Hardness of Heart

And all the RCL preachers just looked at this Sunday's gospel lesson (Mark 10:2-16) and thought, "Uh oh. I wonder if I could preach a sermon on the Old Testament text."

Let's not beat around the bush. Here it is. It's what we're dealing with. On Sunday, like it or not, we are going to hear Jesus say, "Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery." Boom. Drop the mic. Exit, stage left.

I don't know about you, but, as a preacher who often stands in the pulpit in front of many divorced and remarried people, my instinct is to start looking for explanations. Divorce isn't the same now as it was then...In that culture, divorced women would be particularly vulnerable...Jesus says lots of hyperbolic things like 'if your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off'...Let's talk about the little children at the end of the lesson instead.

As a preacher and as a student of the bible, there are two divergent directions that I feel the need to explore. First, how might this text not really mean what we think it means? Would a twenty-first century Jesus who knew how divorce works in our lives still say the same thing? Are there cultural barriers that we can't see through that might otherwise change the tenor of this difficult text? And, second, what if this text means exactly what we think it means? What if divorce and remarriage is the same thing as adultery? What if our church has been mistaken in allowing the remarriage of divorced persons for the last several decades? I'm not actually preaching this week, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't wrestle deeply with this text before Sunday.

Over the coming days, I'll explore these in more detail, but, for now, here are some mitigating and aggravating points that will guide my thinking between now and Sunday:

• Matthew gives us the infidelity exception, which Mark leaves out. Does this matter?
• When is a marriage not really a marriage? We don't use annulments in our church, but the principle might still apply. Surely Jesus doesn't want an abusive relationship to persist.
• What is adultery anyway? Given Jimmy Carter's admission in his Playboy interview, maybe we need to worry less about divorce and more about fidelity.
• Given the Pharisees' question and the ensuing argument, in which Jesus and his opponents cite two contradictory passages in the Hebrew scriptures (Genesis 2 and Deuteronomy 24), might this passage be more about the nature of marriage as a spiritual union than the regulations regarding divorce?
• When Jesus says that the law (Deut. 24) was written because of their "hardness of heart," is he prioritizing a "spiritual" law over a "practical" law? Does this change how we read the Old Testament?
• Why does Mark follow up with the bit about receiving the kingdom as a little child? How is this teaching on divorce related to the teaching about children?
• Should the church have a much clearer and more distinct theology of Christian marriage (as opposed to secular/legal marriage) and get out of the wedding business except when the couple understands their marriage to be primarily an image of God's love for the world? How do we distinguish between the two (other than, perhaps, what Jesus says about divorce)?

As you can see, there's lots of work to do. Prayers, indeed, for preachers and congregations a like.

God's Transforming Call

September 27, 2015 – The 18^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21B

Numbers 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29; James 5:13-20; Mark 9:38-50

© 2015 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but a guy named Francis has been in the news lately for having made his first-ever trip to the United States. Thousands and thousands of people have flocked to see him—even if only to get a glimpse of his Fiat motorcade as it buzzed down the highway. And those of us who haven’t left our homes to try to get a peek at the Bishop of Rome have seen video clips of him laughing with the President and addressing Congress and the United Nations and stopping his car to bless a disable child on the side of the road. All of us seem to love him. It doesn’t even matter whether you’re Catholic or even Christian. Our whole nation has caught Francis Fever.

Perhaps that’s because, in a refreshing sort of way, Francis seems to transcend the politics that usually dominate our media coverage. And he does so by making everyone happy and everyone angry all at the same time, ensuring that no one is able to claim him as their own. To the delight of liberals and the fury of conservatives, he regularly calls for an end to human-caused climate change, for a solution to the refugee crisis, for the redistribution of wealth to benefit the poor, and for the abolition of the death penalty. And, to the delight of conservatives and the fury of liberals, he refuses to legitimize same-sex relationships, to revisit the role of women in the church, to accept the remarriage of divorced persons, and to loosen the church’s position on abortion or birth control. In short, he’s managed to infuriate both Rush Limbaugh and Gene Robinson, and that’s saying something. And, given that he’s the successor of St. Peter, the rock on which our Lord built his church, maybe it shouldn’t surprise us that Francis sounds as hard to pin down as Jesus himself.

If ever there was a gospel lesson that portrays a Jesus who is kind, gentle, and accepting and, at the same time, stern, harsh, and condemning, it’s this one. It starts with John—yes, John, our patron saint—who gets all upset that someone else is using Jesus’ name to cast out demons. Perhaps those of us who call St. John’s our church home can identify with our namesake, who wasn’t about to let an outsider get away with using his master’s reputation for his own exorcizing purposes. “Teacher, we tried to stop him,” John explains, “but he just wouldn’t listen.” But instead of intervening as John had hoped, Jesus looks at John and said, “Why does that make you so upset? No one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. If he’s not against us, he’s for us.”

What a remarkable and unexpected philosophy for a religious movement: whoever is not against us is for us! John, on the other hand, embodies our instincts, which are exactly the opposite. Those of us who have walked with Jesus as his disciples expect others to do the same. If you want to call yourself a Christian, you’d better be a follower of Jesus—like us. Who do you think you are using the name of Jesus, which is to say our brand, to suit yourself? Stop wearing that cross necklace just because everyone else is. If you want access to Jesus, get in line with the rest of us. People like us know what it really means to be a Christian. You can’t just do whatever you want; you’ve got to do it our way.

But Jesus says no. His movement isn’t exclusive. You don’t have to do it his way. He refuses to stop anyone who’s having success. He refuses to turn anyone away. He isn’t worried that someone will misrepresent who he is and what he stands for. He trusts that anyone and everyone who encounters the power that he represents will be transformed by that power. It’s as if Jesus is saying, “Sure, try it your way. If it works, great. If not, try something else.” It’s that kind of openness and accepting spirit that makes the Jesus movement distinct.

But don’t confuse “if it works, great” for “anything goes” because, when it comes to following Jesus, those aren’t the same thing. Jesus might not mind it if you find him by your own path, but, once you’ve found him, he has pretty high expectations for what your life should look like. “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off…If your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off…If your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God [maimed or lame or blind] than to be thrown into hell.” Those aren’t the words of a gentle teacher who lets his pupils get away with whatever they want. They’re the words of a prophet who means business.

Jesus might welcome anyone into his company, but that doesn’t mean that his company is for everyone. Anyone is welcome, but that doesn’t mean that anything goes. Jesus has such a high understanding of God’s kingdom that, instead of letting us adapt it to fit our lives, he forces us to shape our lives completely according to the principles that the kingdom represents—principles like sacrifice and humility and holiness. On these he is uncompromising. The bar for admission is as low as the ground itself, but the standard for participation is through the roof. Many are called, but few are chosen. Everyone is invited, but only a handful belongs. I remember Jesus saying something about it being easier to squeeze a camel through the eye of a needle, but maybe he was just joking.

But with Jesus, it’s always good news. The good news is that God welcomes everyone into his kingdom. God loves everyone—the whole world—unconditionally. No matter who you are or what you believe or what you’ve done, God loves you perfectly and completely. But the rest of the good news is that God isn’t going to leave you where he found you. Jesus said, “No one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me.” Jesus knew that there is irresistible power in his name. Anyone who comes into contact with that power must be transformed by it. The same power that grabs us wherever we are transforms us into full citizens of God’s kingdom. The same power that rescues us from our life’s dead end recasts that life into one befitting God’s kingdom.

The good news is for everyone. If you’ve never heard that God loves you no matter what, let that unconditional love fill you from top to bottom. And, if you’re familiar with that good news but recognize that it still needs to reshape you into the disciple Jesus is calling you to be, then submit again to the power of Jesus’ name. Call upon him and be transformed. Give yourself again to Jesus and let him shape you into a child ready for the kingdom. No matter where you are, God is calling you. And, no matter where you are, God isn’t going to leave you there. God has bigger plans for all of us.

Too Much or Too Little

In a good week, I start this blog on Monday with some frustration--either at the lectionary or at the texts themselves. On Tuesday I ask some questions about how everything is going to fit together. Wednesday I usually write about the Daily Office or whatever feast is being observed at our midweek Eucharist. Then, at last, on Thursday I pull things together and give a glimpse of what Sunday's sermon will be like. This is not one of those weeks.

It's Thursday, and I still can't make sense of Mark 9:38-50.

In this relatively short passage, Jesus (or perhaps Mark) takes us in so many different directions:

• "Whoever is not against us is for us." Great text for evangelism and the church's future.
• "If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones..." Powerful warning about getting in the way of the faithful.
• "If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off..." Terrifying words about the reality of sin.
• "For everyone will be salted with fire." Wait, what?
• "If salt has lost its saltness, how can you season it?" Encouraging words for living deeply in the good news.

Rather than preach on all of those (nightmarish situation for all involved), my instinct is to pick one of those and run with it. (Or perhaps I'll abandon ship and preach on the reading from Numbers and shared ministry.) But I worry that it is unfair to the congregation, which will hear Jesus say, "Cut off your hand and pluck out your eye or else you might not make it to heaven," to preach on "Do not stop him...if it he isn't against us he's for us." What do you think? Does the preacher do the congregation a disservice by pretending they aren't still thinking about chopping off their sinful parts when she or he is explaining the importance of a non-confrontational, orthpraxy-before-orthodoxy approach to building the following of Jesus?

Yesterday, Steve Pankey wrote a great piece on the significance of sin, and his post deservedly was picked up by the Christian Century. In it he addresses head on Jesus' hyperbolic but not metaphorical remedy for sin, arguing that, while Jesus doesn't actually want us to cut off a limb, he does want us to, in a very real way, cut of that which causes us to sin. It's a great focus on that part of the passage, but what about the rest? Must we essentially ignore the first half of this gospel lesson?

I think there might be a connection. When in doubt, go back to the text. Part One: Man casting out demons in Jesus' name without committing to follow him; disciples angry; Jesus hopeful. Part Two: Jesus warns disciples not to get in the way of discipleship; gives hyperbolic teaching on sin. Part Three: Jesus refocuses on the universality of judgment and exhorts all to remain true.

What is sin? Is sin that which separates us from the community (think mystical communion) of God? Might sin be that which makes it impossible for us to take our place in the kingdom?

I don't know what it's like to walk into a new group of friends with a disability--a missing hand, leg, eye, or otherwise--but I wonder whether Jesus' instruction to the disciples about cutting off that which causes them to sin is a refocusing of our theology of sin. Could Jesus be saying, "Your participation in my movement (God's kingdom) isn't dependent on whether you look normal on the outside but on whether you belong to me?" Might that be the reason he jumps from the man casting out demons without following him (seeming outsider but actually part of the movement) to cutting of the sin-causing limb?

I really don't know. Thursday isn't a good day for an exegetical stretch. Maybe I need to put down my hope for preaching too much and accept that it's better to preach too little.

Calling All Sinners

In our parish, we elected to observe the Feast of St. Matthew today (9/23/15), using the option presented on BCP p. 17: "Feasts of our Lord and other Major Feasts appointed on fixed days, which fall upon or are transferred to a weekday, may be observed on any open day within the week."

It's one thing to minister to sinners. It's another thing to put them in charge.

Today we celebrate the Feast of St. Matthew, the tax collector whom Jesus called to be a disciple. Imagine, if you will, what that symbolized to his contemporaries. Tax collectors were Jewish individuals who worked for the Roman Empire to collect revenues from the citizenry. Keep in mind that no one liked the Romans. They were the unholy occupiers of this Holy Land. At times, they used brutal tactics to quell any rebellion in this far-away province of the Empire. Revenues were crucial, and everything necessary was done to ensure that the money kept flowing to Rome.

Paying taxes to Caesar, using a coin that had a forbidden graven image of the semi-divine emperor and an inscription that declared that emperor's eternal reign, was itself an act of faithlessness for Jews. Remember the episode in which some Pharisees asked Jesus whether it was lawful (in the Jewish sense) to pay taxes to Caesar (Matt. 22:15-22). It was, in effect, a Catch-22. Refuse to pay and the Romans would brand you a traitor and lock you up. Pay the taxes and your own religious authorities would declare you unfaithful. What must it have been like, therefore, to serve as the agent of Rome who takes all the taxes from his people and then delivers them to the evil overlords?

On top of that, consider that tax collectors were inherently dishonest. They were paid a commission on what they collected. Squeeze more from your fellow Jews, and your family lives well. Develop a soft spot in your heart for your peers, and your family struggles. No one had anything good to say about a tax collector. But that's exactly who Matthew was. He was, by definition, a cheat and a thief. He was Jewish but could not show his face in religious gatherings. He was hated. He was despicable. He was a slimy, creepy, Roman-sympathizer. He was the very definition of sin. And he is exactly who Jesus called to be one of the twelve.

It is controversial when a minister spends time with notorious sinners. If I developed a prayer breakfast for loan sharks or a bible study for drug dealers or a dinner group for prostitutes, I think it would raise eyebrows. If I started a "take a meal and a bible to strippers" ministry, I would have some explaining to do. But what would it mean if I invited someone like that to be our children's minister or teach a bible study or serve on the Vestry? What if I made a notorious sinner my right-hand-man or right-hand-woman? Can you imagine?

Jesus called Matthew to be a disciple (Matt. 9:9-13). "Follow me," he said. Immediately, Matthew got up from his tax booth and followed Jesus...right to dinner with a bunch of tax collectors and other sinners. The Pharisees were appalled. "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?" they asked the disciples. And Jesus replied, "I have come not to call the righteous but to call sinners." Notice that language. Jesus isn't just ministering to the sinners. He's not just offering them a healing touch or a moment of his attention. He is surrounding himself--inviting into discipleship, establishing his ministry, and building God's kingdom--with sinners like Matthew. In calling a tax collector to be his disciple, Jesus showed us that his ministry isn't for sinners it's of sinners...like you and me.

If we are committed to continuing the ministry of Jesus--if we call ourselves Christians--we must stop reaching out to the outcasts as if they need our help and start identifying ourselves in their company. We are the tax collector. We are the prostitute. We are the loan shark and the drug dealer. Christian discipleship is not based upon a model of inviting sinners to choose holiness before following Jesus. It is the sinner who does the following. Christianity is not for good people because being a Christian is not about being good. Being a Christian is about being a sinner whom Jesus has called to follow him. We do not choose holiness. God, who is holy, chooses us. Jesus, who is holy, chooses us. It is his choice of us that makes us holy--not our choice of him.

We, the church, are not the antidote for sin. Coming to church will not make you holy. Saying your prayers will not make you holy. Reading the bible will not make you holy. Being nice to other people and treating them the way you want to be treated will not make you holy. Following Jesus will not make you holy. Jesus Christ alone can make you holy. That is good news. We, the church, are not inviting people to embrace a life of holiness. We are spreading the good news that Jesus Christ is inviting sinners like us to follow him right into God's kingdom.

That Rabble!

Among the many threads that has stretched through the lectionary readings over the past several months is that of grumbling or complaining. Back when we were stuck (interminably) in the "bread of life" discourse I grumbled about having to preach on the same thing for weeks in a row, but, in those readings, we heard about the Israelites grumbling in the wilderness as they searched for food and Jesus' contemporaries grumbling about how he identified himself as "the bread that came down from heaven." Even the disciples grumbled or complained (same word in Greek) about this difficult teaching. All that whining, and we're still not through with it.

This Sunday, now reading from Numbers 11, we hear, yet again, that the Israelites wept because they did not have any nice food to eat--only the heavenly manna: "If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at." They were sick of manna, and I might be sick of reading about it, but Moses was sick of dealing with it. Described in the NRSV as "displeased," he approached the Lord and said,

Why have you treated your servant so badly? Why have I not found favor in your sight, that you lay the burden of all this people on me? Did I conceive all this people? Did I give birth to them, that you should say to me, 'Carry them in your bosom, as a nurse carries a sucking child,' to the land that you promised on oath to their ancestors? Where am I to get meat to give to all this people? For they come weeping to me and say, 'Give us meat to eat!' I am not able to carry all this people alone, for they are too heavy for me. If this is the way you are going to treat me, put me to death at once--if I have found favor in your sight--and do not let me see my misery.

Moses preferred death to continued subjection to the people's grumbling. Anyone else in ministry ever felt like that? Anyone ever felt like God had laid the burden of a difficult people on his or her shoulders? Anyone ever prefer escape at any cost over repeated confrontation with an unhappy rabble?

God's solution, of course, isn't to kill the Israelites or mercifully take Moses' life. Instead, he tells Moses to gather seventy elders of the people together so that God might take some of the Spirit that had been placed upon Moses and redistribute it among the others. This first part of this lesson is also one of options for the first reading at a priestly ordination, which make sense--being an elder means sharing ministry. And the fact that the sharing of the spirit was real not only in a psychological manifestation of shared authority is expressed in the prophecy of Medad and Eldad, who missed the meeting but still managed to receive a share of God's spirit. For us, then, we must ask to what extent ministry and the authority and responsibility that come with it must be shared, and we must seek God's real and actual help in redistributing that Spirit-given power.

This morning, I had a conversation with a parishioner who recalled a conversation he had with another rector several years ago. At the time, he and his wife were new to the Episcopal Church, and, curious about our church's polity, he asked the rector, "Who is in charge of this church?" The response of the rector, as relayed to me in the story, was "I am." We joked about that for a little while--me always conscious of how that episode might have been repeated in inexplicit ways during my own tenure--and eventually I confessed to the parishioner that I'm still learning about that.

I've been ordained for over nine years now, and I've served as a rector for almost four of those years, but I am only just beginning to learn to focus on the parts of my vocation--my calling--that are unique to priestly ministry and to let everyone else be in charge of everything else. The obvious point is that I should spend less time chairing meetings and working on budgets and more time preaching, teaching, presiding at worship, anointing the sick, hearing confessions, and the like. Shared ministry isn't supposed to start when we're fed up with the congregation we serve. It should begin from a place of health and mutuality. It should be rooted in each of us discerning what specific gifts we have been given, what authority has been entrusted to us, and how God is calling us to serve.

Moses got help at his breaking point. God was faithful and made it possible for his ministry to continue successfully. But why would we wait until we're ready to run away or hide under our desk in the fetal position before we find ways to ask God to share his Spirit of leadership and authority with others?

Who Draws the Line?

For the most part, Jesus is a nice guy. Whether you call your self a Christian or identify as an agnostic or claim to be a full-on atheist, I think we can all agree that Jesus shares a lot of good humanist ideas worth following. Welcoming the outcast, preaching non-violence, caring for the needy, and practicing humility are all laudable tenets anyone would be glad to emulate. Usually, Jesus says things that are easy to cozy up to. Even if they're radical, counter-cultural teachings like "turn the other cheek" or "to save your life you must lose it," his words are attractive at their core. So when he opens his mouth and lays down a threat, pointing a finger of condemnation at any who would cross him, it gets my attention.

This coming Sunday, we will hear Jesus say, "If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea." If Jesus gives an ultimatum like that--if Jesus predicts the consequences of disobeying him to be more dreadful than execution by drowning--we'd better pay attention.

But what is he talking about? Why this stern warning? This is Jesus' response to one of his disciples who was worried that someone outside their company was using Jesus' name to cast out demons. "Teacher, we tried to stop him," John explains, "because he was not following us." John has a traditional, in-or-out, membership-based approach to discipleship, but Jesus takes a pragmatic approach: "Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us." Notice the power of those words. As is so often the case with how God works, it is the opposite of what we expect. If you're not against us, then you're for us. The circle of exclusion isn't drawn by those on the inside as if to segregate themselves from the masses. The line in the sand is drawn only by those who except themselves from the ministry--as if to say, "I don't belong." The implications for the contemporary church are staggering.

Jesus explains that those who do a feat of power in his name will find it difficult to stay in opposition to his movement. That makes sense, and today's church leaders shouldn't forget it. If someone appeals to the name of Jesus--in prayer, in meditation, in crisis, in jest--and experiences the power of that name, they won't soon be able to speak evil of it. The message is practice first, comprehend second. In this case, Jesus' approach to evangelism is "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." That suggests to me that we should be purveyors of Jesus' name and not merely gatekeepers for congregations.

How often does the church say to someone, "I'm sorry, but you can't do it that way?" You must pray the way we pray. You must worship the way we worship. You must believe the way we believe. We try to help people "get it right" because we know from experience that our way of doing/being church is beneficial. Hearing the word faithfully preached and participating in the sacraments faithfully administered is crucial to developing a life-changing relationship with Jesus Christ. We want people to come and join our churches. That's how we measure success in discipleship. Although I might not be ready to give up on the importance of "average Sunday attendance," I wonder whether Jesus would look at the way we try to bring people into his company and warn us that we're in danger of suffering a punishment worse than having a millstone hung around our necks and being cast into the sea.

There is great power in Jesus' name. Who are we to attempt to restrict the use of that name and the power that goes with it to mechanisms we have approved? When we say to someone, "If you want to be a real Christian..." or "If you want to be sure you'll go to heaven...," we're guilty of placing stumbling blocks in front of people who may already be on the right track. The church should worry less about its own survival and more about sharing the name of Jesus with the world. If the power of Jesus is real in a person's life even if that person never darkens the door of a traditional church, we must believe that God has already grabbed onto his/her heart. Tell people about Jesus. Stop worrying about whether they go to church. Soon, no one who has experienced the power of Jesus will be able to speak ill of him. If you're not against us, you're for us.

Afraid of What?

Sometimes scripture lessons contain little lines that mean a great deal but escape my notice because they are not central to the passage. Perhaps, after I've preached on the lectionary texts long enough to mine every decent story or point of analysis I can muster, I'll turn my focus to these little throw-aways, but, for now, they seem mostly hidden.

This week, when we read Mark 9:30-37, we'll hear Jesus predict his passion and death, and we'll hear the disciples argue with one another about who is the greatest, and we'll hear Jesus tell them that they must become servant to all, and we'll hear Jesus pick up a little child and urge us to invite the simplest among us into our midst. But we probably won't hear the bit about the disciples being afraid to ask Jesus a question.

As a part of my daily spiritual disciplines, whether I am preaching or not, I read the lessons for the upcoming Sunday and listen for what the Spirit might say to me through them. Today is Thursday, and I've had four days now to read this short passage from Mark, but today is the first day that I really noticed the line that reads, "But [the disciples] did not understand what [Jesus] was saying and were afraid to ask him." Afraid? Really? Afraid of what?

School work has always come pretty easily for me, so, when I asked the teacher a question that seemed obvious to everyone else, my peers often thought I was showing off. Actually, I'm an external, aural learner--I need to say it to know it. Still, when I write a sermon, I say the words out loud in order that I might remember them. Because of that, I am shocked to read that the disciples--Jesus' closest followers, those who had given up their lives and left their homes to go wherever he went--were afraid to ask Jesus what he meant. What's the worst that could happen? Would he yell at them for being a little slow on the uptake? Would he fire them as disciples? Would he curse them out of existence?

Yet, at the same time that I find myself amazed at the disciples' reticence, I understand it deeply. How could they ask him what he meant? This was important stuff. This was central to Jesus' identity. They could tell that it mattered a great deal. For them to ask about it was to admit that they did not know who he really was. To say, "Jesus, we don't get it," felt like saying, "Jesus, we don't believe in you." Of course, that isn't true.

Sometimes I am afraid to ask a question because it shows my ignorance. But even more than the best teacher or parent, God already knows how much I don't know. And he loves me anyway. Jesus knew that his disciples were struggling with his messianic identity. He knew that God's upside-down logic of a savior who was rejected and killed wouldn't make sense to them. Maybe that's why he stops to bring a child in their midst--as if to show them he was patient enough for even the simplest questions and to invite them also to be like children and come to him with more questions than answers.

Don't be afraid to ask God all of your questions--the tough ones, the obvious ones, the skeptical ones, the angry ones, the disappointed ones, and the "stupid" ones (whatever those are). If you don't understand who God is or how Jesus' life and death and resurrection mean that God has already saved you even from death itself, don't be afraid. Just ask. Keep asking.