, “I like how the word κράζω [kradzo] (cry out) is like an onomatopoeia, imitating the croak of a raven. It is used for both loud crowds and desperate people, like a woman crying out for help and Jesus crying out from the cross.”

Desperate people. A woman crying out for help. Jesus crying out from the cross. Matthew 27:46: “’Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’”

Help us!

I don’t know for sure what that crowd wanted. As with most crowds, I suspect there was a good range. Some hoped for that royal Messiah who would cast out the Romans. Others probably hoped for a new religious, but not political, leader who would do something about the priests. I’m sorry to say that religious leaders aren’t always the best of friends to the people they’re supposed to serve, in the twenty-first century or in the first century. Some might have been shouting “Help us!” because of their individual needs: Healing for an illness or injury, a word of assurance for the hopeless, a gift of food for the hungry. I suspect as well that some joined the crowd and shouted and waved palms because people get caught up in that kind of excitement even when they don’t know anything about what’s going on. “Who is this?” they asked, and there’s always plenty who don’t bother to ask.

Help us!

I don’t know whether Marcus Borg and John Crossan are right that Pontius Pilate entered the city on the other side as Jesus entered on the near side. It would have required some knowledge and planning to time things that way – which, to be sure, Jesus was certainly capable of. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. The crowd would have contrasted the Jesus parade with the Pilate parade. They would have noticed the distinct lack of soldiers. They would have noticed the complete lack of marching drummers and trumpeters. They would have noticed the replacement of the warhorse with the donkey.

“Crossan notes that Jesus rode ‘the most unthreatening, most un-military mount imaginable: a female nursing donkey with her little colt trotting along beside her.’” (quoted by Debie Thomas at JourneyWithJesus.net)

I’ll help you, said Jesus in his choice of mount, but not quite as you think, and probably not quite as you expect, and more than you dare to hope.

I am depressingly conscious of the number of people crying out for help in the world today. Some of them are near: people on this island, O’ahu, and Maui picking up from the wreckage left by floods and high winds over the last two weeks. There is a national UCC emergency offering for that, by the way. Look for information on how to contribute to it in the Weekly Chime on Tuesday.

Others near us suffer from injuries or illness, from the pains of long-term disease, from the fogs and storms of mental illness. Some cope with grief, with feelings of failure, with the words of others telling them that they aren’t of much worth. Some cope with the oppression of violence, violence from those who claim to love them, or violence of those who are supposed to protect them. Let’s face it. Federal courts have clearly stated that a law enforcement agency of the United States is routinely abusing its authority, taking people into custody without due process of law, abusing those it has detained, and avoiding accountability before the courts.

If they do it in Minnesota and Maine, they’ll do it in Hawai’i.

Some of those crying for help are not so near. They live in some of the world’s poorest regions, vulnerable to famine or disaster. Or they live as a marginalized group of people in some of the world’s most oppressive nations. Those people might be identified by skin color, or by national heritage, or by sexual orientation. These people might simply be women.

Some of them are just people living in a place engaged in war. That includes the United States. The war has come home with grief for mercifully few families so far, but the only certain thing about armed conflict is that more families will grieve. It’s for certain that a lot more families are grieving in Iran, and most of them have nothing to do with the issues between the governments. That’s the great tragedy and the great immorality of war. Whatever the justice of the cause – and the American administration has made no coherent explanation answering the questions of just cause – the most just cause in the world inflicts horrendous suffering on innocents. During the Second World War, it’s estimated that twice as many civilians died as those in the military – and again, most of those soldiers and sailors and aircrew had nothing to do with the aggression of their governments.

There are a lot of people in the world crying, “Hosannah! Save us! Help us!”

Jesus, in the meantime, makes his way through our lives on a donkey, not a warhorse. Whatever the show on the far side of the city, the great gift is before us here.

How will he help? Not with military conquest. He didn’t do it in the first century. He’s not going to do it in the twenty-first century. Not with grandeur. He chose a donkey. Not with coercion. He didn’t force anybody to cheer him. Pilate almost certainly did.

The things that Jesus offers – nearness to God, richness of soul, abundance of life in this world and the promise of life eternal – just aren’t as grand or as compelling as the parade of Pilate. They don’t answer the cries of “Help us!” all that directly – but I ask you: if we all truly lived as Jesus calls us and as Jesus expects, would we be at war now?

I didn’t think so, either.

Help us, Jesus!

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes as he preaches – sometimes deliberately, and sometimes not. The sermon as he prepared it is not a direct match for the sermon he delivered.

The image is The Entry into Jerusalem by Jan Baegert (ca. 1505-1510) – Wuselig, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104993708.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Humble Monarch

Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem was his first public act proclaiming he was the Messiah – and he chose the humblest possible way to do it.

Here’s a transcript:

This coming Sunday is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, so I’m thinking about the twenty-first chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 21:1-11), Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem.

In Matthew, this was really Jesus’ first public proclamation that he was the Messiah. He had discussed it with his disciples, others had speculated about it, but here Jesus actually did something that people would recognize as a Messianic claim. Here Jesus did something that people would recognize as the act of a king.

It was still a somewhat peculiar choice. Jesus chose to have his disciples find a donkey, and in Matthew’s account they also brought a colt, so that he came into the city, matching not lots of other Prophetic or Psalmic descriptions of the arrival of a monarch. Instead, he emulated a prophecy of Zechariah. “Your king comes to you, humble and mounted on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

It is possible, even likely, that on the other side of the city another procession similar but much grander was going on. The Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, would have entered Jerusalem at about this time: his annual visit to coincide with the Passover. That would have included trumpets, that would have included marching soldiers, that would have included the governor mounted on a great big horse.

On the other side of the city, Jesus entered to the accompaniment of cries of “Hosanna!” or “Save us!” His humble beast strode over people’s cloaks and branches that they laid in the road. It was a distinct, dramatic, and telling contrast to what would have happened on the other side of the city.

If it’s big and grand and showy we have to ask ourselves: just how Christian is it?

I come out of a tradition which includes significant influence from the Puritan part of the Protestant Reformation. The Puritans, in addition to concerns about clothing and modesty and all the rest of it, were very concerned about humility. Not always, I grant you, once they got into power.

Jesus, even as he made a proclamation of power did so in the humblest way possible. The twenty-first century since Jesus: so far, at least, it is not a humble age. It is not an age that values humility. It is not an age that rewards humility. Pride and hubris get the attention. Pride and hubris get the rewards.

But pride and hubris are not the ways of Jesus. They are not or should not be the ways of Jesus’ followers. Let us come into this Holy Week faithfully following the one upon a colt, the foal of a donkey, humble and coming to us and hearing our cries of “Hosanna,” “Save us,” “Help us.”

This is our prayer, O Jesus.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: The One You Love is Ill

March 22, 2026

Ezekiel 37:1-14
John 11:1-45

Someone you love is ill. What do you do?

You might well say, “I go visit them.” But is that what you do?

Don’t you think about it first?

Thinking is a good idea, because the people you love aren’t all the same. There are some who really do want you to rush over and comfort them. Hopefully you know who they are. Sometimes people tell you what they want, and sometimes they expect you to know. You’ve run into that before.

There are others, however, that really prefer to deal with their illness on their own as best they can. They might be very private people, or they don’t just don’t like someone around when they’re feeling bad. Some don’t want others to see them when they’re in their pajamas.

A few, of course, tell you that they’ll take care of themselves, thank you very much, and then expect you to turn up anyway. People don’t always tell you what they really want. You’ve run into that before.

After you think about the person who is ill, you think about what, if anything, you have to bring. You might think to bring food, and that means taking time to prepare or package it. You might think to bring a book to read or something out of your collection of CDs or DVDs – for the younger folks listening, those are antique devices to play music or videos. A memento. A stuffed animal. You may take some time to get things ready before you visit.

Let’s face it. You’re likely to think about how sick your loved one is. What do you think they actually need as opposed to whatever they may say they want? You have other obligations. When does your sick loved one become the next person you visit?

Jesus thought about it. “This illness does not lead to death,” he said. “Rather, it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of Man may be glorified through it.”

It strikes me that it’s possible to be wrong and right at one and the same time. “This illness does not lead to death,” he said – but it did. Lazarus died. “This illness does not lead to death,” Jesus said, and in a very real sense it didn’t because it led beyond death. Lazarus lived.

If I listen to this as someone trying to decide whether to go visit a loved one who is ill, I sympathize with Jesus’ decision to stay put. The illness was not to the death. Lazarus had plenty of people around him to care for him. Jesus had time. Jesus also seemed to believe that the delay would make Lazarus’ eventual recovery even more a sign of God’s glory.

I have to say, he was right about that, too.

He waited two days, then announced that he was returning to Judea to awaken Lazarus. Or, well, awaken metaphorically. As he eventually informed his disciples, Lazarus had died. He would arrive too late to heal him from his illness.

But not too late to mourn with the others who loved him.

I got curious here, and I thought about days and travel times, and finally realized that however long it took Jesus to get there, the two day delay didn’t make a difference. When he arrived, Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days. If Jesus had left immediately on hearing he was ill, he would have arrived when Lazarus had been in the tomb for two days. Without a miraculous way of travelling, which I grant you isn’t impossible for a person who did miracles, the best he could do was arrive before the third day after which Jews believed revitalization of a dead person was impossible.

When Martha and Mary said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died,” there may have been some reproach, but it wouldn’t have been for a two day delay they knew nothing about. It was that Jesus hadn’t been there, couldn’t have been there, but where on Earth did they want him? There. It couldn’t happen and it didn’t happen.

That happens with us, too. Have you ever made the cold, hard calculation between visiting someone and attending their funeral? I have. I would guess plenty of people have. We do the best we can with phone and video applications, but we have limited time and resources for extended travel, don’t we? We want to be there, we ache to be there, but we have limits and we have to choose. Sometimes we choose to be there with those who grieve.

Jesus went to be there with those who grieve.

Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “When Jesus weeps, he honors the complexity of our gains and losses, our sorrows and joys.  Raising Lazarus would not bring back the past. It would not cancel out the pain of his final illness, the memory of saying goodbye to a life he loved, or the gaping absence his sisters felt when he died.  Whatever joys awaited his family in the future would be layered joys, joys stripped of an earlier innocence.”

Someone he loved had been ill. Someone he loved had died.

He came to weep. He came to comfort.

He also came to say something about who he was. “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Laura Holmes writes at Working Preacher, “Jesus proclaims ‘I am’ statements in 14 passages in John’s Gospel. Nowhere else does someone respond to the proclamation with a statement of belief. Martha not only says, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe,’ but she places that language of belief in the context of the Gospel’s proclamation about Jesus: Jesus is the Messiah (3:28; 4:26; 9:22, 35–38), the Son of God (1:34, 49; 3:16–18), ‘the one coming into the world’ (1:9; 3:31; 6:51; 8:23; 18:37).”

This is also an odd departure from other “I am” statements. Usually in John’s Gospel, Jesus performed a sign, then had conversation about it, and concluded with his own assertion of how the sign revealed who he was: “I am the bread of life.” “I am the light of the world,” and so on. In this case, Jesus said “I am the resurrection and the life” before he actually did the sign. As someone in Bible Study said this week, the chances of anyone paying attention to what Jesus said after this miracle were pretty small, so best to get the words in first. But it also gave Martha the opportunity to testify to her trust in Jesus before he validated that trust. It’s a stunning moment, really only matched by her sister Mary when she anointed Jesus’ feet with perfume in the next chapter.

Jesus heard. Jesus paused. Jesus learned. Jesus moved. Jesus assured. Jesus spoke. Jesus wept. Jesus called. Lazarus lived.

Someone you love is ill.

What do you do?

You think. That’s a good thing. You make choices. That’s a difficult thing. You act, and that may be a good and welcome thing, and it may be an ill-chosen and unwelcome thing – we’re well meaning but not perfect. If any of you have resurrection power, you’ve been quiet about it. I’ve been quiet about it because I don’t have it.

Whatever you do, you do it as a follower of Jesus, aware that even when Jesus looks late, there’s never a too late for Jesus. Martha dared to affirm her faith in a resurrection on the last day. Jesus did correct her somewhat, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Maybe that’s a useful correction for us as well:

As Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “We tend to focus on the resurrection that we situate for ourselves as a distant promise, our guarantee of salvation, our eternal life with God and Jesus in heaven. But what might it mean that Jesus is the resurrection and the life? That we are raised to life, not as future salvific existence, but to life right now, right here, with Jesus?”

It might mean that we worry less about two days delay. Jesus the resurrection and the life is with us, and with those we love.

It might mean that we treasure those phone conversations and video chats more. Jesus is the resurrection and the life for those of us at both ends of the wire.

It might mean that we approach death not with less sadness, but with more hope. Jesus is the resurrection and the life both for us and for those who have died.

It might mean that we live each day with more courage and with more joy. Jesus is the resurrection and the life, so that the beauty I celebrate today will be different and beautiful and worth celebrating tomorrow.

Jesus wept and called Lazarus to life in the same breath. Imagine what he does in one breath for you.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, so the sermon text does not precisely match the sermon as delivered.

The image is The Resurrection of Lazarus by Giovanni di Paolo (1425) – Walters Art Museum: Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18833003.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Never Too Late

Jesus arrived after Lazarus had died. It’s a hard moment – Jesus shared the grief – but it turned out that he was not too late, because he was and is the resurrection and the life.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the eleventh chapter of John’s Gospel (John 11:1-45), the resurrection of Lazarus.

It is a wonderful and uplifting story. It demonstrates that the power of Jesus was not limited to day-to-day life, but extended beyond life and was, in fact, a power over death. It features perhaps the deepest of Jesus’ “I am” statements: “I am the resurrection and the life.” It offers and reassures the promise of eternal life and resurrection for us all. It’s a marvelous story.

It also contains some truly troubling elements. It is this event that persuaded some of the leadership to seek an occasion where they could arrest Jesus and have him executed. That’s a harsh element of the story.

It is also a story that is marked with grief: the grief of Lazarus’ sisters Martha and Mary. Each of them expressed their faith in Jesus, but each of them also say something along the lines of, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Onlookers say the same thing. If Jesus had been there in time — and John made clear Jesus might have been there in time — Lazarus would not have died.

What explanation we’re given, and it’s not much, is that Jesus saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate his power over death, to demonstrate that he had authority even beyond the veil. It’s not a satisfying explanation. I don’t think it even satisfied Jesus, who stood outside the tomb of Lazarus and wept.

What are we to say? I think we are to take our lead from Jesus’ own tears. We are the followers of one, we are the worshipers of a God, who knows our grief, who has shared our sense of loss. We believe in a God, we trust in a God, who knows how we have felt, who has felt what we have felt.

And whatever we might think or feel about the timing of Jesus’ arrival, it has to be said that for Jesus it was not too late. Yes, he might have prevented Lazarus from dying, and yes, there was some grieving that happened, and grief he participated in, but there was no such thing as being too late for Jesus. Illness was no barrier to him, death itself no barrier to him. There is no such thing as too late for Jesus in our lives.

And there is that marvelous “I am” statement. “I am the resurrection and the life.”

We trust in One who is not the agent of death, we trust in One who is not the agent of suffering, we trust in One who is the agent of life and renewed life.

“I am the resurrection and the life.” And this is the one in whom we trust. This is the one we follow.

That’s what I am thinking. I’m curious to hear with you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Not Any of These

March 15, 2026

1 Samuel 16:1-13
Ephesians 5:8-14

I learned something new this week. I learned about “Dark dining.” This is a restaurant where you eat with all the lights off. The idea is to focus your attention on the tastes and scents of the food. Thinking about one of these restaurants, Biblical scholar Roger Nam writes at Working Preacher, “Without the crutch of vision, textures, flavors, temperatures, and nodes of taste are enlightened. It is amazing how the deliberate restriction of sight may enhance a dining experience!”

And that, says Dr. Nam, is the way Samuel found himself approaching the task of identifying God’s chosen successor to Saul, the first King of Israel. He continues: “I wonder how much our own sight blinds us to God’s wishes, and prevents us from truly experiencing God’s intent. Perhaps the occasional experience of blindness can remind us how the gift of sight may prevent us from seeing the heart of God… 1 Samuel 16 implores us that sometimes we only need to deliberately close our eyes to see what God wants us to see.”

“[Samuel] looked on Eliab and thought, ‘Surely his anointed is now before the LORD.’ But the LORD said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him, for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.’”

As you can probably tell from the beginning of the text, things were complicated in Israel. Samuel had anointed Saul as the first King of Israel possibly as little as two years before. God and Samuel hadn’t been enthusiastic about replacing the system of judges with a monarch, but the Israelites had been hard pressed by raids and military incursions from their neighbors, and the people demanded a reliable, consistent leadership. Samuel, at God’s direction, had chosen Saul. It wasn’t long, however, before Saul began to do things he wasn’t empowered to do, such as offer sacrifices, and he failed to do things he was supposed to do. Samuel confronted Saul about it and informed him that God had rejected him.

It seems from the Samuel’s concerns about his safety at the beginning of this passage, and the trembling question of the leaders of Bethlehem – “Do you come peaceably?” – that everybody knew that the King and the prophet were at odds.

What he was doing, of course, was setting up the nation for a lengthy civil war. That’s the best name for it. As you might remember, Saul and David worked as a team for several years. David even married one of Saul’s daughters. A day came, however, when the relationship fractured into open conflict. As Patricia Tull writes at Working Preacher, “Samuel secretly anoints him [David] as God’s chosen future king while Saul is still reigning, and for the next fifteen chapters, that is, most of the story, the conflict between the two kings Samuel has anointed, a conflict neither of them created, balloons from rivalry and jealousy to deadly hostility: the recognized king of Israel, who still had a following, periodically determined to destroy his hidden heir, who time after time eludes his grasp.”

King Saul: Not this one.

God guided Samuel to the sons of Jesse, a respectable resident of Bethlehem. Samuel asked to meet the young men one at a time, or at least the authors presented it as something of a parade, with each one “passing by” in turn. The first was the eldest, Eliab, and Samuel thought he looked like a likely candidate for king: tall and good looking. God chimed in, however, to say, “I have rejected him, for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.”

If God told Samuel what was in the heart that disqualified Eliab, the story doesn’t say. We only know that Eliab got angry at David later on for asking an embarrassing question – which is, I’m afraid, the usual fate of younger siblings who ask questions that embarrass their older siblings. Was that it?

My guess is, probably not.

Eliab: Not this one.

Then son number two: Abinadab. And: Not this one.

Son number three: Shammah. Not this one.

After that the storytellers ran out of names, because four more young men were run by the prophet, and four more young men were rejected.

Not any of these.

But now Samuel was out of candidates.

It turns out there was one more, one whose utility as a shepherd outweighed the prophet’s request to meet all Jesse’s sons. That was David, of course. You’ve heard the story read, and you’ve heard it before. God told Samuel, “This is the one.”

Not any of these.

This one.

Why?

That’s the crucial question, isn’t it? We don’t know what God saw in the heart of Eliab or the other six brothers that disqualified them. We also don’t know what God saw in the heart of David to qualify him. What made him a good potential king? What made the others less good – we don’t actually know they’d have been bad – what made them less suitable candidates than the youngest of Jesse’s sons?

The closest we can come is to look at what David did after his anointing. What qualities did he show? What did his behavior say about what was in his heart?

The first virtue, I have to say, was compassion. The very next story, wrapping up this chapter, tells how David became a member of King Saul’s entourage. Saul suffered from some kind of mental health ailment, described as “an evil spirit.” Music soothed him, and the musician was David.

The story told in the next chapter of First Samuel is David and Goliath. There are a lot of things you can learn about David in that, but the first and foremost is that he was brave. There are a lot of ways to show courage. David displayed many of them.

Another virtue David displayed repeatedly was loyalty. His friendship with Saul’s son Jonathan is iconic. The two maintained a relationship even when King Saul sought David’s life. Further, David, even as a rebel, remained oddly loyal to Saul himself. There are two stories of David having the opportunity to kill King Saul, and refusing to “raise his hand against the LORD’s anointed.”

Finally, David showed a quality that Saul so lacked that it was what provoked God and Samuel to anoint him in the first place. David displayed a trust in God and a humility before God that clearly separated him from his predecessor. Saul assumed that his status as king gave him priestly powers. David routinely asked God about the things he should do. His relationship with God governed his decisions far more than Saul. David’s relationship with God was further recorded in the psalms he wrote. They reveal a trust and faith that even the storytellers of First Samuel could not fully describe.

What David did not possess, the virtue of the heart that God did not discern, was perfection. It would be nice if he had, because the stories of his reign would be different. But it’s also a relief, isn’t it? God isn’t looking for people who make no mistakes. God is looking for people who are brave, but not always. God is looking for people who care, but not for people who always know exactly what to do. God is looking for people who trust in God, but not people whose faith never falters.

God knows that people are people. God knows that people will fail from time to time.

What God wants is people who try, and try again, and try again.

What God also wants is for people not to be in positions where they cannot or will not fulfill their responsibilities. God wants the inclinations of the heart to be consistent with the roles they’re called to play. Those inclinations may change – that seems to have happened with Saul – but if they’re preventing someone from fulfilling their kuleana, it’s time to move on.

You and I might envy God that ability to see into the heart, but I’ll remind you that we are not so ignorant. In an interview with Oprah Winfrey, the poet Maya Angelou said, “My dear, when people show you who they are, why don’t you believe them? Why must you be shown 29 times before you can see who they really are? Why can’t you get it the first time?”

May we be visible as people of good hearts the first time and the twenty-nine times after that. When God looks into us, may we not hear: “Not any of these.”

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes from his prepared text while he preaches. The sermon you just read is not precisely as he delivered it.

The image is David Anointed King by Samuel, Dura Europos synagogue painting (3rd cent.), reworked by Marsyas. Yale Gilman collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5107843.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Inclination of the Heart

What did God see in David’s heart to choose him? We don’t know. We can only try to imitate his courage, compassion, and mercy (and not his flaws).

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the sixteenth chapter of First Samuel (1 Samuel 16:1-13): the anointing of David.

At the beginning of this section, God spoke to Samuel, the chief prophet of the day, and said it was time to move on from King Saul. Saul had been selected to be the first monarch of Israel, and God and Samuel had become increasingly disappointed with his conduct and his character.

It was time to move on. It was time to select Saul’s successor. This would be — was — an act of rebellion, one that would eventually move into a lengthy civil war between Saul and Saul’s successor.

God directed Samuel to the house of Jesse, a resident of Bethlehem, because Saul’s successor was to be found amongst Jesse’s sons. You might remember this part of the story: one by one Jesse presented his sons to Samuel. One by one Samuel looked at them and said, “This young man looks like a king.” Each time God said, “This is not the one. Human beings see with the eyes, but God sees into the human heart.”

Eventually Jesse presented his youngest, David. “This one,” said God, and Samuel anointed him.

I do wonder what it was that God saw in David’s heart that God did not see in the hearts of Jesse’s other sons. Certainly David displayed a lot of desirable characteristics as we moved through the story. He was brave. He was compassionate. He could be generous and kind. Were those things not in the hearts of the others?

It is also true that David displayed some of the worst of humanity, especially as he became king and lived into that power. He committed sexual assault. He connived at murder. Were these things not in the hearts of his brothers?

The story doesn’t say.

I do think that the potential for evil dwells in the hearts of any human being. I also think the potential to do good dwells in the hearts of any human being. So what was it that God looked for? What was it that God saw?

I think it was not just potential. I think it was inclination. Which way was David likely to go as compared to his brothers, as compared to anybody else? Was he just a bit more likely to choose the paths of righteousness, of courage and generosity of mercy, than were his older brothers? Again, the story doesn’t say except by describing the things that David did later in life.

I hope that each of us will remember how much we can and can’t see when looking upon our brothers and sisters, our family of humanity. I hope that each of us will make our judgments based on what is revealed of character through choices, decisions, and action. And I hope that each of us will, to be honest, do better than David, that we will each emulate his compassion and mercy and keep away from the sins that he committed.

May we each find ourselves viewed in the heart by God, and may God be satisfied with what is there.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Refreshment

March 8, 2026

Exodus 17:1-7
John 4:5-42

The best drink of water I’ve ever had in my life came from Thoreau Spring, a little pool of fresh water about 4600 feet up the slopes of Mount Katahdin, the highest mountain in Maine. I was fifteen, taking part in a week long hiking trip in Baxter State Park with our church youth group. We’d had a rough day. We’d taken the wrong trail early in the day, and although we would end up where we intended to go, we were taking the long way across one of the shoulders of the mountain, which we hadn’t meant to do. We’d also misplaced one of our adult advisors, who we caught up with at our destination.

So there I was with a few other young people at the front of the pack as the afternoon was waning. We spotted the sign for the spring and turned off to it, even though we all had plenty of water in our water bottles. We fetched out our cups, dipped them into the water, and sipped.

It was heavenly.

We couldn’t stay long, because our other adult advisor called to us to keep going so we wouldn’t be hiking in the dark. It was a near thing. The sun had just set when the last of us arrived at camp. I’ve never regretted that stop or that sip, though. I’ve been thirstier. I’ve been hungrier. I can’t remember ever being more refreshed.

Jesus asked for a drink of water.

He asked it of a Samaritan woman, who was quite surprised to be asked. That might have been in part because of her gender, but it was in great part because he was Jewish and she was Samaritan. Samaritans and Jews shared a common heritage. Jews were descended from the citizens of the nation of Judah, with its capital at Jerusalem, ruled over by the descendants of King David until the Babylonian invasion about 580 years before Jesus’ birth. Samaritans were descended from the citizens of the nation of Israel, with its capital at Samaria, north of Jerusalem. Israel broke away from Judah after the death of Solomon and endured until the Assyrian invasion about 740 years before Jesus’ birth. Though the nation vanished, the people remained. Jews and Samaritans shared a belief in God; reliance on the books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy; and even a belief in a coming Messiah.

As Sherri Brown writes at Working Preacher, “Although sharing the same founding history, they currently shared nothing else, including food, drink, or utensils..” I’d add one thing. They shared a deep resentment of the other.

Jesus asked for a drink. He asked to be refreshed by a person who, by usual expectation, couldn’t be expected to refresh him.

Jesus and this woman – John didn’t record her name, but she’s listed as a saint by the Eastern Orthodox church with the name “Photini,” which means “Enlightened One” – then had the longest conversation recorded between Jesus and any person in the four Gospels. It’s longer than the one Jesus had with Nicodemus in the previous chapter, one which, you might recall, leaves you wondering whether Nicodemus managed to catch up with Jesus or not. Personally, I think he did, but I think John left it vague on purpose.

In this conversation, however, Jesus got as clear as he ever got. This chapter includes the first of Jesus’ “I am” statements in John. You probably remember the others: “I am the bread of life.” “I am the light of the world.” “I am the good shepherd.” “I am the resurrection and the life.”

The “I am” statement here came in reply to Photini’s statement, “I know that Messiah is coming.” Jesus said, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

In the rest of the Gospel of John people argued about whether Jesus was the Messiah. Here in chapter four, Jesus told a Samaritan woman that he was. It’s a stunning moment, and so easy to miss.

Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “As theologian Barbara Brown Taylor points out, Jesus’s dialogue with the woman at the well is his longest recorded conversation in the New Testament.  He talks to the Samaritan woman longer than he talks to his twelve disciples, or to his accusers, or even to his own family members.  Moreover, she is the first person (and the first ethnic/religious outsider) to whom Jesus reveals his identity in John’s Gospel.  And — this might be the most compelling fact of all  — she is the first believer in any of the Gospels to straightaway become an evangelist, and bring her entire city to a saving knowledge of Jesus.”

Jesus asked for refreshment of the body.

The woman – I’ll keep calling her Photini, why not? – asked for something else pretty early in their conversation. She immediately brought up the religious significance of the well, which was attributed to Jacob, grandson of Abraham. When Jesus’ knowledge of her background revealed his power as a prophet, she immediately began to question him about theology. Yes, theology. She was less concerned with literal flowing water to ease her daily burden than she was about the appropriate worship of God.

Photini asked for refreshment of the spirit.

Oddly enough, it’s not clear whether Jesus got his requested refreshment of the body. It’s abundantly clear that Photini got her refreshment of the spirit.

“God is spirit,” Jesus told her, “and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.”

She left her water jar and went to fetch her neighbors.

As several commentators have noted, Jesus made no judgements about her. He simply spoke with her. He answered her questions, rapidly steering the conversation from day-to-day matters to spiritual topics. She followed him there, and I’d have to say she did it eagerly. The Orthodox have it right. She earned the name Photini, Enlightened One.

Jesus refreshed her spirit.

At the same time, Photini refreshed Jesus’ spirit. That eagerness, that engagement, that enlightenment nourished Jesus even more than the water. He told his disciples so when they urged him to eat something: “I have food to eat that you do not know about.”

She refreshed Jesus’ spirit.

That drink of water from Thoreau Spring high on a mountain decades ago refreshed me body and soul. That’s why I’ve never forgotten it. Photini refreshed Jesus in body and soul as well – I think I’ve got to assume she gave him a drink of water. That’s why we’ve never forgotten her. She went on to refresh her friends and family and neighbors. She invited them to seek even more refreshment in Jesus – and they found it.

As they did, they refreshed Jesus as well.

Refreshment sounds… trivial, doesn’t it? What do we get at refreshment stands? Ice cream. Candy. Snacks. The nourishment that some would tell us we don’t need.

The word “refreshment” is bigger than that, however, and the reality of refreshment is more necessary than that. Our bodies and our souls cry out for refreshment when they need something. Our stomachs rumble with hunger. Our mouths gasp for air with exertion. Our tongues dry up with thirst. Our spirits falter when there’s confusion, or deception, or abuse. When we meet our needs, we feel refreshed.

I think that makes refreshment a basic activity of the Christian life. It starts by making sure that I am refreshed in my body and in my soul. It starts by satisfying my actual needs for food and drink and shelter. It continues by meeting my actual spiritual needs through prayer and study and reflection and companionship in the journey. The first task of any Christian is to seek refreshment themselves.

Further, though, and it’s not much further because it’s the next thing, Christians refresh others. We refresh those who are near and dear, and we refresh those who are far and feared. A Samaritan woman refreshed Jesus, and he refreshed her and lots of other Samaritans. “Love your enemies,” Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount. What is love for another but the willingness and the commitment to keep them refreshed?

The notion that Jesus, of all people, would ever summon his followers to holy war has always been the vilest of heresies. It’s false. It slanders Christ. Those who proclaim it may believe it, but they lie.

Refreshment is the way of Jesus. Refreshment for those around, and refreshment for those who seem like the other or the enemy. Refreshment for a world thirsting for compassion and renewal. Refreshment for our bodies and souls, for yours and for mine.

Refreshment with Jesus himself.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes as he preaches, so the prepared text does not precisely match the sermon as delivered.

The image is Jesus and the Samaritan Woman, from JESUS MAFA, Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=48282 [retrieved March 8, 2026]. Original source: http://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr (contact page: https://www.librairie-emmanuel.fr/contact).

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Refreshment

When Jesus met a woman at a well in Samaria, it turned out that they both had something to offer to one another: Refreshment.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the fourth chapter of John’s Gospel (John 4:5-42): the conversation between Jesus and a woman he met at a well in Samaria.

The conversation started with Jesus’ simple request that she share some of the water she was drawing so that he could have a drink. It went from there to matters much deeper — deeper even than the well, if you like. It went to spiritual matters. It went even to the identity of the Messiah, the Deliverer, the one who was coming.

Unlike lots of other conversations, Jesus actually acknowledged to the woman that he was the Messiah.

The conversation was persuasive enough that she went back to the town and invited her neighbors to meet him. She said, “Come and meet a man who told me everything I’ve ever done. He couldn’t be the Messiah — or could he? Come and see.”

It occurs to me that this story is about refreshment. It started with Jesus asking to be refreshed with the literal water to be drawn from the well. It continued with the refreshment that Jesus offered to this woman and to her neighbors: refreshment of the spirit.

He offered and delivered not just an acceptance, but also real valuing for her and for those around her, despite the fact that she was a Samaritan, despite the fact that she was a woman, despite the fact that there were a number of things that should have kept them distant from one another.

Yet they refreshed one another.

I think refreshment is a central activity, a central calling, a central obligation, if you like, of the life of faith. We are not simply here to be ourselves. We are here to support one another, to be a community, to be a family, if you like. In that family we refresh one another. We provide refreshment such as water, food, shelter. We provide refreshment emotionally and relationally. And when and how we can, we offer refreshment for the spirit: that living water of which Jesus spoke that flows through our very souls and renews our lives.

Refreshment.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.