The Day of Pentecost

TEXT: Acts 2:1-21

 

Ascension Day

TEXT: Acts 1:1-11

So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. (Acts 1:6-9)

Those of you who are of my generation—all you “baby boomers” … Do you ever wonder what became of some of the famous celebrities from the 1950s and 60s?

I do. I ask myself, “Whatever happened to so-and-so?” Like the actor Jim Nabors, for example. Remember him? From 1964-1969, he was “Gomer Pyle” on TV: “Gomer Pyle, U.S. Marine Corps.” He was also a pretty good singer.

How about former teen heartthrob—and fellow Canadian—Bobby Curtola? He had “top 10” hits like “Fortune Teller” in 1963 and “Aladdin” in 1964. He even did a cover version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Or how about Juliette Sysak … “our pet, Juliette”? If you watched her on CBC television back in the day, you’ll surely remember this great Canadian singer, who was born in St. Vital, Manitoba (before it was part of Winnipeg).

Where are they now?

Well … predictably (but sadly, for all us baby boomers) … they’re all dead! Bobby Curtola shuffled off this mortal coil in 2016, while Jim and Juliette passed in 2017.

Gulp. As if I didn’t feel old enough already.

Okay. Let’s try some celebs from the 1980s. Like Tom Selleck—the original “Magnum P.I.”

Thankfully, Tom remains with us, going strong at age 78, and still on a hit TV series, playing  New York City Police Commissioner Frank Reagan on Blue Bloods.

How about Dana Delany, who briefly played Magnum’s love interest on the original series? She rose to international fame as Army nurse Colleen McMurphy on the Vietnam War drama China Beach (1988–1991), for which she twice received the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Lead Actress.

Delany has been constantly busy on large and small screens ever since McMurphy hung up her stethoscope, and today—yet stunningly beautiful at 67—she can be found on Paramount Plus, playing Margaret Devereaux, the owner of the Fennario horse ranch on Tulsa King.

By now, you may be asking, “What’s with the trip down memory lane?” Why the nostalgia?

Well, this is Ascension Day. In Luke’s account from the Book of Acts, Jesus was “raptured”—lifted up into the sky as the disciples watched. They kept looking up until “a cloud took him out of their sight.” As you read that story … I wonder: did you think to ask, “Where is he now?”

Where is he, now? Where is Jesus, now? This is actually a very important question. And the way we answer it demonstrates how real Jesus is in our lives.

Where is Jesus now? How we answer this question reveals whether we believe Jesus is able to change lives … or not. After all, if Jesus is absent from this earth, then he cannot be at work in our world. But if he is present—if he is here—then he is still able to affect people’s lives. He can touch us. He can bring us hope, and heal our diseases—both physical and spiritual.

Jesus’ words to his disciples—which he spoke just before his departure—speak of his abiding power. He said: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1:8)

We who believe in Jesus have the hope—more than that, we have the promise—that his spiritual power will be alive in us. The Holy Spirit, who was present at creation, lives in us and empowers us to bear witness for Christ in this world.

Jesus’ ascension illustrates this power. Jesus has gone on to heaven before us to prepare our way. And he is already at the right hand of the Father with all things under his feet. Jesus—who lives in us—is piloting the universe until that day when he returns in clouds of glory.

Where is Jesus now? On Ascension Day, that is a legitimate question.

After his resurrection, Jesus continued appearing to his disciples for 40 days. He taught them. He healed them. He broke bread with them. According to the Gospel of John (21:1-14), he even made breakfast for them! Then he ascended into heaven to take his place with God the Father. But before he left, he promised that the Holy Spirit would quickly come.

Where is Jesus now? Yes, he is in heaven; the Bible clearly tells us this. And yet, somehow, he is also here. He’s still here! We continue to feel his presence, do we not?

And we say that wherever two or more gather in his name, he is there with them. When we assemble for worship, we proclaim that the risen Christ is present with us. He is in heaven—and yet he is here! How can that be?

As a bright teenager once said to me: “I guess it’s one of those paradoxes.” In the same breath, we declare that Christ is with us—and also that he is on a throne in heaven.

Where is Jesus now? As you might have guessed, this is a trick question! There are actually two correct answers. Jesus is beside his Father in heaven, and he is also here with us now. Both answers are important to our understanding of Christ as Saviour and Lord.

When the Bible tells us that Christ Jesus ascended to heaven and sits at the right hand of God, that means Jesus is in a position of authority over the entire world. Jesus has taken the high ground of the universe.

It is from that position of might and strength that he will finally overcome evil. And it is from there that Jesus will rule his eternal kingdom in perfect peace and wholeness—in shalom, to use the Hebrew word.

When Jesus began his ministry, he said that he had come to bring release to captives and freedom to the oppressed. Through his death, he freed us from the bonds of our own sin; and from his position of authority, Jesus will liberate the human race from all that afflicts it: hatred, greed, prejudice, hunger, disease, death, and all the other enemies of shalom.

Because Jesus is at the right hand of the Father, he is in a position to establish his Kingdom. But Jesus has not left us alone until that day. Ten days after Jesus ascended, he sent the Holy Spirit. At Pentecost God’s presence came to the church to stay with it until Christ comes again. And through the Holy Spirit, Christ is present with us.

Where is Jesus now? I guess each of us has to answer that question for ourselves. And how you answer it, I suppose, depends both upon your personal experience and upon how confident you are in the testimony of Scripture.

If you believe that Jesus is dead, then your faith will be dead, also. If you believe that he is way off in a distant heaven—and not here—you will not look for the working of his Spirit in your life. But if you believe he is alive and well and dwelling among us, then you will discover him to be real to you, and present for you. You will be open to the life-transforming love and grace that he brings, and that each one of us needs. Then—and I suspect, only then—will you be able to go into the world like his first disciples did, testifying to his love and grace and power.

The way we answer the question, “Where is Jesus now?” makes a tremendous difference.

There’s no point in having a God who is exalted and majestic, if he does not touch our lives. There’s no point in having a Saviour who is transformative and redemptive and powerful if we do not allow his power to redeem and transform us. You see, Jesus not only ministers to us—he ministers to others through us! That’s what it means to be an apostle as well as a disciple—and we are called to be both disciples and apostles.

Where is Jesus now? He’s standing here among us, simultaneously ascended and present. And he is saying to us: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses … to the ends of the earth.”

May God grant us eyes to see and ears to hear the Risen One who beckons us—and also grant us the power of faith, that we may indeed become his witnesses … to the ends of the earth. Amen.

Sixth Sunday of Easter

“If you love me, you will keep  my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate,  to be with you for ever. 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.

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

—John 14:15-21 (NRSV)

 

Have you ever seen the musical, “Camelot”? In the last scene, King Arthur spins out a poignant song filled with memories of what had been the most idyllic place on earth. Alone on stage, the broken king begs us to remember:

Ask ev’ry person if they’ve heard the story, and tell it strong and clear if they have not,

That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory called Camelot.

Don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment that was known as Camelot.

Keep the story going, Arthur begs us. Pass it on to your children and your children’s children; and in the very remembering, you will keep the dream alive. In the midst of the despair around you, recall this golden time, this special place. And, perhaps—who knows—perhaps this one brief, shining moment will come again.

As Jesus gathers with his disciples for his Last Supper, we sort of expect to hear him singing Arthur’s song. Jesus knew he would soon be betrayed by one of his closest followers, then arrested, and finally killed. Here at the Passover table, Jesus spins out his last words to his closest friends. We can well imagine Jesus calling them to remember the marvellous wisp of glory they had shared, when light had come into the darkness of the world. With such a memory, perhaps the disciples could go on, sustained by the vision of this one great life, waiting and hoping that Jesus would soon return.

The entire Gospel of John could be a melody from Camelot, for John wrote these words many years after Jesus was gone. This gospel is written backwards, in the midst of a community for whom Jesus was only a memory. In fact, most of those in John’s community had never met Jesus. Almost all of the original disciples were dead. The temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed—a sign, they had thought, that the end-time would soon come.

But the end-time did not come. Life went on. And that was, in many ways, the hardest part of all. Jesus had not returned even when all the signs seemed right. This community of believers felt pushed to the brink of despair, and despair was the thing which could defeat them. The gospel writer knew the dangers of such despair. And so it was that John pulled together many of the things Jesus said into this one section known as “The Farewell Discourse.”

It runs from the middle of chapter 13 to the end of chapter 16, and it’s a bit like “The Last Lecture Series” in some universities, where professors are asked what they would say if they knew it was their last opportunity to speak. Here at the table, Jesus says the same things over and over in different ways—but his central theme is love.

• “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” (13:34)
• “If you love me you will keep my commandments.” (14:15)
• “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.” (14:21)
• “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.” (15:9)
• “I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.” (15:17)

“But how can we do that?” the disciples must have wondered. Knowing they had a difficult time loving each other even while the Lord was with them, how could believers love like that in John’s community, where Jesus’ memory was fading?  “Let’s just keep singing about that time when Jesus was here,” they may have thought.

“Don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment…”

But Jesus did not sing that song. Jesus did not call the disciples to hold up his life as memory, but as presence. “I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus said. “I am coming to you.” (14:18)

What a strange thing to say on the night of his betrayal and arrest. He should have said, “I am leaving you!”

Jesus did not deny what was going to happen. He said: “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live.” (14:19)

Jesus was calling his disciples to live and love in ways that seemed impossible. And without the Spirit, it would have been. And there’s the other theme repeated over and over around the table—the Holy Spirit. Sometimes Jesus calls him “the Advocate,” like someone who stands beside you in a court of law. Sometimes he says “Helper,” sometimes “Spirit of Truth.”

When Jesus said, “I am coming to you,” he did not mean he would return like an old friend from a long journey. Jesus would be with believers in a different way. Or perhaps we could say that God would be with them in a different way because Jesus had been there. The eternal, cosmic Word of God became flesh in Jesus.

That’s what John wrote at the very beginning of this gospel. The Spirit, which blew like a wind over the face of the deep in creation, took on flesh in the one who now sat with them at the table. This Living Word had just bent down to wash the disciples’ dirty feet. You can’t get much more down-to-earth than that. Jesus was very clear: “The Spirit that dwells in me will abide also in you.”

Shortly before this, Jesus had said something outrageous: “Very truly, I tell you, 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.” (14:12)

If anyone other than Jesus had made such a claim, we would call it blasphemy! Yet, that’s what Jesus said that night at the table; even as God breathed into lifeless clay to create a living person, the Spirit will breathe the presence of Jesus into you. In the power of the Spirit, Jesus will continue to be present with you. “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.” (14:18)

Love and the Spirit—these two themes are at the centre of Jesus’ farewell message: “Love one another as I have loved you” and “The Spirit of Truth will abide with you when I am gone.” A little later in this same chapter, Jesus says, “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.” (14:26b)

That is, Jesus was saying: You don’t know everything yet. You have more to learn. In every generation you will be faced with new questions and perplexities. Does the sun revolve around the earth or is it the other way around? Should nuclear weapons ever be used against an enemy? Is social welfare the best way to bear one another’s burdens? Jesus knew there were some questions the sacred writings did not address. Jesus also acknowledged that there were some things he had never talked about. “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth,” he said. (16:13a)

The late Rosemary Radford Reuther (1936-2022) once said there are two things the church must do. One is to pass on the tradition from one generation to another. We might say this is like King Arthur’s song: “Ask ev’ry person if they’ve heard the story, and tell it loud and clear if they have not”—tell the story of Jesus to your children and your children’s children. But that’s not all, said Reuther. There is a second thing the church must do: remain open to the winds of the Spirit by which the tradition comes alive in each generation. That is different than Camelot; it is much deeper than memory.

At the very end of this chapter, Jesus seems to be ready to leave. He says, “Rise, let us be on our way.” (14:31b)

You can almost see him getting up from the table, then realizing that he forgot to say something. “I am the true vine,” he says, sitting down again, “and my Father is the vinegrower … Abide in me as I abide in you.” (15:1, 4a)

But how can we abide in Jesus? Well, he has told us how—over and over again, repeating himself at the table: “You will abide in me through the gift of the Spirit. The Spirit will teach you how to love one another.”

The Spirit will keep us connected, says Jesus. You to me, all of us to God—each sibling to each sibling.

You know, I once heard someone say that the reason mountain climbers are tied together is to keep the sane ones from going home! Of course, we know that mountain climbers are tied together to keep from getting lost or going over a cliff—but there is a piece of truth in that wry statement.

When things get tough up on the mountain, when fear sets in, many a climber is surely tempted to say, “This is crazy! I’m going home.” The life of faith can be like that; doubt sets in, despair overwhelms us, and the whole notion of believing in God seems crazy.

Jesus knew his disciples would have days like that. So he told them we’re tied together like branches on a vine—or like climbers tied to the rope—bound together by the Spirit, to trust in One who is always more than we can understand, to keep us moving ahead on the journey of faith, to encourage us when believing seems absurd.

“I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus said. “I am coming to you.”

This promise is far more meaningful than a song from musical theatre. And it was meant not only for Jesus’ first disciples, but also for you and for me. The Spirit binds us to Jesus, and whenever we are tempted to settle for answers that cannot give life—even if they seem to make more sense—well, that’s when we feel a tug on the rope.

May God, who breathed life into inanimate clay, breathe life and hope into us—now, and in all the days to come. May the Holy Spirit bind us to Jesus and to one another—and breathe into us not only blessed memories, but also the very presence of Jesus, that we may love one another, even as Jesus has loved us. Amen.

Fifth Sunday of Easter

TEXT: John 14:1-14

Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” (John 14:9a)

Shortly after World War Two, the World Council of Churches began providing relief funds to help needy churches re-build what bombs and artillery had destroyed. Seeking to be accountable as well as helpful, the Council decided to check on how its money was being spent in a remote area of the Balkans. So it dispatched one of its officers—a man named John Mackay, who also happened to be the Moderator of the Church of Scotland.

Accompanying Dr. Mackay were two other clergymen, both of whom came from a fairly conservative denomination. One afternoon they paid a visit to an Orthodox priest in a remote village. The priest—who worked in rather lonely isolation most of the time—was clearly thrilled to receive the visit. Immediately upon seating the guests in his study, the priest produced a box of fine Havana cigars and offered one to each of his three guests.

Dr. Mackay took one, bit the end off, lit it, and took a few puffs, saying how fine it was.

The other two pastors looked horrified. “No thank you!” they quickly said. “We do not smoke!”

Feeling badly that he had perhaps offended the two brothers, the priest wanted to make amends. He left the room, then re-appeared with a bottle of his finest wine.

Dr. Mackay took a glassful, swirled it, sniffed it like a connoisseur, and then praised its fine quality. Soon he asked for another glass. Meanwhile, his traveling companions drew back even more visibly. “No thank you! We do not drink!” they snapped.

Later—when the three returned to their car—the two clergymen set upon Dr. Mackay: “Here you are, an officer with the World Council and the leader of Scotland’s Church—and yet you smoke and drink?”

Mackay barked at them: “No, I don’t! But somebody in there had to be a Christian!”

“Show us the Father,” Philip and the other disciples said to Jesus. “Show us the Father and it will be enough for us.”

You can’t really blame the disciples for asking that—after all, Jesus has been talking quite a bit about God being his “Father.” Even so, he seems taken aback by the question.

“What do you mean?” asks Jesus. “Have I been with you so long and still you do not know me? You’ve been seeing the Father all along. If you’ve seen me, then you have seen the Father!”

The two pious clergymen who watched John Mackay smoke and drink the rare treasures served up by their host were scandalized because—in their opinion—such actions were unworthy of a Christian. So also the disciples who had been watching Jesus all along apparently did not think he looked like the Father. But Jesus said, “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.”

But how could that be? Only a few weeks ago—when our lectionary served up the story of Lazarus (John 11:1-45)—we heard the report of Jesus bitterly weeping, mourning his dead friend. But does God weep? Can we picture the almighty, impassible God … crying?

The disciples had seen Jesus do some pretty amazing things. But more often, they’d seen him do very ordinary things. Just like them, Jesus got tired, hungry … cranky! Just like them, he had to eat, and drink, and sleep. It’s not hard to picture Jesus using a splinter to pick his teeth after a good meal, or to imagine him expressing his delight over a cup of good wine. But does that strike anyone as being like God the Father? It certainly is not the way that God has traditionally been depicted.

Consider today’s gospel lesson—from the 14th chapter of John. This is such a lovely chapter that it is easy to begin reading only at verse one, conveniently ignoring what just happened at the end of chapter 13. Do you remember it? It is the scene in the “upper room.” Judas Iscariot has just departed, having been singled out by Jesus as the betrayer in their midst. Peter—already considered by many the leading disciple—has just been told that he will deny Jesus three times.

So when—in verse one—Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” it’s because there’s plenty of trouble to go around. I imagine Jesus speaking those words with his eyes brimming with tears, and his voice thick with emotion. “Let not your hearts be troubled,” he says.

Why? Because with God it is always smooth sailing? No! Things were falling apart in that upper room. Gethsemane is the next scene in this drama—and things will go rather quickly downhill after that. There is trouble enough to go around, which is precisely why Jesus tells the disciples not to let that trouble take root in their hearts.

And why not? The ultimate reason is because Jesus has prepared a place for them—a safe place, a good and comfortable place. However, Jesus does not waste words describing what that place is like. There is some many-roomed mansion somewhere, he says—and we will get to it someday. Meanwhile, the important thing is finding the way to get there. Once Jesus mentions his Father’s house, the specifics of it are ignored in favour of talking about the way to the place, which Jesus claims the disciples already know.

That was news to them, however. Jesus had, after all, provided no maps, no directions, no travel brochures. If Jesus had said that his Father’s house was in Rome or Caesarea or somewhere like that, the disciples could have drawn their own maps. But instead, he identifies himself as the way. Whatever the goal of the journey is, Jesus is the way to get there—and for now that’s got to be good enough. Apparently—as important as the final destination is—for now, the journey itself is the thing to focus upon.

To be sure, in this 14th chapter, Jesus dangles the promise of heaven before the disciples—but then, he proceeds to talk only about the journey as being important right now. All along on this journey, the very God of heaven had already been in their midst—if only their eyes had been able to see!

The problem was that this Galilean carpenter did not look like the God their parents and teachers had described to them. And their walk with Jesus had certainly not felt like heaven on earth. Dusty days of footsore travels, empty stomachs, ungrateful and threatening crowds—these were not the things one might expect to encounter in God’s company. Yet God had been with them all along, even as Jesus had all along been doing God’s work. But a lot of it was so seemingly unimportant—so ordinary—that they missed it completely.

Only much later did the disciples piece it all together and realize that theirs had been a sacred journey with Jesus and with God. As it turned out, Jesus was the Son who was his Father all over again. In and through everything they had seen in Jesus—the amazing and the mundane—Jesus had been so completely lost in his Father that everything he did was transformed. Something like that has to be our goal, I think: to live our earthly lives in ways so permeated by Christ that we won’t even think to worry about mansions in heaven.

Some years ago, I came across an article by the American neurologist Oliver Sacks, who has done some valuable research into Tourette’s Syndrome. As perhaps you know, “Tourette’s” is a bizarre neurological disorder which induces any number of physical and verbal “tics.” And almost all of this is behaviour which the casual onlooker would find distressing. Some Tourettic people have constant facial twitches. Others find themselves uncontrollably uttering verbal whoops, beeps, and even raunchy obscenities.

One case Dr. Sacks reported involved a man with Tourette’s who was given to deep, lunging bows toward the ground, a few verbal shouts, and also an obsessive-compulsive habit of adjusting and readjusting his eyeglasses. Yet that same man is a skilled surgeon!

Somehow—and for some unknown reason—when he dons mask and gown and enters the operating room, all of his tics disappear for the duration of the surgery. He loses himself in that role and he does so totally. But when the surgery is finished, he returns to his odd quirks of glasses adjustment, shouts, and bows. Dr. Sacks did not make any spiritual comments on this, of course, yet I find in the story of this surgeon a very intriguing example of what it can mean to “lose yourself” in a role.

There really can be a great transformation of your life when you are focused on just one thing—focused to the point that bad traits disappear even as the performing of normal tasks becomes all the more meaningful and remarkable.

Something like that, I think, is our Christian goal as we travel the “way” that just is Jesus. As we lose ourselves in Jesus and in being his disciples, we will find even our ordinary day-to-day activities are infused with deep meaning.

As John Mackay told his uptight companions, somebody has to be a Christian in life’s many and varied situations. According to the gospel, that “somebody” is every one of us as together we walk the path of discipleship.

It is a sacred journey in the company of Jesus the Christ—Jesus, who is for us the way, and the truth, and the life. Thanks be to God.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

TEXT:  John 10:1-16

“I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep.” (John 10:14-15)

Imagine that you are a first-century Christian—a member of one of the house-churches for which the apostle John wrote his gospel. Perhaps you are a Jewish Christian—one of many who have been expelled from the synagogue because of your belief in Jesus.

You’re meeting in a small group, praying for strength and courage, clinging to unpopular beliefs. You face huge challenges, and you have plenty of reasons to be worried.

Then the worship leader begins to read the apostle’s account, and you hear the words of Jesus: “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”

“I am the good shepherd.” You hear those words, and you remember. From previous gatherings, you recall other “I am” sayings. Jesus said he was bread and light and life; a path, a gate, a vine. And suddenly your heart is rendered peaceful, as you remember that Jesus provides all that you need.

If you were a Jewish Christian, these images would have reminded you of your heritage.

Your “manna in the wilderness” has become Jesus, the Bread of Heaven. Your light—the symbol of the Law—is now identified with the Messiah, to whom the Torah bore witness. The way promised to the righteous is now identified with Jesus the Way. And the shepherd—a common sight across the ancient world and a common metaphor for leadership—is now Jesus, the Good Shepherd.

The gospel that John wrote is full of such powerful images. These texts were meant to be read aloud during group worship, and they are wonderful examples of effective oral communication.

They are brief. They are colourful. And they are memorable. In times of testing and persecution, these terse, bold affirmations of Jesus’ identity empowered believers to hold on to their faith.

We have much in common with those earliest Christians. Like those first believers, the Church of the 21st century does know something about what it means to struggle for survival … doesn’t it?

We have something else in common, though. Because, increasingly, we face persecution, also. It may be subtler, but it’s no less real.

Those first Christians were the ultimate outsiders. To the Roman Empire, they were suspect because they refused to affirm that Caesar was Lord. To their fellow Jews, they were dangerous heretics.

Their opponents in the synagogues worked tirelessly to discredit Christian claims about Jesus of Nazareth. They said his miracles were works of trickery. They said his teaching lacked credibility. They said the idea of a crucified Messiah was ridiculous, and that his claim to unity with God was blasphemy.

Today, the “new atheism” portrays religious faith as nonsensical, even dangerous. Militant atheists such as Richard Dawkins style themselves as “brights,” implying that those of us who hold on to faith—especially Christian faith—are not so bright.

Perhaps even worse, those of us who still respect the tradition we received—those of us who hold to the ancient Christian doctrines, those of us who believe in a God who is “really real”—find ourselves all too often facing opposition from inside the church, from theologians who want to convince us that God is just a metaphor, and from preachers who tell us that we can get by “with or without God.”

We live in a culture where religions of all kinds —and faith of any kind—are being, increasingly, pushed to the margins—to the fringes of society. Christianity in particular is becoming once again counter-cultural—just as it was in the first century.

Where can we find strength—and courage—for living in these days?

Certainly, one answer is: within a faith community—a congregation, especially one which has already demonstrated its ability to weather storms and withstand challenges.

Another answer is: in the Bible. In the words of Scripture. Today’s gospel text—and others like it—are good examples of that.

Just like the small congregations of John’s time—which met in people’s homes, and whose members leaned upon one another for support—modern faith communities can draw encouragement from the “I am” statements of Jesus.

Each statement, really, is a promise. Each one says something about Jesus’ identity … and something about our identities as individuals and as a community living in relationship with him.

Or, to put it another way, each one of the “I am” statements says something about Christology and something about discipleship:

• Jesus is food for our souls—“I am the bread of life,” he said (John 6:35);
• Jesus is light for our lives—he said, “I am the light of the world” (8:12);
• He is a path which we can follow—“I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” he said (14:6);
• He is also the way we get onto the path, for he said, “I am the gate for the sheep” (10:7);
• Jesus is someone trustworthy to follow—“I am the good shepherd,” he said (10:11);
• More than that, he leads us on an eternal journey—“I am the resurrection and the life,” he said (11:25); and
• He offers us a way of living that bears sustaining fruit—“I am the true vine,” he said. “I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing” (15:1, 5);

These “I am” sayings in the gospel of John are simply stated and easily grasped. And that’s important. Because, like I said, they are promises, and promises need to be understandable.

They are, at the same time, invitations. They invite us into a lifelong relationship with Jesus: a relationship in which we live into the promises they make.

Today’s primary image—the image of the Good Shepherd—makes an important promise. Jesus warns us about thieves and bandits, and then elaborates on their failings. They speak with an unfamiliar voice, they come only to steal and kill and destroy. They see the wolf coming and run away, because they do not really care about the sheep.

However, in the midst of this chaos—this swirling mass of negatives—the Good Shepherd stands firm, undaunted by danger, not intimidated by threats. “I am the good shepherd,” Jesus says. “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”  He holds his ground because he loves the sheep.

Friends, we are all invited into Christ’s fold. Because there is one (and only one) Good Shepherd, there is one flock that gathers around him.

We are invited into that unity—that community—which mirrors the unity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The seven “I am” sayings make the invitation clear:

• Since Jesus is bread, discipleship means gathering around the table;
• Since Jesus is light, discipleship means coming out of our dark corners and gathering together in the middle of the room;
• Since Jesus is a path to follow, discipleship means travelling along it;
• Since Jesus is a gate, discipleship means paying attention to where we are walking;
• Since Jesus is an eternal journey, discipleship is about making a group pilgrimage along the way that leads to life;
• Since Jesus is the Vine, discipleship means being the branches, people whose lives draw their fruitfulness from him;
• Since Jesus is the Good Shepherd, discipleship means being sheep who find their life and well-being in his care.

That symbolism is truly rich.

There’s a Lutheran theologian named Craig Koester who makes what I think is a brilliant point about the seven “I am” sayings in the Gospel of John. He says that they “create a centripetal effect, bringing believers into relationship with each other by reinforcing their common relationship to Jesus.”*

The “I am” sayings create a centripetal effect. Do you know what that means? I didn’t. I had to look it up. And what I found out is kind of interesting. It has to do with the difference between centripetal force and centrifugal force. Centripetal is from the Latin “centre-seeking.” Centrifugal is from the Latin “centre-fleeing.”

Centripetal force draws toward the centre—like those “I am” sayings of Jesus. Centrifugal force flings out toward the edge.

Have you ever been on that midway ride that operates by centrifugal force?  It’s called different things in different amusement parks: “The Milk Churn” … “The Tornado” … “The Meteorite.”

Whatever they’re called … all of them make me sick!

The ride consists of a circular horizontal platform with a vertical cage-like wall around the edge. Right? You may have seen this thing at the Calgary Stampede.

The platform is attached to a motor on a hydraulic arm. The ride starts out by spinning until the centrifugal force is strong enough to push the riders against the wall and hold them there.

Actually, trap them there would be a better description!

I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for what can happen to us in our modern society if we do not find our identity in Christ: we end up hanging alone in mid-air with our backs against the wall!

The Good Shepherd offers another option.

His sheepfold is a much better ride. It’s not always comfortable, and it’s not always smooth. But it is a ride taken with friendly companions and run by an operator who cares for us above all.

No matter how violently life spins us and churns us, the Good Shepherd will make certain that we stay on board with him. Because the Good Shepherd knows … sheep can’t really fly! Not yet, anyway.

So, let’s be grateful for the one who says, “I am.” And let’s be grateful for our membership in Christ’s flock. He is, after all, the one who calls us each by name, and we are the ones who respond because we know his voice.

He is our Shepherd, and we know his voice. What a blessing that is! Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

______________________

* Craig Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel:  Meaning, Mystery, Community (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 1995), p. 230.

3^rd 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. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. (Luke 24:13-16)

Who would not want to receive a standing ovation? Who would not want to hear: “Good job!” “You’re wonderful!” “I appreciate what you’ve done!” “Thank you!” … ?

My guess is, just about all of us appreciate gaining a little recognition. Without recognition, who am I? Without recognition, who are you? Without recognition, we’re strangers to one another. Gaining recognition makes all the difference in the world.

Recognition. I saw it one day at the airport, on the face of a little girl waiting with her parents at the arrivals gate. Her eyes were searching this ocean full of strange faces and then—suddenly—those eyes lit up! Grinning from ear to ear, pigtails bouncing, yelling “Grampa! Grampa!” she ran to a man whose arms were extended wide in joy. Because he recognized this little one. He picked her up in his arms and gave her a kiss. What a marvelous scene! What a wonderful thing to witness. In an airport full of strangers, what that grandfather and granddaughter enjoyed was a moment of recognition.

In today’s story from Luke’s gospel, we see an absence of recognition. The risen Lord has joined Cleopas and his friend on the Road to Emmaus, but for some reason their eyes are kept from recognizing Jesus. Stopping, standing, looking sad, Cleopas says to the one who has joined them, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”

He asks them, “What things?”

They reply, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth …”

Now, doesn’t that make you want to scream? I want to yell, “Look you two, can’t you see? It’s Jesus who is standing right next to you!” Why can’t they recognize him? The text does not say that Jesus was in disguise. It just says, “Their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

But how? Is Jesus playing tricks on them?

Or is it because Jesus is out of context? The last time I couldn’t recognize a familiar face was because that person was out of context. I was at a meeting and there came a woman who found a place at a nearby table and sat down. When she saw me, she immediately flashed a smile, waved at me, and said, “Hi, Gary!”

Well, she obviously knew who I was, but who was she? I did not recognize her. She looked familiar. But she wasn’t from my own church. Maybe she was from my son’s school. Who was she? It was driving me crazy.

After the meeting I had an opportunity to catch up with her, and I said, “I apologize, I know you. I know I know you, but I don’t know you. Who are you?”

She said, “Gary, I’m your dental hygienist.”

Of course! If she had shown up wearing some scrubs and a mask with goggles, and if I had a numb lip, maybe I would have recognized her.

Was that the trouble Cleopas and his friend were having on the road to Emmaus? They remembered a crucified Jesus. They remembered a dead Jesus. He was dead. Period.

A risen Jesus is out of context. Is that why those two did not recognize him? It sounds like a good explanation, but … I don’t know.

What I do know is that I want Jesus to let these two in on his identity. “Come on Jesus, tell them who you are!” But Luke drags out the scene, allowing Cleopas and his friend to tell Jesus all they know—about Jesus!

“[He] was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and … our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” (vv.19-21)

And then they tell the Resurrected One about the Resurrected One: “Some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive.” (v. 23)

They tell Jesus—the one they cannot see—about Jesus, the one they did not see, saying: “Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” (v. 24)

No recognition! How frustrating! Imagine having all the evidence of a risen Lord. You can remember the words that he spoke, telling you again and again, “The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” (Luke 9:22)

You have the stone rolled away, the empty tomb, the angels in dazzling clothes urging you to remember: “Remember, how [Jesus] told you, ‘The Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’” (Luke 24:6-7)

Imagine having all the evidence of a risen Lord—his words, the words of the angels—and now you have the risen Lord standing right in front of you … and you cannot recognize him! You just stand there, staring at a stranger, looking sad.

Well, that’s not so hard to imagine, is it? Many of us know what it is like to walk away from an Easter morning looking sad.

We know what the Lord said about love, grace, forgiveness, and new life. We have the words of the angels. We have the story of resurrection. We can dress up in Easter colors and sing, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today.” We can shout: “Christ is alive!”

But the brightness of the sanctuary and the scent of the Easter Lilies can fade a mile or two down the road. Soon the Easter trumpet transitions into the car horn blasting at that rude driver who cut in front of us.

We do not have to travel too many miles down the Easter road before we’re caught in the traffic of this world—in the hard realities of what we see and know. We have friends who suffer and die. We are overtaken by our worries and frustrations. We get easily angered by time lost. We get bitter about what is as opposed to what should have been. Our dreams of the perfect life have been shattered, and we just can’t seem to put the pieces together again.

“We had hoped that he was going to be the one to redeem Israel.” We hoped he would redeem us. We had such high hopes! How far do we get from Easter before we stop on the road and stare at one another and look so very sad? Any stranger can recognize the disparity between what we say we believe and how we actually behave. “Oh, how foolish you are,” says the stranger, “and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” (v. 25)

I can remember traveling down the Easter road a few years ago, in Kamloops. And I was looking sad, frustrated, bothered, in a foul mood. My problem?

Well, you see, in Kamloops there’s this thing called the New Life Mission, which is a kind of shelter and soup kitchen for homeless men and women. It’s also a recovery centre for people with substance abuse issues. And it has a late-morning chapel service every day, led by local preachers.

I was one of those local preachers. I was one of the people on the roster to do this—but it was not my day to preach. However, the phone rang. And I answered it.

It was one of my friends from the ministerial association. He was supposed to be leading Chapel at the New Life Mission in about an hour … but he was unavoidably delayed. He couldn’t make it. Could I please go in his place and do something?

Of course, I said yes. But inwardly, I was saying … “DRAT!” I didn’t need this … not after the week I’d had. I was worn out. But what could I do? I scrambled to find an old sermon that wasn’t too long, and I put on my best pastoral smile, and I headed down to the New Life Mission.

I got to the mission a few minutes early, and I met the volunteer who was going to be playing music that day, accompanying our singing on his guitar. He gave me a great big smile that came equipped with a missing tooth right up front, and in a deep voice he introduced himself as “Alphonso.”

Well, Alphonso launched into a story about his life—about the terrible side of alcohol and cocaine addiction. He told me about having been kicked out of his house; and then kicked out of his mother’s house—and then out of his brother’s house, and his sister’s house, and his aunt’s house.

He said, “Pretty soon there wasn’t any house left to be kicked out of, and I was on the streets.” He shared his pain, and I felt as though I could reach out and touch his wounds.

But then he said, “A stranger rescued me and got me into the program here, and God is so good. God is so very good. I’m thankful that God never gave up on me. I got a job, and a job gave me a home, and a home gave me a family. God is so very good.”

After the chapel service, I took advantage of the free lunch that was always offered in the cafeteria. I picked a seat at the table across from a woman who told me how touched she had been by my recycled sermon.

And then she said, “I thank God that I have a roof over my head. I thank God that I have food to eat! I’m learning how to type, so I can get a job. I thank God for all that, and I thank God for you, too.”

But she went on, and what she told me then almost made me cry. “Without people like you,” she said, “who help make this place possible, I don’t know if I would be alive. I just thank everyone I see, because you never know who the angels are among us.”

There was one resurrection story after another that day. I ended up staying there long after lunch was over. At one point, I wandered into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. And there was a teenager holding a box of animal crackers. She smiled at me and held out the box. “Want one?”

Of course I did. I love animal crackers! I reached down inside that box and pulled out a cookie, and I looked at it. When it comes to animal crackers, I always want to know what I’m eating. It was a lion. Then the girl reached into the box and said, “I got a lion too!” Then she laughed and said, “God bless you!”

And I said, “God bless you …”

Before I went back to my office, I had a conversation with one of the mission staff. What she said will always stick with me. She said: “I’m not saying that we don’t have failures. Sometimes we don’t hear back from our graduates, and when we don’t hear back, we worry. Most of the time we don’t hear back because they’ve fallen off the wagon and are embarrassed to call us.”

She said, “I’ve gone down to the police station in the middle of the night and told a young girl, ‘When you get out of jail, I’ll be right here for you! Don’t you ever think that I’ve forgotten about you. I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten about you … because God never forgets about you!’”

As I got into my car to go back to the church, I thought about a God who never gives up on anyone. I thought about how we can’t, either. I thought about strangers who come out of nowhere to reach out a hand. I thought about “angels unaware.” I thought about past suffering and new hope. I thought about how miserably my day had started, and how good it was now.

I thought about all of these things, as they mixed in my mind with that aftertaste of animal crackers and strong coffee. And you know, that aftertaste—and all those resurrection stories … well, it reminded me of Communion. And the one I thought was a stranger… “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight.” (vv. 30-31)

As we walk this Easter road, we can either stand around looking sad, or we can stop feeling sorry for ourselves and just listen to Jesus’ words … listen, and believe, and do! Visit the strangers. Feed the hungry. Lift up the poor. Taste and see that the Lord is good! And if you do that, I promise you that you will gain a little recognition. For you will not only see the risen Christ in others, but others will see the risen Christ in you!

Jesus is alive! Thanks be to God.

Sunday, May 1, 2011 ~ Easter 2

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)

Well, another Easter Sunday has come and gone! Last week, we celebrated the resurrection of Jesus—the foundational event of our Christian faith. As the apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians: “…  if Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain … But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died” (1 Cor. 15:14, 20).

Easter Sunday is so important, we spend 40 days of Lent getting ready for it. Something that I greatly missed this year was the opportunity to attend an outdoor dawn service. When I was in active ministry, this was always the high point of Triduum.

I vividly remember my first time leading (or, actually, helping to lead) an Easter Sunrise service. It took place on Tom Campbell’s Hill in Calgary , Alberta. Between the three congregations that took part, there were over 60 people on that hilltop, gathered there at daybreak on a frigid, windy morning to sing “hallelujah!” and praise the Risen Christ. The guitar players almost froze their fingers, but even they said they wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

And yet, to begin with, I was reluctant to take part. When the idea of an early-morning outdoor service was first suggested to me, I thought to myself: “Well, if we get ten people to show up, I’ll be thrilled.” But in the end, six times that many came out for it!

Resurrection morning is always spectacular, isn’t it? The whole day is fantastic. But now it’s over. For those who had time off from work or school, it’s back to the same old grind. For those who traveled to see family or friends, it’s a long wait until the next holiday or vacation. And for those who were so involved in the special activities of Lent, Holy Week, and Easter, it’s time to settle back into a more regular schedule.

In other words: it’s time to get back to normal. Back into our daily routine. Lent and Easter were a nice change of pace, but now it’s time to get back to reality. The trouble is, reality—normalcy—can be so unpleasant. Our daily routine—our “same old, same old” pace of life—can feel crushingly boring, can’t it?

But then, sometimes, when that routine is disrupted, it’s for a reason that makes “boring” sound pretty good.

For some, reality swoops in with unemployment or illness. For others, it sneaks in when they run across the wedding photos of a ruined marriage. For still others, reality confronts them when they leave their Easter morning service and return home only to look across a tense dinner table at sullen faces, devoid of joy.

Confrontations with normalcy—encounters with reality—can be hard to take, because they destroy all the hopes and illusions on which we rely. Confrontations with the harshly normal (and normally harsh) realities of life remind us that everything comes to an end. Dreams come to an end. Relationships come to an end. Life comes to an end. And we have little or no control over any of that. In the face of those endings, we feel powerless, oppressed, and defeated.

It is just this sort of encounter with reality that is described in today’s gospel reading.

One week after the risen Christ appeared to Mary Magdalene and the other disciples, he returns to show himself to Thomas. Jesus has come back because Thomas—who was not present the previous week—refused to believe it when the others told him, “We have seen the Lord.”

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” Thomas said, “I will not believe.”

Poor Thomas. In my opinion, he has always gotten a bad rap. We know him as “doubting Thomas.” But you know, it seems to me that today’s reading is not primarily about doubt. No. It is about reality.

Thomas is, first and foremost, a realist. We see an example of this in the 14th chapter of John’s Gospel. When Jesus says, rather cryptically, “I go to prepare a place for you … And you know the way to the place where I am going,” Thomas is the pragmatist who replies—truthfully—“Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” (14:5).

And in the 11th chapter of John, when Jesus speaks about going back to Judea, Thomas knows that returning to Jerusalem will mean death—certainly death for Jesus, and perhaps death for the disciples, also. Thomas is no fool. He counts the cost before making a decision. Nevertheless, he is the one who bravely urges the others to follow Jesus. He says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (11:16).

Considering all of that, we should not be surprised by Thomas’s reaction when the others tell him that Jesus has risen from the dead. Thomas has been hardened and tempered by his experience in the world. As I said, he is a realist. And for Thomas, reality had hit home brutally just days earlier in the form of a cross, on which his friend and teacher had died.

Reality hit home for Thomas when, like the others, he fled and deserted Jesus; when he realized that the hopes and aspirations of the last three years were as dead as his beloved Lord.

Yes, when he witnessed the crucifixion of his Messiah, everything came crashing down around Thomas. It must have been the worst moment of his life. But he had survived that ordeal. He had come through it.

And maybe the reason he was not present the first time Jesus appeared in that locked room had something to do with him accepting what the others could not. Perhaps Thomas was out looking for a job—preparing to move on, to rebuild his life and get on with things. No wonder, then, that when his friends share their happy news, Thomas is skeptical.

It is as if a terminal cancer patient, at last reconciled to his fate, is told of a new “miracle cure”; or a disillusioned spouse, who has finally accepted that her marriage is over, is told that her husband has “turned over a new leaf.”

Nothing is worse than getting hurt, yet one more time, picking up the shattered pieces of a broken dream.

Thomas has been cut before—too often, and too deeply. He has bled enough already. So he demands proof: “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.”

But, as the story continues … it’s kind of odd. Did you notice? When Jesus comes back to display his wounds, Thomas never touches them, even though Jesus invites him to. No. When Thomas is confronted by the risen Lord—when he is greeted by the forgiveness and grace enunciated in the words, “Peace be with you”—he instantly believes, and he makes the great confession of John’s gospel: “My Lord and my God!”

In a heartbeat, Thomas knows! He knows that he is in the presence of God. He knows that he has been saved and redeemed by that God, and that he will never be the same again. So, you see, this story is not about Thomas’s doubt at all. No. It is about an encounter with the grace of God, incarnated in Jesus the Christ.

Now, right here, it’s important to pause and take note of something. In this encounter, Thomas’s doubt is swept away … but not his realism.

Thomas’s confession—that Jesus is his Lord and his God—is just as much a part of his pragmatism, his ability to deal with reality, as was his demand for proof. It is not Thomas’s realism that has been changed. What has changed is reality itself. When he is confronted by God’s grace in the risen Christ, Thomas enters a whole new reality.

Have you read Victor Hugo’s novel, Les Misérables? Or seen the movie, or the stage play?

The novel really is better. Early in the book, Hugo describes the moral disintegration of Jean Valjean, a common labourer who is sentenced to five years in jail for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. His sentence is stretched from five to nineteen years, and his time in prison withers the man’s soul.

Once he is released, Valjean’s descent continues, since no one will give him work, or even food or shelter, because of his criminal record. Hopeless and exhausted, he stumbles into the house of an aged bishop named Myriel, who welcomes him and treats him as an honored guest.

Valjean, though—ever the hardened realist—is confused by his host’s generosity. Unable to accept the genuineness of such treatment, he steals the silverware from the bishop’s cupboard and flees into the night.

However, he runs afoul of the police, who arrive the next day at the bishop’s house with the captured criminal and the silver. Valjean, of course, is utterly dejected at the certain prospect of returning to prison.

Then, the old priest surprises everyone. “I’m glad to see you,” he says to Valjean. “But I gave you the candlesticks, too, which are silver like the rest and would bring two hundred francs. Why didn’t you take them along with your cutlery?”

In Hugo’s narration, we read how, at Myriel’s astounding words, “Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.”

Forced to release their captive at the bishop’s insistence, the police depart and Myriel hands Valjean the candlesticks, holding him just a moment longer before sending him freely on his way with this blessing:

“Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God!”

In the very next scene, Hugo describes Valjean’s agonized weeping as he realizes the depths to which he has sunk—and as he begins to comprehend the whole new world of forgiveness and grace into which he has been ushered.

In that moment, Jean Valjean dies—and is reborn. He learns compassion, and he becomes a force for good.

In the rest of this long and turbulent novel, we hear about the new reality in which Valjean now lives. It is an accounting of the results of this man’s experience of transforming grace.

To the skeptical, disillusioned Thomas, Christ says, “Peace be with you.” To the hardened, unrepentant criminal, bishop Myriel says, “Jean Valjean, [you are] my brother.”

Grace—mercy—comes in so many forms: in the unexpected apology of a colleague; in the undeserved forgiveness of a sibling; in the all-too-often-unnoticed tenderness and fidelity of a spouse. But when grace comes, it transforms both the recipient and the giver. It transforms them—it re-creates them—by joining them to the mercy of God in Jesus Christ.

However, even though this grace—this mercy—is transformative, it does not replace this world’s reality. In his encounter with grace, Jean Valjean—just like Thomas—is confronted not with opposition to his realism, but with an altogether new reality.

Neither one of them leaves his world. Valjean is still in oppressive and chaotic Paris, facing persecution and death. Thomas is still in Palestine, facing the same opposition which killed his Lord.

So, too, with us. We remain in our very real worlds. But there is something different. There is something new. What we gain is not an escape from the world, or a break from reality. What we gain is a sense—a conviction—that God’s grace, God’s new kingdom, has broken into the kingdom of this world. And now everything is changed. Nothing will ever be the same again—not work, not school, not our relationships, not even life and death.

This is what Easter means. It means each one of us is a “new creation.” We are forever transformed. We are “raised with Christ” (Col. 3:1).

Easter is about knowing that in faith we have been joined to the risen One, Jesus the Christ.

It’s about knowing we live in his new reality, and that we are indeed new creatures. Reality can no longer defeat us.

This is what the apostle Paul meant when he wrote that we are in all things “more than conquerors through him who loved us” (Rom. 8:37).

Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!

Thanks be to God.

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 and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went towards the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed … (John 20:1-8)

On Friday, Christians all over the world marked the death of Jesus. At the church I’ve been attending, we joined in that somber commemoration with a special worship service. It was a “Tenebrae” service, wherein the Passion story was told as candles were snuffed out, one by one, until the sanctuary was in near darkness.

To say it was moving … Well, that doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Like so many Good Friday services, this one was designed to make us feel like we were there—as if we, ourselves, were eyewitnesses to the events.

We heard Pilate ask what he should do with Jesus.

We heard the crowd shout: “Crucify him!”

We heard Jesus’ final words: “It has been completed.”

And we heard three loud thuds as the heavy stone was wrestled across the entrance to his tomb. This was high drama.

The various people who read the gospel lessons made the liturgy come alive. It was readers’ theatre at its best.

I think it also made everyone present uncomfortable. And I believe I understand why.

Good Friday is too real—isn’t it? For many of us, Good Friday feels a lot more real than Easter Sunday. And it is a brutal reality.

It’s the same reason so many people refuse to see a film like Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ; we don’t want to face the truth about what happened to Jesus.

The cross is too messy, too painful—too real.

We don’t want to look upon it. We would rather flee from it, which is what most of the disciples seem to have done, in the gospel accounts.

In fact, it seems to me that—even for some of the most sincere Christians—Jesus’ death seems much more real than his resurrection. Which makes sense, I guess—because death is just way more familiar to us.

Almost all of us have been touched by death in some way—and all of us will be. Most of us have lost loved ones.

Death is familiar. Death is real.

But resurrection … that seems entirely foreign, doesn’t it? Much less real. Much less vivid … perhaps even too good to be true.

I think most of us consider the Good Friday account to be literal—a more or less accurate reporting of the events. But I suspect that many of us—even many professing Christians—regard the Easter story as allegorical.

I have to say, it is difficult to condemn anyone for harboring that kind of skepticism. Because we all know people who have died … but very few of us know people who have come back to life.

As I consider that fact, I realize there’s not much I can offer to support the assertion that Jesus has been raised from the dead. Not much, that is, except my own personal testimony.

My personal testimony of resurrection has to do with my son Samuel. He’s in fine health today—a successful man in his 30s with three small children of his own. But when he was a tiny infant, he very nearly did not survive his first month of life.

Sam was born with a very serious heart defect, and wound up having open-heart surgery when he was only 24 days old. He barely pulled through the operation. In fact, he “crashed” while still on the table.

For the better part of a week, Iris and I waited by his side in the Pediatric ICU … not knowing whether he was going to live or die. For my part, I was so convinced that he would not live … that I enquired about donating his organs.

But of course, he did live—and, against all odds, he thrived. Sam always did much better than the doctors expected—actually, much better than they could ever explain.

Finally, they gave up trying to explain it, except by saying—as Sam’s cardiologist was fond of remarking to other physicians: “This child is held up in prayer.”

So you see, I believe in resurrection because I’ve already seen it happen. God gave me my son back from the grave. I do not find it hard to believe that he would do the same for his own Son. I don’t need any further proof. My personal experience is compelling enough.

It occurs to me that, in the end, perhaps it is only personal experience that can make resurrection vividly real in someone’s life.

If you’ve read the gospel accounts, you’ve probably noticed that even the disciples did not at first believe that Jesus had been raised.

For example, in chapter 24 of Luke, it says that—after Mary Magdalene and several other eyewitnesses reported that Jesus had been raised—the apostles did not believe them, because their words “seemed to them an idle tale” (Luke 24:11).

They only believed once they had their own encounter with the risen Christ. Remember?

John tells us about that later on in chapter 20, where he says:

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked … Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. (John 20:19-20)

But you may also remember that one of them—Thomas—was not present at the time, and he refused to believe that Jesus had been raised. He didn’t believe until a whole week later, when Jesus came back—just for Thomas—and said, “Peace be with you.”

Apparently, none of the disciples believed in the resurrection of Christ—until something happened to them that made it impossible for them to not believe!

Kind of like what happened to Iris and me when Sam was just a baby. I think it’s safe to say that—for my wife and I—doubt really is not an option, any longer. That is God’s gift to us.

What makes us so special? Well … nothing! We are neither extraordinarily faithful nor extraordinarily virtuous people—and we were even less so back then!

Which is why, today …

Today, I find myself wondering whether these sorts of encounters are more common than we think they are—moments when the risen Jesus shows up in our lives … shows up for us … just as he showed up for Thomas, and Mary, and the others.

What if, as a society, we were less skeptical? What if we did not heap ridicule upon those who would report miracles?

If we did not cling so tightly to a purely scientific worldview, perhaps we, also, would behold the risen Christ. Perhaps Jesus is, even now, standing before us, saying: “See my hands … look at my side … Do not doubt, but believe!”

I have heard recovering addicts speak about their sobriety in terms of “resurrection,” describing it as an experience of “being brought back to life” or even being “raised from the dead.”

I’ve heard AA members say that stories of personal recovery can give hope to those who hear them; that one person’s testimony makes others believe that the “Higher Power” can save them, too—that recovery is possible for them, also.

Over about a quarter-century of pastoral ministry, I have seen broken relationships mended—even dead marriages brought back to life—because individuals decided to trust in Christ’s promise of forgiveness, and then found themselves able to forgive, in turn.

I’m certain most pastors have collections of stories like that—examples of resurrection in the midst of everyday life.

Charles Henderson is a prominent American theologian—the author of numerous articles and books—who has lectured at some of the world’s most prestigious universities. He is also a Presbyterian minister with extensive pastoral experience. On an internet site called “Godweb,” Henderson relates the following anecdote:

… a small boy of about seven … was stricken with a fatal, ferocious and fast-growing cancer. He had been treated at Memorial Sloan-Kettering with every sort of therapy known to science. But nothing further could be done.

Perhaps they could administer one more dose of some experimental drug, but actually there was no real hope of recovery. And the side effects could only complicate the progression of the disease.

So the family and the doctors gathered in the little boy’s room for a final conference concerning his treatment. They had tried almost everything, what could they possibly think of next?  Finally the boy spoke up in a clear, crisp voice, “What I really want to do is to go home and learn how to ride my two-wheeler.”

The bicycle had been a Christmas present. It had those little trainer wheels attached. But before the boy had gained enough confidence to remove the trainer wheels the cancer caught up with him and he was sent to the hospital. Learning how to ride a two-wheeler was the last thought the doctors or the parents would have contemplated. It just didn’t seem possible. The boy was already physically weakened, why encourage him to do something that clearly would not be possible for very long even if he could succeed.

But the boy insisted and the resistance of the doctors and his parents melted away … And home they went.

Not thirty minutes after they had settled in, they were out in the yard, the boy insisting that his father take off the training wheels and let him have a go at it.

Obediently, but anxiously, his father took out his wrench and removed the training wheels to let him go. To their surprise, after only two false starts and one fall the boy was able to steer the bike …

“And now,” he said with mounting assurance in his voice, “Now I want to ride it by myself all the way around the block.”

Before anyone could stop him, he was off, up the street and around the corner out of sight. There were those few minutes of suspense as the parents, brother and little sister, waited for him to appear at the other end of the block, and after what seemed an eternity, there he was, headed for home, a gigantic expression of triumph and satisfaction written on his face.

When the excitement had settled down, the boy retired to his bedroom, and asked if he could be left alone with his little sister. He had his father bring the shiny blue bike into the bedroom. It sat there in the corner, a gleaming symbol of life. Then the boy turned to his little sister and said, “I won’t be needing the bicycle anymore. I want you to have it for your birthday. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

After telling that story, Charles Henderson makes this observation:

From under the shadow of death, and in the midst of life’s deepest tragedies, there comes the resurrection of life. In giving his life for us, Jesus revealed that we too can move from moments of trial toward the joy which Christ’s true disciples share. We too can make it through periods of boredom or self-absorption and find that sense of purpose which is God’s will for us. We too can confront sickness and physical suffering and come through the valley of the shadow of death to believe that we are held in God’s right hand.

We don’t need to spend our days grasping and grubbing for all we can get, when all we can ever desire is God’s free gift of grace.

We can follow Christ’s footsteps until at last we are part of that great homecoming at the end of every resurrection story.

We too can look forward to the day when we are embraced in the warm and welcoming arms of our creator and hear those words of praise: “Well done, good and faithful servant, now enter into the joy of your maker.”

[www.godweb.org/resurrection3.htm]

Like I said, I think all pastors have stories about resurrection. But the only reason we have them to tell is because they keep happening to people—people just like you and me.

For those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, human life is chock-full of examples of the grace of God being poured out upon us—breaking open our graves and rolling away the stones that seal us off from the future that Jesus offers us.

It has been said that the lesson of Good Friday is: “the wages of sin is death” … and that may be so. However, the lesson of Easter is different. Easter morning tells us this: “the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 6:23).

Thanks be to God for this greatest of gifts. Amen.

GOOD FRIDAY

TEXTS: John 18:1-19:42 and John 12:20-33

After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19:28-30)

“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

Years ago, when the Betty Crocker Company first began selling their cake mixes, they offered a product which only needed water. All you had to do was add water to the mix—which came in the box—and you would get a perfect, delicious cake every time.

It bombed. No one bought it and the company couldn’t understand why, so they commissioned a study which brought back a surprising answer.

It seemed that people weren’t buying the cake mix because it was too easy. They didn’t want to be totally excluded from the work of preparing a cake; they wanted to feel that they were contributing something to it.

So, Betty Crocker changed the formula and required the customer to add an egg in addition to the water. Immediately, the new cake mix was a huge success!

Unfortunately, many people make the same mistake when it comes to “packaging” or presenting the Christian religion. They try to make the call of Jesus Christ as easy as possible because they’re afraid people won’t “buy it” if it seems too hard.

Jesus said, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies it bears much fruit.

Jesus then explained what he meant. He said, “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” (John 12:25)

It’s true in life, isn’t it? If we are going to get anything out of it, we have to invest ourselves in it.

Do you remember the second to last album by the Beatles? It was called “Abbey Road”—and for my money it was their best. The last song is a little musical reprise called “The End.”

It’s the last lyrical statement the Beatles make on the album—and it goes like this:

“And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

The truth of this is written in creation. It is evident for everyone to see. It is even found in something as small as grain of wheat, a seed. Remember what Jesus told us:

• First, when a grain of wheat falls, it dies.
• Second, when a grain of wheat falls, it bears much fruit.
• Finally, Christ is the grain of wheat that dies and bears much fruit.

And that, I think, is the message of Holy Week—from Palm Sunday to Maundy Thursday to Good Friday to Easter. Christ Jesus is the grain of wheat which has become living bread for us.

In his birth amongst us, he became the good and gracious seed which God cast upon the earth for our salvation.

Through his life and his teaching, Jesus spread that good and gracious seed even further, hoping that it would sprout and take root within the hearts of human beings.

By his death upon the cross—and then through his glorious resurrection—Jesus became the gracious seed which died, and which was buried, and which then burst forth in new and unending life to bear much fruit.

The church is that abundant fruit. You and I—we are that abundant fruit! We are the evidence of Christ’s resurrection. We are the carriers of the good news.

And we ourselves are called to scatter the seeds of the gospel—and thereby also to bear abundant fruit for the salvation of humankind and the glory of God’s Kingdom.

What a blessing—what a privilege—that is! Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

Palm Sunday

TEXTS: Zechariah 9:9-12 and Matthew 21:1-11

“Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Matt. 21:5)

That, of course, is verse five of chapter 21 of Matthew’s Gospel—quoting the prophet Zechariah, and referring to his portrayal of the coming Messianic King. But—if you recall the preamble to this “triumphal entry”—Jesus has apparently made arrangements in advance, for he sends two of his disciples ahead, telling them, “Go into the village … and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say … ‘The Lord needs them.’  And he will send them immediately” (Matt. 21:2-3).

And why? “To fulfil what had been spoken through the prophet.”

This was a very carefully staged event. Every Jew in Jerusalem would certainly have been aware of Zechariah’s prophecy. This was how the Messiah would announce himself. This would mark the beginning of his reign, and the coming of God’s Kingdom, and the liberation of Jerusalem.

“When you see the Messiah astride a donkey’s back, you will know that the nation’s deliverance is at hand!”  That’s what everyone thought. That’s what the crowd thought. That’s what the Pharisees thought. That’s the imagery the chief priests and scribes were familiar with. Even if they doubted that Jesus was the real deal, they would have understood the statement he was making by acting out the prophet’s words.

Every Jew who saw Jesus that day would realize he was claiming Messiahship for himself. He knew that some would believe this, and rejoice. He knew that some would see him as an imposter, or a fake, or a lunatic. And he knew that nobody would really understand what he was doing—not even his own disciples.

See … All of them understood the Messianic imagery. But, apparently, none of them had paid attention to the rest of Zechariah’s prophecy. Did you notice it?

“Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey …” So far, so good. Here comes the king—the long-promised Messiah. And not a moment too soon. Jerusalem—and all Judea—has been under the heel of Rome far too long. It’s about time the Lord sent his Anointed One to save us. To raise an army and drive the Romans out.

So far, so good. But what about the other part? Where it says: “He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the warhorse from Jerusalem; and the battle-bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations …?”

Yes. That part. Jesus is not coming as a warrior Messiah. He’s not going to raise an army, or wield a sword. And the only “driving out” he’s going to do is turning over the tables in the Temple courtyard. Caiaphas and Pilate have nothing to worry about … but the adoring crowds are going to be hugely disappointed in him.

Jesus knows all of that, too. The political and religious authorities misunderstand him as completely—and as utterly—as do the throngs of well-wishers lining the streets and waving their palm salutations. And they are all going to end up shouting, “Crucify him!”

How has it come to this? Why did no one see this coming?

Well, actually, someone did. Jesus did. He’s always known that donkey would be carrying him to his death. How many times, already, has he tried to tell us this? Just listen to these passages from earlier in Matthew’s account.

A week before his Transfiguration (Matt. 17:1), and just after revealing his Messiahship to them, “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised” (Matt. 16:21).

After that, as they were preparing to leave Galilee for Jerusalem, he told them, “The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 17:22-23).

And on the way to Jerusalem for what he knew would be his last Passover with them, he took his disciples aside and told them that “the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified; and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 20:17-19).

But somehow, they don’t believe it. They think it won’t really happen.

Peter thinks all Jesus needs is a pep-talk: “This won’t happen to you! God won’t let it happen. You’re too good a player to take out of the game. And, besides, you’ve got us! Better than that, you’ve got me! Together, we’re unbeatable.”

Peter seems to think his rabbi is simply going through a crisis of confidence. He just doesn’t get it. None of them gets it. They don’t want to hear it. Matthew tells us that Jesus’ words make them “greatly distressed” (Matt. 17:23). Mark says, “they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him” (Mark 9:32).

Afraid to ask him? Ask him what? What part of “They’re gonna kill me!” don’t you understand?

Denial. It’s not just a river in Egypt. Out of that band of 13 men, Jesus appears to be the only one who’s not in denial. He knows—perhaps he has always known—what lies ahead for him.

Why are the male disciples so dense?

I ask that question because—from the gospel record—it’s clear that at least some of Jesus’ female followers understood where things were going. Like Martha’s sister Mary, who—a whole week before his crucifixion—anointed Jesus in preparation for his burial (John 12:1-8).

But, I digress. A better question to ask on this day is: Why did Jesus go through with it? Living in Roman-occupied Judea, he would certainly have seen men die on the cross. It was the Empire’s favoured method of execution. It was agonizingly painful, and wretchedly slow. The sweet relief of death took many hours—sometimes even days—to arrive. Jesus knew all of this. He knew, also, that from the moment of his high-profile entry into the city, he would be a marked man. As he rode into Jerusalem that day, the spectre of the cross had to spring—vividly—before his mind’s eye. The cross. His cross. His personal cross. His personalized cross—complete with a nameplate above his head, reading: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19:19).

So why did he do it? I remember having a conversation about this with someone who thought the answer to that question had to do with Jesus’ awareness of the eventual outcome: “He knew he was going to be crucified, sure—but he also knew he was going to rise again. So, of course he went through with it. Knowing that, wouldn’t you?”

Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I gladly be flogged and beaten and nailed to a cross and left to die, if I knew I’d only have to stay dead for two days?

Uh … truthfully, I think the answer is, “NO!”  There’s not anything on that list that I am hankering to experience. I would love to be able to tell you that I might consider going through that hell if it meant I could save the world as a result … but I know that I don’t have anything close to the necessary courage.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that I think I’m exempt from the call to suffer—or to die for my faith. Or lay down my life for my friends.

I’m just saying I hope I never have to find out whether I’ve got what it takes to do that … because I’m afraid I already know what the answer is … And that’s why I am so in awe of this man riding the donkey.

Why did he do it? Because—as he explained later to Pilate: “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world” (John 18:37). He was, as the Book of Revelation refers to him, “the Lamb that was slaughtered from the foundation of the world” (Rev. 13:8).

Jesus believed that he was living out his Father’s plan; a plan for the reconciliation of the world; a plan to bridge the deep abyss between God and his children—a plan to end the estrangement between creature and Creator. It was a plan that could only take effect as humanity and divinity were reconciled in the person of Jesus the Christ—the one in whom we see “God revealed as one of us.” And for it to mean something—for it to mean anything—this person … this divine and human person … had to live an authentic human existence. Otherwise, he would not truly be one of us.

Here’s the really astonishing thing, for me. He had a choice. Jesus could have opted out. He could have grabbed the only lifejacket. He could’ve swam for shore. He could’ve changed his mind. We know he thought about it. His prayer in Gethsemane, after all, was this: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me …” (Matt. 26:39).

The Son of God was also a Son of Man. This was a real human being, and he was terrified. He wanted to bolt and run. I would have! God’s plan or not, I would’ve been past the other side of the Kidron Valley long before Judas arrived with the cops.

But Jesus stayed put. In the end, for him, it came down to this: “Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done” (Matt. 26:42).

“Not what I want, but what you want” (Matt. 26:39). “Not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42).

That, my friends, is radical obedience. The kind of radical obedience that Jesus demonstrated throughout his life. Absolute, uncompromising devotion to the will of God.

But today … today, as he approaches the city gates … as he realizes this plan is about to come together … as he contemplates everything that means … today, it gets real. Today, the final leg of his journey begins.

Welcome to Holy Week.