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.
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?
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.
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.
[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?
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.
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.
I believe you.”
When people experience trauma, abuse, harrassment, discrimination, or loss at the hands of those who misuse power, there is frequently an additional burden to carry. There are fears about the possibilities of not being believed. While some may dismiss survivors’ stories as outright fiction, the wounds of being disbelieved can take many forms.
Some forms of disbelief may seem more subtle, yet they can be just as damaging. They may involve unfairly questioning the character or the mental stability of the one who has been wronged (see also character assassination and gaslighting) or they may involve moments when bystanders shrug their shoulders with chosen indifference and say, “I’m sure there are two sides to every story.”
There may indeed be multiple perspectives for any given story, and in many instances, it is important to try to understand those. At the same time, we often uses phrases like, “I’m sure there are two sides to every story,” to neutralize a scenario that is far from neutral. In the process, we dismiss the very real wounds carried by the ones whose bodies, minds, spirits, and social standings have been harmed. And when we say such phrases internally inside our own minds, we often relieve ourselves of feeling discomfort or empathy. Most of all, we give ourselves permission never to question the persons or systems responsible for creating that trauma, abuse, harrassment, discrimination, or loss.
In my community of faith, we are currently experiencing the season of Easter together, allowing ourselves to be surprised by resurrection, new life, and healing. In one of our Easter stories, a disciple named Thomas has heard from others that Jesus has been resurrected to new life, but he has not yet seen this for himself. Perhaps unfairly in our culture, he has been labeled “Doubting Thomas,” but I can certainly understand the pain he carries when missing this reality for himself. In his frustration, Thomas says this about Jesus: “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.”
And that’s when Jesus makes a very grace-filled choice.
Jesus appears to Thomas and shows him the scars he still bears, and Thomas does indeed believe. It transforms his life.
I don’t shrae this story to make any parallel implication that survivors need to bare their wounds and scars, nor do I want to imply that survivors need prove their own suffering. Not at all. That would be irresponsible and harmful. I want to say the opposite:
If we want to be good allies and good human friends in the face of suffering, we need to believe the stories that survivors share.
Because when we see and hear these wounds truthfully, and
when we honor the value and personhood of the ones standing before us,
we add our own humanity and support.
And when belief, empathy, and love take hold,
we might just witness healing and new life itself.
Last summer, my husband and I took a viewing plunge that would last nearly a year. We added the first disc of Seinfeld season 1 to our Netflix queue, and we committed to watch the entire series. We have enjoyed revisiting the hilarious scenarios that made Seinfeld one of the most unique and popular sitcoms to date.
As we watched, I realized that a number of common phrases were launched on this “show about nothing.” Terms like double dipping, close talking, and regifting all had their fifteen minutes of fame on the show, and they stuck with us because they named social quirks that had not yet been so wonderfully defined.
And I marveled at the burst of technological changes that have emerged in the span of one generation. This is because so many of those changes are simply not in the show. . . The fact that Seinfeld could craft entire episodes around the use of answering machines and pay phones — and for that matter, feature the frequent use of Jerry’s enormous, cordless landline phone — spoke to how different life was just a short time ago.
Every bit of this was enjoyable, but most of all, I found myself reflecting upon the moments behind the scenes, particularly upon the creation of the sitcom itself and the relationships that made it possible. The Netflix discs all have interviews with the cast, directors, and writers throughout the series. As we watched these episodes, we also watched the creators find their stride in defining the identity and tone of the show, and we watched the friendships grow deeper.
At the beginning, it was intriguing to watch Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David practically fall into this opportunity, not knowing where it would take them. In a humorous way during one of the first interviews, Larry David talks about the very non-humorous emotional meltdown he had once the show they pitched was actually going to be aired. He would actually have to write thirteen episodes for the first season. He didn’t think he could do it. Little did he know that he was sitting on a creative project which would become much larger than himself. Within that larger framework, he would find his own writing voice.
As we watched these early interviews, I pondered how we human beings frequently desire to be a part of something larger. I could feel that pull upon myself too. We all want to belong to something bigger than anything we can create alone.
Last night, my husband and I watched the finale of the series. I had not seen that final episode since the evening it actually aired, and it was was wonderful to revisit it. Along with the last episodes themselves, the final interviews were just as intriguing and meaningful as the ones at the beginning. One story in particular will stick with me for a long time.
The four primary cast members all had a ritual of gathering together backstage before the taping every episode. When they gathered together for that moment on the date of the last live taping, Jerry Seinfeld said something quite beautiful. Jason Alexander said that Jerry was rarely sentimental, but on that date, with tears in his eyes, he created a wonderful moment as they stood backstage and held hands. Jerry said,
“I want to say something. For the rest of our lives, when anyone thinks of one of us, they will think of all four of us.”
I love those words. He added, “And I can’t think of three people I’d rather have that be true of.” He was right. When we think of any of them, we do think of all of them.
This ending brought me back to my initial reflections at the beginning of the series. We all want to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. Sometimes we stumble upon such an opportunity, only to add ourselves with our identities, dreams, and voices. And in the end, how wonderful it is if it brings us to belong more fully to one another.
With all of this in mind, I ask,
What is calling you forward?
How can you belong to something larger than yourself?
How can we create something so beautifully that we belong to one another so beautifully?
This sermon was preached on Easter Sunday, March 27, 2016 at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, MI.
Luke 24:1-12
But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’
Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.
But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.
When I think about what was happening before this part of the story begins, I can barely fathom the deep devastation that the disciples were feeling. I can hardly imagine their sense of loss. All of Jesus’ disciples, helpers, and friends had followed him for three years of their lives. They left their work, their homes, some of them left their families, and it seemed as though it had all been for nothing.
Their hopes must have seemed truly dashed. They had lived in awe, knowing that life was changing as they followed this Jesus. He was ushering in the Kingdom of God right before their eyes. He was loving boundlessly and healing those who were suffering. They knew they were witnessing something – Someone – beyond anything they could have imagined, but now, their Savior, their loving One, their healing One. . . was lying dead in a tomb. After Jesus was interrogated, tortured, and disfigured beyond their recognition, he was crucified. Jesus died with criminals, humiliated, and his death was painful and long. Their hopes must have felt truly dashed.
I can hardly imagine the fear those disciples must have had. The last 48 hours were terrifying as they watched Jesus’ arrest and death, and surely they knew that they could be next. The gospel stories give us a picture of the disciples together after Jesus’ death, waiting and watching. They hid behind locked doors. Of course, it made sense to do such a thing; they didn’t know what would be next for them. They must have been living in complete terror. I can hardly wrap my mind around that kind of fear.
And so you can imagine how brave and dedicated those women were when they ventured out to Jesus’ tomb very early on Sunday morning. . . They addressed their loss, faced their crushed hopes, and boldly conquered their personal fears as they brought spices to anoint and care for Jesus’ broken and disfigured body.
But as they arrived, they had a new challenge before them. They had to face a new reality that was beyond their imagination. When they arrived at the tomb, the stone was rolled away. They didn’t expect this. Who could be inside? Is everything okay? I wonder if they immediately felt panic within themselves. Perhaps their fearful imaginations anticipated the scene before reality confirmed it. Perhaps they immediately panicked and pictured that tomb empty without Jesus’ body. They had awoken early to anoint Jesus’ body, but had somebody already been there? Could the authorities have stolen him away from them? They went inside the tomb, and the picture certainly would have confirmed their suspicions if they were thinking them. Jesus wasn’t inside the tomb.
The tomb was empty.
Abandoned.
But then, there was a new, stunning revelation. As the women are standing there perplexed, they realize that two men are standing there in front of them. And those men have a pointed question for these women. It was a pointed question, yet I imagine it was spoken with gentleness. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the two men asked this simple yet pointed question:
“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
Why do you look for the living among the dead? Why are you looking for Jesus in a tomb of all places? Your sense of loss is great, it may feel as though your hopes are crushed, and you may be living in fear, but this One you seek isn’t among the dead at all! He’s among the living!
These messengers remind the women about Jesus’ words to them, and in excitement, they rush back to tell the other disciples. . . Can you imagine their joy? Can you imagine the hope that came flooding back into them?
But other the disciples are still living in their loss, dashed hopes, and fear. They can’t imagine it either, and can we really blame them? The scripture tells us that they believed these words to be an idle tale. Perhaps it was too difficult to even try to hope. Maybe it didn’t feel worth it if they might be disappointed again.
But Peter won’t sit idly by. He won’t simply brush the story away like an idle tale. He needs to allow himself to hope. He needs to see for himself. He leaves those fearful disciples and travels to the tomb. And he doesn’t walk hesitantly. He doesn’t keep looking over his shoulder, fearing the authorities. That wasn’t Peter’s means of traveling to the tomb. Peter ran! Peter ran with passion! He got to the tomb, stooped in, and saw what his eyes could hardly take in. Jesus was not in that tomb – only the linen cloths were there. The scripture says that Peter went home amazed at what had happened.
He went home amazed at what had happened.
And so here we are. We are here on Easter Sunday. Here we are hearing the story again. Where are we?
Where are we – not just, where is our location? But where are we in our hearts and minds? It’s true that it may be hard to imagine what the disciples were feeling, but maybe we know loss, and disappointed hopes, and fear. We haven’t experienced what these disciples experienced directly more than 2000 years ago, but here we are, all in a room, all gathered together, and we’re disciples too. We’re hearing the story of resurrection. We’re hearing that question: Why do look for the living among the dead? We’re hearing the testimony of those women. Where are we?
David Johnson, one of my professors from my time at Austin Seminary, once said this: “There are only two Easter sermons: 1. This is extraordinary and hard to believe, but it changes everything. 2. This is a crock, and we have to figure out some symbolic way of making it believable. I’m going with #1.” I have a feeling that most of us would prefer to go that way too, even if it is hard to believe.
The Resurrection does change everything. As I look around this room, I know that it has changed so many. The resurrection may seem like a thing, in the ways that we have questions – perhaps excited questions, and perhaps critical questions, and those are all good and worthy of being asked – but ultimately the resurrection isn’t a thing. It isn’t a thing that we can plop down on a stainless steel counter for analysis or a thing we can put under a microscope. We can’t do DNA tests or an autopsy. The resurrection isn’t a thing. The resurrection is a Person. We worship Jesus Christ, the Resurrected One.
Why do you look for the living among the dead?
Jesus is the Resurrected One – the Alive One, the Living-With-And-For-Us-One. Resurrection is a Person, and ours is a Resurrected Faith. On Easter Sunday, and for that matter every Sunday because our faith is a resurrected faith, we remember that the Resurrection is an event that changes everything.
And yet the Resurrection is infinitely more than some event that mysteriously and miraculously happened more than 2000 years ago. The Resurrection tells us something true about Who God always is toward us. Jesus is our Resurrection. In his resurrected life, he shows us who God is toward us and toward all of creation.
Like Peter we can run to the all tombs of this world and discover who Christ is. Because as Christ goes to the cross, loving even to the end, even to death on a cross, he reveals Who God Is toward us: “When you suffer, I suffer. I will always suffer with and alongside you.”
And as Christ is miraculously raised from death itself, he reveals Who God IS toward us, “I will rise with and for you. As I rise, you will rise. I am resurrection for you and for all creation.”
So on this Easter Sunday, let’s commit ourselves as a community to run to that tomb.
Run to it!
Run to that tomb 2000 years ago!
And run to the tombs of this world: War-torn nations, poverty, children abandoned and neglected, illness, pain, homelessness and so many more tombs, some that you know very personally.
Discover Jesus as the Resurrected One – the One who lives for those in the tombs, raising them to new life – he himself, the Resurrection for you and for this world.
See him alive even right there. And you, servants of the Resurrected One, behis life there. Take this life changing message always and proclaim it.
For many years, I have shared a phrase with a dear person in my life. Perhaps we’ve been saying it back and forth to one another for an entire decade.
“The mystery of goodness,” we say.
We use this phrase in a variety of ways.
“I didn’t expect that at all. It was the mystery of goodness.”
“See, you’re worth it! The mystery of goodness.”
“Just try it. You’ll be surprised. It will show up. The mystery of goodness.”
Each time, our phrase has addressed the ways that life often hands us unexpected gifts of connection, meaning, and purpose.
Our phrase has not always been spoken in moments of joy and surprise, however. More often, we’ve spoken this phrase to one another when life experiences have been painful and hard – sometimes overwhelmingly so. Our phrase has never been a pithy saying between us. Instead, we allow it to speak to realities that are deep, grief-filled, and challenging. That’s because our phrase is not ultimately a phrase. It is a way of viewing the world.
We have dared to speak, and we have dared to believe – sometimes when it felt nearly impossible to do so – that despite the losses and injustices of the world, and despite the losses and injustices in our own lives, goodness comes. And in the end, it will prevail.
Love and life have the last word.
Goodness has the last word.
Connection, meaning, and purpose have the last word.
Despite the pain we feel and the pain we know,
Life turns on the mystery of goodness, and
We are loved into life.
Let me be clear here. This is not pithy. We are talking about something challenging. This way of viewing the world is the hard-wrought work of having hope when nearly all feels lost. At times, we all need to invite others to hold out this kind of hope for us because we cannot begin to believe it for ourselves. And for very good reason: In our lives and in the lives of our communities, we have experienced death, trauma, abuse, depression, war, racism, addiction, unemployment, divorce, poverty, and other forms of loss and injustice.
This is hard work. It is challenging at times to believe in the mystery of goodness. But we are all invited to hope even just a little more. We are invited to lean into that hope so much, in fact, that we help bring goodness into the world and into the lives of one another.
On this Easter morning, I find myself reflecting upon the mystery of goodness. While we can hope for love and life to prevail, we rarely anticipate what they will look like in the face of hatred and death. They always surprises us.
Yet the surprise comes. No one expected Jesus – tortured, ridiculed, and executed – to walk out of the grave with life in his lungs and in his steps, but that is the great Mystery of Goodness on Easter morning.
Can we allow ourselves to hope for one another?
Can we turn that hope toward others who cannot possibly see the light at the end of the tunnel for themselves and those they love?
This is not pithy.
It is a way of viewing the world, and
It is hard work.
To the friends who have lost multiple family members in one year,
To the friends who are in the throws of depression,
To the friends who are homeless and regularly skipping meals,
To the friends who are divorcing,
To the friends who are incarcerated,
To the friends facing terminal illnesses,
We do not diminish your pain.
We enter it, and with love,
We hope for you.
We hope the unexpected gifts of Easter.
We hope the Mystery of Goodness.
