Disbelieving Joy -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

 

Luke 24:33-48

April 18, 2021

 

            You may have heard of the movie, Ghost, with Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and Whoopi Goldberg, but have you ever heard of the movie, Truly, Madly, Deeply? If you have not, you’re probably not alone. It is a British film, made back in 1990, and it was never widely circulated in the States as far as I know. It is the kind of arthouse film that would play at the Belcourt Theater in Nashville, but probably would not have made it into big movie theater chains. The critic Roger Ebert called it, “The thinking man’s Ghost.” I loved the move, Ghost, so I was eager to see this other ghost story.

            Truly, Madly, Deeply stars Alan Rickman and Juliette Stevenson as the two main characters: Jamie and Nina. Nina is overwhelmed with grief after her boyfriend, Jamie, dies suddenly. She is mired in her grief and can’t seem to move forward even a small step. To her disbelieving joy, Jamie returns to her as a ghost, and it would seem that they would be able to be in relationship with each other once more … other than she was still alive and he was a ghost.

            But Nina quickly realizes that life with her ghost boyfriend is not the joyful reunion that she thought it would be. Jamie seems to have a lot of annoying quirks as a ghost, and Nina wonders if he was always like that. As a ghost, he is cold all the time, so he turns up the heat to Sahara Desert like levels. He invites his ghost friends over to her house to watch television all the time at all hours. Jamie, in subtle and not so subtle ways begins to remind Nina that she is alive and he isn’t; something that she could not accept on her own.            

            Nina meets someone, a man named Mark. She likes him – a lot – but moving forward with him would mean she would have to let go of Jamie. And this is a wrenching proposition. But Jamie’s annoying ghostly habits finally push her into letting go. She lets go. She moves forward. And in the last minutes of the movie, as Nina walks away, Jamie watches her go and another ghost appears beside him and asks,

            “Well?”

            And Jamie’s only response is, “Yes.”

            You realize that Jamie came back, not so that he could cling to Nina, but that Nina could finally let him go.

            Now, you may be asking, what does this little story about a movie no one has heard of, have to do with our story from the gospel of Luke? What does it have to do with our big story from the whole gospel, from all of scripture? Maybe it doesn’t have much to do with it at all, other than the disciples think Jesus is a ghost.

            We know Jesus is not a ghost. We know it, but the sudden appearance in their midst seems a little ghostly, at least according to what popular culture tells us is ghostly. Was Jesus, post resurrection, able to walk through walls and doors, solid boundaries that no living human could breach without causing destruction to the door or to the human? It certainly seems so. One minute he was not there; the next he was standing in their midst, asking them why they are frightened, and why they have doubts lurking in their hearts?

Our story follows on the heels of probably the best known of Luke’s accounts of post resurrection appearances – the story of Jesus on the road to Emmaus. In that story, two disciples are making their way from Jerusalem to a village called Emmaus. Jesus joins them on the road, but they don’t recognize him. The disciples have been speaking about everything that had happened: the crucifixion of Jesus, and the women’s supposedly idle tale that the tomb was empty, and they had received a message from the angels that Jesus was indeed risen.

When Jesus questions them about what they have been talking about, they look sad and relate all this to him. Then he begins to interpret the scriptures for them in light of what they’ve seen and heard. 

            They encourage him to stay with them because it is getting late in the day. He does and when they sit down to eat, when he breaks bread with them, their eyes are opened, and they recognize him. Immediately upon recognition he vanishes from their sight. So, they hightail it back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples. And while they’re sharing with the disciples what they’ve just seen and heard and witnessed, Jesus appears in their midst. 

            Now they all witness the resurrected Christ. But even with everything they’ve heard and what they now see, they are still terrified. They think Jesus is a ghost. Jesus dismisses that idea.  Look at me, he tells them. Touch my hands and feet. Does a ghost have flesh and bones?  And while he tells them this, he shows them his hands and feet. He willingly offers them proof that he was indeed crucified, dead, buried and now he’s raised again – not just as a spirit, but as a real physical being. 

            But their doubts persist. Luke writes that,

“While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.”

            I remember a professor in seminary talking about this particular moment in this particular passage and relating to us that the Greek does not say that Jesus merely ate that fish. He gnawed at it. He devoured it, just as any human would who had not eaten in several days. Jesus is not just a spirit before them. He has flesh and bones and hunger. The disciples are overjoyed, but still disbelieving. They don’t trust their senses. Then Jesus did for them what he did for the other disciples on the road to Emmaus. He opened their minds to understand the scriptures. 

It seems that an open, enlightened mind is the final, necessary ingredient to belief. When he finishes interpreting the scriptures in light of all that has happened, with his physical presence before them, the complete and unequivocal proof that what he told them before his death has indeed come to pass, he declares to them all,

“Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.” 

            You are witnesses of these things. That’s not just a statement of fact, is it?  There is an implied imperative here as well. You are witnesses of these things and therefore you must witness. Starting in Jerusalem, this story has to be told. God’s word of repentance and forgiveness must be preached. And as witnesses of these things, it starts with you.

            You are witnesses of these things. It seems natural that I should wind up this sermon with those words. You are witnesses of these things. We are witnesses of these things. So, let’s go out and witness. Alleluia. Amen.

            But the truth of the matter is that I’m not sure of where or how to draw this sermon to a close. Is it the importance of witness to the gospel? Is it the fact that Jesus did not return as a ghost but as resurrected flesh and blood, the incarnate God once more incarnate? Or is it recapturing the wonder of this story, the disbelieving joy that the disciples felt at seeing their beloved rabbi once more?

            Maybe it is all of this and more. I know that you can never plumb the depths of any passage in one sermon, and maybe I am taking the easy way out by not trying to draw a final conclusion. But the truth of it for me is that all of this matters. It matters more than I can express. It matters that Jesus returned to the disciples as a hungry man of blood and sinew. It matters because our bodies matter. Our flesh and blood matters. All flesh and blood matters. God taking on earthly form was not just a way to get our attention, to be unique amidst the other false gods the people worshipped. It was because the Creator cared about the physical being of the creature, as well as the heart and the soul and the mind. God cares about our whole selves. Our minds matter, our hearts matter, our souls matter, and our bodies matter.

            And we are called to be witnesses to these things. We are called to go out into the world proclaiming the good news of the gospel, proclaiming the good news of the resurrected Christ. We are sent beyond these doors to share the gospel. But how can we do that effectively if we have lost our disbelieving joy? How can we do that if we are mired in grief or captured by cynicism or if we have forgotten what it means to wonder at this story, at all the stories, at the story of our God in relationship – the relationship of the trinity, the relationship with all of creation, relationship with us. Maybe what we need is to recapture some disbelieving joy, some wonder. I have a good friend and colleague who once told me that it never surprised him that God resurrected Jesus for Jesus’ sake, but the fact that God resurrected Jesus for our sake?! That is a wonder!

            Allow yourself to be caught up in the wonder. Allow yourself to be caught up in some time of disbelieving joy. Allow yourself to be amazed that Jesus was died and Jesus is risen. Say the words, “The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed,” and be amazed that it is true! I mean it’s true. Jesus Christ is risen! Resurrected! His flesh was restored. He was so hungry, he gnawed at fish. He came back embodied so that we could be emboldened. How can we feel anything but disbelieving joy at the wonder of this?! How can we not leave this place proclaiming that Jesus Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And we are witnesses of these amazing and glorious things. We are witnesses of God’s good news. Jesus the Christ is risen. He is risen indeed!

            Alleluia! Amen.

Terror and Amazement -- Easter Sunday

 

Mark 16:1-8

April 4, 2021

 

            The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.

            These words will be heard all over the world today. They will be proclaimed in every language we can think of. I’ve already seen them offered on social media from friends and family members. We began our service with them, and we will end our service with them. Yet what I find interesting and strange is that while Christians all over the world are literally and figuratively shouting these words from the rooftops this day, they cannot be found in Mark’s gospel.

            When it comes to storytelling, Mark must have believed that less is best. He does not waste time on a lot of description. He does not waste words on lengthy narrative explanations. Compared to the other gospel writers, Mark either leaves a lot of information out – or he leaves a lot to our imagination.

            From the first words of this gospel, it would seem as thought Mark has brought us into the middle of the story. Jesus is already born. Jesus is already grown. We immediately know who Jesus is. There is no space provided or time allowed for us to figure it out on our own. Mark tells us right off the bat.

            “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

            Boom. It’s out there. No frills. No fancy word play. No metaphors or similes to contend with. This is the story of the good news of Jesus the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God. Mark wants us, the readers, to know right up front what and who this story is about. There is no question that Jesus is the Son of God.  

            Mark’s beginning epitomizes matter of fact and straightforward, and his ending is much the same. As soon as the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome gather spices together and make their way to the tomb just after dawn on the first day of the new week. They were worried about the stone that blocked the entrance to the tomb, and were asking one another, “Who do you think might roll it away for us?”

            But when they reached the tomb itself, they saw that their worry was not necessary. The stone had already been rolled away. They entered the tomb and saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side. They were alarmed to see him, and he knew it because he immediately said,

            “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”

            See, just like the beginning. Mark does not make the reader wait to find out what happened. Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified and died, is now raised. He is not here. Tell his disciples and Peter that he has gone ahead to Galilee. You will see him there, just like he told you.

            Just like he told you. But unlike the other gospels, the women cannot seem to take this news in. It’s as if they hear the words of this young man, but they don’t register them. They do not run to the disciples and Peter with the good news that Jesus has been raised. They do not tell them that Jesus has gone ahead to Galilee and will wait there for them, just as he promised. They just run away. They are filled with terror and amazement and they run away, for they were afraid.

            This passage before us is considered by Bible scholars to be the actual ending to the gospel of Mark. That seems strange to say because if you have ever read the last chapter in Mark’s gospel, you’ll know that after the words in our passage comes two more endings: one titled the Shorter Ending and one titled the Longer Ending. Scholars believe these are added on, later additions to Mark’s original ending, most likely written by scribes. As preacher and teacher, David Lose, said,

            “Some well-meaning monks just couldn’t let the gospel end like that.”

            It is no wonder that some scribe wanted to “fix” this original ending in Mark. They could not let it end with terror and amazement only. They wanted to make sure that the disciples did indeed get the good news. They wanted to make sure that the disciples and Peter went to Galilee per Jesus’ instructions. The ending of Mark’s gospel is much like the beginning, in that it is short and to the point and doesn’t waste space on paper filling in a lot of details. But that’s what makes it difficult to deal with. It is the kind of ending that makes you say, “And?” They ran away in terror and amazement. Okay. They were afraid. All right. And?”

            And? What comes next? What happens then? How is this all resolved? How is the good news proclaimed? When do we finally hear the joyful shouts of the people saying, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!?”

            But we don’t hear those words. Not in Mark’s gospel. Not in the original ending. We don’t get the reconciling moment with the disciples. We don’t get the post-resurrection appearances. There is no road to Emmaus in Mark’s gospel. There is no Jesus appearing suddenly in their midst; no showing his wounded hands or feet; no moment of proof. No, we get an angel telling women to “Fear not,” and the women doing exactly the opposite.

            Fear not. This is the standard greeting in scripture when a divine being is about to impart dramatic, amazing, life-changing news to a human who is not expecting it in the least. If you hear the words, “fear not,” it means that something good is about to happen; something glorious and God-filled. But the women were not ready to fear not. They could not suspend their terror and amazement. Fear and grief were the only things they could wrap their heads around. They were the only emotions they could feel. Grief drove them away from the tomb. Fear drove them away. They run away in fear. The. End.

            And?

            A hard lesson that I have had to learn over the years is that you cannot rush someone through their grief. You can’t make someone who is grieving feel instantly better with words, with platitudes. In our pastoral care classes in seminary, we were wanted not to jump in too quickly with words of good news when you were offering care to someone who was grieving. You don’t tell the widower who has just lost his wife of 50 years that he should feel happy because his wife is now in a better place. You don’t tell parents who have lost their child that they should feel glad because this is just all part of God’s plan, or, God must have needed another angel in heaven.

            Honestly, if I had lost my beloved spouse, I would not want to be told that she’s in a better place – even if I believed that were true. And I definitely would not want to hear that the death of my child was due to some unknowable plan of God’s or that God would take my baby just to fill a spot in a heavenly choir or to meet an angelic quota.

            No, we were told, you don’t try to rush people through their grief. You don’t offer them platitudes or easy comfort. You sit with them in their grief. You offer them the ministry of your presence, and you don’t try to find words for comfort when no comfort can be found. You don’t offer words to try and ease the discomfort of grief. Grief hurts, but what hurts more is people trying to make us feel better or “get over it,” when we are grieving. Even the good news doesn’t feel so good when you are in the midst of loss.

            The women were surely grieving. They were surely overwhelmed with grief and sorrow and loss that their beloved Teacher, Rabbi, had been so brutally executed. But they were also the first to hear that their beloved was not dead but raised. Isn’t that the kind of news we would want after losing a beloved? Isn’t that what we would hope for? That the unthinkable would happen? That the one we loved had not left us, but was alive and well and gone ahead to a pre-arranged meeting place?

            But even the good news does not feel like good news when we are grieving. And the women were grieving. They were afraid. They went to the tomb with burial spices, to prepare their beloved Rabbi for his final rest, only to discover that in the secret darkness of that tomb, God had done the unthinkable. God had done the unexplainable. God had raised Jesus from the dead. But the women were not yet ready to hear or understand, and it makes sense that the male disciples would not yet be ready for that good news either. The way Mark leaves it, the way Mark ends his story, makes it clear that none of the characters were ready. They were still grieving, still shaken, still afraid. They were too consumed by terror and amazement to do anything … yet.

            Essayist Debie Thomas described Mark’s gospel as a slow resurrection. He leaves the women in terror and amazement because that is where they were. Honestly, if I had gone to that tomb only to find it empty and seen not Jesus, but an angel, I would have been overcome by terror and amazement too. The good news of the resurrection would take time to sink in. I think Mark allows that to happen. I think Mark’s ending makes room for that. I think that the women and the disciples will get there. But it will take time.

But even if they don’t, the good news will still be proclaimed. The good news of the gospel will still be shouted from the rooftops, not because of the people in Mark’s story or because of us the readers. But because of God. Easter happened without the disciples or the women or anyone else making it happen. Easter happens now without me or you or any of us making it happen. Our being in church today did not make Easter arrive. My preaching this sermon does not make Easter a reality. God makes Easter happen. God resurrected Jesus. God brings life out of death. God is doing a new thing, whether we can perceive it or not.

In the secret darkness of that tomb, God changed everything. Jesus was resurrected. Life and love was set loose in the world. In this year of fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and death, overwhelming death, it is okay if our grasp of the resurrection comes slowly. It is okay if we feel both terror and amazement. It is okay if our voices crack and shake a little when we say, “The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.” We are still proclaiming this, and more importantly, it is still profoundly and wonderfully true!

The Love of God, the Spirit of God, the Power of God is loose in the world. Easter is happening all around us, even if we are not there … yet. We will be. We will be. God’s good news is loose in the world. He is risen. He is risen indeed. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

Approaching Jerusalem -- Palm Sunday

 

Mark 11:1-11

March 28, 2021

 

            The last parade I attended was the Christmas parade in Shawnee, Oklahoma 2018. It was Zach’s last time to march in the high school band, and I watched and waved and cheered as the band went by. As soon as I spotted him in the lineup, I started taking pictures and video to capture the moment. I ran ahead of the band, so I could see them march toward me once more. It was Zach’s last parade in the marching band. I wanted to capture as much of it as I could. Seeing the band, seeing my son in the band, made that parade great for me.

We all know what makes for a great parade, don’t we? You need stunning visuals. You need great music. You need crowds of people laughing and cheering and waving. You need floats and balloons and bands. It helps if there is candy for the kids, and if it is a Christmas parade and its cold and dark outside, then having hot chocolate waiting for you when you’re done is a bonus too. We all know what makes for a great parade, don’t we? You need spectacle. You need pomp. You need circumstance.

If this is the bar that I have set for a great parade, then I’m not sure if Jesus’ triumphal entry into the city quite reaches it. If we are really being honest, Mark’s telling is rather anti-climactic. Jesus and the disciples were approaching Jerusalem, and they were at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives. Jesus sent two of the disciples ahead of him into the village. He told them that the minute they entered the village they would find an unridden colt tied there. They were to untie that colt and bring it back to Jesus. Jesus warned them that if anyone should ask why they were taking the colt, they were to respond, “The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.”

The disciples did what Jesus told them to do. They were questioned just as Jesus told them they might be. They responded the way they were instructed to, and they brought the colt back to Jesus. They threw their cloaks across the back of the colt, and Jesus rode it into Jerusalem. It is true that people did gather to welcome him into the city. They cut leafy branches and spread their own cloaks on the ground before him. People followed behind him and walked ahead of him, shouting,

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

This sounds royal and pomp-full enough, but Jesus doesn’t do anything that you might expect once the parade is finished. He makes no speeches. He performs no miracles. Instead, he goes to the temple, looks around at everything, realizes it is late, and goes back to Bethany. Jesus does not even stay in the city. He returns the way he came. Anticlimactic.

Mark puts a great deal more emphasis on the telling of how the disciples managed to get the colt than he does on Jesus’ actual entry. The procession seems almost like an afterthought. And while the procession itself had a certain amount of drama and pomp, that ended as quickly as it began. One aspect of Mark’s version that I had not picked up on before was the fact that the colt was unridden. You don’t have to know much about horses or donkeys or colts – and I don’t – to know that a colt that is unridden will not be prepared for a rider. This was an animal that had not felt the weight of a human being before, but Jesus was awfully specific about the unridden part. When I really think about that, it is hard not think in rodeo terms. Wouldn’t the colt have bucked at this new thing happening to it? Wouldn’t it have resisted someone sitting on top of it? Does the fact that Jesus rode it mean that he worked a miracle with it much like the ones he worked with humans? It seems that there was a certain amount of clairvoyance involved with the story already. Jesus seemed to predict exactly what would happen when the disciples went into the village. Perhaps Mark’s emphasis on the retelling of it was to point out that Jesus knew exactly what would happen, not just on this day but in the days to come?

Jesus also knew that the people who heralded his arrival into Jerusalem would have seen the grand arrival of others before him. The people would not have been surprised at the sight of someone royal or important riding into the city on the back of a mighty steed or in a golden chariot. Writer and scholar, Debi Thomas, describes two processionals happening on that day.

One came from the West, and it was a full-blown royally regaled romp, dripping with both pomp and circumstance. This parade answers a question that until this week I had never thought to ask: why was Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem at the same time Jesus was? Pilate did not live there normally. It was not his first home, and the rest of the time he resided elsewhere. No, Pilate was in Jerusalem because it was Passover. Passover was a Jewish festival that remembered, celebrated, elevated the Israelites miraculous, divine exodus from slavery and oppression. If ever there was a festival that could get folks riled up and ticked off at the occupying Romans, it was Passover.

So, Pilate processed into Jerusalem with all the might and light he could muster. That parade was a perfect reminder of what the people faced if they tried to rebel or riot. Let the people see the splendor and the strength of the Romans and let them be reminded – vividly reminded – of what was what and who was who.

And whether it was clairvoyance or just the astute observations of One who knew that his purpose and point was to face that strength, Jesus knew what Pilate’s parade was all about. And so his triumphal entry came from the East. His was the opposite of Pilate’s. Jesus processed in the way we have already described, on an unridden colt, with people hailing him, crying out to wave, laying branches and cloaks before him. Pilate may have been heralded with notes blared from golden trumpets, but Jesus was hailed with Hosannas. I used to think that Hosanna was just an old-fashioned biblical way of shouting, “Hip, Hip Hurray!” but “Hosanna” actually means, “Save us. Save us now.”

Pilate rode into Jerusalem to make sure the people knew that their only salvation lay in keeping their heads down, doing what they were told, living and laying low, and remembering, always remembering, that their fate remained in the hands of the Romans.

Jesus rode into Jerusalem much more quietly. He rode in as he did everything else, with humility. Did he want his presence known? Certainly. But he also wanted his presence to be understood, to be seen for what it is – a servant, humble and lowly, but still the Son, the One they had been waiting for – for so very long.

And the people did hope. They did hope that Jesus was the One they had been waiting for, praying for. That’s why they cried, “Hosanna.” They knew they needed saving, the just did not or could not understand how that salvation would come. They were desperate. They were tired. They were beaten down.

But their hopes, raised so high, would quickly diminish into disappointment. As Jesus approached Jerusalem, the people believed that finally the end to their long oppression had come. But we know that this week, this final week, will not produce the results they or – or we – expect. For as anticlimactic and lacking in drama as Jesus’ approach to Jerusalem may seem on the surface, the rest of the week will be high drama, culminating in death on a cross, and against all odds, resurrection from the grave. There will be last suppers and footwashing and lessons on love. There will be remembrance attached to everyday things. There will be betrayal and grief and a confrontation between these two men who both rode into Jerusalem. In worldly terms, there will be winners and there will be losers. But in divine terms, God’s purposes will be fulfilled. Death will be overcome. Salvation will be achieved. It’s just that many won’t recognize it. Hopes may seem dashed and expectations disappointed, but in the end and at the beginning, hope will also be resurrected.

And that’s what we cling to, isn’t it? That hope is never completely extinguished. The story of Palm Sunday, indeed the story of Holy Week, the gospel story, the scripture story, the story of God and God’s people, is a messy one. It’s filled with great highs and debilitating lows. It is filled with the messiness of people who seek to do what is right and fail miserably. It is filled with the messiness of people trying to live in community with one another and with God. It is filled with the messiness of people who were created by God to be in relationship but fall short time and time again.

This week that we now enter is the pinnacle of that messiness. It is filled with hope and disappointment. It is filled with love and betrayal. It is filled with human beings making difficult and wrong decisions. It is filled with sacrifice and pain and grief. But most importantly, it is filled with God walking with God’s people, standing with us when we get it, when we get a glimpse of the kingdom, of how this world and the next should be, could be, and one day will be. And it is filled with God standing with us when we don’t have a clue, when we cannot see more than a few inches in front of us, when we struggle to understand, when we grieve at the harm we do to one another, when we think that we cannot muster even the smallest grain of faith. Our God stands with us in all of our messiness, in all of our triumphs and our tragedies.

We are about to enter the messiness of Holy Week, and God is with us as we walk this road, as we carry our own crosses, as we approach Jerusalem, crying out, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Save us, Save us now.” And God does. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.