Burning Hearts -- Third Sunday of Easter

Luke 24:13-35

April 23, 2023

 

            I once heard an anecdote about Ernest Hemingway that tells how Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. If the anecdote is true, Hemingway responded to the challenge by writing the following six words on a napkin.

            “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.”

            Think about those six words for a moment. Think about what they imply. It doesn’t take much imagination to envision the different scenarios that would bring about that particular for sale ad. Regardless of any backstory we could construct, there is one certainty from Hemmingway’s brief but powerful mini story: a future that someone imagined and dreamed about was lost. Someone’ s hope had died.

            “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.”

            There is so much happening in this story about two unknown disciples walking the road to Emmaus, a story that is unique to Luke’s gospel, that it is easy to miss or skip over three little words found in verse 21 – we had hoped. Yet I think those three words tell a story as poignant as Hemingway’s.

            “But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” We had hoped.

            We hear these words from the two disciples, one unnamed and one named Cleopas – two disciples we haven’t met before in any of the gospel accounts. The two men were walking toward Emmaus, a town about seven miles away from Jerusalem. As they walked, they were discussing the terrible events that had happened in the great city. A stranger joined them on the road and asked them what they were discussing. The two disciples were sad and surprised at this stranger’s seeming obliviousness to what had taken place in Jerusalem over the last few days. Obviously, he was the only person who did not know about the terrible events surrounding the death of Jesus. So, they filled him in. They told the stranger about the way their religious leaders – the chief priests and authorities – had handed over their beloved teacher, Jesus, to the Romans. Cleopas and the other disciple shared with their unexpected traveling companion how this same rabbi was put through a mockery of a trial, was beaten and tortured, then was crucified and left to die on a criminal’s cross. Finally these disciples, whom we have never met before and will never meet again, uttered those three words that cut to the heart of their grief and the heart of this story. We had hoped.

            Grammatically speaking, this sentence is written and spoken in the past perfect tense. The simplest understanding of what that means and why it is relevant is that the past perfect tense describes an action that was completed before another one took place. It implies a “but.” We had hoped that he was the Messiah, the one to redeem Israel, but he must not have been. We had hoped that Jesus would change everything, but he didn’t. We had hoped that he truly was the Son of God, and that all this talk about death was a mistake, but it wasn’t. He died anyway. Jesus. Died. Anyway.

            The two disciples knew the story the women told. They went to the tomb, found it empty, but saw a vision of angels. The angels reassured them that Jesus had risen. He was alive. The other disciples checked out the tomb as well, but they received no vision. Consequently, the disciples dismissed the women’s story as “an idle tale.” So, as far as these two disciples could see or understand, everything was lost. Their hopes and dreams that God would rescue them, that God’s long-promised Messiah would free them from occupation were lost. Those dreams were dead and done. Jesus died and so did their hope. We had hoped, but our hopes came to nothing.

            I think the disciples had broken hearts. Their hopes for a different outcome, for themselves, for Israel, have seemingly been disappointed. They have broken hearts. They had hoped. While it feels wrong to express this just a few short weeks after Easter, especially when we are called to live as Easter people with clear hope in the resurrection, I know that we also have hearts that have been broken. I know that we have hopes that did not come to fruition, dreams that have not been realized.

            We had hoped that our loved one would finally win the battle against cancer, but she didn’t. We had hoped that our parents would see one more birthday, but they didn’t. We had hoped that our children would not have their own hearts broken, but they didn’t. We had hoped that a job would work out or a relationship would last, but they didn’t. We had hoped. We had hoped. We had hoped.

            There is no age limit for loss or broken hearts or disappointed hopes. None of us are immune to the grief that comes when what we had hoped for doesn’t happen. The only way to move through life without a broken heart or a dream that dies is to live a life devoid of love. The only way to protect our hearts is to refuse to open them to anyone or anything. And that’s not living, is it? It seems to me that every one of us comes here today with some lost hope. Every one of us is here bearing some disappointment. Every one of us sitting here in the sanctuary could tell a story that begins with the words, “We had hoped.”

            And yet I think that as people of faith, we are afraid to speak those words. We have this idea that if we have faith, we have no business admitting hopelessness. We are the ones who are in the hope business, after all. We do hope. We are hoping. We hope and will continue to hope till hope is no longer needed or necessary. That’s the promise. Admitting, “we had hoped,” seems unfaithful.  And it seems that Jesus chides the disciples for speaking those three words aloud as well.

            “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”

            But was Jesus admonishing these two disciples for having broken hearts, for feeling hopeless, or was it more about calling them to account for hearts and minds that were closed to the truth of the resurrection? I don’t think that Jesus was reproachful of their broken hearts or their lack of hope. I think Jesus was pushing them to see with more than just their eyes. I don’t think Jesus was frustrated with them for what they were feeling. After all Jesus met them on that road. While this expression may seem cliched, Jesus met them where they were. He walked with them on that road. He walked with them and felt their broken hearts and understood their disappointed hopes. He opened the scriptures to them, reminding them that there was more to God at work in the world than they or anyone could see. He taught them about all the promises that had been made about the Messiah and were now fulfilled. He met them on the road, he broke bread with them, so that their broken hearts could become burning ones.

            Those are two more words that I struggle to understand in this story. The disciples are left with burning hearts. When Jesus eats with them, when Jesus breaks bread with them, they are finally able to recognize him, and then he disappears from their sight. And in light of this full recognition, they proclaim to one another,

            “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”

            I don’t know about you, but when I hear the words “burning hearts,” I tend to think of heart burn. Heart burn hurts. Heart burn seems very similar to heart ache and heart break. But maybe the burning hearts that the disciples experienced was not so much about pain but about reawakening? Maybe their hearts burned because they were being broken wide open, open to God, open to the promises of scripture, open to the Love that had been let loose in the world? Maybe their hearts burned because they were being made new?

            The resurrection is not about making life perfect, it is about making life new. The resurrection did not eradicate the messiness that comes with life and love. But the love of God in Christ, is love that imbues all creation with possibility, and refuses to give up on us in spite of ourselves. It is a love that binds up our broken hearts. It is a love that takes seriously our disappointments and our lost hopes. It is love that reassures us that there is more in this world, in this life, than we can see or understand. There is much, much more.

            Jesus, the risen Christ, met those disciples on the road to Emmaus. He met them where they were. He met them in their disappointment and discouragement. He knew their hopes had been dashed. But his willingness to walk with them transformed their broken hearts to burning ones.

            Jesus, the risen Christ, meets us where we are. He meets us in the ashes of our hopes. He meets us in the midst of our pain and longing. He transforms our broken hearts into burning ones. He transforms our broken hearts into burning ones.

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

            Amen.

Peace Be with You -- Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

April 16, 2023

 

            The late humorist Erma Bombeck has been a favorite of mine since I was a kid. In one of her books she wrote about her youngest son who, at that time, would believe any wild, fantastic, implausible story his friends told him. But when it came to something that she, Erma, would tell him, he always regarded her information with a certain amount of suspicion.

            One day he came to the kitchen where she was working and asked her what day it was.

            “It’s Tuesday,” she answered. He looked at her skeptically. So, Erma continued.

            “Tomorrow is Wednesday. The day after that is Thursday. And the day after that is Friday.”

            Her son continued to stare at her doubtfully for another moment, then said,

            “Are you sure?”

            In the traditional interpretation of this post-resurrection story from John’s gospel, Thomas, aka Doubting Thomas, wasn’t sure. He probably should have believed what the other disciples told him, but he wanted to see the truth of Jesus’ resurrection for himself.

            “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my fingers in the mark of the nails and my hand on his side, I will not believe.”

            For some unknown reason, Thomas was absent when Jesus made his appearance to the rest of the disciples. They were gathered together behind locked doors, out of fear, and suddenly Jesus was there, standing among them.

            The first words he spoke to them were a greeting of peace.

            “Peace be with you.”

            Then Jesus showed the disciples his hands and his side. And they rejoiced at seeing the Lord. Then Jesus again greets them with his words of peace, and he proceeds to commission them for ministry.

            “As my father has sent me, so I send you.”

            As he says these words, he breathes on them, covering them with the Holy Spirit, and giving them the authority to forgive or retain sins. They are commissioned and empowered to share the good news of the gospel.

            Unfortunately, Thomas was not there to witness this dramatic event – Thomas the Twin or Doubting Thomas. Doubting Thomas – this name probably sums up the way most of us have heard this story over the years. When I was a kid, the last thing I wanted to be told in any of my Sunday School classes was that I was speaking or acting like a Doubting Thomas. I didn’t really know the story of Thomas at that time, but I knew that to be a doubter when it came to church was a bad thing. To be called Doubting Thomas was not a compliment. That was not a nickname you wanted to be saddled with.

            Thomas doubted. He was skeptical and he demanded tangible, physical proof that Jesus was really resurrected before he would believe it.

            But what about the others? Jesus also appeared to them and showed them his hands and his side. Mary Magdalene announced to them, without a trace of doubt in her voice, that she had seen the Lord! Yet the disciples didn’t fully trust her word any more than Thomas trusted theirs.

            The disciples were hiding out in a locked room and the sudden presence of Jesus among them surely must have shocked and frightened them. Mary Magdalene’s report of seeing the Lord, speaking with the Lord, and even trying to embrace him had not lessened the disciples’ fear at his crucifixion. It had not lessened their doubt at everything that had taken place in the last week.

            It is only when Jesus appears to them and shows his hands and his side that they believe and rejoice. They too needed proof that Jesus was really and truly alive. Just. Like. Thomas.

            But Thomas put into words what he required for faith. As one commentator said, he set out the conditions for his faith. He needed to see the marks of the nails on Jesus’ hands. He needed to touch them and to touch the place where the sword pierced Jesus’ side.

            So, a week later, Jesus comes again to the disciples, to Thomas. He gives Thomas what he asked for. He gives Thomas permission to go ahead, touch him, place his hands on the marks left by the nails, touch his side. Go ahead, Thomas, see firsthand the proof of the resurrection. In other words, Thomas says, “Show me.” And Jesus responds, “Here I am.”

            And it is at this moment where the misconceptions about Thomas arise. Thomas is now seen as the cynical, skeptical doubter who only believes when he has proof. But this text is not so much about doubt as it is about faith.

            The New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, the version we read from, and other translations, translate Jesus as saying, doubt. Do not doubt. But the Greek word for doubt is not used in this story at all. The more literal translation for the verb apistos – the word translated as doubt – is unbelieving.

            Do not be unbelieving but believing.

            Now maybe making a distinction between doubt and unbelieving may seem like tomato versus tomahto, but this distinction between doubt and unbelieving takes us in very different directions.

            Do not be unbelieving but believing. Go from being without faith to having faith. Not having faith isn’t the same thing as being skeptical about faith, is it? It’s not quite the same thing as doubt. It seems to me that in order to have doubt, you also have to have, at least a modicum, of faith to begin with.

            Jesus offered to Thomas exactly what he asked for. He told him to touch the marks of the nails on his hands and to put his hand on Jesus’ side. Jesus offered himself as motivation, as a sign for Thomas to believe, to have faith, to go from unbelieving to believing.

            The text does not say overtly that Thomas took Jesus up on his offer, but we do know that when Jesus offers himself as proof and motivation for faith, Thomas utters one of the most profound confessions of faith in all the gospels.

            “My Lord and my God.”

            Thomas is not exclaiming here. He is confessing. He is confessing his faith. My Lord and my God.

            Jesus responds,

            “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet have come to believe.”

            Is Jesus trying to shame or scold Thomas? That’s how this has been interpreted. Or was Jesus confirming what had just happened? And in his confirmation, he opened the door to faith for generations of believers yet to come. This is one of those moments in scriptural witness when we are able to see ourselves firmly in the story. It’s as if Jesus isn’t just speaking to the disciples gathered before him, he is speaking to us.

            I don’t believe that Jesus was scolding Thomas for wanting to see Jesus with his own two eyes. Instead Jesus offered hope to Thomas, to others, to us, through him. What this passages promises all of us is that our faith is not disadvantaged because we were not firsthand witnesses to Jesus and his ministry, his life, his death, and his resurrection. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” And the peace that Jesus gives to his disciples is given to us as well.

            I think it’s interesting that Thomas doesn’t just want to see the risen Christ. He wants to see his wounds. He does not request a glowing, ethereal being to appear before him. Instead, he wants to see the mark of the nails and touch the wounds left behind. Jesus encourages him to do just that. He willingly shows Thomas where he is wounded so that Thomas will go from unbelieving to believing. What would happen if we did the same? What would happen if we showed each other our vulnerabilities, our pain, the places where we’ve been hurt, the scars that we bear? How would that change how we see each other and what we believe about the other?

            What would happen if we shared the broken places in our lives? I’m not advocating that church be a place of self-obsessed group therapy or maudlin self-revelation. I just realize that more often than not it is in my wounded places, my broken places where I recognize Jesus’ presence in my life, not as a magic fixer of all things broken but as the One who refuses to leave me no matter how broken and wounded I am.

            Doubt and faith are not opposites, they are two sides of the same coin. I walk the line between them every single day. I doubt, I believe. I doubt, I believe. And it is when someone sees me in my brokenness, my woundedness and loves me anyway, that I am reminded that Jesus did and does the same. In those moments my faith is strengthened, and my doubt is lessened.

            What would happen if we understood that being Easter people, people who live everyday with the resurrection firmly in our minds and hearts, means that we are people who acknowledge that we are wounded and we see the woundedness in others? Maybe that sounds depressing to some, but I think it just might be liberating. Maybe it would make us kinder. Maybe it would make us more compassionate. Maybe it would help us to remember that no one gets through  this life without struggles, without scars. Maybe seeing one another in our woundedness would make us better humans. And we know that in this world where broken wounded people break and wound others, we need to be better humans. We need to strive for the humanity that Jesus embodied.

            I found a quote that said, “The church is not a museum fore good people, but a hospital for the broken.”

            Thomas’ faith grew when Jesus willingly offered to show him his wounds. We are wounded people, and Jesus, who was also wounded, loves us. Maybe the people beyond these doors need to hear this message as well. Maybe that is the good news that we share, and the true sign of the resurrection. Those who are wounded will be healed. Do not be unbelieving but believing. Jesus is in our midst, saying, “Peace be with you.”

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

            Amen.

 

 

             

My Message to You -- Easter Sunday

Matthew 28:1-10

April 9. 2023

 

            Being married to Brent Stoker means that great music is a huge part of our life together. Brent has introduced me to some wonderful music since we’ve been together, and alone with all the other things about him and our family that I am grateful for, I am especially grateful for the music. At some point in the last two years, Brent played songs for me by Levon Helm. If you know the group The Band, you know Levon Helm’s music. He was their brilliant drummer, songwriter, and one of the main singers.

            I knew The Band, but I didn’t know Levon’s solo work. So, one day in the car, Brent played me some of it. While I liked everything I heard, I was floored by the song, “When I Go Away.” A simple summary of the lyrics is that it is a song about dying. Levon didn’t write the song, at least the lyrics aren’t credited to him, and I don’t know if he recorded it as he prepared for his own death, but this is a song about dying. And yet it is the most joyful, uplifting, exuberant, spiritual, faithful, hopeful song I’ve heard in a long time. We listened to it, and I was overwhelmed. I’ve given strict instructions to Brent that if I should die first, “When I Go Away” is to be played as the finish to whatever service there may be.

            You would think that a song about dying would sound like a mournful dirge. But this song rocks! It’s part gospel, part rock n’ roll, part country. The opening verse is,

“Early in the morning, a-when the church bells toll,

The choir’s gonna sing and the hearse will roll

On down to the graveyard where it’s cold and gray

And then the sun’s gonna shine through the shadows when I go away.”

            I think the point being made is that dying is a gift not a curse. Dying is just the entry point to the next life, a better life, when all the sorrows and troubles and trials of this world are left behind. Whenever I listen to it, and I’ve listened to it a lot at this point, it makes me feel happy and hopeful and glad. I play it when I’m sad or discouraged, and it lifts my spirits. The next verse of the song is this,

“Don’t want no sorrow for this old orphan boy

I don’t want no crying only tears of joy

I’m gonna see my mother gonna see my father

And I’ll be bound for glory in the morning when I go away.”

            As much as I love this song, when my mom died a few months ago, I found that I couldn’t listen to it. That verse hit too close to home. My faith and hope are grounded in my belief that I will see my mother and father again someday; but I knew that my heart wasn’t ready to hear that verse. So, I stopped playing Levon for a while.

            Until a couple of days ago. I was driving home, and I found myself longing to hear Levon. It was on one of those rainy, gloomy days that we’ve had lately, and I longed to hear a song that would make my heart glad. This song makes my heart glad. I knew that if I listened to it again, I would also have to hear once more the verse about seeing his mother and father, but I felt like could handle it. So I played it, and I sang. And when I heard those lyrics about an old orphan boy seeing his parents one more time, I cried. But I kept singing. My tears were tears of grief, true, but they were also tears of joy. And I realized as I sang that my heart is healing a little, and I am grateful.

            Since I’m jamming to this wonderful song again, it’s message has been on my mind especially considering today, Easter Sunday. Certainly, the ultimate message of “When I Go Away” that death of this life, in this world, is just the gateway to glory is one understanding of resurrection. Through Jesus’ resurrection, death for all of us has been overcome. We may die to these earthly lives, but we will live again on the other side in glory.

            But I think this understanding of resurrection needs to be held in tension with another understanding of resurrection, and that is that God gives us new life now, not just after death. Resurrection happens in the present, not just in the future. Matthew’s gospel tells of Mary Magdalene and the other Mary going to the tomb early that morning. There is no mention of them bringing spices to anoint his body. They knew a stone too big for them to roll away blocked the entrance, and guards had been posted to make sure no one went in or out. They went to the tomb, maybe to sit by it as we might sit by a graveside. They went to grieve, to remember, to wonder, to wait. But the descending of an angel caused the earth to quake and the ground to roll. The angel himself moved the stone away. Dread at the appearance of the angel caused the guards to fall into a dead faint, and surely the women must have been frightened too. But the angel uttered the same words to them that had been proclaimed to others at the birth of Jesus, “Do not be afraid.”

            Do not be afraid. Jesus was crucified, but he has been raised. See the spot where he lay. He isn’t there. Go quickly and tell the disciples that he has been raised from the dead and he is going ahead of you to Galilee. Meet him there. “This is my message for you”

            And the women, filled with both fear and joy, run to do just that. And it is on the way to share this good news with the disciples that they meet Jesus. Alive, risen, resurrected. They meet him in the present, not in the future. They witnessed the resurrection while they were still alive and able to tell the story. They were able to see him, talk to him, touch him. They saw the resurrection in their present long before they saw it in the future.

            And that’s what I mean about holding these two understandings of resurrection in tension. Yes, our faith tells us that resurrection is something we will all experience on the other side of the veil when we are taken up to glory. But resurrection is also right now and right here.

            It seems to me that the resurrection was God’s great “Yes” to life and to love, and God’s great “No” to the powers and principalities that tried to stop love from winning. The forces that put Jesus to death on the cross were people who were afraid; afraid of losing their own power and fearful of what the power of love could and would do. Kill him, they thought, make sure he is dead and gone and out of our hair and out of our way. But they miscalculated and underestimated the power of God and God’s love. Their plans to stop  God’s love by stopping Jesus backfired. They backfired spectacularly! Instead of stopping this love that Jesus embodied and preached, that love grew and spread and claimed people’s hearts and minds. It was not just about resurrection sometime later; it was about resurrection now.

            That’s this tension that I’m talking about. When I was able to listen to Levon again, when I was able to belt out the words, “I’m gonna see my mother, gonna see my father,” I knew, and I believed that something within me had been resurrected. It’s not that I’m over the deaths of my parents, it’s that listening to that music and singing along with Levon reminded me that there is joy to be found in the now, even as I anticipate seeing my mom and dad again in the future. When joy can be born out of grief, that’s resurrection.

            When hope can rise from despair, that’s resurrection. When anger gives way to forgiveness, that’s resurrection. When empathy and compassion bridges division, that’s resurrection. When the fullness of peace is prioritized over the emptiness of war, that is resurrection. When we see one another through the eyes of God rather than through eyes clouded by distrust and suspicion of the other, that is resurrection.

            The abundant life that God offers is not just a reward upon death, but a gift and a promise now. The resurrection does not take away the sorrows of this world. It does not magically make grief and trouble and trials disappear. But resurrection reminds us that new life is ours now. God is making all things new, right here, right now. Our incarnate God who willingly took on our flesh, and in doing so our suffering, is alive and in the world and in this place and in our midst. The stone has been rolled away. The tomb is empty. Love and life have been let loose in the world, so do not be afraid. When fear is released and love is embraced, that is resurrection. That is my message to you.

            Let all of God’s children shout, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.