Why Are You Looking Up? Seventh Sunday of Easter

Acts 1:1-14

May 24, 2020

            One of the many questions I had about church as a child was about the weekly offering. Why did we have to give money to the church? My parents would try to explain to me that we gave the money to help Jesus. That’s what they said, “We give the money to help Jesus.”

That actually confused me more, because the understanding that I had of Jesus was that he lived in heaven and had been living there for quite some time. He watched over us from heaven. In my young mind that meant that we gave money to help Jesus who lived in heaven. I remember trying to figure that one out, and the only logical explanation I could come up with was that after everyone left the church, Jesus came down from heaven, gathered up all the money from the offering plates and took it back with him to heaven.

I pictured the Jesus I saw in my Sunday school room: nice man with brown hair and a brown beard, looking beatific and kind, and posed with his arms outstretched in welcome. That is the Jesus I saw coming down from heaven – kindly, gentle smile, with his arms outstretched. And that is the Jesus I saw return to heaven – same smile, same arms outstretched, only know his arms were full of the money we gave because obviously money was needed in heaven. It was quite a while before I found another picture to replace that one.

First, this is a vivid example of why abstract concepts do not work with little kids who think in concrete terms. Second, without even realizing it, I had formed my own mental picture of Jesus ascending into heaven. My picture involved Jesus ascending on a weekly basis with his arms full of money, but still it was ascension.

This past Thursday was the Day of the Ascension. We do not put too much emphasis on this day in our tradition, but I know that Christians in other places do. In some countries, the Day of the Ascension is a religious holiday. This is the day that Jesus ascended into heaven, let us rejoice and be glad in it.

I doubt that the Ascension will ever take on quite the same importance in our culture, but that does not mean we shouldn’t give it any thought. It would be easy to get caught up in the literalness of the event – did Jesus zoom straight up? Did he just vanish or did the cloud act as cover? If it happened today, would Jesus have been picked upon radar or mistaken for a UFO? As with other supernatural happenings concerning Jesus, I don’t actually spend a lot of time worrying about the literalness of them. Whether Jesus literally soared up into the clouds or was no longer seen again, I think the ascension has a deeper significance than its logistics.

In our Christian narrative we tend to stop with the resurrection. Jesus was brutally crucified. He was willing to die for the truth he brought about God and God’s kingdom. He was willing to die for those around him and for us. But his resurrection from the dead changed everything. And it did. But in the ascension, we find completion. It is completion of Jesus’ life here on earth. It is the full circle – for Jesus. For the disciples, the ascension of Jesus is the beginning for them. Several commentators refer to the ascension as the “passing of the baton.” Jesus’ earthly life is finished, but the work he began is not. The gospel of good news about God’s love has to be shared. Jesus opened our eyes, our minds, our hearts to see the kingdom of God in our midst, but we now shoulder the responsibility to do the same for others.

Jesus’ words to the disciples were that they must “be my witnesses.” The power to do just that is what we celebrate next week. But Jesus’ command is clear, “Be my witnesses.” And just as in the stories of the resurrection, when Jesus is no longer in their sight, angels are. Two men dressed in white, appear to them. They ask one question, “men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been take up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

The men’s question focuses on the disciples looking up. But implied in their question – as I see it – is a second question. Why are you not looking out? Why aren’t you looking out into the world God created? Why aren’t you looking out at the people who are living in darkness, in fear, in sorrow, in hopelessness? Why are you looking up when you should be looking out?

One of the techniques I used for teaching confirmation classes in the past was to talk about the different aspects of our worship service. I know our virtual services are shortened, but the basic structure is still there. We gather and we call ourselves to worship. We hear the Word written and proclaimed. We respond in prayer and affirmation. We are sent. In my teaching, I tell folks, young and old, that the Word is the focal point of our reformed service. Everything builds up to it and everything moves from it. There is a lot of energy invested in getting to the Word. But I’ll be honest, whether we are worshipping in person or virtually, by the time we get to the sending part, I think we start losing steam.

We’re thinking about lunch. I’m usually vacillating between that was an okay sermon and that was the worst sermon I’ve ever preached. People want to stretch and move. Some of you at home are thinking about one more cup of coffee. Some of you at home are thinking about getting out of your pajamas – it’s okay, I get it. We just move through the sending part and consider our worship completed.

But the sending is not an afterthought. It is not just a nice way to finish worship and move on. The sending is as important and as crucial as every other moment in worship. Perhaps it is the most crucial. If we don’t take the sending seriously, I think we are just spending the majority of our time looking up, forgetting that we are also supposed to be looking out.

Right now, I feel like I’m spending much more time looking up than I am looking out. I’m looking up demanding answers to why, when, how long. I’m looking up imploring for help, for hope. I’m looking up in sorrow and lamentation. I’m looking up in frustration and even sometimes in despair. But these words from Acts and John too remind me that I need to refocus my gaze. I need to look out. Where am I being sent? How am I being sent? What does God need me, need us to do out there? Because there is a whole lot of need. There is a whole lot of sorrow. There is a whole lot of people who need the good news, who desperately crave, long for a word of hope, a word of peace, a word of love. There is a whole lot of folks out there who need us to look out and be for them, in any way we can, the love of God.

Because it was that love that brought Jesus into our midst and gathers us together. It is love that brings us to the Word. And it is that love, that life giving, life changing love that sends us out. So why are we still looking up?

Amen and amen.

Blessing of the Masks

From the beginning, God’s people have faced uncertainty. Whether it was wandering in the wilderness or existing in exile, God’s people have been called to adapt, to change, to grow and to trust. We find ourselves in a new kind of wilderness, in a time and place where what we once took for granted is no longer assured.

But God did not abandon his people in the wilderness or forget his children in exile, and we are not forgotten either. We ask for God’s blessings on these masks as a sign of our trust that God is still leading us, God is still calling us, God is still with us.

We wear these masks, not because we are fearful, but because we are faithful.

Bless these masks, O God.

We wear these masks because like the Good Samaritan, we want to love our neighbor: the neighbors we know and the neighbors we have yet to meet.

Bless our neighbors, O God.

We wear these masks because we are called to care for the least of these: the vulnerable and the elderly, the sick and the weak.

Bless the least of these, O God.

We wear these masks because we stand with those who care for us when we are sick, feed us when we are hungry, and for those who go to work so we can stay home.

Bless these essential workers, O God.

We wear these masks so that Christ may shine through us in tangible and real ways.

Bless these masks, O God.

God, who loved us first, commands us to love others. Even as we long for the day when we can lay these masks aside, we wear them now because we want to embody the love of God in both small ways and large. May God bless these masks, and may they be one sign of many of God’s kingdom come, God’s will be done. Amen.

©Amy Busse Stoker

Unknown and Known -- Sixth Sunday of Easter

Acts 17:22-31

May 17, 2020

            “Marco?!” “Polo!”

            “Marco?!” “Polo!!”

            “MARCO?!” “POLO!!!”

            When I was a kid, this was one of our favorite games to play in the pool during the summer. When I started taking my own kids to the pool in the summer, I taught it to them. Even today if Phoebe, Zach and I have a chance to go swimming together, we’ll end up playing Marco, Polo.            You know that game, don’t you? Whoever is designated as It must move around the pool with his or her eyes closed calling, “Marco.” The others that are hiding from It have to respond, “Polo.”

            My kids and I played Marco Polo a lot. And to keep the peace between the two of them, I would get the ball rolling by voluntarily being It first. That meant that I spent a great deal of time splashing around the pool with my eyes closed and my hands out, groping blindly for my kids, and hoping I didn’t tag someone else’s child or another parent in the process.

            This was the image that came to my mind when I read these words of Paul’s sermon to the Athenians from our passage in Acts. Paul saw the Athenians as people stumbling around in the dark, groping for the God that they did not yet know.

            Our passage from Acts this morning starts in the middle of the story. Paul is in Athens, that we know, and he is in front of the Aeropagus, which is an outcropping of rocks just below the Parthenon. This was a place where trials were traditionally held. Was Paul on trial? Not necessarily, but in the verses before we read that Paul and some others had caused an uproar in Thessalonica with his preaching of the gospel. Then he went to Beroea, where the same thing happened, and now followers have gotten Paul safely to Athens. There he waits for Timothy and Silas to join him. While he waits, he walks around the city and as the text says, “he was deeply distressed to see that the city was full of idols.”

            Paul did what he had been doing all along. He talks to people in the marketplace, the Plaka, to Jews and others about the gospel. He tells them the good news of the resurrection. Some people believed him. Others called him a babbler. They thought he was pitching foreign gods. Now Athens was a city of philosophy. And Paul debated with some of the leading Epicurean and Stoic philosophers.

            It was these people who brought him to the Aeropagus. It was not because they wanted to put him on trial, necessarily, but they wanted to hear more about this new teaching, this new thing that sounded so strange to them.

I don’t want to take us down an unnecessary rabbit hole, but it might be a good idea to understand a little more about Epicureans and Stoics. They were not atheists. They believed that the gods existed. Epicureans were hedonists. But not in the way we tend to understand hedonists. They were not the drunken, toga wearing gluttons ala Animal House kind of hedonists. Epicureans believed that the only thing that was intrinsically good was pleasure. That which increased pleasure was good, that which decreased it was bad. Pleasure and pain came in both mental and physical form, and to Epicureans there were two types of acute mental pain: fear of the gods and fear of death. Epicureans did not believe that the gods intervened in human life. The gods were set apart from humans on a completely different realm, indifferent to humanity and all of its ills. The Epicureans were materialists; they believed that everything down to the smallest atom, including humans, was made up of matter. Matter does not have an eternal soul. So when we die, we are dead. The point was why fear gods who were indifferent to humans, and why fear death when it was a complete end? There would be no punishment in some life after this one. Live for today and live in simple moderation and tranquility.

            The Stoics valued reason. They believed that the universe was based on reason and rationality. The Stoics, like the Epicureans, believed that tranquility and peace of mind were the foundation of happiness. That tranquility and peace of mind came from reason governing our desires, self-control. The universe was based on Divine Law, and Divine Law was grounded in reason. Therefore, there was no point in getting bent out of shape over anything because everything was happening as it should. Imagine a dog being tied behind a moving cart. The universe is the moving cart and humanity is the dog. If we fight against the rope tying us to the cart; if we chew and pull and resist, then we are going to be miserable. But if we resign ourselves to follow along behind the cart, trusting that the cart is moving according to reason then we will not expend our precious energy on useless resistance and struggle. The cart is reasonable and rational, and we just need to accept that it is going where it should.

            Paul walked into this philosophical melting pot and did what Paul did so well. He used his significant rhetorical skills and his ability to speak from the place where his audience lived – physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

            “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way.”

            That’s a way to win friends and influence people. Paul goes on to say,

            “For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he

served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things.”

            It is as if Paul was saying, look friends, I know how religious you are. I know you believe. But that unknown god? Let me tell you, that god is the God, capital G. That God is known and here. I know that God. And I know that God and you know that God because all creation, this earth that we live on, this world we inhabit, all that was made by this known God. Paul even goes on to quote what was most likely a Stoic poet,

            “In him we live and move and have our being.”

            Then Paul tells them that this God who created everything cannot be recreated through human imagination, even the best of human imagination. God cannot be found in gold or silver or stone. God was found, God is found in the One whom God raised from the dead. Up until this moment, Paul had not even mentioned Jesus. Still, he does not mention Jesus by name. But he speaks of the resurrection. He speaks of God Incarnate, God who was born, God who died, God who rose from the dead.

            As so often happened (and happens), the resurrection was the wall that some folks ran into headlong. In that crowd were Stoics and Epicureans, people who believed that dead was dead, and the universe was a rational cart leading us along on a reason-lined trajectory. Resurrection was too much, too irrational, too unreasonable, too upside down, too illogical, too much. It was the inner spirit that counted, not the finite matter. Again, we stop reading before the story is finished. Some people scoffed at this idea of what was dead being alive again. Paul, this babbler, was preaching about a God who embraced not only the spirit, but the flesh, the body. This God Paul preached of loved the body enough to resurrect it. How irrational? How strange? But some listened. Some wanted to know more. And some believed. Some, perhaps those who had been groping for God the longest, realized that the unknown god was truly the known God; the God who knew them.

            It seems to me that all of us, no matter how long or short our personal story of faith is, spend time groping. We stumble around, hands outstretched, trying to find God, trying to know God. Perhaps, as Paul suggested, the desire to know God, to search and even grope for God, is an intrinsic part of our very being, our very creation.

            Maybe this time is a time of groping, stumbling, reaching; maybe this is a time when the whole world is searching to know – not just anything – but to know God. The good news is that even when we are unsure, even when we feel we don’t know, God knows us. We are known. That is where our hope lies, that is the good news. We are known by our known, creating, loving, resurrecting, embodied, God.

            Amen and amen.

Troubled Hearts -- Fifth Sunday of Easter

John 14:1-14

May 10, 2020

            Troubled hearts. Sometimes words or phrases resonate with me, but these two particular words rang out in my head and my heart like a gong or giant clanging cymbals. My heart feels exceedingly troubled in these days, so I tried to list out some of the reasons for this.

            What troubles my heart these days?

·         Is it that in so many ways things look normal outside, but in reality what we thought was normal is long gone?

·         Is my heart troubled because a store security guard, who was doing his job, asked a customer to wear a mask and was shot and killed?

·         Is it because in two months more Americans have died due to Covid-19 than in the Vietnam War? And is it because we don’t seem interested in memorializing or grieving for these people on a large scale? Weren’t they our brothers and sisters? Weren’t they our neighbors? Even if we don’t know them. When will we lament them?

·         Is my heart troubled because when people die, so many die alone, family unable to be with them, to hold their hands, to say goodbye, because of this rotten, stinking virus?

·         Is it because so many people are out of work, and even with public spaces slowly reopening again, people are going to remain out of work?

·         Is it because in many ways I am grieving over what we have lost, as a community, as a nation, as a world?

·         What troubles my heart? Is it my sense of powerlessness, and helplessness in the face of something that is still so unknown and unpredictable?

·         Is it because I know that no matter how hard I try, I still cannot fully embrace the gospel of radical love that broke through the darkness with the birth and life and death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ? Deep down, I still have a hard time with that radical love, because it calls me to love not just the people I am inclined to love, but to love the ones that I am disinclined to love. It calls me to be a neighbor to people I don’t like, and radically disagree with. It calls me to give and live sacrificially even for people who don’t appreciate it or care all that much.

·         I know that my heart is troubled because I stand in opposition to that gospel more often than I care to admit. I push back against that gospel, against that kind of love. It frustrates me and challenges me, and even when I do sometimes rise to the challenge, it is with great kicking and screaming. It troubles my heart. It all troubles my heart.

These words of Jesus to his disciples are part of what scholars and commentators call his Farewell Discourse. We most often hear them at our funerals, our witnesses to the resurrection. That is when I have spoken them the most often, when I am trying to give comfort to people who are grieving. One writer commented that most of us pastors speak these words to people at the edge of another’s grave, but Jesus was speaking them at the edge of his own grave. So if the disciples had some inkling of what was really about to happen, it is easy to understand why their hearts were troubled indeed.

John’s gospel gives the disciples the biggest benefit of the doubt. In other words, he cuts them the most slack for their lack of understanding, their inability to fully grasp who Jesus was and what he was there for. But in this passage in John’s gospel, the disciples seem bewildered and confused at best. When Jesus says,

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself. So that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.”

I’ll be honest. John wrote beautiful prose, but the meaning of each phrase, each word sometimes, is so layered and deep, that when I hear it or read it, I have to think and think and think some more about what is actually being said. So it is no surprise to me at all that Thomas responded to Jesus by saying,

“Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

I get Thomas’ consternation and I get the disciples’ confusion. Their teacher was leaving them. He made no bones about it. He was leaving them. And they were afraid and disappointed and confused and anxious and sad and grieving. Their hearts were troubled.

But Jesus was reassuring them. He was reassuring them, that they did know the way. They knew where he was going, because they had been with him for three years. They had learned from him, walked with him, watched him, been challenged by him, been taught by him, witnessed what he had done. They had stayed with him, which in John’s gospel is not about a place, but about relationship

Because they had been in relationship with him, they had been in relationship with God his Father. While he was going to his heavenly home, and they could not go with him, they were not being left abandoned or alone. In the verses after the ones we read today, Jesus promises them the Holy Spirit. But even before they hear about this Advocate, they are receiving the promise of presence, of ongoing relationship.

As I said earlier, we most often hear these words at funerals. We hear these words about many dwelling places, many rooms, and we think of a heavenly kingdom that is roomy and wide and welcoming. But Jesus talked often about how with his coming, the kingdom of heaven had come to earth. And I wonder, if Jesus was also trying to tell about making room here and now for all of God’s children. I wonder if Jesus was not trying to tell them that being in relationship with God was not exclusive to them, but an invitation for all.

I wonder if Jesus was exhorting them to understand that the kingdom of heaven on this earth is roomy and welcoming and here. Their hearts were troubled, but Jesus wanted them to see that death could not end their relationship with him, and through him, with God. They would still stay with God, and others would be invited to come and stay as well. God was making room.

God was making room, so we must do our best to make room for others too. I read a story about an elementary school teacher in Connecticut who made room. A mother of one of her students called in distress. She had Covid-19 and she was going to have an emergency C section. She needed the teacher to call her husband and tell him. The family are recent immigrants and English is their second language. The teacher called the husband and he gave her permission to act as a go between with the hospital. The mother gave birth five weeks early. The baby was in neonatal ICU and the mother was in a coma for three weeks. If that were not hard enough, the older son, the teacher’s student and his dad had to quarantine for two weeks. But the baby was supposed to leave the hospital. Where would he go? The teacher made room for him. She took him home. She told the father that she realized he barely knew her, and it was understandable if he did not fully trust her, but she would make room for that baby until they could take him home. She would make room. And she did. And she cared for the baby until he could go home to his family, safely and securely.

When I read a story like this, the trouble in my heart diminishes. Because, in spite of everything, people are still making room for others, for strangers, for friends, for neighbors, for family. And God makes room for us, for all of us. So let not our hearts be troubled. Believe in God. Believe in Jesus. There is room. There is room for all.

Amen and amen.

           

Shepherd -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

John 10:1-10

May 3, 2020

I have been noticing more lately. I think that has been one of the gifts that this time has given me. I am not as distracted by the constant motion of the world around me, so I take time to look and watch and observe. Maybe because I have more time to do that, I’ve been trying harder to pay better attention to the world around me. And the world around me is quite lovely. One daily joy that we have at our house is watching the birds come to the feeder on our deck. Not only is it fun to see the different kinds of birds, but I love observing their different personalities and behaviors. And there is spectacular scenery on the drive here. One thing we look for is the flock of sheep that pastures on a hill. The hill is along the Lewisburg Highway, so when we get off the interstate to head into Pulaski, we start looking for the sheep.

It’s really exciting when we see them. It is for me anyway. Bucolic is not a word I have reason to use very often, but these sheep grazing on the hillside is a bucolic scene. It is a pastoral scene. And, well, I’m a pastor, so seeing these sheep on Sunday mornings is a good reminder of how prominent shepherds and sheep are in our scripture.

Jesus said, “I am the Good Shepherd.”

But he actually said that in the verses immediately following our passage today. It’s easy in our minds to add that statement in to the verses we read from John’s gospel this morning. But in reality, Jesus was talking more about the sheep than the shepherd, and the gate.

I don’t know much about sheep other than they come in flocks and they look pretty on a hillside. But colleagues of mine do know about sheep, and I’ve been learning from them.

With all due respect to them, sheep are not the brightest of God’s creatures. They have a talent for wandering off the path and stumbling into trouble. From what I have been told, they can be stubborn. They are determined to go their own way, even if that way leads to danger. They need a shepherd. But they need a shepherd who will care for them, watch over them and lead them, as the psalm says, to green pastures and beside still waters and through danger, enemies and death’s valley. Yet, if that good shepherd isn’t to be found, then sheep will follow whatever shepherd happens to be around. Sometimes a sheep will follow the sheep in front of it, without paying too much attention to the shepherd. So let’s hope the sheep in the front is following a good one.

What I’ve learned from my pastoral – literally pastoral – sheep tending, church leading colleagues, is that sheep are good animals, but kind of dumb, stubborn and need a shepherd. And in this passage Jesus refers to his followers as his sheep. His sheep need a shepherd.

If you don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the implications of this imagery, it is charming. But as another pastor said in our lectionary group last week, it is charming because we have sanitized this passage. We see it like I see those sheep grazing on the hillside on the way to church. Lovely, rustic, pastoral, a sweet scene as we drive by. But stop, get up close to them, and well, there’s manure. And the sheep smell like … sheep.

And if we are sheep, and we look at the reality of sheep, this passage loses some of its charm. It is not necessarily flattering to be called a sheep. I suspect it may have been jolting for those listening to Jesus to hear this, and it is not any easier in our context today. In our culture, we don’t want to be compared to sheep either. To be called a sheep feels like we have no imagination, no ability to think for ourselves. Who wants to be just another person in the crowd? Who wants to be just one more sheep in the flock, blindly going where everyone else is going, without much thought for anything else but where the next meal might be?

But was Jesus trying to insult the people who followed him, who clamored for him, who heard his voice? No. Jesus was not referring to people as sheep as a way to say that they were dumb or unimaginative or without individuality. I think Jesus spoke of a shepherd and sheep because he knew how easy it was, how easy it is, for us to get lost, to be blind to the dangers around us. This passage follows the story of Jesus healing the blind man. And if you think about that story, you have to wonder who was really blind? The man who was healed from a lifelong physical blindness, or the religious leaders and authorities who could not accept what was right in front of their eyes?

No, Jesus spoke of sheep and shepherd because he knew that our tendency as humans is to warp unity into mindless uniformity. He knew that we do tend to latch onto the wrong kinds of leaders, false shepherds if you will. He knew that we get stubborn and lose our way and stumble into danger. He knew that we forget that we are not the only flock. There are lots of flocks, and he is their shepherd too. Whether we like it or not.

But Jesus did not describe himself as the shepherd only. When the disciples, these fishermen who dealt with watery matters not pastoral ones, did not understand his words. He said,

“Very truly I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.”

            “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come and go out and find pasture.”

            A gate opens for the flock to come into the fold for shelter and safety. A gate opens out for the sheep to go to the pasture. A gate both welcomes and sends. The sheep who hear Jesus’ voice, who hear the voice of their shepherd, who recognize it and follow, come through this gate. This gate opens and ushers in life, abundant life.

            It seems to me that this is the crux of Jesus’ words, of his metaphors and figurative speech. It is to help those who hear his voice understand that through him, because of him, they will have abundant life. And it isn’t just about abundant life eternal, it is about abundant life now. Right now, here and now. Abundance is not reserved just for the life after this one. It is for now. Through Jesus, our gate, our shepherd, we are able to have abundance: abundance of love, abundance of joy, abundance of grace, of hope, of purpose, if only we hear his voice, if only we follow our shepherd.

            Amen and amen.

We Had Hoped -- Third Sunday of Easter

Luke 24:13-35

April 26, 2020

            18 was not an easy time for me. I was going to college at a Junior College in Nashville, but I had not yet left home. I was technically an adult, but I could not have told you what being an adult meant. I loved my parents, but I was not relating to them very well, especially my father. Life seemed to be getting more and more confusing, so I went to see a counselor for the first time, to try and help me sort through my struggles. After seeing him for a couple of months, my counselor gave me an assignment. My dad and I had to go to dinner, just the two of us. He wanted us to spend time in a situation where there were no distractions of television or the newspaper or homework. We had to be in a place where we could not leave the table and disappear into another room. My assignment was to go to dinner with my dad, and we had to talk with one another.

            I went home and told my dad this, and he took it seriously. He made a reservation for us at a restaurant. You remember going to restaurants, don’t you? Those were the days. Anyway, Dad and I went to Maude’s Courtyard. It was a nicer sort of place, and I was 18 and awkward already. Being on a dinner date with my dad at a nicer restaurant where the maître d did things like pull my chair out for me and help me take off my jacket made me feel even more awkward and embarrassed.

            The evening started off a little uncomfortably – the last time my dad and I had eaten out like this was when I was nine – but as we ate our meal, something changed. We relaxed. My dad, who was very shy relaxed and opened up. He started to talk, and he started to tell me things about himself; things I never knew. I relaxed and started to listen to him. I do not remember everything we talked about that night, but I do remember that he confessed he almost failed geometry in high school. This was a revelation for me: first, because I barely passed geometry as well. Secondly, because I never considered that my dad might fail – or almost fail – at something, at anything. My dad was such a responsible, get stuff done person, I never thought about him struggling to understand something. Up until that night, I had not thought about him being anyone more than my dad. He was the guy who worked really hard, traveled a lot and went to endless meetings, took us to church on Sundays, helped my mom with cleaning the house, worked in the yard, killed bugs when necessary, etc. I loved him, but I had never really seen him before. But in sharing that meal together, my eyes were opened to my father. It was in the breaking of bread that I finally saw him.

            It was in the breaking of the bread that Cleopas and his companion realized that this stranger they had invited to dinner was Jesus, their Teacher. Phrases from this story in Luke’s gospel are often used to preface our coming to the communion table together.

            According to Luke’s gospel, when Jesus took the bread and blessed and broke it, their eyes were opened and they recognized him.

            But scholars that I turn to for help in preaching emphasized that this meal Jesus shared with the two he met on the road to Emmaus was not necessarily a eucharistic meal. This story was not told with the purpose of instituting something. It was just another meal that they shared with a stranger they met on the road to Emmaus.

            Hospitality was and is the mandate of that land and that culture, so it should not surprise us that Cleopas and the other one asked this stranger to join them for a meal when they reached the village.

            Cleopas and – I hate that I don’t have a name to use, so I’m going to call him Burt – Cleopas and Burt were walking to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles away from Jerusalem. As they were walking, they were discussing all the things that had happened in the last three days. Jesus, their beloved Teacher, was executed by the state. His body was placed in a tomb. Some women who had come with Jesus from Galilee, went back to the tomb with their spices to take care of Jesus. But they didn’t find Jesus, they found the stone rolled away and Jesus’ body gone. Two men in dazzling clothes suddenly appeared next to them and asked them why they were looking for the living among the dead. The women ran back and told the male disciples what they had seen and heard, but the men thought their words were nothing more than an idle tale. Peter did get up and go to the tomb to see for himself, and yes he was amazed, but there was nothing more he could do so he went home.

            As Cleopas and Burt were discussing these things, Jesus himself came near them. But Luke tells us that their eyes were kept from seeing him, recognizing him. So when he asked what they were talking about, they both just stopped walking. And they looked as bereft and sad as they felt. And they were clearly astonished that this stranger did not know what they were talking about; the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth was the biggest news in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas. They said as much to Jesus.

            “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”

            Jesus encouraged them, “What things?”

            “The things of Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

            They give Jesus a summary of what happened, of what the women said. And Jesus responds with his own astonishment at their foolishness and slowness of heart to believe all that the prophets have said about the Messiah. So he interprets the scriptures concerning the messiah for them. They reach the village, he starts to leave them, they invite him for a meal. At the table he does something that they had seen him do hundreds of time. He takes bread and blesses and breaks it, then their eyes were opened. The man that they knew, the Teacher they followed, the prophet they learned from, the Messiah they put all their hopes into, was with them again. Then he was gone from their sight.

            And the two look at each other and smack their foreheads at their inability to recognize him. “Were not our hearts burning within us?”

            There’s a lot more that is said, but what stood out to me in this time of preparation of this familiar and beloved passage are the words, “We had hoped.”

            One colleague of mine said this week that hope is tied to anticipation. In spite of what the women had seen and told the men, in spite of what Jesus himself had been telling and teaching to the disciples while he was still with them, in spite of the promises of scripture that they both knew, their hope was tied to their anticipation that Jesus would be the messiah they thought they wanted. But Jesus was killed, and even though recent evidence pointed to the contrary, dead is dead. So with their anticipation at who Jesus might be gone, so was their hope.

            We had hoped.

            I bet we had hoped for a lot of things by now, hadn’t we? We had hoped that the church would be open. We had hoped that all of this strangeness and uncertainty would be behind us. We had hoped that we would have returned to normal, whatever our normal might be, by now.

            But even without a pandemic, I hope for so much in the days leading up to Easter. And every year it feels as though my hopes are not only disappointed, but severely dashed.

I had hoped that I would be different, that I would feel different, more like the Easter person I am supposed to be. I had hoped that I would act more like an Easter person is supposed to act, joyful, grateful all the time, hopeful all the time.

I had hoped the world would be different, reflecting the resurrection. I had hoped that the whole world would reflect new life! Love! Peace! Joy! But the world never seems to get the memo.

Yet, maybe just maybe, this year, this Eastertide more than any other we have ever experienced, is really a tremendous gift. We have been given the gift of seeing that Jesus really does meet us wherever we are. Jesus meets us in this sanctuary, and Jesus meets us in our family rooms and living rooms and kitchens. We see that the risen Christ is not bound to the walls we build. We see that God is alive in strangers and visible in the breaking of bread or in the breaking of a Triscuit.

We are walking down a road we never expected or wanted. We hoped to be on a different road, a normal road, but isn’t that Jesus walking with us? Are not our hearts burning? Jesus is here, and Jesus is there. We had hoped, but maybe what we hoped for was limited by our anticipation of what we think is normal and to be expected. In this time when normal no longer exists, Jesus meets us where we are. Our hopes are not only fulfilled, they are expanded. Jesus meets us where we are. Jesus meets us.

Amen and amen.

Peace Be With You -- Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

April 19, 2020

            Sometime in the years after Mother Teresa died, private writings of hers came to light. They were journals and letter, in which she wrote about her doubt. She wrote about her struggles with her faith. She wrote about trying to reconcile what she believed with what she saw on a daily basis in her work. And what she saw on a daily basis was some of the most extreme poverty in the world. She saw people who were outcasts because of their caste, because of physical disease and deformities, because of the terrible, gut twisting, mind blowing poverty in which they suffered. Mother Teresa, who was considered a saint long before she died, had doubts.

            I remember when these papers first came out, that there was an outcry. Mother Teresa confessing to doubt rattled the faith of some. Others saw this as proof that this humble woman was really a victim of the abusive institution that we call the church. But I’ll be honest, when I first heard about this I thought, “She was real. She was a real human being, a real person, who struggled and questioned and pushed back at God just like so many people … just like me.

            Doubt and I walk hand-in-hand. But that is something I hesitated to admit for a long, long time, especially as a pastor, and also because of stories like this one from John’s gospel; the story that I grew up hearing referred to as “Doubting Thomas.”

            I have been called a lot of things in my life; been given a few nicknames, some that I don’t mind and some that I hope have been forgotten. But one thing I never wanted to be called was “Doubting Thomas.” Whoever might be referring to you as a Doubting Thomas made it clear from their tone, their expression, the downward, disapproving turn of their mouth, that to be a Doubting Thomas was to be bad. If you were a Doubting Thomas, that meant that you didn’t believe, that you didn’t have a good, strong faith. It meant that you were somehow not right with God. Doubt equaled bad. Faith equaled good.

            But it seems to me, and I have said this before and I will say it again, the interpretations of this passage over the centuries has given Thomas the short end of the stick. Because in truth, Thomas was no different than the other disciples.

            When Jesus first appeared to them, they were hiding in a locked room, fearful that the authorities would come for them the same way they came for Jesus. And this is after the empty tomb. This is after Mary Magdalene ran to them and cried, “I have seen the Lord!” Easter had not changed them much. They were hiding. They were scared, and I suspect they were filled with doubt.

            But locked doors could not keep Jesus out. He came to them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he showed them his hands and his side. Again, he said, “Peace be with you. As my Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he breathed on them, giving them the Holy Spirit. This is John’s Pentecost.

            But Thomas was not there. For whatever reason, he was not with the other disciples behind those locked doors. He didn’t witness Jesus risen. He didn’t see the wounds on Jesus’ hands and side. The others told him the same thing Mary told them, “We have seen the Lord.” But Thomas has the boldness to say out loud what he wants, what he needs for belief.

            “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.”

            Thomas wanted to see what the other disciples saw. Did that mean he was doubtful? Maybe, but doubt and faith are not opposites. Doubt and faith are different sides of the same coin. The opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty. Faith is, as William Sloan Coffin wrote, “Trusting without reservation.” Certainty is more about wanting to be right than it is about being faithful. And faithful is not just about what we believe or don’t believe. Faithful is also about what we do, about how we try to live.

            Mother Teresa saw some of the worst consequences of sin imaginable. And I’m not referring to the sin of the people she served and cared for. I am referring to the sin that values some lives more than others. The sin that states that some lives are expendable. The sin that places the material over the person. And because of what she saw, what she lived, she struggled with doubt. But heres’ the thing, she never stopped being faithful. She never walked away because of her doubt. She never turned her back on God because of her doubt. Doubt and faith and not opposites.

            And as for Thomas, when Jesus does to come him and gives him what he asked for, he responds with the most extraordinary confession of faith in scripture, “My Lord and my God!” Joy J. Moore, a professor at Luther Seminary and a contributor to WorkingPreacher wrote that “when the other disciples saw Jesus, they rejoiced. When Thomas saw Jesus, he praised. There’s a difference.”

            We are living through a time of unprecedented uncertainty, and if you are struggling with doubt you are not alone. But when Jesus came to the disciples and then again to Thomas, he didn’t say, “Here I am. Believe in me!” He said, “Peace be with you.”

            Peace be with you. It was not just a greeting or even a blessing. It was a gift. It was nourishment. It was healing. It was, along with the Holy Spirit, what they would need the most to do what they were called to do. It gave them the courage and the sustenance to go forward. It was forgiveness so they could also forgive. It was grace. It was love. It was peace.

            Peace be with you. Jesus comes into the places that we lock off from others. Jesus comes into the places where we hide our fear, our disappointments, our pain. Jesus comes into our broken places and says, “Peace be with you.”

            We can have peace without certainty. We can have the peace of Christ even if we doubt. We can have Christ’s peace even when everything around us is chaos. Jesus assuages our doubts not with a demand for belief and allegiance, but with peace. Peace be with you. Peace be with you. My Lord and my God.

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

            Amen.

What I Don't Want to Do

What I don’t want to do

is work on my novel

or practice my mandolin

or try to learn Spanish

What I don’t want to do

is read all the important

books I said I would read

as soon as I had time

What I don’t want to do

is organize my garage

or create some fabulous

recipe from cans in the pantry

What I don’t want to do

is practice yoga

with YouTube

or watch educational tv

What I don’t want to do

is pretend that this isn’t

affecting me, my family,

our health, our minds, our moods

What I don’t want to do

is act like I’m not scared,

scared of getting it

more scared of giving it

What I don’t want to do

is believe those who say my faith

is overshadowed by

my fear

What I don’t want to do

is give up

or give in

or lose hope

What I will do

is keep going, keep trying

keep getting out of bed

every morning

 What I will do

is allow myself

to feel everything I feel,

the good, the bad, the ugly

And maybe,

just maybe,

I will take a

nap