Author: gracesmuggler

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This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in Acts 11:1-18.  The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

As the church was growing, strange things were happening. . .

Now, very distanced in time from these events, we hear that “the Gentiles had accepted the Word of God,” and we view that as something to be celebrated. But in the life early church, there were questions about this.  In the life early church, this was a crisis.

It was uncharted territory. At the very least, it was quite unexpected, and the leaders in Jerusalem had some serious questions about these new developments. So when Peter went up to Jerusalem, they criticized him with a question of challenge: “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?”

I wonder how Peter felt in that moment.
I wonder if he was anxious.
I wonder if he feared that he would be ostracized for sharing his story.

Or I wonder if he viewed this as a moment of opportunity.

Perhaps emboldened, Peter was grateful to have the opportunity to testify to an experience that had changed his life. I wonder if he could have possibly anticipated the large-scale ways his story would change others.

Because this story Peter would tell –
His story,
Cornelius’ story,
A Gentile family’s story, and ultimately,
The story of the Holy Spirit –
It would change the entire life of the church itself.

I wonder if Peter could have possibly anticipated that.

The question of challenge comes. “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?”

Whatever Peter felt in that moment, we know that he testified to his experience. I notice that he didn’t get defensive. He didn’t engage these leaders in a debate. Peter told a story. He told a transformative story of the Holy Spirit.

Now I want to acknowledge an aspect of this story right at the beginning.  Parts of it are bizarre, at least to our ears and imaginations. It begins with a vision that is rather odd.

Peter had been staying in the home of Simon the Tanner, and at a particular moment on an ordinary day, the extraordinary happened. Peter went to the roof of Simon’s house to pray, and while he was up there, he received a vision. Suddenly, a great sheet was lowered down from heaven, and he saw all sorts of animals – beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds of the air. These animals were so different from one another, but they all had one thing in common. They were all considered ritually unclean for eating. The dietary laws of Leviticus forbade the people of God from eating any of these.

So that was certainly an odd sight to see. . . a sheet from heaven containing all of these animals. . .

But the command must have seemed even more strange and troubling, because it certainly didn’t make any sense. Peter heard a voice which said, “Get up, Peter; kill and eat.”

In response, Peter gave the answer that certainly seemed most right. “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.”

Then he heard the response from the heavenly voice which must have seemed most puzzling of all. “What God has made clean, you must not call unclean.”

This happened three times.

“Get up, Peter; kill and eat.”
“By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.”
“What God has made clean, you must not call unclean.”

What God has made clean, you must not call unclean.

How confusing. . . After all, it was God who had declared these animals to be ritually unclean in the law itself, right?

I wonder if Peter stood on that rooftop puzzled. Though he didn’t have all the answers, it became clear that he needed to follow the Spirit’s leading because something extraordinary was clearly unfolding.

Right that moment, three men arrived at the house where they were staying. They were emissaries from Cornelius, a Gentile who lived in Caesarea. Cornelius had had a vision too. He had seen an angel standing in his house saying, “Send to Joppa and bring Simon, who is called Peter; he will give you a message by which your entire household will be saved.”

At that moment with these emissaries at the door, Peter had a challenging decision to make. It was controversial to enter the household of Gentiles and receive hospitality from them. It was considered ritually unclean by the scriptures themselves to eat food that was forbidden by the law, the very food that would certainly be served to them. It was quite the faux pas to go with these uncircumcised men and eat with them.

But the Spirit had spoken. What God has made clean, you must not call unclean. What a challenging situation. . . I’m sure Peter’s mind was spinning. What is the right thing to do? He had to follow the call of the Spirit. He had to trust that he was being welcomed in this household – one that was also beloved by God. Peter had to wonder if God was welcoming the Gentiles into God’s own household.

So Peter took the risk. He and some of his close associates went along with these emissaries and entered the household of Cornelius. When they arrived, they learned about the vision that Cornelius had experienced, and Peter began to share the good news – the message of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.

So let’s hear Peter’s testimony in his own words. This is what he spoke to the leaders at Jerusalem. Peter said, “As I began to speak, the Holy Spirit fell upon them just as it had upon us at the beginning. And I remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said, ‘John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’”

The leaders of the church in Jerusalem began with a challenging question: “Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?” Now Peter has a challenging question of his own. He says, “If then God gave them the same gift that God gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?”

If God gave them the same gift, who was I that I could hinder God?

Peter stood before them and told a transformative story. But it was not simply his own story. This was the story of God’s action. This was the story of God’s claim upon the lives of people who were considered to be outsiders. These Gentiles did not obey the laws of the covenant.

This is challenging, isn’t it?

Peter told a story about
God’s love,
God’s acceptance, and
God’s welcome.

It changed him.
And it would change the entire church.

This is how we know that this story changed the life of the entire church:

Luke, the author of the Acts of the Apostles, doesn’t tell this story once. In this book of scripture, he tells the story three times. It was that pivotal.

In chapter 10, Luke narrates the story first, sharing all that happened with this strange vision and unexpected encounter between Jews and Gentiles.  Then Luke allows the story to be told again. This time, in chapter 11, Peter is the narrator as he stands before the leaders in Jerusalem. Finally, the story is told a third time in Acts chapter 15, when the leaders of the church make a radical decision. It seems very radical and unexpected, but they are following the Spirit’s leading toward a great welcome.

Part of the miracle of this story is that the leaders in Jerusalem listen to Peter. Most importantly, they listen to the Holy Spirit, and their lives are changed forever. They take this story seriously. Our passage ends by saying, “When they heard this, they were silenced.” But eventually, they could keep their silence no longer, because they praised God, saying, “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life.”

They wondered in awe. . . And then. . .
They had to take a risk.

Acts 15 tells the story of one of the most radical, unexpected turns the church would ever take. As a result of Peter’s story, the apostles and other leaders gather together in Jerusalem for a council, and they recognize that the Gentiles have been welcomed into this family of God. And then, they make a decision not to require the Gentiles to follow the Jewish law.

In other words, the Gentiles did not first have to become Jews before they could become believers. They were accepted as themselves, new believers in Christ, fully grafted into the Body of Christ, even though they did not keep the same practices as the Jewish believers.

This was a radical, unexpected shift, and it was the leading of the Holy Spirit.

What God has made clean, you must not call unclean.

We know that this story changed the life of the entire church. This is not only true because Luke chooses to tell this story three times in the Acts of the Apostles. We know that this story changed the life of the entire church because we’re sitting here. We’re a part of the Body of Christ. You. . . and me. . . and believers all across this world. . . fully engrafted into the Body of Christ. The earliest followers of Jesus did not anticipate this.

So we, fully accepted, faulty though we are, yet fully loved – we have been welcomed in.

And. .  isn’t the church of today called to follow the Holy Spirit
and be just as inclusive in its welcome?

May we be encouraged by this story.
May we be challenged by this story.

May we, in some places in ourselves, be silenced,
as the Jewish leaders were so many years ago.
And then, following their leading, may we praise God with wonder and awe,
seeing the presence of the Holy Spirit in the lives of people we don’t necessarily expect.

May we add our voices, saying, “God has even given them the repentance that leads to life.”

May we be encouraged.
May we be challenged.
May we be changed.
“Who are we that we could hinder God?”
May we take those risks.
Amen.

–Renee Roederer

[1] I found this image here.

[2] I contributed a segment on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast this week about this passage. It is the “Voice in the Wilderness” segment toward the beginning of the podast. You can listen to it here.

I recently encountered this image on Facebook.  It’s described as “The Weight of Grief,” and it is a very evocative piece of art by Celeste Roberge. Upon seeing the image, I was instantly moved by this work.

This art is moving as it creates an instant, visceral recognition of truth.
Yes, grief feels like this.
Yes, it feels this heavy.
Yes, it is unbelievably challenging to pull ourselves up and stand straight.

When I saw this image, it brought me to certain memories and recognitions. It connected me to feelings of grief that I have carried, and it reminded me of friends who are grieving right now.

Some are grieving recent losses,
Some a grieving losses that happened years ago, and
Some are grieving multiple losses at once.

This is all a reminder that we need to be gentle with ourselves and one another when we are carrying the weight of grief. It is an enormously heavy load of emotions, pain, and physical changes in our bodies.

And in the midst of grief, we need connection. There are certain moments when solitude and privacy may be desired, but most of all, we need connection. We need the presence of others.

We need to know that we are seen in our grief, and we need to know that even though our lives are changing, we are loved as the person we have always been.

Do we know people who are in the midst of grief?

Are we grieving right now?

How can we reach out and connect with one another so that no one is bearing this weight alone?

–Renee Roederer

Ricardo Semler, CEO and majority owner of Semco Partners, is known for implementing creative reforms in the areas of workplace culture and education. He also has an intriguing personal practice:

For years, Ricardo Semler has declared Mondays and Thursdays to be his “Terminal Days.”

These two days of the week are dedicated to prioritizing what he would be doing if he were to learn that he has a terminal diagnosis. The decision to label 28.5% of the week “Terminal Days” might seem rather grim to many of us. In fact, he says that his wife does not like the term. But without question, his personal commitment to this practice has been life-giving.

He says, “On Mondays and Thursdays, I learn how to die. I call them my terminal days. . . one day I could be sitting in front of a doctor who looks at my exams and says, ‘Ricardo, things don’t look very good. You have six months or a year to live.’ And you start thinking about what you would do with this time. And you say, ‘I’m going to spend more time with the kids. I’m going to visit these places. I’m going to go up and down mountains and places, and I’m going to do the things I didn’t do when I had the time.

“But of course, we know these are very bittersweet memories we’re going to have. It’s going to be very difficult to do. You spend a good part of the time crying, probably. So I said, I’m going to do something else. Every Monday and Thursday, I’m going to use my terminal days. And I will do, during those days, whatever it is I was going to do if I received that piece of news.”

One of the things I admire about Ricardo Semler, which you will notice also if you watch the TED Talk above, is that he has spent his life working to reform systems – including the workplace culture of his own company – so that others have the freedom to prioritize their lives in similar ways.

We don’t all have the privilege or opportunity to step away from work two additional days each week, and we can’t all afford to travel the globe. But all of this makes me wonder, what can we do? What is in the realm of possibility, and which choices are ours to make?

Most importantly,

What do we want our lives to mean?

What do we want to prioritize?

What can we do with our time, so that we’re prioritizing these things now, rather than waiting for some event to wake us up to them?

It may seem rather grim to label particular weekdays “Terminal Days.” But it is wise to know that our days do authentically have an end. So to what end (i.e. purpose) will we live?

–Renee Roederer

There’s a particular podcast that I enjoy listening to each week, and I would like to recommend it to you. It has a fun title and tagline. Introducing. . .

. . . The Pulpit Fiction Podcast – a lectionary podcast for “Preachers, Seekers, and Bible Geeks!” Each week, the Revs. Eric Fistler and Robb McCoy create an hour-long podcast to explore the four scriptures presented for Sunday worship in the Revised Common Lectionary. They do this with depth, humor, and imagination. It’s a great podcast to download and enjoy. I often listen to it while driving or taking walks, and it always stirs my thinking as I prepare sermons and write for this site.

This week, I have the privilege of being a contributor on the show. Eric and Robb invite a guest each week to provide the “Voice in the Wilderness” segment. I provided commentary on Acts 11:1-18, a narrative passage which has powerful implications for the ways we consider inclusion in the church. Feel free to check it out here.

Enjoy this podcast. I recommend it every week!

–Renee Roederer

 

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This is a simple thought, but I think it’s beautiful and true to our experience of life.

The verb ‘heal’ is both active and passive.

At times, we say,
“Heal,” i.e. “be healed.”

At other times, we say,
“Heal,” i.e. “act as a healer.”

Healing is –
Something we receive,
Something we take in,
Something we allow to sit with us,
Something we invite inside, and it makes a home with us.

Healing is –
Something we cultivate,
Something we enact alongside others,
Something we breathe into the world,
Something we work at, like kneading dough.

Frederick Buechner says that our calling is found in “the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” [2]

It makes me wonder. . .

What needs are present in our own lives?
How can we receive healing?

What needs are present in the world?
How can we work as healers?

And. . .

. . . Are there any intersections where those could come together as a calling?

–Renee Roederer

[1] I found this image here.

[2] This quote is part of Frederick Buechner’s book, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC.

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This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in John 21:1-19, 24-25.  The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

I love the final stories of the Gospel according to John.

I really do. I love how this Gospel ends. It’s intriguing, giving us interesting images and conversations with Jesus on the beach — one who is known to us and recognizable, and yet, one who is also mysterious, beyond us, unrecognizable – one who calls us to follow him and venture into unchartered waters of discipleship.

I love that this passage closes in a rather open ended way. We don’t know what will happen next, and yet, the Gospel closes with us knowing exactly what will happen ultimately, though we can’t even come close to summing it up:

Jesus is going to keep meeting us, feeding us, walking with us, and calling us to follow. Jesus is going to do more things in and through the lives of countless disciples – Peter, John, the disciple whom Jesus loves; disciples all around the world, us too – healing, shepherding, teaching, reconciling. . . I suppose if we could write down all the things that Jesus has done and is about to do among us, the whole world could not contain the books that would be written.

But the stories are still being written all the time. Jesus’ story with us is an ongoing, unfolding narrative. The Risen Christ is shepherding us into shepherding others with love and care, with redemptive stories that are still being written. You and me and countless others. . . we are narratives of reconciliation that are still being written. . .

For all of these reasons, I love how this Gospel ends. These final stories are interesting, and they’ve intrigued scholars for a long time too. The Bible wasn’t written with ready-made chapters and verses. The church added those many years after all these books were written. But this final chapter of this Gospel, chapter 21, has been especially puzzling for students and scholars of the Bible over the centuries. And one of the main reasons for this is that we don’t know who wrote it!

As you know, authors have specific writing styles. For instance, it’s not hard to tell the difference between William Shakespeare and Michael Crichton. If we sat down and read their works, we wouldn’t even have to know who authored them in order to tell that Romeo and Juliet is not quite the same as Jurassic Park (though there is a certain level of tragedy to them both). We wouldn’t even have to know who wrote them to say, “Yep. There are different authors here!”

Something similar is going on with chapter 21, the last chapter of this Gospel. For the first twenty chapters, we get a particular writing style, and then, William Shakespeare becomes Michael Crichton! Well, okay, okay. . . it’s not that dramatic and different. But the style of writing in the original language suddenly changes, and scholars feel confident that a different author or set of authors has taken the reins in this storytelling adventure. Chapter 21 with its concluding stories of resurrection, fish, and conversation is an epilogue. The chapter is a holy epilogue, a conclusion to what has come before it and an opening toward ways of imagining what might come next. That’s what epilogues do, and that’s part of what’s happening here.

Now the metaphor between William Shakespeare and Michael Crichton eventually breaks down because we certainly don’t have a situation of dinosaurs pairing themselves into warring factions of Capulets and Montagues. Shakespeare and Crichton don’t only have two different writing styles. In their case, we’re talking about two completely different stories!

This holy epilogue is not like that. There might be a difference in the authorship and writing style, but the story is a deliberate continuation of what has come before it. In fact, I find myself amazed at the ways that this concluding chapter circles back to include images and allusions to the beginning of Jesus’ narrative with his disciples. I’m amazed at how beautifully it weaves themes and symbols together from many stories that unfolded among the first community of people who followed Jesus.

There are many stories within this epilogue that are connected to other stories, and each one of them could be the focus for a sermon. (Don’t worry, I won’t preach them all! But let’s touch upon them).

After experiencing the emotional whiplash of Jesus’ arrest, trial, crucifixion, death, and sudden resurrection into new life, the disciples were in the midst of figuring it all out. It’s hard to imagine what that must have felt like. So Peter decides to go back to the basics. He and many of first disciples were common fishermen before they started following Jesus. So they get back to the basics and go fishing. They can’t catch a single fish until the mysterious Jesus on the beach tells them to cast their nets differently.

Do you remember another time that Jesus did that? Do you remember that when Jesus first called Peter, James, and John as disciples, they were in a boat, fishing? They couldn’t catch a single fish until Jesus told them to try one more time in deeper water, and then their nets could hardly pull in all the fish. In that first encounter with Jesus, Peter, for once in his life, was speechless. And Jesus said some words that would mark the course of his life: “Follow me. From now on you will be catching people.” Do you remember that?

Peter wanted to get back to the basics of fishing, but instead, he got an opportunity to get back to the basics of his life-calling. After they caught all that fish, another disciple recognized the mysterious stranger on the beach as Jesus, and I love what happens next. I think it’s hilarious. The story says that Peter “put on clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea!” What a funny image! Peter is so stunned at it all that he puts his clothes on only to plunge overboard and get them all wet.

Funny. But beyond humorous images, several foundational stories weave their way through this epilogue. Jesus feeds them the fish and bread on the beach. . . remember how he once took a simple meal of fish and bread and multiplied it to feed 5000 people?  Remember how he took bread and cup among his disciples and said, “Eat and drink. This is my body and my life-blood given for you?” Remember that?

And then, there’s a connection to a heavy story. Do you remember how Peter betrayed Jesus by denying him three times, right when Jesus was on the verge of condemnation and death? Do you remember how gut-wrenching that denial was? I wonder if Peter feared that he had ruined that relationship with Jesus. I wonder if he feared that he may have marred his own call to the point that it was no longer available for him.

After the miraculous catch and a holy meal on the beach, Jesus does what he so often does. Jesus engages in a ministry of reconciliation. Peter denied Jesus three times, and now, three times Jesus restores Peter with a foundational question. “Peter, do you love me? Do you love me, Peter? Peter, do you love me?” “Then feed my lambs.” Jesus reconciles Peter for a life of reconciliation, for a life of shepherding people through Jesus’ love.

So this is our epilogue, the holy epilogue with stories of the past, retold again in new ways to launch us into the future. .

I’ve already told you many times in this sermon that I love this epilogue. I do. But do you know what I might love the most about it? Most scholars believe that this epilogue was written by a person or a set or people who represented a community– a community that had immersed itself in the stories and theological language of the Gospel of John. And the words of this community close the Gospel of John by telling us that the story is still being told, and that if we could possibly write down all the stories of Jesus’ presence and ministry among us, the whole world could not contain the volumes that would exist! That’s probably what I love most.

Jesus asks, “Do you love me?”

“Then feed my lambs.”

“Get out there and love with a Love that rewrites the world’s story! Be my story! Be a ministry of reconciliation in this world.”

Friends, do you know that we’re an epilogue community too? Do you know that Jesus is still writing stories of ministry and reconciliation among us? Jesus’ story with us is just one of those volumes, but we’re really in that library! We’ve seen it. We’ve heard it. You have personal stories of being reconciled to God in amazing ways.

This is a place where God writes our story and says, “I call others to myself.”

This is a place where God says, “Come, bring your story. Tell us of the great love and great pains you’ve experienced in your life. Come and experience healing and love here right here, and be in ministry with us.”

All of these stories are a part of God’s narrative for us.

And there may be unchartered waters for us too, stories that are still being written in our uncompleted volume. I wonder where they could take us. . .

Let’s give great praise to the author and finisher of our faith. Jesus is the author of so many stories that the world cannot contain them. Let’s live that praise as a reconciling, story-filled church.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

–Renee Roederer

[1] This photo comes from gettyimages.

My Dear Friends,

I am about to say something obvious, yet for some reason, I have never thought about this before. Perhaps it is new to you also. I find it to be wild, beautiful, intriguing, and inspiring. Here it is:

We have never once —
not even one time! —
charted a path that has been taken previously.
Nope, never.
Not even one time!

In the history of our lives,
In the history of humanity,
In the history of the earth as we know it, and
In the history of our solar system,
We have never repeated the same rotational pathway.
Not even once.

We have never resided in the exact same physical space we inhabited
two minutes ago,
two years ago,
two millennia ago, or
two zillion millennia ago.

Why?
Our universe is expanding.

The earth is not traveling the exact same path,
year by year, around a static sun.
We are charting new pathways on April 12, 2016,
which are entirely different
from the pathways of movement and physical space
we forged collectively on April 12, 2015.

BECAUSE
The sun is not standing still.
It has never done so.
It is shooting forward
(as if we could know in the cosmos which way is forward?)
through the Galaxy,
in an ever-expanding universe!

So tell me again. . .

. . .why do we think our lives cannot change and adapt?

. . .why do we think we have to stay in the same rut?

. . .why do we think “But we’ve always done it that way!” is an accurate or appropriate argument?

Perhaps, grounded to this very earth,
with our eyes to the skies, and
with our feet firmly planted,
we might just accept that our personal universe
Can
EXPAND
Too.

–Renee Roederer

[This stained glass window of the PCUSA logo is from First Presbyterian Church in Douglasville, Georgia.]

These days, I’ve been connecting with a variety of faith communities in my local area. I’ve spent more time with Episcopalians and Roman Catholics in particular, because they excel at holding multiple worship services throughout the week. It’s been a pleasure to meet folks in these communities and learn how they are serving the wider city.

Last week, I learned something which has stirred my thinking in a particular way. I learned about a worldwide movement currently taking place among Roman Catholic parishes. Pope Francis has declared 2016 to be the Jubilee Year of Mercy. Every twenty-five years, Roman Catholics practice special years of Jubilee. But from time to time, a Pope can declare a special year-long observance more spontaneously in order to focus intentionally upon forgiveness, mercy, reconciliation, and acts of service in the world.

As a result, this is now the Extraordinary Jubilee Year of Mercy, and this special observance is weaving its way through the life of Roman Catholic parishes as congregations and individuals ponder and practice acts of mercy through forms of spiritual meditation, confession, forgiveness, reconciliation, and service.

In the midst of my ecumenical learning these days, this movement has stayed in my thinking. I wonder if it might be a conversation partner as a particular discussion is unfolding in my own Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) demonination. As we are preparing to hold our semi-annual General Assembly in Portland this summer, there is an overture coming from the Presbytery of New York City which seeks to issue a public apology to LGBTQ/Q individuals and their families as they were (and I would argue, many times, still are) marginalized and oppressed in our public debates, policies, and procedures. This has been especially true as they were barred from ordination and as their loving relationships were not recognized as valid and life-giving.

This overture has not yet been discussed and debated at General Assembly, but Presbyterians are already discussing it in the blogosphere and on social media. Some, including those who recognize harm done to LGBTQ/Q Presbyterians, are concerned that this public apology does not align with historical values to honor the freedom of conscience, as Presbyterians remain divided on recent changes in ordination policy and the definition of marriage . Others from the LGBTQ/Q community have concurred with the overture, stating the vital importance of recognizing the very real harm that has taken place through decades of exclusion, discrimination, scapegoating, and church prosecution. Still others, from a variety of communities, have wondered if relational acknowledgement and apologies are more powerful and effective than ones on an institutional level.

All of these lines of thought will be discussed and debated on the floor of the General Assembly. In the midst of the current conversations, this has made me wonder if the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) would benefit from a movement like the one Roman Catholics are currently experiencing.

What if the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) deliberately inaugurated a Jubilee Year of Reconciliation?

Without question, there are divisions in our local congregations, Presbyteries, and national bodies on a variety of conflicts, large and small alike. Beyond topics or “issues” (sometimes we focus upon those rather than human beings) we can all think of looming conflicts from our own lives involving real, human relationships that feel unresolved. . .

• What harm did I do when I argued with that person on the floor of Presbytery?
• What harm did I do when I made a person or a group responsible for the entirety of our church conflict?
• What harm did I do when I was defensive or dismissive during conversations about race?
• What harm did I do to pastors who were pushed out of our congregations?
• What harm did I do to candidates who were denied ordained ministry?
• What harm did I do when we let our power dynamics go askew?
• What harm did I do when I didn’t welcome that person into our sanctuary?
• What harm did I do when I put institutional survival over truth and justice?

We could go on and on with such questions, applying them to ourselves as individuals or communities. I wonder what it would look like,

if we spent a year apologizing for harm we have caused,
if we spent a year listening to stories of real pain on their own terms, and
if we practiced a process of truth and reconciliation,

not only creating an overture or apology in a written document,
but ushering in a large-scale movement of apology and reconciliation throughout our churches and local contexts?

What are your thoughts?

–Renee Roederer

This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon the story of Thomas in John 20:19-31. The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

This morning, when the scene of our scripture passage opens, we might be surprised to remember that it is Easter day itself. It is the very day of the resurrection, but the disciples of Jesus are hiding behind closed doors and living in fear. Mary Magdalene, one of their own, has shared incredible news with them. She has already told them that she has seen Jesus alive, but they have yet not seen Jesus themselves. Perhaps some of them might risk wondering if it really could be true. . . Others, as we know, dismissed her story entirely. They believed it to be an “idle tale.”

So there they are hiding behind locked doors, scared for their lives, and the resurrected Jesus chooses to meet them right there. He shows up on the other side of that locked door right in their midst. And what does he say? He speaks words of comfort: “Peace be with you,” he says. Then the story tells us that after he greeted them with these comforting words, he “showed them his hands and his side.”

That’s an interesting thing to do, isn’t it?
He showed them his wounds from the crucifixion.

The disciples rejoiced in his presence. They had been locked away from life, and yet, life met them right where they were. Jesus, risen to new life, stood among them, and he commissioned them to service. He said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he gave them the gift of the Holy Spirit. This moment changed everything, and all of them were called to new life. All of them were astounded, and all of them were sent forward from his presence.

Well, all of them except Thomas.

Thomas wasn’t there in that moment when Jesus appeared to his disciples behind the locked doors. We don’t know what he was doing. Perhaps he was behind locked doors somewhere else, or perhaps he was living outside with greater courage.

But this is what we know: He missed it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to hear all of this amazing news secondhand without encountering Jesus himself. Maybe Thomas had grief. Maybe he had isolation after missing out. Maybe he had doubt about it all.

It seems to be that way. Thomas said to the rest of the disciples, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails, and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” So Thomas continued to stay connected to these disciples, believing something different than they did and perhaps feeling something different than they did.

Whatever he believed, and whatever he felt, Jesus met Thomas right in that place too. One week later, all the disciples were gathered together, and this time, Thomas was there. Interestingly, the door was shut yet again, but Jesus appears in that house with them. He stood among them, and once more, he said, “Peace be with you.”

Then Jesus looked straight at Thomas. Jesus met him in his grief. He met him in his isolation. He met him in his doubt. Jesus said, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Do not doubt but believe.
Believe, Thomas. . . that is, trust. . .

Jesus is standing before Thomas, meeting him right where he was struggling.
Jesus is standing before Thomas, as one who has known suffering and pain,
one who has known grief and isolation in his body,
and that very one – the one who suffered and died – is risen to new life.

Both of these realities are overwhelmingly powerful. Jesus is risen from suffering and death. And God, found in the human embodiment of Jesus, is a God who still bears wounds. This God is one who knows what it means to suffer and chooses to bear those marks of woundedness forever. This is the God who meets Thomas, and this is the God who appears to us today.

Thomas is overwhelmed. Both of these realities – the suffering and the resurrection – are absolutely powerful. Thomas is overcome, and he exclaims with joy and wonder, “My Lord and my God!” He has moved from doubt to the highest profession of faith. Thomas sees the living God with wounds. He sees life standing before him, meeting him in his own place of woundedness. This changes everything.

Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the resurrection experience, and so I imagine that Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the commission either. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In our scripture text, we don’t hear Jesus saying those words again, but I’m sure the calling remains constant. Thomas was included in that also.

And as we are gathered here this morning, we may very much like Thomas. Perhaps we carry grief, isolation, or doubt, but there is a God who is living and breathing. There is one among us who is truly human and truly God who stands before us today and knows what it is to suffer and even experience death. That is the one who loves us to the core of our being, and that is the one who is sending us out today.

Perhaps we hear those words for ourselves this morning. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And here’s where it becomes challenging and life-giving at once:

If we are sent today from this place as the Father has sent Jesus, and
If we are sent today from this place with the gift of the Holy Spirit,
we are being sent forward to view the world’s woundedness.

We are called to stand in the presence of great suffering and pain. We are called to believe the stories behind it — never doubting, but believing. These stories of human pain are real.

And we are called to speak the new life of resurrection which God breathes into the world and desires for every human being. That is how high this calling is. It is challenging and life-giving at once.

The God we worship bears wounds, and this God cares for those who carry their own wounds. But so often, we doubt not only God but the stories of the wounds themselves.

I have a friend named Sarah Watkins who wrote something succinct on Facebook recently, but I thought it spoke volumes in its power. She said, “If you want to be a good ally to someone, believe them. Do you know how often people who are marginalized and abused are doubted about their own experiences?”

She goes on to say,

“I believe you were assaulted.
I believe you were blocked from voting.
I believe you are in constant pain.
I believe the cop pulled you over because of your skin color.
I believe your boss/supervisor/colleague harassed you.

I believe you.”

It is powerful and challenging to stand in the presence of those who are marginalized and abused, but we don’t have to doubt them. We can believe, and when we do that, I think we are all called to new, resurrected life.

None of this is to demonize those who work at polling places, or police officers, or bosses, supervisors, and colleagues, but it is to take seriously the power dynamics in this world. It is to take serious stories of pain that are in the world, especially the ones that show up right before us.

I’ll close with another story. It is a powerful one. When I think of people I have felt most privileged to meet, Dr. Allan Aubrey Boesak easily comes to mind. Dr. Boesak is a prolific writer and theologian. Most importantly, he is a genuine fellow human being who stands alongside any who have been marginalized and oppressed.

I have seen this on display has he has told stories about his experience living under Apartheid in South Africa. Allan Boesak was a tireless advocate for justice in that context, working to change laws and restore dignity to so many who faced discrimination and were even killed because of the color of their skin.

I have heard Allan Boesak speak a couple of times, and once, I had the great privilege of leading worship with him. Most recently, I heard him speak at the Next Church conference last February in Atlanta. He ended a keynote lecture there in a powerful way. He said that at the end of our lives, and at the end of time when God has reconciled all things, perhaps God will say to us, ‘Show me your wounds.’

He said,

In that moment – even as people of resurrection – if we have none to show, perhaps God will ask us, ‘Wait. Was there nothing worth fighting for?’

And in that moment, even if we stand there with no wounds of solidarity, this very God will show us his hands and his wounded side, and we will know that we were worth fighting for.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

As we leave this place, we have work to do.
We have stories to believe.
We have truth to tell.
We have human lives worth fighting for.
We have resurrection to live.

–Renee Roederer

[Photo Credit: Christina Ryan from the Calgary Herald]

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Sarah Watkins wrote something succinct that spoke volumes in its power. She said,

“If you want to be a good ally to someone, believe them. Do you know how often people who are marginalized and abused are doubted about their own experiences?

I believe you were assaulted.
I believe you were blocked from voting.
I believe you are in constant pain.
I believe the cop pulled you over because of your skin color.
I believe your boss/supervisor/colleague harassed you.