The Next Words of Christ-- Come and Have Breakfast --John 21: 1 - 14

            Anybody here like to fish?  Tell me about that . . . what do you like about it?  What’s fishing—for you—all about? what do you do?           

            My Papa loved to fish.  When he wasn’t driving a maintainer—building roads, or working in his garden—tilling, planting, weeding, shooting at the rabbits, or picking the ripe vegetables my Papa was fishing.  He invited each of his grandchildren to join him.  My cousin Darryl and my brother Chuck went fishing with Papa many times as they were growing up.  But, as a child, I never did.  I used to be competitive, and I suspect I thought fishing would a competition—with Papa and Chuck and Daryl, a competition about who caught the most fish—and being a novice, I would lose.  So, I always said, “no thank you.”  But after I went off to college, on one of my visits home, my Daddy told me, “You know, going fishing with Papa is more about being with Papa than it is about catching fish.” 

            So I asked my Papa if I could go fishing with him.  While we did catch some fish from time to time, what I remember most about fishing with him, is listening to his stories.  Through his stories, I got to know who he was—beyond being my Papa—a loving father, devoted husband, compassionate neighbor, wild prankster, hard worker, stubborn fighter.  Through his stories, I better understood my mom and myself—b/c the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.  Going fishing with Papa was more about being with him than about catching fish.

            Today’s text is a fishing story.  Peter says I’m going fishing, and 6 other disciples join him.  We know from other gospels that Peter and Zebedee’s sons—James and John—were fishermen before Jesus called them to join his ministry.  In today’s text they seem to be returning to that old way of life—fishing.  These last few weeks for them have been an emotional roller coaster.  Singing and shouting hosannas with the crowd during Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem (that’s what we celebrate on Palm Sunday), savoring his victorious verbal spars with the Pharisees in the temple, and then sharing a Passover meal like none other before, the disciples were surfing the crest of an emotional wave. Then the bottom dropped out.  Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion pulled them down, and they were battered by waves of guilt, grief, and despair.  And then 3 days later, they begin encountering the risen Christ in ways that have to be experienced in order to be believed—so it seems.  They are emotionally spent—close to shutdown.  Leaving Jerusalem, they return to the place they know best—Galilee. They return to the pattern they know best—staying busy—keeping their minds occupied so they don’t have to think about all that has happened and what it might mean—staying busy with hard physical labor, so their exhausted bodies will collapse in sleep at night. They return to the business they know—fishing.

            Today’s text is a fishing story.  Peter says I’m going fishing, and 6 other disciples join him.  And Jesus comes to them.  The previous resurrection appearances were in or near Jerusalem.  Jesus comes to them—here on the beach at the Sea of Galilee.  They’ve been fishing all night, and Jesus comes to them in the midst of their busyness.  They have retreated to what is familiar, and Jesus comes to them in the familiar, in the everyday occurrence of fishing. Jesus comes to them—where they are—physically, emotionally, and mentally.

            Jesus came here on Friday—in the form of Hazel and Jim Gillette and James and David McIntire.  Without being asked, they came here about 40 minutes before Bob Nichols’ service and were here to greet even the earliest arrivals.  Because of them, at each door, people were welcomed. 

            Jesus came here on Friday—in the forms of members of this congregation.  On Wednesday evening Edith had wondered aloud if there would be anybody at the funeral.  With declining physical health in the last few years, Bob and Edith had limited excursions outside their home.  With the progression of Bob’s Alzheimer’s they had been limiting visitors to their home.  Although they stayed somewhat connected with telephone calls and cards, a sense of isolation had set in.  Jesus came here on Friday—presenting himself to Edith in the forms of you who came to the service and who visited with her before and after.  In your presence, you made Christ’s presence known to her. 

            Jesus came here on Friday—in the form of Suzie McIntire, Patsy Staley, Colleen Barnett, and Betty Ventura.  They set out the food they and others had prepared and hosted the bereavement meal.  Welcoming, visiting, and then quietly withdrawing, they gave the family and close friends the time and space and context—a meal—with which to share memories and begin healing.  Jesus came here on Friday—in the flesh—in your flesh.  Yours were Jesus’ embracing arms and yours was his soothing voice.

            In today’s text, Jesus comes to the disciples—but they don’t recognize him at first.  In the early morning light, he’s just a person on the seashore—calling out.  But they hear him, and together they respond—casting their nets on the other side of the boat.  One of them—the beloved disciple—recognizes Jesus in the miracle of abundance.  Jesus has a way of providing abundantly—in this case, drawing their attention to what’s already there—lots of fish on the other side of the boat.  Who among us is the beloved disciple, recognizing and naming Jesus’ presence here in generous giving, in deepening faith, and in growing relationships?  Who calls our attention to God’s abundance here—evidence of Jesus’ presence?

            Jesus comes to the disciples.  The beloved disciple—the one who rested in his bosom at that Passover meal—recognizes him first.  Is it possible that when we rest in Jesus’ bosom, when we lean on him in prayer and reflection, we become more likely to see him in our midst?   The others recognize Jesus at the meal on the beach.  “Come and have breakfast,” he says.  Taking, blessing, breaking, and giving—Jesus feeds the disciples, and they recognize him.  In bread and fish—the common food of the people—Jesus comes to the disciples.  Cooking out on the beach, he comes to them. 

            Jesus comes to us—in the sacramental meal—and in the meals we share daily—with our families and with others.  Each time we take food, bless it, break it and share with others, Jesus comes to us.  He comes to us in the most mundane of our daily activities—our meals.  Jesus comes to us when we retreat.  He comes to us in our busyness.  Jesus comes to us—on the beach, in the garden, at the lake, in the classroom, at home, on the golf course, at the grocery store.  Jesus comes to us. 

            When he does, may we open our eyes, listen with our hearts, recognize his presence, and respond with our lives.  When Jesus comes to us, may we lean on him, be renewed by his presence, and work for his justice. 

            When Jesus comes to us, may we recognize it’s like a fishing story that’s more about being with Jesus than it is about catching fish.

The Next Words of Christ: No More Disbelief! Believe! John 20: 19 - 22; 24 - 31

            It is Easter Sunday evening.  The disciples have blockaded themselves behind all sorts of barriers.  They are hiding behind locked doors to keep out the religious and political authorities.  They are hiding behind locked hearts to block out the memory of how they abandoned Jesus.  They are hiding behind locked minds to veil the unnerving possibility that Jesus is indeed risen—as Mary Magdalene reported earlier that day.  Hiding behind physical, emotional, and mental barriers, the disciples find themselves face to face with the resurrected Jesus.  With “Peace be with you,” he offers them his forgiveness and encourages them to forgive themselves.  Breathing the Holy Spirit out, he breathes new life into this group of his followers and restores the faith of each one there.

            But not all his disciples are there that 1^st Easter Sunday evening.  Thomas is among the missing.  Why he is not there, we do not know.  Three evenings ago, when soldiers arrested Jesus, all his disciples scattered—hiding so that they would not be arrested, charged, tried, convicted, and crucified.  Perhaps, burdened by his own guilt, Thomas has not yet left his individual hiding place to join with the other fearful disciples.  Why he is not there this 1^st Easter Sunday evening, we do not know.  Perhaps Thomas had re-joined the group hiding together in this locked room, but he left earlier that evening.  Why?  To see the empty tomb for himself, to determine whether it’s safe for the group to come out, to get food and other supplies while they remain holed up for awhile?  Why he is not there, we do not know.

            But we can safely assume his emotions run high when he hears that Jesus has appeared to the other disciples in his absence.  What is Thomas feeling?  Surely grief over the death of his beloved teacher, friend, and mentor.  What is Thomas feeling?  Regret—for the part he played in Jesus’ death.  Stomach full from the Passover feast—food and wine, he dozed in the upper room as Jesus and the others went to pray.  Hearing of Jesus’ arrest, he hid from the authorities.  He offered no testimony at Jesus’ trial.  He did not even offer his presence at the foot of Jesus’ cross.  His actions speak of cowardice, lack of faith, and betrayal.  What is Thomas feeling?  Jealousy—of the other disciples’ encounter with the risen Jesus; jealousy—of the confidence this experience has re-birthed in them; jealousy—of the peace and strength that seems to permeate their conversations and actions now.  What is Thomas feeling?  Anger—that he missed out on this experience; anger that Jesus did not choose to appear to him.  I hear that anger loud and clear in his words.  “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, unless I put my finger into the wounds left by the nails, unless I put my hand in the hole in his side, I refuse to believe.

            It is not his doubt but instead how Thomas reacts to his emotions—regret, jealousy, and anger—that threatens this fragile group of believers.  On that 1^st Easter Sunday evening, Jesus breaks through physical, emotional and mental barriers to reach his disciples.  Released from their guilt by his forgiveness, empowered by the breath of his peace, the other disciples are revived, renewed, re-invigorated.  And then Thomas, who has traveled with them, learned with them, served with them, eaten with them every day of the last 3 years; Thomas not only questions their encounter with Jesus, but he refuses to believe their testimony.  It is as if Thomas is calling them all liars.  

            I taught high school students math for 15 years.  I can remember hearing a student make a comment under his or her breath. And I would say, “Why did you just say that about such and such. . . ?  Sometimes the student would respond, “I didn’t say that.”  And I would think to myself, I know what I heard.  But then I would begin to doubt.  I can remember seeing a student look on another student’s paper and then return to his/her own test, and I would walk over and say “Keep your eyes on your own paper.  This is a test of what you’ve learned.” Sometimes the student would respond, “I am looking only on my paper.”  nd I would think to myself, I know what I saw.  But then I would begin to doubt.  The student would say I didn’t . . . and I would doubt my own experience—what I heard, what I saw. 

            I wonder if the disciples feel this same way when Thomas, who has been like a brother these last 3 years, refuses to accept their experience.  Do they begin to doubt what their own senses have told them?  They saw Jesus.  They heard his voice.  They felt the air from his breath. They smelled the aromas from it.  But when Thomas refuses to believe their testimony by challenging their group encounter, do the other disciples begin to doubt their shared group experience?  Thomas’ challenge of their encounter and refusal to believe them tears the fabric of their community.  Therein lies the problem with Thomas and his behavior.

            It does not lie with his personal doubts, but instead with how he chooses to express those doubts, in the context of his regret, jealousy and anger.  The problem lies in what he does to the community of faith. He lashes out at them with an ultimatum—I have to see, I have to hear, I have to experience before I will even entertain the possibility that you all have seen, that you all have heard, that you all have experienced.  The problem is that Thomas puts his desires before the needs of the faith community.  If only he could name his emotions, own his doubts, and ask for what he needs—not what he wants but what he needs. If only he could say—I hear you had this encounter with Jesus, and it appears to have been a turning point for you all.  I see confidence in your posture, and I hear forgiveness in your voices.  I wish I could have been here because I feel numb with grief. I am paralyzed with regret.  I feel shut out by jealousy.  I need your help to claim Jesus’ forgiveness. I need your patience while I sort through all that has happened.  I need time before I can claim with you—Christ is risen.  If only Thomas could respond that way.

            Our scripture says “after 8 days.”  There is a period of time after the other disciples share with Thomas their encounter with the risen Christ.  There is a period of time in which the community of faith gives Thomas what he needs—time, patience, and forgiveness—even though he does not ask for it.  There is a period of time in which the disciples give Thomas what he needs—forgiveness—for his distrusting, hurtful words—even though he doesn’t ask for it.  There is a period of time when the disciples give Thomas what he needs—patience with his doubts—even though he doesn’t ask for it.  There is a period of time when the faith community holds Thomas in their trusting, nurturing, fragile embrace—a period of time until Thomas can receive what he needs from Jesus.

            After 8 days, the whole group is behind locked doors when Jesus appears again.  Offering Thomas the same sensory encounter he had offered the other disciples previously, Jesus invites Thomas to look, to listen, and to touch—and then, to respond with no more disbelief—to respond with belief.  Even though Thomas’ words and actions have been chipping away at the foundation of his faith community, Jesus offers him forgiveness with the invitation “Believe—for yourself” and with the command “no more disbelief,” no more ripping apart this faith community.

            We may find ourselves playing the role of Thomas.  As individuals, demanding what we want or what we desire instead of putting the needs of the faith community first, like Thomas we threaten the health and well-being of our church.  Naming our own emotions, claiming our individual fears, asking for what we need—not what we want, but what we need—we can be truthful about our doubts our anxieties, and our fears without harming our congregation. 

            We may find ourselves—as a congregation—cast in the role of the other disciples. 

Jesus breathes new life into us—this community of faith—enabling us to forgive one another; empowering us to see, to name, and to stand up to conflict between individual desires and the needs of the entire congregation.  Relying on the peace Jesus extends to us and renewed by the spirit-strength he breathes into us, we can claim the promise of a vibrant ministry here—even when individuals question our future.  A welcoming community of faith, we are called to hold onto those in our midst who experience doubt and fear.  We hold onto to each other by claiming the grace, the love, and the forgiveness of God.  We claim it for others even when they cannot claim it for themselves.  How?  By praying, welcoming, forgiving, calling, visiting, sending cards, feeding—all of this is holding onto each other.             

            Just as Thomas ultimately received from Jesus what he needed—to dispel his doubts, to overcome his fears, to accept and receive forgiveness, to claim my Lord and my God!  so too will we—each one of us and all of us—receive from Jesus what we need—all in God’s time.

            No more disbelief . . . Jesus the Christ will help us believe.

The Next Words of Christ: Peace Be With You John 20: 19 – 23

            When I was in junior high, my parents let me stay home alone when they went out for what couples now refer to as “date night.” After the darkness had settled in, if I heard an unusual sound, I would check the front and back doors to make sure they were locked.  Often I would fret over whether or not I had latched the porch door.  Should I risk stepping out onto the screened-in porch to check the latch?  If I heard an unusual noise, with the doors locked, I felt somewhat safe.  Staying inside, behind locked doors—is that something you’ve done to feel safe when you were afraid?

            In today’s scripture, we find the disciples behind locked doors.  It is Sunday evening—only 3 evenings since they were praying with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane—only 3 evenings since the temple guards surprised them, arresting Jesus and leading him away to be convicted and then crucified by Roman soldiers.  It’s Sunday evening—only 2 evenings since Jesus’ body was taken from the cross and laid in a borrowed tomb.  Tensions are still riding high in Jerusalem—tensions between Jewish Passover pilgrims and Roman soldiers, tensions between religious authorities and followers of that rabble rouser, Jesus. 

            It is Sunday evening, and the disciples are hiding behind locked doors because they are afraid.  They are afraid of being hunted down, charged, convicted, and beaten like Jesus. Now, with the news from the women earlier that morning that the tomb is empty, perhaps they are afraid of being blamed for stealing Jesus’ body to start a rumor that he is risen from the dead.  It is Sunday evening, and the disciples are hiding behind locked doors because they are afraid of the religious and the political authorities.

            Not only do they hide behind locked doors of wood, but they also hide behind the locked doors of their hearts—remembering what they have done . . . and what they failed to do.  They are afraid of themselves.  For just 3 evenings ago, after sharing a particularly moving Passover celebration with Jesus, after having their feet washed by him, after praying with him in the garden, they abandoned him.  Running from the guards, denying even knowing Jesus, hiding as he was beaten and crucified, they have been capable of betrayal.  The disciples are afraid of themselves.

            It is Sunday evening, and the disciples find themselves huddling together—behind locked doors to keep out the authorities; behind locked hearts to keep out the overwhelming emotions of sadness and regret.  And then, Jesus appears—most unexpectedly—there in that room. Now they have yet another fear.  They are afraid of Jesus.  How will he respond to each of them and to the manner in which each has betrayed him?  Huddling together behind locked wooden doors, they now huddle behind minds locked to keep out the surprising, unnerving possibility that Jesus is indeed risen from the dead.

            Jesus appears to them and speaks, “Peace be with you.”  Jesus appears to these fearful disciples.  But he doesn’t say “don’t be afraid” or “have courage.”  He says, “Peace be with you.”  His very presence begins to calm their fears of physical retaliation by the authorities.  His words, “Peace be with you,” the tone and timber of his voice, and his body language all speak of forgiveness.  Reaching out to them in a gesture of embrace, smiling lovingly at them, he offers forgiveness.  “Peace be with you.” He invites them to forgive themselves.  A second time he says, “Peace be with you,” repetition of that which is important, a reminder of that which is healing.  

            Time stands still as Jesus and his disciples are reunited in the presence of forgiveness.  “The peace of Christ be with you . . . and also with you.”  These are familiar words we say each Sunday.  They are not just words of welcome—although we do indeed welcome one another into fellowship, worship, study, and service.  When I first came here, I connected our welcoming one another with the language of Christ’s peace. “The peace of Christ be with you . . . and also with you” are words of forgiveness.  They are words to “tear down the dividing walls of hostility”[1] between us and God and between one another. “The peace of Christ be with you . . . and also with you” are words of confession and forgiveness.  And so, liturgically they connect most closely to the part in our worship when we confess our sins to God and seek forgiveness.  And that is why we moved the passing of the peace to after our confessional sequence.  And today, we offered the peace of Christ to one another right after the confession and words of assurance.  We didn’t let even the “Gloria Patri” come between the two.  Time stands still as we are reunited in the presence of forgiveness—God’s forgiveness of us, our forgiveness of ourselves, and our forgiveness of one another.

            In today’s scripture, after offering peace—twice—Jesus breathes on his disciples.  So far this evening the disciples have experienced the resurrected Jesus with 2 of their senses.  They’ve heard his voice and seen the nail tears in the flesh of his hands and feet.  Now, he breathes on them—engaging 2 more of their senses.  I invite you to close your eyes and imagine . . . 

            What does that breath feel like?  Is it warm and soft like the sweetness of spring?  Is it cool and heavenly?  What does that breath smell like?—the wine and bread Jesus shared with them at that final supper; oil & fish & bread & wine from any of the meals they shared in Galilee; vinegar from the sour wine offered to him on the cross?  This breath that we have re-imagined re-connects the disciples with their lord, their friend, their beloved teacher. 

            What does his breath do?  The Greek word used here clearly evokes God’s breathing new life into the first human.  It also evokes God’s breathing new life into the dry bones scattered across the valley of Ezekial’s prophetic vision.  What does Jesus’ breath do here? It revives this dying group. It brings the disciples back to life. It renews them for the work Jesus sends them to do. 

            What is that work?  Forgiveness. Jesus’ words, “Peace be with you” are addressed to the entire faith community—to the disciples standing before him, to the early Christian community for which this gospel was first written, and to us—here today. “Forgiveness of sins is the work of the entire community.”[2]  It begins with self forgiveness—breaking free from the chains of guilt that keep us locked away—separated from the love of God and separated from the love of others.  It moves to individual forgiveness.  Forgiving someone—whether or not he offered an apology, forgiving someone whether or not we’re convinced she will change, forgiving others because we have been forgiven by God.  Forgiving others releases us from the prison of grudges that darkens our hearts. 

            It continues to community forgiveness. Forgiveness of sins is the Spirit-empowered mission that continues Jesus’ work in the world. As he washed his disciples feet that Maundy Thursday evening, Jesus gave them a new commandment—“love each other.  Just as I have loved you, so you also should love each other.”[3]  “By loving one another as Jesus loves, we—the faith community—reveal God to the world; by revealing God to the world, the church makes it possible for the world to choose to enter into relationship with this God of limitless love.  The faith community’s mission, therefore, is not to be the arbiter of right and wrong, but to bear unceasing witness to the love of God in Jesus.”[4]

            At the beginning of today’s text, the disciples are cowering in fear behind locked doors when they encounter the risen Christ.  They realize he lives, not because he can walk through those locked doors and show his wounds to them, but because, through the gift of the Holy Spirit, he breathes new life into them and commissions them to continue his work.[5]

            Just as forgiveness revives a dead relationship, Christ’s peace revives us.  And his peace breathes new life into our faith community. The peace of Christ energizes us to move forward, to take the reins of his ministry—welcoming all, sharing with all Christ’s love—a love that offers forgiveness, unconditionally.  Peace be with you. 

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[1] Ephesians 2:14

[2] Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of Johh,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible:  a Commentary in Twelve Volumes.  vol. IX.  Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1995, p. 847.

[3] John 13: 34 Common English Bible

[4] Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of Johh,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible:  a Commentary in Twelve Volumes.  vol. IX.  Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1995, p. 848.

[5] Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of Johh,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible:  a Commentary in Twelve Volumes.  vol. IX.  Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1995, p. 848.

What Are You Talking About? What Has You So Concerned? Luke 24: 13 – 35

             Not too long ago I had a presbytery-related meeting and the quickest way to get there was to take Hwy 68 to Louisburg and catch 69 Hwy.  Most of my Kansas City metropolitan activities and appointments are on the west side, so my usual route north is 169 Hwy.  This particular day, I got involved in work here at the church and didn’t manage to leave as early as I had hoped for my meeting. So, when I left, I was distracted and anxious—distracted by my unfinished business and anxious about getting to the meeting on time.  I got in my car, turned out of the church parking lot and before I was at the end of Peoria, I was turning over in my mind all the things I still needed to do.  I got on Hwy 169 north, thinking about how I would get everything done and I drove right past the Louisburg/68 exit.  I missed my turn!  Has that ever happened to you?  Have you ever been so worried about a presentation at work, so concerned about the discord between your children, or stewing over an injustice done to you that you missed your turn—got off track in your traveling?

              When Kevin and I travel to someplace new, one of us acts as navigator while the other drives.  Generally, we map out the route we’re going to travel before we get started.  And, we have cell phones with map apps, so you’d think we’d always get to where we’re going without any directional mishaps, right?  Wrong!  As we’re driving along, sometimes we get so engrossed in our conversation that even though the navigator has stated what freeway exit we want, the driver forgets to look for that exit. Or as we’re driving along, the navigator forgets to look at the street signs to help with the next turn.  Sometimes, our conversations distract us—getting us off track in our traveling.  Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever gone off route because you were talking with someone else?

            I think this is what is happening with Cleopas and his unnamed companion in today’s text.  Returning home from their annual Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem, they are so engrossed in their conversation that they do not realize another traveler is walking beside them.  It is Sunday afternoon as they travel from Jerusalem to Emmaus—perhaps just 6 hours since the women found Jesus’ tomb empty. Cleopas and his unnamed companion were followers of Jesus. Were, past tense, for it is all over now. Witnesses to Jesus’ ministry of healing, teaching, and welcoming, they had “believed that God was present in Jesus’ word and works”[1] and like so many other Passover pilgrims who joined in the raucous celebration that was Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, they believed “that God’s kingdom of justice was about to dawn.  That was the previous Sunday—the Sunday we celebrate as Palm Sunday.  Then came the crucifixion and the shattering of their hopes.  Human wisdom says, ‘While there’s life, there’s hope.’ The death of Jesus had been the death of [their] hope.”[2] Do you know what that’s like?  Does anyone here know what it’s like to have their hope extinguished?

            Engrossed in their conversation, devastated by their shattered dreams, Cleopas and his unnamed companion do not realize another traveler has fallen into step with them.  So they are startled when he asks,  “What are you talking about? What has you so concerned?” It is Jesus, but they do not recognize him.  Why not?  Have you ever felt blindsided by distress?  Has your eyesight ever been made myopic by your misery?  Has your wounded heart ever blinded you? Jesus asks them, “What are you talking about?  What has you so concerned?” Cleopas and his unnamed companion respond incredulously.  “How can you have been in Jerusalem these last days and not know what has happened?  Jesus, the teacher whose wisdom was freeing; Jesus, the healer whose hands wrought miracles; Jesus, the prophet whose life was a call to justice; Jesus the one we hoped would redeem Israel has been betrayed, arrested, crucified, and buried.  Jesus is dead, and with him—all our hopes.”

            Yes, it seems for Cleopas and his unnamed companion, just as it seemed for Mary Magdalene at the tomb earlier that morning, the story has ended.  But Jesus makes them turn the page to see that the story continues.  Jesus makes them turn the page by taking them back through the law of Moses and the voices of the prophets.  Jesus takes them back through their Hebrew scriptures to illuminate Jesus’ life, ministry, death, and yes—resurrection.  Traveling incognito with Cleopas and his unnamed companion, Jesus reveals “the fundamental pattern of the entire biblical”[3] story is a “pattern of life emerging from death.”[4]  “From the original chaos, God creates life.  From the slavery of Egypt come freedom and a homeland.  From the destruction of exile comes a renewed people.”[5] And from the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus, comes God’s grace and the in-breaking of God’s kingdom on earth. Now the travelers are engrossed in a different conversation, a conversation not of shattered dreams but of re-kindling hope. Spellbound by the words of the stranger, Cleopas and his unnamed companion listen, question, reflect, and discuss.  They engage with the scriptures deeper than ever before.

            Their hearts hungering for more, arriving at Emmaus, Cleopas and his unnamed companion invite the still unrecognized Jesus to linger at their home. As they sit together to share the evening meal, Jesus takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to them. This familiar formula—taking, blessing, breaking, and giving, stirs in them an awareness of Jesus’ presence, “yet they now know him as the risen Lord, whose own body has been given for them.”[6]  Their eyes were opened and they recognized him, but he disappeared from their sight.[7] Turning to one another they exclaim, “Weren't our hearts on fire when he spoke to us along the road and when he explained the scriptures for us?"[8] Both head and heart combine to experience the risen Christ.            Nourished by Word—Jesus explaining the scriptures as they traveled—as well as by Sacrament—the sharing of the bread that represents the sharing of God’s grace—nourished by Word and Sacrament, Cleopas and his unnamed companion “feel alive; their hearts are renewed.  The witness of the women at the empty tomb is now their testimony too.  In the breaking of the bread,”[9] it is as if light rays from the dawn of the resurrection have reached seven miles from Jerusalem—all the way to Emmaus.  “Their burning hearts illumine their blind eyes and quicken their weary souls for a seven-mile nighttime run”[10] back to Jerusalem. “For what they had experienced must be shared.  News this good must be shared.”[11]  Do you know what that’s like—having good news to share? News so good it cannot wait until morning?  News so good it cannot wait another hour? 

            Today’s scripture is not just a story about 2 disciples meeting the risen Christ on Easter afternoon on the road to Emmaus.  Today’s text is also a story about the early Christian community. “After Easter, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, the community of Jesus’ disciples reread their Bible—[their Hebrew Bible—what we call the Old Testament]—with new eyes, and found that it testified to them of Christ.  The report of Jesus’ life and teachings, his martyr death, even the report of the empty tomb had not made the reality of the Christ event present to them.  But as they worshiped together around the Lord’s Table, the meaning of the Christian faith and the reality of the risen Lord became real.  Scripture and [Sacrament] were the setting [for] and means of reinterpreting the story of Jesus, now seen in a new light.”[12]

            Today’s scripture is not just Cleopas and his unnamed companion’s story. Today’s scripture is also our story.   Each of us can slide into the role of Cleopas’ unnamed companion.  For hasn’t each of us experienced shattered dreams?  Doesn’t each of us desire to stoke the embers of hope and see them re-kindled.  Doesn’t each of us yearn for our hearts to burn at the presence of Christ traveling with us? 

            Today’s scripture is not just the 2 disciples’ story.  It is our story as well. For, we—this gathered faith community—are the pair of travelers on the road to Emmaus.  This story moves from isolation to community.  Through the power of the Holy Spirit, we read and re-read our Bibles with one another—listening, questioning, reflecting, and discussing.  We read and re-read our Bibles together in light of our shared Christ experiences, and our hearts burn as the Word—Jesus the Christ—is revealed to us. At the table, “broken bread nurses our broken faith.”[13] From the table, broken bread “can nourish the courage we need”[14] to shed our anxieties and doubts. No longer distracted by concerns or fears, may we not get off track on our faith journey.  May our feasting on the bread of life and our sharing of the bread and cup—may our engaging the Word and celebrating the sacrament illumine our pilgrimage of faith. 

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[1] M. Eugene Boring and Fred B. Craddock.  The People’s New Testament Commentary.  Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004, p. 280

[2] Ibid.

[3] Donald Senior, “Luke 24: 13 – 35  Exegetical Perspective,”  in Feasting on the Word, Year A, volume 2.  Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010, p. 421.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid, p. 421 & 423.

[6] Molly T. Marshall, “Luke 24: 13 – 35  Theological Perspective,”  in Feasting on the Word, Year A, volume 2.  Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010, p. 420.

[7] Luke 24: 31 Common English Bible

[8] Luke 24: 32 Common English Bible

[9] Shannon Michael Pater, “Luke 24: 13 – 35  Pastoral Perspective,”  in Feasting on the Word, Year A, volume 2.  Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor.  Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010, p. 422.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Marshall, p. 422.

[12] Boring and Craddock, p. 281.

[13] Pater, p. 422.

[14] Ibid.

Why Are You Crying? What Are You Looking For? John 20: 1 - 18

          At the end of my study leave a couple of weeks ago, I visited my mom.  While I was there, I took her and Aunt E—her sister—to the Angleton cemetery.  It is spring and time to refresh the flowers at the family graves. As we replaced the faded red poinsettias with bright yellow and purple flowers at my uncle’s grave, Aunt E did what she does every time she comes there.  She talked to Uncle V.  She said, “Hi, honey. I’m here.  I brought D and Mari Lyn with me today.  I miss you.” She went on to tell him what’s been happening in her life recently.

            In today’s text, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb where Jesus’ body had been laid.  I wonder if she, like my Aunt E, came to the tomb because it offered her the opportunity to talk to her beloved.  Grieving her loss, Mary comes to the tomb—the place where she can in some physical way connect with Jesus.  But when she arrives, the stone has been removed and the tomb is empty.  This is not what she had expected.  I imagine her, kneeling at the tomb, holding her head in her hands, sobbing.  In time, she stands up, turns away from the tomb, and faces the garden.  She sees a man there.  He asks her, “Why are you crying?” 

            Why are you crying?  In April of 2005, upon completing her last college visit and scholarship interview, S (my older daughter) decided she would attend Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, GA.  With her announcement, I was hit with a sudden realization.  It seemed just a couple of weeks ago she was laughing as she slid down the little orange and blue slide in our playroom.  It seemed just a couple of weeks ago she would plop down in front of the TV, eagerly awaiting another episode of “Sesame Street.”  It seemed just a couple of weeks ago, we cuddled together every evening reading bedtime stories.  It seemed just a couple of weeks ago she was a toddler and now she was graduating high school and planning to move 1300 miles away.             

        “Why are you crying?”  I heard that question multiple times from April to August of 2005.  I was grieving loss—it felt like I had lost her childhood—where did those years go?  I was grieving loss—of family as we knew it. No longer would we all sleep each night under the same roof or share a meal together each evening.  I was grieving loss—of my daughter.  No longer would I be able to see her or touch her each day. 

            Like Mary Magdalene, I’ve been to the tomb, looked in and found it empty.  I’ve grieved what was for me, at that time, a loss with finality. How about you?  Have you visited the tomb—the tomb of a relationship, a career, an unrealized dream?  Have you visited the tomb and found it empty?  Empty—words were said that cannot be taken back, things were done that cannot be undone, time was wasted.  Empty—no reconciliation, no 2^nd chance, no opportunity for fulfillment?

            The man in the garden asks Mary Magdalene, “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Mary Magdalene is grieving loss—loss of her beloved mentor, teacher, lord, and friend—loss of Jesus.  Her hope is that she can be reunited with his body.  “Just let me know where he is, so I can bury him where his body will be safe and I’ll have a place to come to talk to him”—like Aunt E with Uncle V. 

            What Mary Magdalene doesn’t realize is standing before her is something much better than her hope.  For standing before her is her beloved teacher, mentor, lord, and friend.  Standing before her is the resurrected Jesus. Her hope is for a place, a way she can remember Jesus.  But standing before her is flesh and blood, the risen Christ, with whom she can be fully reunited—physically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually—fully reunited.  Standing before her is better than the answer to her prayers.  She just doesn’t recognize him at first.

            In the summer of 2005, I heard “Why are you crying?” from friends and family many times.  As the summer wore on though, I began to hear a different question.  Quietly it crept into my mind and my heart. First it was a whisper, but later it grew louder.  “What are you hoping for?”  (It’s similar to “Who are you looking for?”)  As I searched my soul, I began to articulate my hope—my expectation.  From the time she was born, I wanted S to grow into a healthy and happy person; a compassionate and capable woman; a strong and faithful Christian.  I wanted her to live a full life.  When finally I could articulate my hope for S, I realized it was right in front of me.  Deciding for herself, after visiting each campus and interviewing students and staff, she was making a healthy decision that showed her capabilities.  Moving to another part of the country, living in a distinctly urban setting in Atlanta, Georgia (as opposed to the suburban setting she grew up in), she was opening herself to new opportunities—to living fully.  It’s now been 8 years since that gut-wrenching realization that I was looking into an empty tomb.  And my hopes, my expectations for my daughter continue to be fulfilled in ways I never previously imagined. 

            I wonder if our congregation finds itself at a tomb because I hear, “we don’t have young families . . . we don’t have the numbers we need . . . we don’t have . . . .  we cannot.  Today, Jesus asks us, “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”  It seems we may be grieving the loss of church as we remember it from years ago.  We remember more people, hence—“we don’t have the numbers.”  We remember multiple Sunday School classes, hence—“we don’t have young families.” We remember prestige in the community, hence—“we don’t have” and “we cannot.”  We are grieving loss of church as we remember it from the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s.  As we weep at the tomb, the risen Jesus asks us 2 questions— “Why are you crying?  What are you hoping for?” These questions move us from identifying what we perceive as our loss to recognizing Christ’s expectations for us.  Like Mary Magdalene in the garden, I think sometimes we do not recognize the resurrected Jesus among us.  He looks different.  The answer to our hopes—what we expect—may not look like what we experienced in the past.  Across the nation, across the world, the 21^st century church does not look like the mid-20^th century north American church.  Church is changing—from a consumer model: I go to church to get my needs met—to a missional model:  We are the church.  Let us be the body of Christ in the world meeting others’ needs.

            Why are you crying? We don’t have young families. I beg to differ. 20% of the people who regularly worship with us are members of young families.  We have young families. But are we equipping our parents to teach the faith to their children?  Are we supporting our parents in their own faith development?  Have we asked them what they need from us in order to be faithful disciples of Christ? Have we asked them what they need from us in order to rear faithful disciples of Christ?

            “Why are you crying?  What are you grieving?” We don’t have the numbers . . . I think we do.  Each Monday night we have 29 Boy Scouts and 23 adult leaders meeting here. At least 52 people we can connect with and minister to already here in this building every Monday night.  What about the rest of the week? Tuesday nights, we have 21 Cub Scouts and 8 adult leaders.  Every other Thursday night, we have Girl Scouts and their leaders.  Weekday mornings and Monday and Wednesday afternoons this building is filled with the sounds of young children. Currently there are 44    3, 4, and 5 year olds laughing and learning here in our preschool program.  That’s more young families to connect with, to minister to, to equip and to support as they guide their children’s faith development.  We have the numbers.  What we need is to recognize the opportunities we have to share God’s love and to be the church in mission.  What we need is to recognize what God has already placed before us.  These people, members of the body of Christ, are not in a form we expect.  So, like Mary, we don’t recognize the body even when it is right in front of us. 

            Jesus is speaking to us, calling us to turn away from the empty tomb—the tomb of “we don’t have, there is not enough, we cannot”—Jesus is calling us to turn away from the empty tomb and to see the abundance here in our midst.  Jesus is calling us to see the overflowing opportunitiesto minister to and to work with children and adults already here in our building.  The resurrected Jesus, the one who on Easter morning, defeated the powers of death and destruction, calls us to life and reconstruction.  The resurrected Jesus calls us into the hopeful future of this church—the hopeful future that begins now as we turn, face, and open ourselves to the risen Christ.

            Why are you crying?  What are you hoping for?  Since the summer of 2005, when I gazed into the empty tomb of my daughter’s childhood, her experiences and how she has grown from them have exceeded all my expectations.

            The experiences Jesus wants to lead this congregation into—the resurrected body— Jesus plans for this congregation is just as surprising, just as life-giving, just as fulfilling, and just as joyful.  May we turn and recognize Jesus standing before us.    Amen.