TEXT: Acts 1:1-21

I wonder how many people—worldwide—tuned in to the Royal wedding on Saturday. I wonder how many—in North America—got up at 2:00 a.m. to watch it. Probably most of us in Canada set our PVRs up to record it, to view later (that’s what we did at my house). Doesn’t matter. Even though we weren’t watching it live, it was magnificent. That music. Those choirs. That church. That dress …

And that preacher!

The Most Reverend Michael Curry—the first African-American to preside over the Episcopal Church (USA). If you heard his message, you’ll already know the guy is amazing. Listening to him—and watching him—all I could think of was: “Hey, you Brits! That’s the way to preach!”

I especially remember what he told Meghan and Harry.

“There’s power in love,” he said. “We were made by a power of love and our lives were meant to be lived with that love.”

Playing off the style of a classic American black preacher, Curry delivered an incredible, theatrical discourse on the power of love—on love’s power to heal wounds, to end poverty, to guide those who rule. A powerful wedding sermon, heard by some 600 people inside Saint George’s Chapel, plus over a thousand more outside.

What a moving spectacle. I’m not even a super-huge fan of things royal, but I wish I could have been there to observe it first-hand, to watch it unfold in real time. That would have been … something … wouldn’t it? To watch in person as this new thing came into being. A new life together for this young couple, certainly—but also a kind of new beginning, I think, for the monarchy and for the people of the United Kingdom.

In this event—and in the person of Meghan Markle herself—Britain witnessed the beginning of something entirely new. Through this very traditional observance, through this time-honoured ceremony—this ancient rite of marital union—something heretofore unseen was taking place. May 19, 2018 was a turning point—a watershed moment.

To have been there in Windsor … as this biracial, American, Hollywood princess became the Duchess of Sussex … that would have been something. But I have to say—thanks to the near-miracle of 21st-century technology—those of us who watched it on TV had pretty good seats at the wedding! Better seats, really, than most of the people who were actually present in that church.

Well, that was Saturday’s church service. Sunday’s church service was something special, too. On May 20, 2018, those of us who follow the liturgical calendar commemorated another kind of turning point—a watershed moment in the life of the Christian Church.

The author of the Book of Acts tells us the story. That would be Luke the Evangelist, who also wrote the gospel which bears his name. In chapter two of Acts, he transports us back in time to mid-morning in first-century Jerusalem, about seven weeks after Jesus’ crucifixion. It is the harvest festival known as Pentecost, and the city is crowded with visitors from all over the known world. Amidst the hustle and bustle of celebration and commerce—the din of trading and bargaining, of laughter and haggling in foreign tongues—God chooses to reveal his Spirit.

When the day of Pentecost had come, [the apostles] were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability (Acts 2:1-4).

Wow. Even a bigger spectacle than the Royal wedding. Oh, to have been there to witness it in person!

That’s impossible, of course, until somebody invents a time machine. However, thanks to some first-century technology—thanks to Luke and his pen and parchment—we’ve got some pretty good seats for that event, too. Even though we’re not watching it in real time.

Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ (Acts 2:5-12)

And so another amazing preacher stood up:

Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: ‘Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say … this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh …” (Acts 2:14, 16-17)

Here is something entirely new: the Spirit of God is being poured out. As Joel predicted, it is being poured out upon all flesh: young and old, men and women, slaves and free. And—as Peter himself will soon discover—upon Jews and Gentiles alike (see Acts 10). For God’s dwelling place is now among his people (Rev. 21:3).

Here is the beginning of something entirely new. That’s why this first Pentecost is regarded as “the birthday of the church.”

Except, of course, as I said earlier, this wasn’t really the first Pentecost. The word “Pentecost” is the Greek name for the Jewish holiday known as Shavuot—or “the Feast of Weeks.” It begins on the sixth day of the Hebrew month of Sivan (which, this year, coincided with Harry and Meghan’s wedding day), and it has a two-fold significance.

First of all, Shavuot marks the all-important barley harvest in Palestine. Second of all, it commemorates the giving of the Law to the children of Israel assembled at Mount Sinai. It is one of the three Biblical pilgrimage festivals—which explains why Jerusalem was at that time filled with devout Jews “from every nation under heaven” (Acts 2:5).

So even way back then—2,000 years ago, when Peter and the others caught their hair on fire—even then, Pentecost was a time-honoured observance, harking all the way back to Moses and his tablets of stone.

Yes. Sinai. Moses. Ten Commandments. Torah. The giving of the Law which imparted life and identity to the people of Israel—a life and an identity shared by Jews everywhere, no matter what part of the world they lived in.

At Pentecost, they came to Jerusalem not only to celebrate the harvest and trade in grain, but also—and more importantly—to lift up those ancient traditions which knit them together as one people. All by itself, that was amazing and wonderful and life-giving. A gift of God, for the people of God. To be once again in Jerusalem; to present one’s offering (bikkurim) at the Temple; to visit with friends and relatives after long separation … what could be better than this?

Ah, but … The Lord God of Israel, the One who says, “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old” (Isaiah 43:18) … the One who says, “Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19) … the One who says, “I am making all things new” (Rev. 21:5) … the Lord God of Israel, who is always creating, always renewing the heavens and the earth, this God we worship never ceases to surprise us.

And so, on that long-ago Pentecost Day, when the cyclone hit and the flames burst forth and the heavenly dove spoke loud the languages of God’s love … Out of everything that was good and right and glorious about Jewish tradition came something entirely unexpected.

For God blessed his people with a new life and a new identity. A new law, a new way of being. As the apostle Paul would later put it, the law of the Spirit who gives life has set us free (Romans 8:2).

Yeah. The Spirit who gives life. The “Advocate”—as Jesus called him.

“The Spirit of truth who comes from the Father” (John 15:26). The One who guides us into truth, because he declares to us the things of Christ (John 16:13-14).

The Holy Spirit. He still speaks to us, you know. That’s the whole reason why the festival of Pentecost remains so important that we give it a whole season—the longest season—on the liturgical calendar. It’s because Pentecost continues. The gift of the Spirit is still being given. The voice of the Spirit is still loudly speaking to us, guiding us, prodding us, leading us in the way of Jesus.

In whatever language we can understand, with whatever tongue of flame can light a fire under us and get us moving, the Spirit of the living God issues our marching orders. He whispers words of love and shouts words of encouragement, all to remind us of who we are and to whom we belong.

And when we have the good sense to listen … wonderful, amazing things happen. The God who is always making things new—always creating a new heaven, a new earth, a new people—this God whom we worship and adore … He always has new tricks up his sleeve. He is always, always, always working for our good.

Whoever has ears, let them hear.

TEXTS: 1 John 5:1-6 and John 15:9-17

By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey his commandments. For the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments. And his commandments are not burdensome … (1 John 5:2-3)

Those of you who have study Bibles (if you actually read the annotations and introductions) may be aware that scholars disagree about the authorship of the First Letter of John. Some believe that the traditional ascription is the correct one: that the letter was penned by the apostle John, who also wrote the gospel bearing his name. Others feel that the letter was composed by someone else. They have several reasons for that—including the fact that the correspondent is unnamed; the writer never identifies himself (or herself).

There is, however, broad agreement that the letter came from someone inside the Johannine circle—that is, from someone who had learned about Jesus by listening to the apostle’s teaching. Someone well acquainted with the Jesus whom John the gospel writer quoted thus: “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love … [and] This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:9-10, 12)

We’re supposed to love one another as Jesus has loved us. This is a commandment straight from God. With that admonition firmly in mind, the author of First John informs us that “the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments. And his commandments are not burdensome …”

Not burdensome? Loving the children of God is not burdensome?

Ah. That must be the reason why Christians get along so well. Right?

Years ago, I remember a friend of mine—he later became a rabbi—used to joke that, whenever there’s a discussion between two Jews, there are at least three opinions.

Today, I would add … when two Christians have a discussion … there will only be two opinions, but it may end in a fistfight!

A slight exaggeration. But let’s face it: Christians have a dismal track record when it comes to getting along.

Jesus’ prayer for his disciples was: “that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me” (John 17:21).

“That they may all be one.” Yet today, worldwide, there are literally thousands of denominations and sects—and many of them see themselves as “the only true church.”

Yeah. Not exactly what Jesus had in mind. Why so many divisions?

Well, sometimes it’s for reasons having to do with church governance: who has authority, who makes decisions, how the organization handles its day-to-day business. But often, it has to do with ideology—what churches usually refer to as doctrine. And most of the time, that stuff is really obscure.

A good example of this—or, actually, a really terrible example—relates to the Sacrament of the Table, which is known variously as Holy Communion, the Lord’s Supper, or the Eucharist. It’s supposed to be our rite of unity. And yet few things in our common life are as divisive.

The idea of an “open table”—one at which all Christians are welcome—is a rare concept in Christendom. Most churches apply some sort of restriction concerning who may approach the table. In other words, they say that some people are not welcome to participate.

Why is that? Ideology. Doctrine. They want to make sure you believe the right stuff before they let you taste the bread.

Now, that’s not just about elitism. There’s a big, complicated, ancient theological argument around this (yes, many of our arguments are indeed ancient).

I won’t go into it in depth here, but (at least in part) it revolves around the question of precisely how Jesus is present in the elements of food and drink. Many Christians think that—when the minister prays over them—they literally become Christ’s body and blood. Other Christians consider the traditional language to be metaphorical, rather than magical. Anyway, these issues are regarded by some as being so important that people who do not believe “the right stuff” are barred from the feast.

Personally, I think that’s a shame. I believe it misses the whole point of what Christianity is about. Because, you know, this faith of ours—this faith we hold in common—is not supposed to be about rules and regulations and doctrines and dogma.

No. It’s supposed to be about relationships. First of all, it’s supposed to be about our relationship to Jesus Christ. It’s a personal relationship, where Jesus is real. Where he is a part of your life, and of mine. It’s real, because he is real, and alive and present—not just in the bread and wine upon the Communion table, but in we who eat and drink.

As a wise teenager once said to me, that is where the “real presence” of Christ resides—it’s in the people who come to the table!

We are the body of Christ. As the apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians, “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Cor. 12:27). And we are supposed to have care and concern for one another (1 Cor. 12:25).

It shouldn’t be burdensome. But the truth is, that commandment, “love one another as I have loved you” …

It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?

Plus—and this is even a sadder thing than doctrinal bickering—in most congregations, the sources of discord have nothing to do with doctrine or dogma.

Know what I mean? Next time you’re sitting in church, look around. Look to your left. Look to your right.

See somebody who ticks you off?

Maybe you feel they don’t often enough volunteer to help with stuff. And when they do, they don’t work as hard as you think they should.

Maybe you think they’re rude. And perhaps they are. Maybe they don’t say “thank you” when they should. Maybe they’re not friendly enough at coffee time. Or forgot your birthday. Or didn’t send you a Christmas card. Or insist on rattling open those noisy cellophane-wrapped candies during prayer time.

Perhaps they ask too many questions at board meetings (or at least, more questions than you want to answer). Perhaps you don’t like their politics or their opinions or their attitudes. Maybe they’re just obnoxious. Or maybe …

Well, it’s always something, isn’t it? Whether the matter at hand is large or small—ideological or personal—our differences make loving one another difficult.

In the small congregation which I serve, I see these dramas play out … Well, continually.

I guess that’s the unique challenge of being part of a small family of faith. There’s not much space between us. Not a whole lot of breathing room. We deal with the same people, week after week. Fundraiser after fundraiser. The kitchen becomes too easily crowded … and we get on each other’s nerves.

And then—whether we verbalize it, or not—we begin to question our love for one another.

“Why do I have to put up with so-and-so?”

But here’s the thing … and I guess it’s the unique blessing of being part of a small family of faith …

We truly are family. Even if we don’t always like each other, when the chips are down, our love shines through. When one of us is in trouble or in need, the rest of us come through. We pitch in and help. Which is what a family does. Which is why our small part of Christ’s body has survived—through thick and thin, through the best of times and the worst of times—for more than six decades, and counting.

Small congregations are like that—if they’re healthy, if they abide in the love of Christ. Perhaps they’re always going to be better at caring than big congregations are (generally speaking). They’re definitely better at it than denominations are. They always will be. But all of us can learn from their example.

Is the commandment to love one another a burdensome thing? You know … it really isn’t. Not if we see each other as sisters and brothers—as beloved children of God—rather than as ideological or personal adversaries.

Let’s think about these things, when next we approach the Table of our Lord. Or when the person sitting next to us unwraps one of those blasted candies. Amen.

 

TEXT: 1 John 4:7-21

All you need is love.

All you need is love.

All you need is love, love.

Love is all you need.

If you are of my generation—or even if you’re not—you probably recognize those lyrics.

“All You Need Is Love” is, of course, a song written by John Lennon and credited to Lennon-McCartney. It was originally performed by the Beatles on the world’s first-ever live global television link. Called Our World—and broadcast via satellite on June 25th, 1967—the program was watched by over 400 million people in 25 countries. The BBC had commissioned the Beatles to write a song for the United Kingdom’s contribution to the telecast, asking them to come up with something that could be understood by everyone. So that’s what they did. And it certainly would be hard to misinterpret their message: love is everything.

“Love is all you need.”

As a slogan, it is simple and straight to the point. And, according to Jade Wright—who is a journalist in the Fab Four’s hometown of Liverpool—it is exactly what you would expect from John Lennon, who “was fascinated by the power of slogans to unite people and never afraid to create art out of propaganda. When asked in 1971 whether songs like Give Peace a Chance and Power to the People were propaganda songs, he answered: ‘Sure. So was All You Need Is Love. I’m a revolutionary artist. My art is dedicated to change’.” ¹

Apparently, John Lennon thought love was a revolutionary idea. That other John—the one who’s credited with writing two of the “general” (or “catholic”) epistles—might very well have agreed with him. When he wrote words like “love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God … for God is love” (1 John 4:7)—the apostle would have known that this was a radical message.

Yes. Radical. “God is love.” Through the millennia, we Christians have grown accustomed to this phrase—and most of us are blissfully unaware of how it would have sounded to those who heard it first.

“God is love.” To ancient people—especially those raised as pagans—such an idea would have appeared ridiculous. That is why the apostle Paul described the Good News of Jesus Christ as “folly” or as “foolishness” to the Greeks, whose pantheon was filled with capricious and unpredictable gods (see 1 Cor. 1:23).

Truth be told, the notion of a loving God sounds equally ridiculous to many people today—perhaps even to most people today! Think about how the vast majority of human beings live their lives: in the midst of poverty, infant mortality, recurring famine, fatal epidemic, armed conflict and natural disaster (not to mention devastating accidents, senseless violence and terrorist attacks). In the face of so much tragedy, the claim that “God is love” seems …

Well, it seems like folly, doesn’t it?

Even so, we Christians persist in spreading that message. We even dare to sing: “Love has won, death has lost!” ²

We assert that God’s love both transcends and pervades common human experience. However, perhaps we sometimes proclaim this too glibly. Perhaps we tend to sentimentalize this love. And perhaps—when our own lives are peaceful and prosperous—we forget that this is not the case for everyone. To the starving multitudes, God’s love is not obvious. And to those who are oppressed or enslaved in the name of religion … Well, to them the “love of God” must sound like a cruel joke. The idea that “God is love” seems counter-intuitive to many. In fact, it sounds like escapist fantasy of the highest order.

To say we believe that God is love is to commit ourselves to a counter-cultural—yes, even to a radical—confession of faith. Yet that is the way of the Gospel. We are bearers of the message that God is for you, God is with you, God cares about you—and, yes, God loves you. To pagans—both ancient and modern—that sounds too good to be true. It is a message so good … that it borders on foolishness.

Without Jesus Christ, this Gospel of ours would be foolishness. In Christ, God brought divine love into our midst. In Christ, God came among us as one of us—not to judge us or to condemn us—but to join us, to be in solidarity with us—to live our real human life, fully and completely. In the name of love, Jesus came to live, to suffer, to die … and then to rise again as a testimony to love’s indestructibility. Nothing can extinguish God’s love for us—not even death!

John’s letter makes this point crystal clear: God is the source and the definition of love. God is love. Love expresses who God is. This is not some abstract concept. It is passion expressed through action. In Jesus of Nazareth, the love of God became flesh and blood. To this very day, God demonstrates his love through Jesus’ continuing presence.

By the way, all of these truths are symbolized in the Sacrament of the Table—what Christians variously refer to as Holy Communion, Eucharist, or the Lord’s Supper. As we share bread and cup, we proclaim Christ’s life, and his death, and his rising—even as we discover his “real presence” is embodied in us! Jesus is truly and physically present in his people who come to the table.

And here is good news, my friends: this love does not depend upon our initiative or upon our worthiness. We do not have to reach out to God—or even believe in God—in order to be loved. We do not have to clean up our act before God can love us. We do not have to measure up to some high standard in order to be lovable. No. God showers love upon us even though he knows we do not deserve it. That does sound too good to be true, and yet …

The First Epistle of John is unequivocal on this point: the more fully and completely we know God, the more the immense reality of God’s love dawns upon us: “those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.”

When we open our hearts to the warmth and light of God’s presence, we find that even our deepest, darkest secrets—even the ugliest parts of ourselves—are not beyond God’s reach. Nothing in us is so broken or so filthy that God is unwilling or unable to touch it.

“There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment …” (1 John 4:18)

God embraces us as we are, loves us as we are, and works in us to make us clean and whole and new. Embraced by such great love, why should we be afraid?

This news is too wonderful to keep to ourselves! To be filled with God’s love is to become an overflowing cup. Realizing the depth of God’s love for us causes us to view our sisters and brothers as God’s loved ones, also. As we behold the love of God, we see for ourselves that it is unearned and undeserved—a freely-offered gift. All we have to do is accept it.

But here’s the thing: even though God’s love is without conditions, it is not without responsibility! God commands us to love one another as he has loved us. In case we have not understood the firmness of this command, First John expresses it in a way that leaves no room for doubt: “as [God] is, so are we in this world” (1 John 4:17b).

This does not mean that Christians are all-knowing, or all-powerful or morally pure. No. John tells us that—because God lives in us—we embody God’s love for the world. We are not ourselves gods … but God’s love is incarnate in us.

The first-century churches to which John wrote found themselves caught up in conflict—internal conflict. Christians were having bitter disagreements about many things, such as: correct theology; false teaching; authority; morality; privilege, property, and prestige. They were hurling insults—and perhaps even stones—at one another.

In this context, First John focuses on love for fellow believers—for others who belong to the community of faith. But does this mean that we are called only to love those who belong to our group? To care only for those who believe as we do?

Of course not. The whole foundation of John’s argument leads us to a different conclusion. If we truly love our neighbours the way God has loved us, there can be no boundaries. God’s love—made visible and present in Jesus—is the fountainhead of the love we are called to share with others.

Remember, Jesus ignored the limits that religious orthodoxy would impose. He ate and spoke and ministered with people whom the religious authorities had rejected as heretics. He embraced those whom polite society regarded as sinful—even as filthy and despicable. He touched people who were considered untouchable. He welcomed the outcasts.

If Jesus shows us what God’s love is like, then there can be no doubt how far our love for others must extend: it must reach every single human being. Now, that does not mean we should tolerate abusive behaviour, or allow ourselves or others to be threatened or harmed. But we are challenged to respond in the most loving way possible … even to those who appear to us most unlovable!

I know. It’s a tall order, isn’t it?

But look, this kind of love can never originate with us. It is not our own love—weak and limited—that we share with God’s children. No. We are called to open ourselves up to God’s love, so that God can love others through us. When we love one another, we re-present God to the world. We make divine love real and visible by sharing it.

God invites us to let Jesus live in us. Why?  So that—through us—Jesus can continue to welcome outcasts and touch untouchables and heal the broken. When God’s unimaginable, boundless love comes alive in us, we become as Christ for those around us. We embody the love of God, here and now.

Like I said, it’s a tall order. But it is within our reach, because of the Spirit of Christ dwelling within us. As it also says in the fourth chapter of First John: “the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world” (1 John 4:4).

Thanks be to God.

¹ https://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/nostalgia/rock-ages-1967-beatles–3450666

² https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/newsboys/hallelujahforthecross.html

 

TEXT:  Luke 24:36-48

Last Sunday—in the wake of the Humboldt Broncos tragic bus crash—the Revised Common Lectionary called us to meditate upon woundedness, as a disciple with a wounded heart beheld the wounds of the risen Christ, and found faith beyond his doubts (John 20:19-31).

This week, we return to that first Easter evening–and the lectionary keeps our focus upon Jesus’ wounds:

[Jesus] said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself.  Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” (Luke 24:38-39)

Have you ever wondered why the risen Jesus still has his wounds? I mean, you’d think a resurrection body would be better than new, wouldn’t you? If I were the one raising Jesus from the dead, I’d give him a body that was perfect. I’d fill in all the flesh that was torn up by nails and thorns, and I’d stitch up the massive gash in his side. I’d wash away all the dried blood and erase every mark left by the scourge. I’d cover all the wounds with skin like a newborn baby’s. I would put all of Jesus’ wounds—all of his suffering—into the past. I would give Jesus a body that was completely whole.

But, of course, I did not raise Jesus from the dead. God did. And God had other ideas.

When the risen Lord appeared among his followers on Easter evening, the first thing he did was bless them: “Peace be with you.”

But then Jesus lifted his clothes, and revealed his wounds. They were still there, still deep, still angry red. He insisted that his followers look at them, and touch them.

Yes, that certainly did confirm that this Jesus was the same one who had died the previous Friday. The wounds were in the right place. This was no imposter. Impossible though it seemed, this was really him! But why did he still have his wounds? Why could Jesus not experience complete healing in his resurrection?

I mean, to know it was him—and to know he wasn’t a ghost—wouldn’t it have been enough for his followers just to see his face and touch whole, unwounded flesh? Wouldn’t it be enough just to watch him eat the fish they offered him? When Jesus drew his last breath on that terrible Friday, he said: “It is finished” (John 19:30). Why wasn’t the woundedness finished, too? It would have been such a blessing to get the pain over with.

But you know, that’s a blessing many—perhaps most—never receive. Their pain is not over with in a matter of hours or days.

The oldest amongst may you remember “The March of Dimes” campaign. It actually still exists, although we don’t seem to hear as much about it as we did before the 1970s. Its original focus was raising money to combat polio, but after that battle was won, the March of Dimes focus shifted to include all kinds of congenital birth defects.

Anyway, one of the March of Dimes poster children back in the 1960s was a girl named Nancy Eiesland. By the time she was 13, she had undergone 11 operations for a congenital bone defect in her hips. In order to move around, Nancy needed to use crutches or a wheelchair, and that remained the case through her whole life.

When she was little, Nancy’s parents took her to several faith healers—but it never did any good. Before she got past the single digits in age, she had already heard—many, many times—all the excuses people make to explain why God allowed the disability in the first place, and why God did not take it away.

Nancy had heard it all. Some people speculated that she had unconfessed sins; that must be why God didn’t take the disability away. Others told her that God had given her this affliction in order to develop her character. Later, she would write: “at age six or seven, I was convinced that I had enough character to last for a lifetime.”¹

The truth was, no matter how many surgeries Nancy had, her body would never be “normal” in the conventional sense of the word. No matter how skilled the surgeons were, her body would never be as it would have been if her hips had formed normally in the first place. For Nancy, the pain and struggle did not last for just a few hours on a Friday. It was a lifelong burden.

Faced with such challenges, what could Nancy Eiesland do, except just … go on? Nancy simply went on living an everyday life with an un-everyday body.

And here’s the truth: this is how it is for humanity. There are some things that we never get over, some problems that we never completely overcome, some tragic events that change things forever. One terrible example is the death of a child. You don’t get over that. You don’t forget that. The parents of those who perished on the Humboldt Broncos team bus will never be the same again. No matter how much healing they might experience with the passage of time, those wounds will remain.

It is our human reality: some wounds last a lifetime—and scars are often permanent. I think that’s why Jesus still bore his wounds when he rose from the dead. Imagine if all trace of Jesus’ suffering had been erased. Can you imagine Jesus saying, “Well, I’m sure glad that’s over! Now, I’m home free!” … ?

No! God did not erase the wounds from the resurrected Christ. No! God did not erase the wounds from deep in his own heart.

Why not? Because our human condition—including all of its suffering and pain—is not all behind the Lord.

If pain and struggle are not all in the past for us, they are not all in the past for God. If weakness and disability are not all in the past for us, they are not all in the past for God. Jesus overcame death, but he did not leave his humanity behind. He did not leave us behind. He did not remove himself from our struggle. I believe there’s healing to be found in that knowledge.

Anyway, back to Nancy Eiesland. As an adult, she became a sociologist and a professor at the Candler School of Theology at Emory University in Atlanta. She also led a Bible study group for residents at a local rehabilitation hospital. Later, Eiesland would write:

One afternoon, after a long and frustrating day, I shared with the group my own doubts about God’s care for me. I asked them then if they could tell me how they would know if God was with them and understood their experience. There was a long silence. Then … a young man said, “If God was in a ‘sip [and] puff,’ maybe he would understand.”

[http://www.dsfnetwork.org/assets/Uploads/DisabilitySunday/21206.Eiesland-Disabled-God.pdf]

Now, a “sip and puff” mechanism enables people to control an electric wheelchair with their breath. This kind of apparatus is used by people who have quadriplegia.

The young man said, “If God was in a ‘sip and puff,’ maybe he would understand.”

Not long after that, Nancy was reading the same passage from Luke that many of us will hear tomorrow morning (Luke 24:36-48), and it hit her: the Lord wasn’t in a “sip and puff,” but here he was among his people in a wounded body, still bearing the marks of the nails and the spear—still bearing in his body the marks of his humanity.

The living Christ was making good on his promise not to abandon us, not to leave us orphaned²—not any of us: not those who are pretty much “normal”; not those who cope with difficult bodies; not those who have been wounded to the core with unimaginable injury. Christ knows our situation, and he carries it. He bears it for us and he bears it with us—even in his resurrection body!

The risen Christ insists that his followers see and touch his wounds. He wants us to understand that he still carries all our sorrow, all our shame, all the vulnerability that we know as humans. In this way, he says to us: “No, it’s not all over, and I have not left you behind. I have not left you alone with your wounds. I am Emmanuel.”

Emmanuel—that word we use so much at Christmas time, that wonderful name which means, “God is with us.” Our living Lord wants us to see that—even through his death and in his rising—he is still Emmanuel.

“I am your Emmanuel,” he declares. “Yes, I am your Emmanuel—yes, you, whose bodies will never be conventional. I am your Emmanuel—yes, all you who struggle, who have been through the kinds of things that you won’t get over and cannot forget.”

The risen Christ wants us to see and touch his wounds because they are the signs of his love for us. They allow us to see deep into God’s heart. Instead of coming to us in a perfect, wound-free, scar-free body, the risen Christ comes bearing the wounds that display his perfect love. His love is the thing that’s perfect. He comes not in a perfect body, but with a perfect love.

Make no mistake about it: the risen Lord Jesus Christ truly is Emmanuel, “God with us.” He is Emmanuel for all of us. Yes—for you, for me, for all of us! He is Emmanuel forever. Thanks be to God.

¹ Read Nancy’s story at: http://ici.umn.edu/products/impact/143/over02.html

² See John 14:18

Then Jesus said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Be not doubting, but believing.”

Tomorrow, April 8, 2018—the Second Sunday of Easter, Year B in the liturgical calendar—the Revised Common Lectionary serves up the familiar story of “Doubting Thomas” from John 20:19-31.

Like many preachers around the globe on this day, I will deliver a message about the nobility of doubt; about how it’s okay to have questions about one’s faith; about how Jesus responds to Thomas by giving him what he needs in order to be “not doubting, but believing.”

And—perhaps also like many preachers, at least in Canada—my thoughts will be with the families touched by yesterday’s fatal highway crash near Tisdale, Saskatchewan.

https://globalnews.ca/video/4129874/rcmp-confirm-multiple-fatalities-injuries-in-bus-crash-involving-humboldt-broncos-hockey-club

Fourteen people are dead and 15 are in hospital after a transport truck collided with a bus carrying a junior hockey team, the Humboldt Broncos. The team is part of the Saskatchewan Junior Hockey League, which is open to players 20 years or younger. Thirteen of the Broncos players are from Saskatchewan, 10 are from Alberta, and one is from Manitoba—but this tragedy has sent shock waves around the world, with coverage by news agencies from as far away as Britain and the Netherlands.

But closer to home, as families and friends come to terms with loss and shock and uncertainty, grief cries out in anguished prayer: “Why?”

“Why, God? Why?”

How could a benevolent God permit this calamity? How can we not doubt his goodness? What can we believe in, when our world is suddenly made empty?

When our hearts are breaking, we ask such questions. We ask them without expecting satisfying answers. For what kind of answers could possibly be acceptable?

“Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.”

What if you just want to hold your son’s hand again? Or hug him one more time? Or see him walk again?

As a pastor for more than 20 years—and as a parent—I know better than to offer up platitudes in the face of this catastrophe. Neither will I attempt to somehow make sense of it all.

I can’t even think of anything comforting to say. I do not know why—any more than any of you know why—bad things happen to good people. Or why misfortune strikes the young, and the innocent, and the ones who appear to deserve it least.

All I can tell you is that, as I reflect upon these things, my heart’s attention is drawn to the wounds that Thomas wanted to see and touch on that long-ago Easter evening: Jesus’ pierced hands and feet; the wound torn in his side by the legionary’s spear. They remind me that (and no, this isn’t very satisfying, either) pain and sorrow are as intrinsically part of human existence as are pleasure and joy. When God took on our human flesh—as Christians believe he did, in the person of Jesus Christ—he did not exempt himself from the worst suffering that humanity must endure. If he had, he would not have been authentically one of us.

The God against whom in our grief we rail is the same God who was ridiculed and tortured and left on a cross to die. And he is the same God who accompanies us in our most desperate times, and weeps with us in our most desolate places. This is the broken-hearted God, and he knocks at the door of your heart and of mine, here and now.

I hope we find the grace to let him in.

Quoting the psalmist, the apostle Paul wrote: “None is righteous, no, not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God. All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one” (Romans 3:10-12).

The venom of sin—yes, of sin, that old-fashioned word we don’t like to use anymore—the venom of sin flows through the veins of each and every human being. And it is so seriously toxic that, without some kind of antidote, it will eventually destroy us. It will destroy us by separating us from God, who is the very Source of Life.

That is, more or less, our human condition as described in Scripture.

However, Scripture also tells us that this situation is—in the eyes of God—entirely unacceptable. For God, being separated from any one of us is … well … intolerable!

The idea of losing any one of us breaks God’s heart as surely as the loss of a child breaks the heart of any parent. That’s why God came to us—came looking for us—in the person of Jesus. He came to close the gap between humanity and divinity. He became one of us in order to reconcile us to himself. He came to be not simply a good example or the object of our veneration.

No. He came to be “the friend of sinners.”

He became a real human being so that he could bear real human sin and real human sorrow. He came to take upon himself the sins and sorrows of each and every one of us; and then leave all those sins and all those sorrows in the grave that he vacated on Easter morning.

Lifted up upon the cross, he became the antidote for our snakebite!

But why would he do this?  One answer, of course, is to be found in that familiar verse we all know so well: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

John, chapter three, verse 16. Kind of explains it all!

Or does it? We all want to believe that God loves us; but , for some of us, that is not an easy thing to believe. Even if we don’t verbalize it, some of us feel we’ve fallen too far, done things that no one could forgive—not even God.

Others of us … Well, we’re skeptical. Even if we believe in God, we may find it hard to swallow the idea that he cares that deeply for individuals.

And it’s a good question: why would God care? Why would he bother with troublesome rabble like we appear to be?

Here’s another quotation from the apostle Paul; it’s from his Letter to the Ephesians (2:1-10)—and in the New Living Translation, it is rendered thus:

Once you were dead because of your disobedience and your many sins. You used to live in sin, just like the rest of the world, obeying the devil—the commander of the powers in the unseen world. He is the spirit at work in the hearts of those who refuse to obey God. All of us used to live that way, following the passionate desires and inclinations of our sinful nature. By our very nature we were subject to God’s anger, just like everyone else.

But God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so much, that even though we were dead because of our sins, he gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead. (It is only by God’s grace that you have been saved!)  For he raised us from the dead along with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms because we are united with Christ Jesus. So God can point to us in all future ages as examples of the incredible wealth of his grace and kindness toward us, as shown in all he has done for us who are united with Christ Jesus.¹

Wow. Heavy. Now pay close attention to what Paul says next:

God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

“We are God’s masterpiece.” The King James Version has “We are his workmanship.” I’m told you could also translate it as: “We are God’s poetry.”

You are God’s poetry! If you want to know how you are regarded by the Maker of the universe, just consider that.

The Greek word for “workmanship” is poiēma (ποίημα), which gives us our English words poem and poetry.² To God, each believer is like a poem—uniquely made, with a beauty and a complexity that may not be fully appreciated at first glance.

When we look at one another—or even at ourselves—we may not see any poetry. Perhaps all we see is torn and crumpled paper. Or a page that’s been badly stained or defaced. We might see only dull or incomprehensible script. But God sees the love poem he inscribed upon you, and upon me—and he recognizes the metre of his own verse.

That is why Jesus was willing to go even to the cross on our behalf—so that we could be raised with him, with verses that rhyme, to be sung in this world and in the next as ballads of love and compassion and humble service. Or, as the apostle said, “so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”

Christ Jesus does much more than simply preserve our mortal lives. He preserves us for eternal life, and presents us to this world as new compositions—heavenly love songs with grace-filled lyrics to soothe every wounded heart.

You are God’s poetry! You are God’s masterpiece! You mean everything to him.

You matter to God, my friends. Each one of you. And that’s yet one more reason why … the good news is good news.

____________________

¹ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation.

² https://preceptaustin.wordpress.com/2012/09/24/poiema-greek-word-study/

 

The Passover of the Jews was at hand, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found those who were selling oxen and sheep and pigeons, and the money-changers sitting there. And making a whip of cords, he drove them all out of the temple, with the sheep and oxen. And he poured out the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables. And he told those who sold the pigeons, “Take these things away; do not make my Father’s house a house of trade.” (John 2:13-16, ESV)

Periodically, at the inner-city congregation which I pastor, we notice a familiar visitor in our midst. I’ll call him Marvin.

Marvin is, basically, a nice guy. Smart. Polite. Personable. That is, as long as he takes the meds he’s supposed to be taking, and avoids cocaine and booze.

Trouble is, this man never seems to stay on his meds. Always, it seems, alcohol and street drugs displace them—and then, in very short order, Marvin’s schizophrenia takes over his life. And the nice-guy Marvin disappears. In church, he becomes disruptive, loud, combative and threatening. He scares people. Trying to reason with this Marvin is pointless.

It always ends the same way: with me ejecting him from our building, telling him I will call the police if he shows up again. And, typically, Marvin keeps his distance for months or years afterward.

Over the past 16 years or so, this drama has played out no fewer than four times … and counting. Marvin always returns, of course—and when he does, I give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he has straightened out. Perhaps he’s finally gotten it together, I think … until it turns out … he hasn’t. And then, once more, I cast him out of the temple.

On the wall in my office hangs a large framed picture, which has occupied that space above my desk for some years now. It is a photograph, actually, of a magnificent specimen of Canis lupus, whose transfixing gaze yet gives me pause. And it has a caption, printed large: “THE GOOD SHEPHERD KNOWS THE WOLF.”

I keep it there because it reminds me that one of the most difficult roles of a pastor is also one of the most essential: the role of shepherd. Although we are used to seeing that biblical image rendered in comforting pastels—usually portraying Jesus carrying a lamb in his arms or draped over his kindly shoulders—we should remember that a shepherd’s care for his flock needs to be as robust as it is gentle.

David, for example, was a shepherd in his youth. To King Saul, he described his job in this way: “Your servant used to keep sheep for his father. And when there came a lion, or a bear, and took a lamb from the flock, I went after him and struck him and delivered it out of his mouth. And if he arose against me, I caught him by his beard and struck him and killed him.” (1 Samuel 17:34-35).

Yeah. I don’t think I’d ever go so far as to kill poor Marvin … I’d much rather talk to him, always hopeful that someday, somehow, he will accept the wise counsel and practical help being offered to him from many sources … But I won’t risk having him kill one of my sheep, either.

However—like I said—this business of “knowing the wolf” and dealing with him … this is one of the most difficult pastoral roles. Perhaps it’s the most difficult. Because, of course, pastors are supposed to be welcoming. Friendly. Compassionate. We aren’t supposed to turf anyone out of God’s house, are we?

Certainly, we don’t want to. Always hoping for the return of a prodigal son or daughter, our inclination is to keep the sheepfold gate flung wide open. After all, everybody is always welcome in church … right?

Actually, I would submit that the biblical answer to that question is, “No.”

In the well-known story of Jesus “cleansing the Temple”—reported in all four canonical gospels¹—we find the Good Shepherd violently removing quite a number of small businessmen from the Temple precincts. And although John’s account frames the Lord’s anger as a reaction against commerce (“do not make my Father’s house a house of trade”), the synoptics quote Jesus as saying the livestock dealers and money-changers comprised “a den of robbers.”

In other words—as James Wetzstein has pointed out in his astute comic strip²—Jesus was condemning not honest trade, but unethical practice. The church bake sale is no concern of his; but he will not countenance swindlers out to extort and abuse the faithful. As John describes the scene, the Lord was angry enough to flog the crooked merchants!

“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild; dirty dealers drive you wild.” (Are you listening, Bell Canada?)

The hard truth is: NOT everybody is welcome in church! If that sounds unnecessarily cruel, ask yourself: would you want to be part of a family which failed to protect its members? I know I wouldn’t.

Those with malicious intent—who want to bilk our senior citizens, or abuse our children, or embezzle funds from the treasury—all of these should be most pointedly not welcome in anybody’s church. Neither should anyone who—by dint of their refusal to acknowledge their own demons—poses a threat to others.

A harsh principle? I guess so. Fun to enforce? Absolutely not. Something which will trouble the shepherd’s conscience, even though he realizes it must be done? You betcha. For even the predators are God’s own creatures—as are the unfortunate Marvins of this world.

So what’s a perplexed pastor to do, when the wolf raises its head? Pray for wisdom, I suppose. Especially in those situations where neither compassion nor wisdom comes easy.

______________________________________________

¹ Matthew 21:12-17; Mark 11:15-19; Luke 19:45-48; John 2:13-25.

² http://www.agnusday.org/comics/662/john-02-13-22-2015

 

… Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves.  And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus.

Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. 

As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.  (Mark 9:2-9*)

Quite a bizarre story, isn’t it? Although it doesn’t start out that way. Jesus and his three closest followers—Peter, James, and John—climb up a high mountain. Nothing out of the ordinary about that, really. Jesus often retired to remote locations in order to draw close to his Father in prayer, and it was not unusual for him to take his friends with him, on occasion. But on this occasion … suddenly he is … transfigured. Transformed. Exalted. Changed. His clothing assumes an unearthly luminescence. Then they are joined by Elijah and Moses—two figures from Israel’s distant past, both of them dead for hundreds of years by this time.

The Bible tells us the three disciples are scared out of their wits—and who can blame them? James and John, apparently, are dumbstruck. But Peter—being Peter—starts to babble. He proposes building three little houses there, so Jesus, Elijah, and Moses can open a mountaintop retreat centre … or something … I can hear him, can’t you?

“We could call it ‘The Three Amigos Ashram’ … maybe put in a Starbuck’s…”

Then … as if heaven itself is offended by that suggestion (‘cuz it shoulda been a Timmy’s) …

As if heaven is offended, a cloud overshadows them, and the voice of God booms from above, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”

And then—suddenly—everything is back to normal. No voice. No cloud. No Elijah or Moses. No glowing robe. No nothing. No wonder—in verse 10 of this chapter—Mark tells us that the three disciples “kept the matter to themselves.”

I guess so! This is not the sort of thing you bring up at the office around the water cooler, or casually mention over coffee after church. Sure, talk about the weather. Talk about the price of gasoline. Or the latest Donald Trump story.

But who’s going to talk about something like this?

“They kept the matter to themselves.”

And you know, if it hadn’t been for the fact that there were three of them—three witnesses to this incredible occurrence—I wonder whether we would ever have heard the Transfiguration story. I mean, if there had been only one witness … Well, I think that person could be forgiven if, the next morning, he woke up thinking the whole thing was just a weird dream.

Certainly, many have noted the dream-like quality of this passage. It does sound like a dream, doesn’t it? You know how dreams are—the details not always making much sense. Jesus’ clothes turning dazzlingly white—as brilliant as a model’s smile in a toothpaste commercial. Then these two Old Testament figures show up unannounced. And how did the disciples know it was them, anyway? Do you think they had name tags, like at a conference? “Hello! My name is Moses!”

Moses and Elijah. How did Peter, James and John recognize them?

Let’s face it: this Transfiguration story is more than a little odd. If it wasn’t a dream—or a group hallucination—what are we supposed to make of it?

Well, we are given some clues within the story itself. There are two parts to this account: first, what happens on the mountain (strange as it is); and, second, the discussion about it as they come down from the mountain.

Did you notice? In verse nine, Mark tells us what Jesus has to say about it all: “As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”

So … what?

I think Jesus’ admonition is significant. I think it’s telling. Let me explain why.

To me, it’s like watching a movie on DVD—where you can choose those “special features.” You know what I mean? Like watching it in French, or out-takes and deleted scenes … that kind of thing. Only in this case, it’s like Mark has provided the “director’s commentary.” We see the story unfold, but we also get interpretive clues.

That’s what we have here in Mark’s Gospel; it’s the director’s commentary on the plot of Mark. On Transfiguration Sunday—the last Sunday before Lent begins—we are given a glimpse of the big picture. You see, in Mark’s Gospel there are three major confessions of Jesus’ identity as the Son of God: the first one is at his baptism, when the heavenly voice announces: “You are my Son, the Beloved” (Mark 1:11). It’s a scene of glory. The last one is on the cross, when—after Jesus’ death—a Roman centurion declares: “Truly this man was God’s Son!” (Mark 15:39)

A scene of glory, and a scene of agony. In between those two is this one, which we hear today: “This is my Son; listen to him!” … “Tell no one what you’ve seen, until after I have risen from the dead.”

Here, Christ’s glory is tied to his suffering. Peter wants to build three shrines on the mountaintop. But the only shrine will be a cross atop a hill.

None of us really want to go through Lent to get to Easter. Right? That’s why we scarf down pancakes on Shrove Tuesday … but skip the Lenten fast. We want the delight, but not the deprivation. Can’t we omit the ashes and sackcloth? Can’t we be done with winter, and have spring … right now? Can’t we just sing the “Hallelujah Chorus” and ignore the “Sacred Head, Now Wounded”?

The disciples felt the same way. “Can’t we just overthrow the Romans—right now—and crown Jesus as our king?”

Those of you folks actually read your Bibles will surely know that, in the gospels, the disciples don’t always come off looking so good. That’s especially true with Mark’s gospel, which often portrays the disciples as being kind of slow on the uptake.

In Mark, anytime you read that the disciples are afraid, you can probably substitute the word “confused.” It’s almost like the Greek term for “terrified” is “duh.” Peter didn’t know what to say, writes Mark, “for they were terrified.”

Truth to tell, the Lenten journey can be terrifying. It begins with ashes (even if only figuratively) and leads to death upon a cross. That’s the plain truth.

But it’s not the whole truth. If my “DVD theory” holds water; if the Transfiguration is the “director’s commentary”—if this is a glimpse of “the real story”… take note of Jesus’ words of admonition. He comes down from the mountain and warns them not to say anything about what just happened—until after he is raised from the dead.

Someone has said of the Lenten season that it begins with ashes and finishes with dust—the dust of a body sealed in a grave. Except it doesn’t, really. Because Lent finishes—Lent is ended by—an empty tomb. After the nightmare of Good Friday and Black Sabbath comes the ecstatic vision of Easter morning. As Christians, we dare to dream that this is true—that Jesus has in fact been raised. Along with God, we dare to dream of a world where love wins—where peace lasts, and war doesn’t; where disease is overcome by healing; where no child ever goes hungry, or is exploited by an abuser.

We dare to dream that the private pain we carry with us will one day be subdued. We dare to imagine a different way of being in the world. We dare to believe that our loved ones who have died in Christ will also be raised in Christ.

The dream ends something like this:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

“See, the home of God is among mortals.

He will dwell with them as their God;

they will be his peoples,

and God himself will be with them;

he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away.”

And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Then he said to me, “It is done!  I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children. (Revelation 21:1-7*)

Now, tell me, who—other than God—could dream a dream like that? Imagine it. No more death. No more pain. A world transformed—transfigured—as Christ the King ascends his throne. This is our Christian hope. I pray that you know it is the truth … even if, for now, it seems like … only … a dream.

______________

* The New Revised Standard Version (Anglicized Edition), copyright 1989, 1995 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America.  Used by permission.  All rights reserved.