Sixth Sunday of Easter

TEXT: John 14:15-23

“This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you” (John 14:17).

Have you ever seen the Holy Spirit? The best pictures we get in the Bible are descriptions of tongues of fire (Acts 2:3) or a freely-blowing wind (John 3:8). We don’t know what the Spirit looks like.

Or do we? In today’s gospel lesson, we get two extremely helpful clues. Two clues that—taken together—paint a pretty good picture of just what the Holy Spirit looks like. And they’re both found in verse 16, where Jesus says: “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”

Here’s clue number one: the Holy Spirit looks like an Advocate. The Greek word used here is parakletos, and other English translations render it as “Comforter” or “Counsellor” or “Helper.”

No matter. It means someone who stands up for you when you need it—the one who speaks on your behalf; the one who lends you a helping hand, who takes your side, and won’t leave you while you’re in trouble.

O.K. Here’s clue number two: the Holy Spirit looks like Jesus. The Spirit is “another Advocate” because Jesus is the first one. The Spirit, Jesus goes on to say, will abide with us just as Jesus “the Word made flesh” has abided with us. The Spirit is sent in Jesus’ name and reminds us of what he taught (14:26). In other words, the Spirit mediates Jesus’ presence. The Spirit is given to us in fulfillment of Jesus’ promise that he will not leave us orphaned and will come to us (14:18).

In summary, then: the Holy Spirit is an Advocate that looks a whole lot like Jesus ... which means that we’ve actually seen the Spirit lots of times. Yes, we have. Anytime someone stands up for a weaker person; anytime somebody acts like Jesus; anytime someone bears the love of Christ to another; we are seeing the Holy Spirit.

It’s no wonder, then, that Jesus says we know him: “You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you” (14:17).

You know him. You do! Because, as it turns out, the Holy Spirit at one time or another has probably looked a lot like you … even a lot like me … and definitely a lot like each and all of us when we do the works of Jesus, like we heard about last Sunday.

This morning’ gospel passage really does pick up where last week’s reading left off. If you read my previous post, I’m sure you’ll remember it. Jesus said that the one who believes in him will do the works that he does “and, in fact, will do greater works than these” (14:12).

How is it possible for us to do greater works than Jesus did? Well, it’s because his works—his miracles—were not about showing off. No. What were Jesus’ miracles really all about?

They were about love.

When Jesus healed somebody—when he made the blind to see and the lame to walk, or when he raised the dead—it  was all about love. What he did, he did not to demonstrate his power, but to express his love. And we are capable of doing the same thing. Each one of us is capable of expressing love to another person. And we can do it in a greater way because there are more of us. When Jesus was on the earth, he could only love one person at a time, face-to-face. But there are millions of us, now! In fact, as of this date—May 17, 2020—there are some 2.3 billion Christians on planet earth. And each and every one of them can at any given moment love someone intimately and powerfully in Jesus’ name. That is the tremendous potential contained in the Church of Jesus Christ.

So, in today’s brief but powerful gospel passage, Jesus returns to his favourite theme, which is love. The gospel lesson begins and ends with love. In verse 15, Jesus declares that if his disciples love him, they will keep his commandments.

“What commandments,” you ask? Well, unlike the other Gospels—as, for example, Matthew—nowhere in John does Jesus command us to “go the second mile” or “turn the other cheek” or “render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.” No. In John, Jesus gives only a single commandment—and it occurs in the chapter just before this one: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (13:34-35).

And he reiterates this in the chapter just after this one. He says: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.  No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends (15:12-13).”

In John’s Gospel, this is the overwhelming, repetitive, circular emphasis: love. The apostle John would have heartily agreed with the statement of William Sloane Coffin,* who said: “If we fail in love, we fail in all things else.”

What does the Holy Spirit look like? He looks like love. He looks a lot like Jesus, and he looks a lot like you and me. The Holy Spirit looks like love.

If you’re interested in learning a theological term, here’s one: pneumatology. Pneumatology is the study of the Holy Spirit. It’s from the Greek word pneuma, which means “wind” or “breath” or “spirit.”

Now, the pneumatology of John is rather different from other New Testament writings. For example—from the beginning of his Gospel right through until the end of the Book of Acts—Luke depicts the Holy Spirit as being heavily active in the lives of characters. John, in contrast, insists that the Holy Spirit will come only after Jesus himself departs.

Why is that? Well, remember clue number two: Jesus refers to the Holy Spirit not as the Advocate, but rather as another Advocate. Jesus was the first one. For the Spirit to be active in the world while Jesus was still there would have been redundant, since they each serve the same revelatory function. But once he left, well …

What looked like bad news for the disciples—namely, Jesus’ departure from them—turned out to be the best of news, for both them and us. While Jesus walked the earth, his ministry was limited to one locale and one person: himself. But, upon his departure, his disciples are given the Holy Spirit. They go from being apprentices to being journeymen—full, mature revealers of God’s love. And this happens not just to those first disciples, but to all those who would come after them—even those who never saw the historical Jesus.

John the evangelist insists that present believers have no disadvantage in comparison to the first believers. Everything they were taught—everything they experienced—is available to us, as well.

This is perhaps the most stunning feature of the Fourth Gospel. In John, Jesus declares that the intimate relationship that exists between him, God, and the Spirit also includes us! That’s what he’s getting at in verse 23, when he says: “Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.”

If God and Christ have made their home with us, how can we imagine there to be any distance between us and God? Ultimate intimacy with God and Christ—everything that matters—is available to us now.

What could we hope for beyond that? God is not currently holding out on us in any way. Life, abundant life, is available to us now—available for living, from this moment into eternity.

Hallelujah! Thanks be to God.

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* William Sloane Coffin, Jr. (1924-2006) was an American Protestant clergyman and peace activist, and longtime pastor of Riverside Church in New York City.

Fifth Sunday in Easter

TEXT: John 14:1-14

“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.” (John 14:12, ESV)

That’s an intriguing passage, isn’t it? John, chapter 14, verse 12. In the King James Version, it says:  “He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto my Father.”

Actually, I like the way Eugene Peterson translates this in The Message. Jesus says: “Believe me: I am in my Father and my Father is in me. If you can’t believe that, believe what you see—these works. The person who trusts me will not only do what I’m doing but even greater things, because I, on my way to the Father, am giving you the same work to do that I’ve been doing.”

I’ve read this passage three different ways just now—and I’ve read it over many times more than that during the past week—because … This passage is not only intriguing … it’s puzzling! It raises questions in your mind, doesn’t it?

“The one who believes in me … will do greater works than these.”

So, why can’t we? That’s the big question this Scripture raises for me. Why can’t we do what Jesus did?

The works that Jesus did were amazing. He walked on water. He made the blind to see and the lame to walk. He healed the sick. He even raised up the dead! If Jesus meant what he said, then we should be able to do the things that he did. And listen to this: greater works—greater works—we should be able to do, because he has gone to be with the Father.

Now, I have seen all kinds of miracle workers and faith healers over the years—and I have to admit, I’m often suspicious of them. Sometimes that stuff seems as bogus as the latest prediction of Judgment Day. Sometimes the so-called miracles just don’t smell right. Even so, I do believe in healing. I’m sure most of us know of people who have been miraculously healed by the intervention of God in their lives.

Yes, I do believe that some have the gift of healing. However, I have never known of anybody who could measure up to Jesus. I’ve never seen anybody who could match the works of the Lord. And yet, this is what Jesus says to us: “See what I’m doing? What I’m doing you will be able to do.” Then he adds, “even greater works than these shall you do, because I go unto my Father.”

So, why can’t we? When our loved ones are suffering, why can’t we take their pain away? Why can’t we lay hands on them and cure their cancer? Or heal them after a stroke? Or make their Alzheimer’s Disease go away?

When it’s pouring rain outside, and I want to barbeque a steak … Why can’t I wave my hand and make the weather clear up? Why can’t we do what Jesus did?

Often, people try to answer that by saying it’s because we don’t have enough faith. That doesn’t quite wash, though, does it? Because Jesus doesn’t say you might do it if you have enough faith. No. He says, “You will do it!”

Here’s what I think our problem is: when we read about the miracles Jesus did, we are so impressed with the power of God that we fail to understand what the miracles are about. They are not about power, but about love. What Jesus did, he did not to demonstrate his power, but to express his love. That’s what his miracles were for.

Consider the first miracle recorded by John (2:1-11). It took place in the village of Cana, where Jesus and his disciples attended a wedding. The reception was only getting started, and they were already running out of wine. The father of the bride was distraught. The wedding feast was on the verge of disaster. The young bride was in tears. The new husband was perplexed. They didn’t know what to do.

Now, you have to understand:  in the ancient world, to run out of wine in the middle of a feast was to be disgraced publicly. So this was really awful. Then Mary went over to Jesus and told him: “Do something.”

I can just hear her saying that. “They’ve got no more wine. Do something. You’ve got to do something.”

Do you remember the story? Do you remember what Jesus said? He said, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?”—which is an ancient way of saying: “Mother, get off my back!”

But she won’t. She won’t leave him alone. Jesus had never performed a miracle in public, but now—at his mother’s urging—he does perform one. He calls for them to bring in containers filled with water, and he turns the water into wine. Why? Not to show his power, but to express his love for people in a difficult situation.

This is what the gospel is all about. It’s about love. We cannot duplicate the power of Jesus. We can’t walk on water. I don’t have the ability to raise up people from the dead, and neither do you. But what we do have is this: we have the opportunity to express the love of Jesus. And when it comes right down to it, that’s what Jesus came to do. He came to express his love, not show off his power.

You may have heard of an American evangelist named Tony Campolo. He’s not only an evangelist. He’s a Baptist minister, and an author, and a professor of sociology. I’ve heard him speak a couple of times, and I want to tell you—this guy is good!  If you ever get the chance to hear him, don’t pass it up. Here is a story I’ve heard him tell, and you can also find it on his website (www.tonycampolo.org). This is what he says:

I was in Haiti. I checked on our missionary work there. We run 75 small schools back in the hills of Haiti. I came to the little Holiday Inn where I always stay and shower and clean up before I board the plane to go home. I left the taxi and was walking to the entrance of the Holiday Inn when I was intercepted by three girls. I call them girls because the oldest could not have been more than 15. And the one in the middle said, “Mister, for $10 I’ll do anything you want me to do. I’ll do it all night long. Do you know what I mean?”

I did know what she meant. I turned to the next one and I said, “What about you, could I have you for $10?”

She said yes. I asked the same of the third girl. She tried to mask her contempt for me with a smile but it’s hard to look sexy when you’re 15 and hungry. I said, “I’m in room 210, you be up there in just 10 minutes. I have $30 and I’m going to pay for all three of you to be with me all night long.”

I rushed up to the room, called down to the concierge desk and I said, “I want every Walt Disney video that you’ve got in stock.” I called down to the restaurant and said, “Do you still make banana splits in this town? Because if you do, I want banana splits with extra ice cream, extra everything. I want them delicious, I want them huge, I want four of them!”

The little girls came and the ice cream came and the videos came and we sat at the edge of the bed and we watched the videos and laughed until about one in the morning. That’s when the last of them fell asleep across the bed. And as I saw those little girls stretched out asleep on the bed, I thought to myself,  “Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s changed. Tomorrow they will be back on the streets selling their little bodies to dirty, filthy johns because there will always be dirty, filthy johns who for a few dollars will destroy little girls. Nothing’s changed.”

I didn’t know enough Creole to tell them about the salvation story, but the word of the spirit said this: “For one night—for one night—you let them be little girls again.”

Now, I know that what Tony Campolo did wasn’t quite like turning water into wine, or walking on water. But look, ask yourself this: if Jesus was going to make a decision about which was the greater work—walking on water or giving one night of childhood back to three little girls … Which do you think Jesus would consider the greater work?

I cannot replicate the God’s acts of power in Jesus Christ, but I can perform acts of love in his name.

Here’s another story. It’s a news story that made headlines not that long ago. I’m sure you’ll remember it.

On October 2, 2006, a 32-year-old milk truck driver named Charles Carl Roberts barricaded himself in an Amish one-room schoolhouse in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania. Roberts took hostages and eventually shot ten young girls—killing five—before turning his gun on himself.

It was a crime that shocked the entire world. But what came next was even more shocking, because—within a few days of the event—grieving Amish parents reached out to the murderer’s widow, offering her not only forgiveness, but financial assistance as well.

What kind of people would do that? I think we know, don’t we?

“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.”

Jesus did perform miracles—and I believe he still does. However, there’s something even greater than miracles—and God has called us to do it. He has called us to be instruments of his love.

He calls us to reach out to people who need to experience his love. And when we do that, those acts of love are greater by far than the work that Jesus did when he walked on water. When Jesus was here in the flesh, he was only able to look into the eyes of one person at a time. He was only able to express love directly to one person at a time. But he has ascended to be with the Father, and he has come back as a spirit—the Holy Spirit that comes into our lives and fills us with his love.

Now, if thousands of people go out tomorrow morning and each of them performs one act of love in Jesus’ name, then … surely you can hear the voice of Jesus saying: “The work that I do, you are doing. And you’re doing it greater than I did it, because thousands are greater than one. I could only love one person at a time, face-to-face. But there are thousands—no—millions of you now, and each of you at any given moment can love someone intimately and powerfully in my name.”

Let me quote the Scripture one more time. Jesus says to his disciples—including you and me: “the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.”

May each one of us live out this verse. And may it be said of us that we did the work that Jesus would have done if he were here in the flesh. May God bless us—and do great things through us—in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

TEXT:  John 10:1-10

So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and bandits . . . Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” (JOHN 10:7-9)

Some time ago, I had a serious conversation with an acquaintance of mine—a conversation about religion. He had a very bad experience with religion when he was a child, and for that reason he has always looked upon the time when he was able to say “no” to religion as the time of his emancipation.

He has little respect for religion of any kind. As far as he is concerned, religion is a form of slavery, an insidious instrument of control that those in power apply to maintain order. He struggles to understand how and why even well-educated, intelligent people can fall for the hoax. How can they not see through the “big lie” and understand it for what it is: a conspiracy to control the weak?

Well, there’s a part of me that understands where this fellow is coming from. I’m not fond of religion either, and I find people who wear their religion on their sleeves quite offensive.

Yet there is something about my faith in the gospel message that I know I can’t trade for anything. Far from being confining and oppressive, my faith in Jesus is something which sets me free. It gives me life.

But to this doubter, I can’t seem to communicate any of that. He talks about religion, but I am trying to explain about a relationship. We simply cannot connect on the same wavelength. Not yet, anyway.

When and if we speak about this subject again, I may bring up today’s gospel lesson, because I think—and I hope—the parable of the Good Shepherd might be able to bridge the gap between his understanding and mine.

In this parable, Jesus presents three images:  the sheep, the shepherd, and the sheep pen. Sheep are precious, living creatures that need protection and guidance in order to stay alive and (hopefully) lead a good life. The world is a dangerous place for sheep. Without protection, their lives are in peril. There are thieves, predators, and all sorts of other dangers out there. That is why it is necessary to build a sheep pen—to keep the sheep out of danger.

However, the sheep pen is not an end in itself. Keeping the sheep alive is not the final objective. It is only the beginning. The goal is to give the sheep a good life. And for that, you need the shepherd to develop a relationship with the sheep.

Jesus says that the good shepherd calls the sheep by name. The shepherd talks to them, sings to them, and leads them to green pastures. The sheep know the shepherd’s voice. They trust the shepherd, and they will go wherever the shepherd leads them because there is a loving relationship between them.

The sheep will, therefore, wait patiently in the sheep pen. It is worthwhile to stay alive and wait patiently in that holding place because they know that sooner or later the shepherd’s life-giving voice will come. They know that when the shepherd comes, they will be led to green pastures. They know that the shepherd will care for them and lead them to a good life.

So it is with us in our relationship with God through Jesus. The good news comes to us by way of religion. It is what we human beings have built in order to transmit the message of the gospel. Religion, like the sheep pen, is necessary to protect the message of life. But it is not an end in itself. It is only the visible shell from which comes the voice of the Good Shepherd, and it is that voice which gives life. It is the voice that makes it worthwhile to relate to religion.

In very truth, religion can be nothing but an empty shell. There are many religious zealots who have no life. There are people who will do anything in the name of religion but have no love in their hearts. They are alive, but not living. They may talk about God’s love, but they have not experienced true love.

Furthermore, religion can be dangerous if it does not contain the truth. Jesus talks about the thief who climbs in through the window. We have seen cults that begin with truth and then veer off into misleading and sometimes dangerous territory.

On this point, the doubter is quite correct: it is not religion that we should strive for. Rather, we should seek to hear the voice within. If it is the voice of a stranger—if it does not connect with us in love, if it violates our conscience or leads us into sin—then it is not the voice of the Good Shepherd, and its religion will not lead to life.

But if you hear and recognize that voice as the Good Shepherd’s voice—if you hear it calling you by name—then you will know that therein is truth.

Listen to the voice within. Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” The gospel is about more than mere religion. It is about a life-giving relationship that leads us to a good life.

It is about a relationship with the Good Shepherd—a relationship that is freely offered. It’s not a difficult relationship to begin. All you have to do is accept it. It isn’t dependent upon some particular brand of religion. It’s about knowing a person. For that is what God gave us—not a rule book or a road map or a set of hard-and-fast instructions, but a person. A leader. A shepherd. Someone who really loves us and cares for us. Someone who not only knows the way, but who is the way. Someone who not only knows the truth, but who is the truth. Someone who not only offers abundant life, but who is himself life.

We don’t need to look for hidden truths—we just need to look to Jesus. We don’t need to tax our brains trying to understand what cannot be understood—we just need to listen for the Shepherd’s voice.

In short, faith does not ask us to swallow a doctrinal or political bill of goods—it just asks us to trust Jesus. Faith does not demand of us that we say we believe a whole bunch of stuff we can’t make sense of—it just asks us to believe in the love of Jesus Christ.

That’s the difference between religion and relationship. Thanks be to God for it.

 

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;

Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.

(Psalm 46:1-3)

 

Sub-Lt. Abbigail Cowbrough

Capt. Brenden MacDonald

Capt. Kevin Hagen

Capt. Maxime Miron-Morin

Sub-Lt. Matthew Pyke

Master Cpl. Matthew Cousins

O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, look kindly on your departed who gave their lives in the service of their country. Grant that through the passion, death, and resurrection of your Son they may share in the joy of your heavenly kingdom and rejoice in you with your saints forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Third Sunday of Easter

TEXT:  Luke 24:13-35

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. (Luke 24:13-14)

 

Disappointment.

Doubt.

Disillusionment.

Defeat.

Discouragement.

Despondency.

Depression.

Despair.

Death.

Have you ever noticed that some of the saddest words in the English language begin with the letter “D”? I call them, “the deadly D’s.”

Disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, despair, and death; all of these words sum up the feelings of Cleopas and his fellow disciple as they trudged down the road toward Emmaus.

They had left the frightened and confused band of disciples, who were still in shock from the events of Good Friday. Cleopas and his friend must have been in shock, too. They were leaving Jerusalem because, for them, Jesus’ death was an unmitigated disaster.

The Master they had loved and followed had been brutally executed—subjected to a cruel and degrading death upon a cross.

Jesus had been made a public spectacle, exposed to the jeers and taunts of passers-by.

Only a week before, their hopes had risen to fever pitch when the excited crowds welcomed Jesus with palm branches and shouts of “Hosanna!” But now …

Now he lay dead—as dead as all their hopes and dreams. Even the report of the women that Christ’s tomb was empty did not raise their spirits; it only served to confuse them more.

On Emmaus Road, the sad pair of disciples summed things up quite well when they said, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel”—the one who would set their nation free.

Their despairing words reveal something about their Messianic expectations. The very expectations that Jesus had tried so hard to dispel: that he was going to be a great military leader like King David—one who would raise an invincible army to drive the Romans out of the Jewish homeland.

Now everything had fallen apart. The empire had crushed Jesus beneath its heel. Cleopas and his travelling companion were devastated. They must have felt that they had been wrong about everything—especially Jesus. Even as they grieved for their carpenter-rabbi, they were also bitterly disappointed in him.

“We had hoped …”  That’s what Cleopas and his friend had said. “We don’t expect it now, but a week ago, we did. We had high hopes for the future, but now those hopes are gone and all we have left is disappointment.”

Can you identify with that? I can. I think most of us can. None of us can remain forever untouched by the “D” words.

As the two disciples trek along, a stranger joins them. They don’t know it yet, but this is going to be the most significant walk they will ever take. The stranger asks them what they are discussing.

And so they pour out their story to someone who seems willing to listen. They tell the stranger all about their hopes and their disappointments.

Of course, we know that the stranger is Jesus; but for some reason, they do not recognize him. They share with him the news they had received that very morning—unbelievable stories about Jesus’ tomb being empty, about his body gone missing.

Notice that Jesus does not give them a brisk pep talk. He does not tell them to “get over it.” No. At first, he simply listens. He provides a sympathetic ear, and walks along with them.

As their journey continues, Jesus takes the initiative and, in effect, begins to tell his own story. Exposing their lack of understanding and faith, his main point is a rhetorical question: “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?”

He reviews the Old Testament scriptures. It’s all there in the tradition, but their minds and hearts have been blinded to it.

The picture Jesus paints of the events in Jerusalem is radically different from theirs. As he interprets the story, it ends—not with failure—but with glory, with triumph over death.

Isn’t that a great picture:  Jesus walking along the road with his despondent and confused disciples, sharing their troubles?

Suddenly this 2,000-year-old story is brought into the present—into our time.

When disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, and despair fill our lives with death… Jesus is the unseen stranger who walks alongside us, listening to us, and—if we are willing to hear his voice—revealing himself to us.

As Cleopas and his friend talk about the cross—about their bewilderment and sorrow—Jesus reassures them and helps them.

He places their sad journey in a new frame:  the journey of the Messiah as mapped out in the Bible. As Luke tells us, “beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.”

Jesus must have given the Emmaus travellers the best-ever exegesis of the Old Testament, reminding them how sin came into the world through human disobedience, and how the prophets foretold a Saviour who would be obedient … even to the point of death.

He might have reiterated something he himself had said before … that, just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so for three days and three nights the Son of Man would be in the heart of the earth (Matt. 12:40). No doubt, he would have referred to Isaiah’s description of the Suffering Servant of God who “was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5).

You see, it wasn’t that these two disciples were ignorant of the scriptures. The problem was that their understanding was clouded—clouded by preconceived ideas; especially the idea of a Messiah who would come with might and power and destroy their enemies.

The two-hour walk to Emmaus must have seemed like five minutes. The two disciples could feel their despondency and sorrow melting away, being transformed into understanding and hope as the “stranger” explained that Jesus’ death was a part of God’s great plan of salvation.

When the “deadly D’s” oppress us—when disillusionment, depression, and defeat overshadow our lives—Jesus walks with us just as he walked with those two on the Emmaus road. He points us to God’s Word of promise—the Word that tells us, over and over again, that we are God’s dearly beloved children and that he will stand by us—no matter what. Jesus turns our despair into hope.

When the two disciples reached Emmaus, they asked the stranger to stay with them for the night, and he agreed. Then, at the evening meal, he “took bread, blessed it and broke it, and gave it to them.”  Suddenly it dawned on them just who the “stranger” was. It was their Master—raised from the dead, just as the women had told them.

Jesus himself had ministered to them in their distress. Now they knew why a change had come over them as they walked on the road. Now they knew why their despondent hearts had been refreshed—filled with hope and renewed faith. Jesus had revealed himself to them in the breaking of the bread.

The road to Emmaus is, I think, a symbol of the Christian life. This story is about ordinary despair—and ordinary, Monday-morning drudgery. It is a story about meeting a stranger, hearing his words of comfort, sitting down at the table and sharing a meal.

This is a story—for us—about the meaning of Easter. It assures us that the risen Lord is able to give us hope and joy—even when all we see around us is disappointment, discouragement and despair. It urges us to see the world—not as a place of death, decay, and defeat—but as a place of waiting, as we press onward toward God’s final victory.

This story about the walk to Emmaus is a story for everyday life in the year 2020. It’s a story for me, and it is a story for you.

Perhaps you are walking the Emmaus road right now. Or maybe you know you’re going to. Rest assured we will all walk this road someday—this boulevard of broken dreams, this thoroughfare of “deadly D’s.”

When that day comes—as it surely will—when you find yourself staggering under burdens of disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, and despair … when your life seems filled with death and decay … I hope you remember that you are not walking alone. The unseen “stranger”—the risen Jesus—is walking with you.

Christ is risen from the dead! Christ Jesus—the Saviour and hope of the world—is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

PRAYER FOR DELIVERANCE:

ONE:  From a spirit of contention which would destroy our unity;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From a spirit of rage which would destroy our love;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From a spirit of despair which would destroy our hope;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From pride of self which leaves no room for your Spirit;

ALL:  Good Lord, deliver us—for Jesus’ sake.  Amen.

 

 

TEXT:  John 20:19-31

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “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.” (John 20:24-25)

I love to read about the disciples of Jesus—mostly because they are so very human and so very far from perfect. I find that comforting, because it means they were a lot like I am.

Consider Peter as an example. Many call him “the prince of apostles”—yet in Scripture, he appears as bumbling as he is brave. In chapter 16 of Matthew, when Jesus has just finished explaining God’s plan for him—that he must suffer and die—Peter butts in and shouts, “God forbid it … This must never happen to you” (Matt. 16:22-23).

James and John didn’t get it, either. In chapter 10 of Mark—after Jesus has again explained the fate that lies before him—they approach him with a request for cabinet positions in his government: “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory” (Mark 10:37). It’s as though they hadn’t been listening to him at all.

As I said, the disciples of Jesus were very human—often confused, often selfish, and frequently a source of frustration for their Teacher. And I do find it comforting—even encouraging—to realize that. There’s hope for me, yet!

But I have always regretted the way we have treated one of those Twelve—the one we call “doubting Thomas.” He was a person of great faith and great courage, but we forget about that because of the label we’ve put on him.

The first time we hear from Thomas is in chapter 11 of John’s Gospel. Things are not going well. The authorities have already tried twice to have Jesus killed, and the disciples know that it is far too dangerous for them to go back into Judea anytime soon. But then Jesus receives news that his friend Lazarus is seriously ill, and he tells the Twelve that he must go to visit him in Bethany—in the very heart of Judea!

They protest. Going back there is too risky. It’s a stupid, reckless thing to do. It looks as if they may abandon Jesus once and for all, telling him to go alone if he must go at all. At this critical turning point in the ministry of Christ, we first hear from Thomas. It is Thomas, this man of courage and faith, who says: “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (John 11:16).

Now, I want you to notice that Thomas was no fool. He was not following Jesus blindly. He did not believe that there was going to be a fairy-tale ending. He knew what was involved. He had counted the cost. But he intended to follow Jesus, even if it meant death. Thomas may have had his doubts about the wisdom of Jesus’ actions, but he also had the faith to follow in spite of those doubts.

More than that, Thomas had the courage and the faith to ask questions—to admit to Jesus that he simply did not understand. The next time we hear from him, it is in the upper room, during Jesus’ last talk with the disciples before his arrest and trial. Jesus was trying to explain to them the significance of the cross and what lay beyond it, and he said, “You know the way to the place where I am going” (John 14:4).

Only Thomas had the courage to admit his ignorance. It was Thomas who had the faith to know it would be all right to interrupt and ask, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”(John 14:5).

Be assured that Thomas was not the only one in that upper room who was puzzled. However, because Thomas had the courage to ask his question, we have all received the answer—an answer that is one of the most quoted passages in all of Scripture:  “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6).

Thomas had courage enough to question—and faith enough to know that it was all right to question. And because he did, Jesus could give him—and us—an answer.

How often, I wonder, do we brush aside uncomfortable questions? And how often do we say to those who dare to ask them: “Oh, you just have to have more faith”? How often are we afraid to admit—even to ourselves—that we have questions, because we don’t want to be labeled a “doubting Thomas” or a spiritual weakling? Yet it is only by asking questions and wrestling with them that we are able to grow in faith. Honest inquiry does not destroy our faith—it increases it. Our faith is in far more danger when we pretend we don’t have any questions, because then our doubt can spread like a cancer, until doubt overwhelms everything else.

I’ve heard it said that the way to learn is by asking the right kind of questions. Thomas not only teaches us that, but also shows us that one way to attain greater faith is by expressing the right kind of doubt.

Thomas, you will remember, was not alone in his refusal to believe in the risen Christ until he saw for himself. According to Luke’s Easter account, when the women who had seen Jesus’ empty tomb reported this to the apostles, the men did not believe them. When the women said that they had encountered angels who told them Jesus was alive, the apostles thought it was “an idle tale” (Luke 24:11).

No, Thomas was not the only one who doubted. It’s just that Thomas’s doubt is expressed in ways we can understand. When he heard the news that the risen Christ had appeared, he said, “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”(John 20:25). He wanted hard-core evidence of this resurrected Jesus.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails …” I think those words shake us up the way they do because there are times when we could say them as easily as Thomas did—times when we want solid physical evidence of God’s presence in our lives. When we have our doubts, we want a flesh-and-blood Christ to stand before us. The trouble is: we don’t always have Thomas’s courage to speak our doubts aloud.

Look what happened when Thomas did express his doubt. Christ appeared to give him the proof he asked for. And as soon as that happened, Thomas no longer needed the evidence. He did not need to place his finger in the nail prints or his hand in Jesus’ side. Instead, Thomas responded in faith: “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28).

Thomas’s doubts were not barriers to his faith. Rather, when he admitted them, when he confessed them—when he confronted them—his doubts led him to greater faith.

Jesus never condemned Thomas for his doubts; we are the only ones who do that. Jesus knows that asking questions takes courage—particularly if we, like Thomas, choose to wrestle with doubt until we reach our own certainty.

It’s always easier to go with the flow, to just pretend we believe, to just say we have no questions—but it is in the struggle for answers that our faith grows. It was because he was willing to engage in that struggle that I count Thomas amongst the greatest heroes of Christian faith. I pray that each one of us may have more of his spirit—more of his courage, and more of his faith. By the grace of God, may it be so. Amen.

 

Easter Sunday

TEXT: John 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb … (John 20:1)

Here’s a different kind of Easter story. It’s about an American submarine called the USS Squalus, commissioned on March the first, 1939. On May 23rd of that same year, she was in the Atlantic, not far from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

The Navy submarine carried a crew of 59—five officers, 51 enlisted men and three civilian inspectors.

On that day, she was to conduct a test dive—a rapid emergency descent. This capability would be important in wartime, because—once submerged—a submarine could easily hide from enemy aircraft.

At 08:35 hours, the test commenced. However, just after the Squalus submerged, her engine room began to flood. Somehow, the main induction valve—a large opening that brought air to the diesel engines when running on the surface—had failed to close.

The submarine’s after compartments quickly filled with water, drowning 26 sailors. The Squalus settled to the bottom, where the water was 243 feet deep and only a few degrees above freezing.

In the forward compartments, sealed behind watertight doors, 33 men remained alive.

Seawater began short-circuiting the boat’s two batteries, arranged in 252 six-foot-high cells lining the keel. Lights flickered and went out, plunging the crew into darkness.

In the pitch-blackness of their steel sepulchre, the survivors trembled, damp and cold.

In desperation, they began firing signal rockets from the sub to the surface. After four hours, the sixth rocket was launched—and another American vessel noticed the smoke.

Before long, two other ships arrived, and commenced planning a seemingly-impossible rescue.

But those men confined in darkness beneath the waves knew nothing about these labours on their behalf. After what seemed like an endless night, their oxygen supply was running low, and was being rationed by the skipper. Carbon dioxide was building up, and making them drowsy. Their doom appeared imminent.

Then, suddenly—a surprise! From outside came the clanging of lead-weighted boots, as divers in pressurized equipment began walking about on the hull, looking for signs of life.

Hearing those sounds, the trapped sailors used a hammer to bang out a message from inside. Listening carefully, the divers recognized the dots and dashes of Morse code, spelling out four words: “Is there any hope?”

It was an urgent—and desperate—question. Never before had survivors of a submarine sinking been rescued from such a depth.

Waiting helplessly in the darkness, the men of the Squalus knew they could do nothing to save themselves. Their salvation depended upon someone coming down from above to rescue them.

Just before dawn on May 24, the navy ship USS Falcon came upon the scene, carrying a McCann rescue chamber—a large diving bell intended for deep-sea rescue.

However, the McCann device had never before been used in an actual rescue attempt—only in testing and training.

The nine-ton chamber looked like an inverted tumbler. It submerged itself by means of compressed air, ballast tanks, and a watertight hull.

Using air-driven power and winches, it was supposed to lower itself to the disabled submarine’s deck, where a rubber gasket would seal the chamber to an escape hatch, through which the bell’s two operators would take aboard the Squalus’s crewmen.

That, at any rate, was the idea—and, thankfully, it was an idea that worked.

All 33 surviving crew members were rescued in the first-ever underwater operation of this type.

So … why do I call this an Easter story? What does all this have to do with Easter Sunday?

Well, it strikes me that, sometimes in life—perhaps, too often in life—we may feel like those men aboard the Squalus. Your situation appears beyond hope—and you find yourself plunged into deepest darkness.

Like the darkness before the dawn on that first Easter morning. John’s gospel tells the story of Mary Magdalene going to the tomb of Jesus “early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark …”

“While it was still dark.”

To be sure, John meant it only as a reference to the time of day, but—with some inspired imagination—that phrase can lead us to a deeper understanding of the text.

Mary Magdalene. As surely as were the twelve men, she was a close disciple of Jesus. Following him, she had seen lives made new, bodies healed, and eyes opened.

She had listened to the complaining of the disciples and the accusations of the religious leaders. She saw how the lowly ones adored Jesus—and how the rulers despised him.

She had witnessed the adoration of the people as they waved palm branches for Jesus on Sunday—and she beheld their hostility when they stood before Pilate at the end of the week. She had heard both their joyful hosannas … and their vengeful cries of “Crucify him!”

Mary of Magdala. She had watched in anguish as her Lord was nailed to the cross … and she stood beneath it as his life drained away. Now, her heart was broken. Now, it was all over. She had come to Jesus’ tomb to mourn for him, and—in her soul—“it was still dark.”

We know that darkness, don’t we?

We know that hollow, desolate feeling—that sense that the bottom has dropped out of your world. Like the despair you feel when your soul-mate has died—and now you have to go home and clean out the closet.

Or like the forlornness of a professional hockey team once the NHL season has been cancelled.

No Stanley Cup for them. All they can do now is empty their lockers, carry out Johnny Gaudreau …  and wait for golfing weather.

Mary keeps vigil beside the empty tomb. What will she do now? Peter and the others could go back to fishing—or tax-collecting! They could start their businesses again. Perhaps they could have a reunion in ten years’ time, and talk about the good old days.

But what will Mary do, now? Sadness, disappointment, and emptiness had been her companions since Friday. It had been a good three-year run, she thought … but now, it was all over.

We know what it’s like (don’t we?) to stand with our dreams in shambles around our feet. Our children go badly astray. We get the pink slip from our employer. Our blood work comes back from the lab, confirming a grim diagnosis.

These things happen to good people … as well as to those who … haven’t been so good.

Still, we ask, “Why me, Lord?”

We protest, saying: “I attend worship regularly. I volunteer in the Sunday School. I tithe. I even serve on the Board!”

My future seemed oh-so-bright … but now I sit in darkness.

Let’s face it: when the sun is shining, faith is easy. But in the darkness, faith becomes extremely difficult. When things are going our way, we readily proclaim that God is good. But when life turns sour, we feel rejected or resentful or guilty. As someone has said, “Anyone can walk in the sunshine—only a saint can walk in the darkness.”

Consider once again our gospel text. Consider once again Mary’s sorrow as she stands near Jesus’ tomb, weeping. Then, suddenly, a surprise—the risen Christ calls out her name!

While it was still dark, God was labouring on her behalf—making a way where there was no way.

Have no doubt about it, my friends, when things get tough—and they will—it does not mean that God has abandoned you. When darkness comes upon you, God is still working on your behalf, calling you to remain faithful to him as you wait for the sunrise. To remain faithful to him as Mary did.

Unlike the trapped sailors of the Squalus, Mary could have walked away from the scene of her disaster. But she did not. She would not leave Jesus, nor would she deny him. She remained devoted to him—even while it was still dark.

I have been a pastor long enough to know that there is a heartache inside each one of us—and I also know that most of us suffer in silence. No one is immune to heartache. Rich or poor, old or young, we all stagger beneath heavy burdens. And in the darkness, we stumble.

Yet, whatever weight we carry through the gloom, God is labouring on our behalf.

Even if—like the sailors on the Squalus—we do not at first realize it, he is working to shine light into our darkest predicaments. The good news is not only that Jesus was raised from the dead, but that the character of God is revealed in him. He is light—and he is also love.

Mary does not immediately recognize Jesus when he appears to her in the graveyard. But once she realizes who he is, she calls him by the name most familiar to her: “Rabbouni”—“teacher.” Nothing could pierce her darkness—neither discarded grave clothes, nor angels in white. But when Jesus calls her name, she responds.

In her darkness she is ministered to—and then her life assumes new meaning when Jesus calls her to go and tell the others. The first command of the risen Christ is to tell a woman to carry the good news to his male disciples, who have shrunk into hiding. And so Mary becomes “the apostle to the apostles.”

What is this good news she is to carry? She is to proclaim that Jesus is alive.

He is risen! We need live no longer in darkness, for our light has indeed come. Our salvation is at hand. God pierces Mary’s darkness—even as he pierces our own. He not only greets her—he gives her a commission: “Go and tell the others.”

We are given the same marching orders: “Go into all the world and spread the good news” (Mark 16:15).

And we are able to do that, because the same power which was given to Mary—the same power which rolled away the stone from the mouth of Jesus’ tomb—that power is available to us, as well. It is the power of resurrection. It is the resounding “YES!” to our desperate questioning: “Is there any hope?”

Yes. Yes, there is. For Christ the Lord is risen today. Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

 

Good Friday

TEXT: John 18:1-19:42

When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19:30)

 Earlier in the Gospel According to Saint John—in the 12^th chapter—Jesus said: “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.” (John 12:32)  To us, it seems obvious that he was speaking about his crucifixion; but that is the insight of history.

“Lifted up” meant something quite different to his disciples. They pictured a victory parade and coronation festivities for the messianic King. That’s why they were so offended whenever Jesus raised the subject of his impending death. They didn’t want to hear about that. Instead, the disciples wanted to talk about the seating arrangements for the Big Day.

Well, the Big Day did come—but it was Good Friday. Preceded a few days earlier by a procession of palm branches and hosannas upon his entry to Jerusalem, Jesus’ crucifixion apparently caught the disciples by surprise. Jesus, however, had always known what lay ahead. He would indeed be crowned as King—but with a tiara of thorns. And his throne would be a wooden cross.

Theologians sometimes speak of the “two states” of Christ in his earthly ministry: first, the state of humiliation (that is, from birth to death); and second, the state of exaltation (that is, resurrection, ascension, and present reign). But, to me, it seems that those nice, tidy distinctions get blurred in all the action of Holy Week and Easter.

“When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.” Does this not sound more like the ascension than the crucifixion? Especially when he says, “lifted up from the earth”?

But the next verse makes plain Jesus’ point. John writes: “He said this to indicate the kind of death he was going to die.” (v. 33)

And you know, Jesus used this phrase—“lifted up”—a couple of times before in John’s Gospel. To Nicodemus, he said, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (3:14) Again, in chapter eight, we read: “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I am he.” (8:28)

Far from his death demonstrating the failure of his messianic Kingship, or even thinking of it in terms of a mere prelude to glory, Jesus claims his cross as his throne—as the centre of his royal ministry.

Not only at the resurrection, then, but also at the cross, Jesus says his Messianic glory and office will be made apparent. It is from that throne that he will draw all people to himself. It is as a sacrificial substitute on behalf of his people that the King establishes his throne forever.

Today, many in the church seem to want to repudiate that language of “sacrifice”—and yet, without it, it seems to me that Christ’s death loses its saving significance. It then becomes nothing more than just another tragic end of a good person. But surely, that is not the gospel message!

Many empires have been raised on the sacrifices of brave soldiers, and many kingdoms have been preserved by the shedding of blood, but this cross is the one place where the King makes himself the sole sacrificial offering for the good of his entire commonwealth, so that no more will need to be offered except for the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.

Not only at Easter, then, do we see Christ’s glory. On Good Friday, we begin to see his glory even amidst his suffering. Our Saviour is not first a victim and then a victor. He conquers sin and death precisely by offering himself as the only effective and final sacrifice. That is exactly how he becomes King!

He is not first a prophet and a priest, and then a king. He is a king in the very act of being “lifted up”—enthroned—upon a cross. In other words, his sacrificial death is not something he performed on his way to or as a necessary prerequisite of his coronation as the King of kings and Lord of lords. No. It was his coronation.

The suffering of Christ was not accidental to his kingly reign, nor was his glory absent in his cross. Here, we are introduced to a different kind of glory, a different kind of king, and a different kind of kingdom. It is a glory that can only be recognized in the redemptive suffering of a King who gives his life for his subjects in order to make them co-heirs with him of everything he possesses. It is a kingdom whose weakness is mightier than all the powerful empires of planet Earth.

Enthroned upon a cross, wearing a crown of thorns, dying between two criminals. This is a king like no other!

And who are the people who belong to his kingdom? They are the poor and the broken, the outcast and the needy. They are the ones who would be expelled from all other kingdoms, except the Kingdom of God. Jesus does not separate himself from his people and their suffering. On the contrary, he makes himself one with his people, embracing them in their suffering.

Jesus fulfills—beyond all expectation—his responsibilities as King: to be mindful of his people, to tend to their needs, and to protect them, drawing them into the fullness of life. He does so, not by force or defence, not with legions of armies or protective barricades, but by laying down his own life.

His Kingdom reigns in our hearts. In the face of our own poverty and brokenness, our own personal struggle and heartache, Jesus our King remains one with us, infusing us with his life-giving presence.

And what does he ask of us? Only that we will allow his Kingdom to flourish in our own hearts, and in our Church, and throughout our world.

By the grace of God, may it be so—for us, and in us. Amen.

Remembering Jesus, We Eat and Drink

Communion Liturgy for Maundy Thursday

 

INVITATION:

Jesus says: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty … and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”

PRAYER OF THANKSGIVING:

ONE:  Living and loving God, we lift our hearts to you in gratitude and joy for all your gifts to us. You made us in your own image and set us in this world of contrasting beauty. In your great love you delivered your people of old from slavery and you have delivered us from the power of evil and death through the sacrificial love of Jesus Christ.

ALL:  We praise and honour you, holy God. Heaven and earth are surely full of your glory. Blessed is Jesus, whose supper we share this night, and blessed are we—renewed by his life.

ONE:  Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come; and having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end; at supper with them, he washed the disciples’ feet and gave them the new commandment:

ALL:  “Love one another as I have loved you.”

ONE:  He took a loaf of bread and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take eat, this is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” After supper, he took the cup, and again giving thanks, he gave it to his disciples, saying, “Drink from this, all of you. This is my blood of the new covenant which is poured out for you and for all for the forgiveness of sins. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

Upon these fruits of field and vine—and upon your people gathered here—send your Holy Spirit, O God. May Jesus break bread with us even as once he broke bread with his disciples in the upper room. This we ask in his precious name, as in the words he taught us, we pray together, saying:  Our Father …

FRACTION (BREAKING OF THE BREAD)

We remember … the Body of Christ was broken for us … (break bread)

And we remember … the Blood of Christ was shed for us … (raise chalice)

Now, we are his body. We are flesh of his flesh, and blood of his blood.

Now, we are his bride. And this is a foretaste of his wedding banquet.

Receive the bread of life, my friends. Take hold of this cup of blessing.

SHARING THE FRUITS OF FIELD & VINE

INVITATION TO PRAYER:

For the food we have eaten, and the drink we have tasted—but most of all for the life which he has given us—let us express our gratitude to the One whom we call our Saviour and our Lord. Let’s pray, one more time.

POST-COMMUNION PRAYER:

Lord Jesus Christ, we give you thanks for refreshing and renewing us with this meal—and for nourishing our lives with the gracious gift of your life. Amen.

BENEDICTION:

Tonight, we sat with Jesus at the Table of Promise. We waited with him in the garden of prayer. And we witnessed his betrayal.

Tomorrow, we shall behold his passion; and on Sunday, we shall rejoice in his victory over death.

For now, let us go into the world in peace, blessed by the grace of God, and loving one another, just as Christ has loved us. As you go out from here:

• May the Lord bless you and keep you.
• May the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you.
• May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.

Amen.