Sunday, April 30

Click here to read Luke 23:13-35.

I started reading a library book this week about churches. In my line of work, there’s a lot of reading about God, but there’s also a lot of reading about the Body of Christ, God’s beloved church. This book is about so-called “turn-around” churches. The author studies congregations that have on the brink of shutting their doors. Many were, at one time, large churches with extensive programming. But like many Protestant churches, the last thirty years or so were tough on these churches. People left. Children and grandchildren decided church wasn’t for them, or maybe joined another congregation down the street. The churches found themselves stuck in a rut of grief and bewilderment. They had no momentum for change, and very little comprehension of God’s movement within their bare bones congregations.

A woman named Muriel was a member of one of these congregations. I wonder if she still is, or if she finally gave up on her floundering community of faith. This is what Muriel said to the author of the book. “Sometimes I wake up on Sunday mornings and just lay there thinking I must be crazy to keep attending that church… why am I sticking with it? I don’t even know what hit us, or what happened to all the people. It just seemed like one day we were happy, singing, praying together, and the next day it was like a funeral parlor.”

I’ve been turning these words around in my head, looking for even a little bit of hope beneath all that despair. And I have to tell you, I can’t find even a little bit of gospel in her words. If the Body of Christ is in a funeral parlor, no sign of resurrection in any direction, well, those folks might as well turn the keys over and go home.

That’s where the two men who were on the road to Emmaus are. Dejected. They had hoped that Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. They had cultivated so much trust, so much joy, so much anticipation for God’s glory in the person of Jesus Christ. But now it was all past tense. Their hope had been crucified on a cross, and now all they could do was walk and talk, sadly pondering the tragic turn of events. Yes, there were those strange rumors that the body of their supposed Lord was gone. Their sheer disappointment didn’t even begin to consider the possibility of the resurrection. I imagine that Cleopas and his friend are something like poor Muriel, wondering why they’d been crazy enough to stick it out with Jesus. They are walking away from the funeral of the one who was supposed to redeem them.

And then Jesus shows up. I love stories like this. We know all along that the stranger on the road is Jesus. We watch through Luke’s careful eye as the men make little fools of themselves, going on and on about the death of the Nazarene prophet, and the strange rumors of empty tombs and angels, when it is the living and breathing Christ Jesus who is listening and nodding at all the appropriate places to their heartfelt and heartbroken eulogy. Jesus manages to teach a whole Bible study as they walk, illuminating the heart of the scriptures to the men, and still they don’t recognize their fellow sojourner.

Once in Emmaus, the men convince the stranger to stay with them. Perhaps they take a liking to his unusually perceptive biblical interpretation. Perhaps they just don’t want to be alone. But Luke tells us that the men beg the man to let them host him in the village Emmaus.

But the men will not play host for the meal in Emmaus, for Jesus is always the host at every table. He takes their evening bread, and blesses it, and breaks it…and doesn’t this sound familiar?

And that’s when the men finally realize that they have been in the presence of Christ all along. They did not expect him. They expected a funeral, and instead they were blessed with an encounter with the One who redeems not only Israel, but the whole of God’s Creation.

Christ was made known to them through the breaking of the bread. Their blindness gave way to the beautiful sight of the Messiah, who had been beside them all along. Unlike Muriel’s eulogy for her dying congregation, there is a whole lot of gospel in the story that unfolded on the journey to Emmaus. Christ Jesus, the son of the Living God and the Lord and Savior of all, was made known to them through the breaking of the bread. They raced back to Jerusalem to proclaim the good news of their amazing encounter with God’s beloved son, who is risen indeed.

The book I’m reading about churches is pretty depressing. And I think it’s because I haven’t gotten to the part where the churches start turning around. All I’ve encountered in this book so far are the funeral stories, tales of congregations that are unconvinced of God’s glory, suspicious of the Holy Spirit, stuck with a Christ who hasn’t quite left the grave. These congregations are still trudging away from the City of God, joylessly recounting how their vitality had collapsed.

I wonder if Muriel’s church regained its recognition that Christ is risen, and among them in the breaking of the bread, or if their sight is still obscured by sorrow and grief. I’m willing to bet my library card that the only way for congregations to turn around is to turn to Christ, to allow their eyes to be opened to his steadfast presence.

Our purpose, as a congregation, is to worship God. Everything else— mission, evangelism, spiritual growth— emerges from that one radical purpose. We gather in this place because God has called us here, to revel in his presence, to delight in his glory, to offer praise and thanksgiving for his unconditional love. We gather around a table to share the communion meal because Jesus himself is made known to us through the breaking up the bread. And we sure do need to know him. Our joy, our hope, our lives depend upon the ability to recognize and celebrate Christ’s presence in our congregation and in our world.

Lately, people have made some comments that have led me to believe that some hearts are burning as we worship God in this place. The Spirit of the Living God is at work here, coaxing us into deeper prayer and more joyous song. We are being shaped as individuals and as a congregation into more faithful followers of the one who walks beside us.

We are not heading to Emmaus, but we are on an exciting journey. As we discern the direction of God’s call for this congregation, we must keep on turning toward the table of Communion, where Christ is made known to us week after week in the breaking of the bread. And like Cleopas and his friend, who ran back to Jerusalem by night, we must keep sharing the great news with our friends and neighbors, that here, in this place, we gather under the gentle shadow of the Holy Spirit.

We walk through the doors of this sanctuary expecting to encounter and to worship God, and despite our racing minds and tired bodies, we do. The Lord is risen, indeed.

Amen.

Sunday, April 23

Click here to read John 20:19-31.

The Disciples locked themselves away in a room, imprisoned by fear. How can this be? Last we heard, Mary Magdalene ran off to proclaim the Good News that she had encountered the Risen Christ. Now, whether or not the Disciples really believed Mary or simply thought her grief had kidnapped her sanity, we can’t know for sure. We do know that Easter had not yet reached the men in Jesus’ inner circle. John tells us that the Disciples cloistered themselves behind a locked door on account of their fear of the Jews. Every biblical commentary I’ve ever read about this text scoffs at such a simple explanation for their terror. There was no evidence they would be the target of Jewish retaliation, or Roman violence for that matter. The man who’d been the problem—the one whom we call Savior—had been taken care of. The story was over, according to the authorities, and it seems that the Disciples agreed.

There they are, cowering behind locked doors. And while John doesn’t spell it out for us, the fear the Disciples felt was spiked with shame. They had failed their prophet, their teacher, their leader, their friend. If it was true that the tomb was empty and Jesus was walking the streets of Jerusalem again, were they really up for facing him? They had been cowards in the hour of his death, and now their fear and shame make cowards of them in the wake of his resurrection.

And then Jesus shows up. Even though the doors were locked, bolted shut with whatever sort of security device you’d find in an ancient Israelite home during the Roman occupation, Jesus is suddenly standing among them.

Isn’t this the stuff of ghost stories? Don’t only intangible haunts pass through doors? Aren’t we supposed to be focusing on the very real and tangible body of Christ, present and fully alive? Back when I was a skeptic, I used roll my eyes at this kind of biblical detail. Come on, now, John, I’d think. Dump the theatrics and stick to the story. But through the eyes of faith, Jesus’ sudden appearance in a locked door is much more than a special effect thrown in for pizzazz. Yes, it’s a sign of God’s impressive power made manifest in the Resurrected Christ. But God doesn’t waste his power on empty miracles.

Jesus, our Risen Lord and Savior, is shown here breaking and entering, and not just into a house. Jesus breaks the chains that bind God’s children to fear and shame, and enters our hearts. You might say he is like a thief in the night, only instead of stealing away with our treasures, he freely gives us the priceless treasure of salvation.

“Peace be with you.” This is what he says to the Disciples gathered there. Not, “How could you deny me, Peter.” Not “Why did you not go looking for me when Mary told you she had seen me?” Just, “Peace be with you.” The Disciples expected anger and disappointment, and instead Jesus greeted them with the ultimate sign of forgiveness and reconciliation – his peace.

With the passing of Christ’s peace, the Disciples are released from their cage of fear. They are released from the bond of shame. After showing the Disciples the traces of his wounds, Jesus reveals that he will still depend on the bumbling, fair-weather Disciples to continue his mission. He breathes on them, commissioning them with a ministry of reconciliation and forgiveness. Can you imagine the thrill of feeling God’s very breath on your cheek? What I wouldn’t do to have been a fly on the wall of that room. Just think what it would do for your faith, your trust, your sheer believe in the living, breathing, forgiving, loving Son of God. To have seen the wounds of Jesus, to have seen life where death had taken hold, to experience the jubilation of receiving the Holy Spirit from Jesus himself.

I had a friend who struggled with the notion of the resurrection. He got stuck, locked up in a prison of doubt and disbelief. He liked Jesus, perhaps even loved him. But he didn’t want to follow a Jesus who was evicted from the tomb. He didn’t want to associate with a Christ who mystically appears in locked rooms. He wanted a tidy faith that didn’t defy the laws of nature. But my friend has changed. He began to consider the reality that something happened after the death of Jesus. Something happened. That phrase became a mantra for him. For when you look at the Disciples before the business of Holy Week, you have a motley crew of men who only rarely understand the words of their Rabbi. It’s as if they take two steps back for every one step forward. As for Jesus, well, he was just one of thousands of men crucified by the brutal Roman government. He should have been forgotten, like the countless other criminals and rebels that met the same fate. Only he wasn’t. He became the central figure in a strange new religion that soon spread like wildfire throughout the known world. Something happened.

This is that something, friends. The encounter with the Risen Lord. Just as Mary Magdalene was transformed in the fleeting moments she spent in the physical presence of the gardener, the Disciples were changed by their joyful reunion with Christ.

No wonder Thomas was ticked. No wonder he stubbornly announced that he wasn’t going to believe a word the Disciples said unless he could see and touch Christ’s wounds for himself. He had missed the boat. Wherever he was on that evening, he wasn’t in the right place. Thomas has often gotten a bum rap throughout Christian history. How many Sunday School teachers have chided questioning kids to not be a “doubting Thomas?” But how can we blame him? He was the first person who was pressured to affirm the living presence of Christ without having laid eyes on his scars.

So Jesus does it again. He breaks and enters, though the closed doors of the house. He offers the same greeting of Peace, and addresses Thomas personally, offering to provide for Thomas what he needed to believe. Again, there is no condemnation. Even as he concedes that there is a special blessing in having faith without the benefit of proof, Jesus gently gives Thomas what he needs— the chance to touch the hand of his Lord.

Often, the entire focus of this text is on Thomas. Certainly, his struggle with belief and unbelief is a significant story. But I think it is wise to always return our attention to the One who returns from the grave. Here we have a story that reveals the depth of Jesus’ heart, a heart that still beats with compassion for creation. Here we encounter a Lord who doesn’t bother to knock, a God who shows up whether we are ready to face him or not. Here we are surprised by a Savior who forgives, again and again, releasing us from the bonds of sin and fear and shame.

Here we witness a Resurrected Christ who would let a man touch his tender wounds just to give him a chance to believe in God’s glory. Here we see that God’s idea of an Easter celebration is to kick down the door and give the gifts of Spirit and mission to a raggedy group of men who were, for better or worse, the church. We may not have seen, but we believe. The breath of his peace is still resting upon us.

Something happened. That something is Christ, and he is still happening, even here, even now.

Amen.

Christ is Risen!

Click here to read John 20:1-18. And Happy Easter!

One of my favorite things about living in the South Bay is driving down the Esplanade on a clear morning. I love seeing the impossibly blue ocean and the pure white spray of the breakers. I marvel at the curve of the land, how the Santa Monica Mountains and the Palos Verdes Peninsula stretch to embrace across the bay.

But I think what I love most of all is the chance to observe the people who stand on the Esplanade sidewalk, taking in the grand seascape. As I keep one eye on the road and one eye on the coast, I catch fleeting glimpses of people who are utterly transfixed by the ocean. Something about being in the presence of something so deep, so mysterious, so big, just grasps people. I’ve heard it said that gazing at the ocean actually causes one’s soul to expand. The soul simply grows in response to what it sees.

The gospel lesson for this Easter Sunday is the most gospel of all gospel readings. It is the best of all good news, delivered out of the mouth of a very tear-stained Mary: “I have seen the Lord!” We gather on this Easter Morning because we, too, want to encounter the living Christ. We, too want a holy gardener to transform our tears into joy. We want to see the Lord.

But for the moment, our part in this story is as witnesses to the witnesses. The focus of this story, so to speak, is on the ocean, but also on the people whose souls are expanding in response to its beauty. We stand by as Mary and the Disciples discern the miraculous event that is at the core of the Christian faith: the resurrection of God’s beloved Son.

John’s account of the first Easter morning begins and ends with Mary Magdalene. She alone makes the mournful journey to the grave of her Lord. In the other gospels, other women accompany Mary to the tomb. But in the gospel according to John, she is alone. She has no hand to grasp or shoulder to lean on as she discovers, in horror, that the stone has been rolled from the tomb. Now she doesn’t even have a grave to tend. She can only assume that the body has been stolen by the same people who stole the breath from Jesus. At this point in the text, there is a lot of running around; and it is no surprise, for this is what always happens when Jesus is missing. Mary turns and runs back to the Disciples to proclaim the bad news. They all run back, one outrunning the other, to try to make sense of the strange turn of events. All that is left in the tomb are the linen wrappings that had bound the lifeless body of Jesus. They take in the sight—the utter emptiness of the tomb—and turn to go home, mired in confusion.

Mary remains. All that she knows is that her Lord is dead, and that someone has added salt to the wound by robbing his grave. She stands vigil in front of that empty tomb, weeping the tears of one who has lost more than everything. Her grief is soon interrupted by a pair of angels. “Why are you weeping?” They say. And then the gardener asks the same question. “Why are you weeping?” Mary is so desperate to retrieve the body of her crucified savior that she does not recognize that it is her Risen Savior who stands before her, as alive as anything else in the garden. And then he speaks one word that reveals everything to Mary. One word is all it takes for her to believe and understand: her very own name.

We can only imagine that Mary runs to embrace her teacher at this point, because Jesus has to gently remind her that he cannot be grasped. No matter that Mary wants more than anything else to embrace the body she had been weeping for so mightily; Jesus tells her that she cannot continue to hold on to him. The power of the resurrection is not the thrill of touching flesh that was once dead. The power of the resurrection is the encounter with the living Christ, the savior you might mistake for a humble gardener if not for the fact that he knows you by name.

And so Mary runs off to preach the first Easter sermon: Christ arose, and will keep rising until he is restored to the full presence of God. She knows this not only because of an empty tomb and a cast-off shroud. She knows this because she has experienced the resurrected Jesus, who is on the move even now.

The last hundred years or so have seen a flurry of attention afforded to what happened in the tomb. One of the five doctrines of fundamentalist Christianity is the matter of the bodily resurrection of Christ. While the gospels do certainly testify that Jesus was seen eating and drinking after he had been killed by Roman authorities, the fascination with what happened in the tomb still bewilders me. Standing in opposition to the fundamentalists are the scholars intent on offering believable alternatives to the unbelievable story of the resurrection. Death is death, they say. They prefer grave robbers to the miracle of the Risen Christ.

The gospels do not even begin to imagine the goings-on before the stone was rolled away. Barbara Brown Taylor notes that “the resurrection is the one and only event in Jesus’ life that was entirely between him and God.”

And I have to tell you, I think we might be better off keeping it that way. I recently watched a video marketed to churches for use in Easter worship. It imagined the moment of the resurrection. A man wrapped in linens lay on a table. As an orchestra played dramatically in the background, the man slowly began to stir. The music billowed to a climax as the man sat up. It just didn’t work for me. It reduced a miracle into a cartoon, a holy mystery into a crude farce. And worst of all, it forced the Easter celebration back into the tomb.

Easter does not begin in the tomb; it begins with the encounter of the living Christ. When Mary’s tears of sorrow are wiped away, when the mere sound of her name shakes the grief right out of her, when her very soul trembles and swells in the presence of Jesus— that’s when Easter begins. That’s when the resurrection becomes real.

The gospels bear witness to a handful of appearances of the Risen Lord. They let us watch on as these encounters utterly transform people. And the gospels whisper a promise: the holy gardener is still on the move. He cannot be contained, not by the hateful grip of death, and not even by the loving embrace of a follower. Christ is on the loose, waiting for us to turn our tear-stained faces to his presence. We don’t need the paltry evidence of a cast-off shroud to know that our Redeemer lives, for the one whose Spirit outgrew those linens is present, even now.

Experiencing Easter isn’t about clenching your fists, closing your eyes, and forcing yourself to believe in an event that happened within the intimate circle of the Holy Trinity. Easter begins and the resurrection becomes real when you open yourself to the spirit of the Living God. Encountering the Risen Christ expands your soul and transforms your life so completely that even death cannot claim you. First the encounter— then the belief, the trust, the sheer joy of being in relationship with Jesus.

So have enough courage to show up at the tomb. Have enough tenacity to weather the moments—the days—the years—when it seems like someone has taken your Lord away. And like Mary, have just enough faith to keep weeping until you hear your name.

Amen.