Prodigal Son
Isaiah 53: 4-12
Luke 15: 11-32
April 12, 1974
In the moving novel entitled The Blood of the Lamb, Peter de Brise tells the story of a family whose little daughter is dying of leukemia. One evening, the father comes to the hospital, and the little girl is all excited because that afternoon she had seen an old Laurel and Hardy movie on TV, which was her first experience of that sort of thing. She said to her father, the neatest part was when the little man threw a pie into the face of the big man. I was really scared, because I didn’t know what he was going to do. But guess what? He didn’t hit back. He waited for a long time and then deliberately began to wipe the custard from his eyes and cheeks and sling it on the floor. It was amazing, the big man just stood there and took it and did not hit back. The father joined her in astonishment at such a reaction. He too felt it unusual to see that kind of strength that could be hurt and not hurt back. It takes one sort of strength to inflict pain on people, but it is strength of an altogether different sort to have pain inflicted on you and not strike back. We know a great deal about the first kind of strength. This is the strength that works to make itself impregnable, secure in its power. if Russia can strike at us, we have the strength to level all their major cities. We are a superpower. if a man tries to take my job, I have enough votes to humble him. We are super politicians, if someone insults me, I can tell him what for right back in spades. We’re strong, at least with one kind of strength.
But the other kind of strength, the strength that a reconciler has, is the strength of taking it and not giving back in kind. This we know so little about.
Looking again at the DeVry story, we find that a few days after the TV movie, the little girl in the hospital had a birthday. And, as families are want to do in those circumstances, they made elaborate plans for a celebration. The family got to the hospital early that morning with a birthday cake and all kinds of presents, only to hear the nurse say the little girl had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and the outlook was not good at all. As the family stood around helplessly, her birthday became her death day, and, eventually, they had to gather up what they had brought for the celebration and leave the hospital. It was a Catholic institution with a huge crucifix in the lobby. As the father walked out, he was so overcome by rage and grief that he impulsively took the birthday cake and hurled it in the face of the crucified one. No sooner had he done this than he recalled in poor. What kind of blasphemy have I committed he thought to himself, how will God react? Have I offended the power of the universe?
But after a long moment, through eyes filled with tears, it seemed as if the father saw those hands free themselves from the nails and move slowly toward the soiled face. Then patiently, deliberately, the icing was wiped from the eyes and the cheeks with a gentle motion, and suddenly, it came to the father that there would be no retaliation.
There was the case of another big man taking it from a little man and not hurting back. There was strength in enduring pain without inflicting it. And as we read further in the book, this was the turning point in the father’s reconciliation to God. It appears to me that this little episode illustrates the dynamic process of reconciliation. Or let us go even further, and say that the story illustrated something of the cost and the promise of reconciliation. The cost to a big man is great; he must take it from a small man without striking back. But the promise of the restored relationship, of healing the break, is certainly worth the price. Today, we are in the process of reflecting that men didn’t just throw a cake in the face of God. They threw slaps and nails and hatred and violence. And God turned this darkness, this bad Friday, into a Good Friday.
Have you ever wondered as I have done, why the symbol of the Christian faith is the cross? Have you ever wondered as I have done, why the early Christians couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate symbol? A symbol of Easter, of resurrection, instead of a symbol of that Friday, which is so inextricably tied up with hatred and violence and death. Well, let me suggest to you the answer that occurred to me the other night.
The cross is the deepest point in our history, the point where God and man come together. For this is when God reconciles man. It is in the act of crucifixion not resurrection, that God shows man how much he loves him. It is in the act of crucifixion that man understands the cost of reconciling love
. Think for a moment with me about the crucifixion. Isn’t it fantastic, amazing, astounding? Here is the act of God enduring, taking, suffering and yet even with this going further than just taking it, he actually still reaches out to man at his most unlovable nature. Jesus tried to help us understand this process by simplifying the story and telling it in terms of our father who has an errant son. Who wastes his fortune, in a far country, basically turning his back on his father. But when things go badly decides to return home. The father, having taken the son’s rejection, still runs out to meet him. You can see the act of reconciliation isn’t a matter of justice, of someone getting his just desserts. It’s a matter of forgiving love being acted out. And that kind of action is almost beyond our comprehension.
There is a story of a Chinese painter who wished to paint a picture of the prodigal son. His first offering had the father standing by the gate, looking down the road toward the son who was obviously coming home. A Christian friend said, No you don’t have it quite right. the father should not be standing waiting; he should be running to meet his son. The artist said, I can’t understand that. After being rejected by the son, the father runs out, no Chinese father would do that, the friend replied. That’s just the point. It’s fantastic, but this story is the astonishing love of God. The final painting showed the father running to meet his son, and the shoes on his feet didn’t match.
I wonder if you all were artists and were painting the crucifixion scene, what would you put into the picture? For it’s a scene of reconciliation, reconciliation that’s so utterly fantastic that, sometimes, it causes me to tremble. Tremble.
Archives: sermon library
Field not found.
-
-
Palm Sunday
April 12, 1992
I have great sympathy for the secular humanists in Indiana. They want to place a note next to those Gideon Bibles in motels, which would start out saying, Be careful, this book can be hazardous to your health.
Perhaps all books should carry warning labels like cigarette packets. Watch out, dangerous if taken to heart, may be injurious to your well-being.
The story of Jesus is like that. It’s a scandal to our ears. The person of Jesus defies our categories and acts differently than we would suppose. And, if we follow in Jesus’ footsteps, there is little doubt we will end up in trouble.
The Crow Indians have an expression for people who act the way Jesus did. They call them crazy dogs. Crazy dogs do not do ordinary things. Although they might invite strangers to eat with them, they will be found playing with pots and pans, Symphony with the neighborhood children. Or they might be wearing something other than their Sunday best at church on a Palm Sunday. Being the crazy dog for the Crow Indians meant going against the grain green questioning the conventional wisdom, or daring to be seen as foolish, weak, strange, or unorthodox. Crazy dogs usually end up in lots of trouble, where they seem to have an upside-down or inside-out approach to life. If you listen to those kinds of people, you’re bound to end up in hot water.
The Kingdom of God, Jesus insisted, would be filled with crazy dogs. People who believe the first are last, the greatest are the least, the strong are the weak, and the meek will win it all. So when you pick up Jesus’ story in the Bible, be prepared to be shaken, to be disturbed, for it is a story of a crazy dog person. Incidentally, I recently saw a fantastic T-shirt, it said, it will be a great day when the schools have all the money they need and the Air Force has to have a bake sale to buy a new fighter plane I don’t think you can run for president on that platform but Charles handy would encourage us to push our imaginations and begin to say why not? Why not think about that idea? Why not act upon it you will never know what will happen to you. Let something new stretch you, change your thinking, nudge you into a new way of being.
The Jesus we meet in the gospels is always saying Why not, Why not associate with tax collectors, why not heal a Phoenician woman’s daughter, why not ride into Jerusalem on the back of a scrawny mule instead of a magnificent War Horse? Why not allow yourself to be vulnerable, lead with weakness instead of strength, why not be a crazy dog?
Years ago, a movie was presented at the New York World’s Fair. It was made by the National Council of churches and was called the parable. The movie shocked and disturbed many conventional church people. Jesus was portrayed as a second-grade carnival clown. The clown kept sticking his head in these booths where people throw baseballs at some luckless character’s head or this clown took the place of someone who was getting dunked in a barrel of water. The movie was destabilized and subversive, like a hand grenade thrown into our very neat, conventional picture of Jesus.
A lot of Christians weren’t ready to accept Jesus as a clown. It undermined their expectations, and it played havoc with their image of a successful savior.
But that is Palm Sunday for you. A day where Jesus not only says Why not? He acts it out. In a crazy dog manner. A new way of seeing and living life is presented to us. Palm Sunday is a day of prophetic confrontation that can change your life. The story of Palm Sunday is not that of a traditional ticker tape parade; instead, it is the beginning of the passion narrative that ends up with the crucifixion. If we take this story seriously, it will turn us upside down and inside out.
After reading the biblical story, can we no longer live life with the conventional hope that all will work out in the end? The good guys don’t always win. Jesus ends up on the cross, no longer can we simply hope the world will come to its senses. All we have left are crowds shouting Crucify him, and the loser for a savior, who says why not? Why not be a crazy dog? Why not risk crucifixion? And sometimes when I read that story it causes me to tremble tremble.
Amen -
Easter
Luke 24:1-10
April 12, 1998
“Sir, could you say a word or two about the resurrection of the dead?” Some bright college students put this seemingly simple question to Caryle Manley, one of the great Protestant preachers.
“I will not discuss that with people like you,” he replied.
“Why not?” they asked.
“I don’t discuss such matters with anyone under thirty.”
“Why?”
“Look at you, ” he said. “Prime of your life, potent, never have known honest-to-God tragedy, failure, heartsick, defeat. So what in God’s name can you know of a terrible world that only makes sense if Christ is risen?”
The story of Easter begins with tragedy. Three women come to anoint the dead body of Jesus. They approach the tomb, which symbolically represents the end of all their hopes and dreams. And when they arrive, they discover something beyond their dead ends.
In light of this story, I would like to talk to you about dead ends and what can happen to your own dead ends.
Unlike Manley, I really believe there is no one who hasn’t experienced a dead end – a marriage coming to an end, a child that has died, a job being terminated, a dream abandoned, a relationship severed. Dead ends, we’ve been there. And for most of us, my guess is that when we hit a dead end, there is rarely any light at the end of the tunnel. It’s as if the dead end represents an unalterable wall.
And so it was with the three women. They trudged to the tomb believing that the light had gone out of their hopes and dreams. Their teacher, their leader, their friend, had been killed. And when they reached the tomb, they discovered a young man who said, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? Do you remember what He told you? Can you recall that audacious, fanciful assumption – the message that love will conquer everything – even death?” Do you remember? And more importantly, do you believe? Do you believe that dead ends are not necessarily terminal?
The Easter story is about something that God does with dead ends. Jesus died, was crucified, buried, and then He came back. This is what we celebrate today. But it is not all that we celebrate. We also celebrate that we, too can come back. Not always in the way we might choose. But today we are asked to remember that God does great things with dead ends. From barren wombs, God can bring forth a child. From dry bones, God can form a people. From the dead, God can bring about Resurrection.
In his autobiography, Frederick Buechner recounts how he learned this lesson. For some fifty years, he had been haunted by his father/s suicide. For Buechner, the weeping had never stopped. It was as if the day his father died, he also died.
Many years later, under the guidance of a Jungian therapist, he began an exploration of important people in his life. The therapist has him write dialogues with figures in his past. Listen to how Buechner found new life in the dead end of the relationship with his father.
(He wrote):
Child: How are you?”
Father: “I’m fine.”
Child: “Long time no see.”
Father: “It’s been a long time.”
Child: “Were you sad, Daddy? Did you know what you were going to do when you took your life?”
Father: “I had to do it. Things were so bad. It didn’t seem as if there was a way out.”
Child: “Could I have stopped you, Daddy? What if I had told you I loved you, I needed you?”Father: “No. Nobody could. I was lost so badly. It felt like I had come to a dead end.”
Child: “I’ve been so worried, so scared ever since.”Father: “Don’t be. There is nothing to worry about. That’s the secret I never knew. But I know it now.”
Child: “What do you know, Daddy?”
Father: “I know plenty. And it’s all good. I will see you again, for remember, there are no dead ends.”
Buechner says he does not know where that dialogue came from. Who can say whether it was real or made up? But in some mysterious way, it sounds like the message delivered at the tomb: “Why do you seek the living among the dead? On the third day, He shall rise.”
If we can only remember. If we can only keep our ears open to this message. Life doesn’t end. Death is not the last word. Do you hear? Do you believe? Dare we say, “Alleluia?” Amen. -
How to Be an Easter Person
Luke 24: 36-48
April 14, 1991
I just returned from a conference in California. Whenever I visit California, I am reminded that it’s not so much a state, but rather it’s a state of mind.
Last week in Fresno, I’m told, someone attempted to fire bomb the IRS building. This of course, led to a full-scale investigation by agents of the state Food and Drug Administration, the tobacco and firearms administration, and the FBI. They appointed a special Commission to study this act in depth. After a week of intense exploration and analysis, they came out with their first report. Banner headlines in Fresno! The Commission has decided to look for some person or persons who do not like the IRS.
Californians aren’t the only people with a different state of mind. Christians are also invited into a state of mind, a state of mind in becoming Easter people.
We are in the midst of what is called the Great 50 days of Easter. This is a period in which we learn what it is to have an Easter state of mind. to become Easter People. The process begins on Easter day with that magnificent proclamation of new life, and it ends with Pentecost when the Easter people organize for a mission. In between these two events, the church tries to learn, to understand, to act out the meaning of what it is to be Easter people. To have a different state of mind where you care for, reach out to love the very least, even the IRS. Let me start our thoughts this morning with a bit of honesty. I enjoy the celebration of Easter and all the festivities as much as the next person, but for the most part, I would rather restrict it to one day. I’m comfortable with my old state of mind, and I don’t want to look at any more demands that Easter might place upon me. They say confession is good for the soul, and if the truth be known, I would rather fake it than make it. I would rather look holy than be holy. I would rather go through the motions than radically change my stable life. I would rather look like an Easter person than be an Easter person, and maybe, quite possibly, I’m not unlike many of you.
Recently, I read an account which was, in effect, a parable of someone who tried to fake it but learned there was more to becoming an Easter person than going through the motions. The author tells this personal story about herself. when I was a youngster, several weeks after Easter, I went to a nursing home with a youth group from my church. She recounts, I was there under duress. I had asked to be spared this unjust sentence of visiting a nursing home when my friends were enjoying one of the first warm days of early pre summer, smarting from the inequity, I stood before an ancient-looking woman holding out a bouquet of flowers. Everything about her saddened me, the worn-down face, the lopsided grin, the width of Gray hair protruding from a crocheted lavender cap. I thrust the bouquet at her, and she looked at me with a look that pierced me to the marrow of my 12 year old bones. Then she spoke the words I haven’t forgotten in nearly 30 years. You didn’t want to come, did you child? The words stunned me. They were too painful, too powerful, too naked in their honesty. Ohh yes, I wanted to come, I protested. A smile lifted to one side of her face. It’s OK, she said, I can tell by your face you can’t force the heart.
I can tell by your face that you can’t force the heart. Wise words! Becoming an Easter person means more than faking it. It means pushing past the boundaries of politeness and piety, habit and custom; it means opening the heart to the message of undifferentiated love. It means making contact with persons, connecting, reaching out, and meeting.
There is a philosopher by the name of Levine who has just published the book, it is called You Are a Face. The basic thesis is that we can’t put on a face like a mask, for we don’t simply have a face as another part of our brains, but rather we are a face, a face with all our vulnerability and fragility showing. Levine urges us to be aware of our own face as well as the faces of others in order to love. In order for a real meeting to happen, in order for a community to form, there must be a true face-to-face encounter. Levine reminds us that the face and the heart are really one. I can tell by your face, you can’t force the heart.
I wonder how many of us are ready to see each other as faces. I suspect that’s why we prefer to remain unconscious to those around us. That we missed the hurt, the pain, the fragility, the vulnerability, and therefore we don’t have to feel accountable. Becoming an Easter person is dangerous, Easter people see things they do not want to hear, and hear things they do not want to hear.
Let’s move back for a moment to the gospel we just read. It’s one of the resurrection appearances. Do you recall what Jesus does? He asked for some food. Do you have anything to eat? let’s have a meal. That’s a metaphor for a new life. Eating and drinking is a sign of the Kingdom. Almost all the resurrection stories end up with a meal, and a gathering round the table is an acted-out parable of the resurrection. Have you anything to eat? Is the first and the last word from Jesus.
The Apocalypse of John spoke of the Kingdom as a marriage feast, the supper of the lamb. Imagine all of us, the whole human family, seated and breaking bread together. The table is so large that everyone has a place, hundreds and thousands of us faces from all over, eating at this table. Hundreds and thousands of faces connecting, eyes meeting, face to face across the table. No one is left out, no one is by himself or herself. It is a magnificent collection of faces that are the Easter people.
Elizabeth O’Connor, in one of her meetings, cries out, I want to be an Easter person. I want to dwell with Easter people. So would I. So would you. And the secret, the way to begin, is by looking and seeing the faces around you and, particularly, seeing the faces around the table of the Lord.
Over the years, I’ve noticed, at communion, how introverted we become as we go to the table of our Lord. I watch people coming to the rail and kneeling, almost everyone stares at the floor. No one seems to look at the faces around him, not even at the priest who stands right in front of him. It’s as if no one is there; it’s as if a mechanical arm is reaching out. It’s as if a disembodied voice is saying the body and blood of Christ.
I think we often try to put on a pious face, but we never look at other faces. Why? Who told us it is wrong? Do we really think the heavenly banquet has everyone looking at the floor? The communion service is not a solitary act. It’s a meal, a banquet, a celebration.
Several years ago, I spoke with the person you said she only wants Communion twice a year, at Christmas and at Easter. Other Sundays, she said, we’re playing regular Sundays. Ohh no, I said, each Sunday is a resurrection Sunday, a special Sunday. Each Sunday is a little Easter where we weave our hearts with God’s heart. Where we participate in a heavenly banquet, where, in spite of our vulnerability and fragility, we put on a new state of mind and become Easter people.
Won’t you join me in this?
Amen -
Palm Sunday
April 16, 2000
For years, on this Sunday, we have portrayed dramatically the Passion story. Several of us have taken parts, and each time we ask the congregation to assume the role of the crowd. There are only two words that are spoken, but they are repeated several times. “Crucify him” are those lines. We usually ask the congregation to shout them out with gusto.
At the end of the service, inevitably, people come up to me and say, “I felt strange saying, ‘Crucify him.’ If I had been there, I never would have said such terrible words.”
Maybe so and maybe not. If we look closely at the biblical drama, we can usually find ourselves portrayed in most of the characters. So, let’s mingle this morning with the people of Jerusalem, and see if we might find ourselves in the crowd.
Let me set the stage. Jesus of Nazareth recently had a gala entrance into the city. The crowds shouted Hosannas to a king they knew nothing about. And when he went up to the temple and upset the tables of the moneychangers, they wanted to take back their cheers and substitute a cry like, “Jesus, go home. Go back to Nazareth.”
In the scene in front of us, we are in the midst of an angry crowd. Jesus is standing alone off to our left, and Pontius Pilate is in the center stage. He has just delivered the line, “What shall I do with this man?” The crowd yells back, “Crucify him, crucify him.”
As we jostle our way through the crowd, let us imagine we are reporters for the Jerusalem Daily. Our assignment is to find out just what has happened. On our right stands a well-dressed, prosperous type – the kind of person you might find on the vestry of an Episcopal church.
“You, sir,” we say, “Who are you, and why are you shouting ‘Crucify’?”
“I am Jonathan, a Sadducee,” he says, “and I come from a prominent family that has been in this city for generations. I usually don’t attend these kinds of public demonstrations, but today I am making an exception.”
“You asked why I shout Crucify, why I am here? Let me tell you. A few days ago, this man waltzed into the temple and closed down the family business. He is a disturber of the peace, a zealot who is completely out of control. As long as he said such things as, ‘Consider the lilies of the field – see how they grow,’ he was fun to have around. But when he said, ‘Consider the thieves in the temple – see how they steal,’ that was going too far. He was messing with our economic system, and everybody knows that rabbis shouldn’t talk about money. He wanted to change the status quo, and that was just too much. So I gladly shout, ‘Crucify him, crucify him.’”
Elbowing our way through the crowd, we approach another man. “Who are you, sir? And why are you shouting so loudly?”
“Are you addressing me?” he replies. “It’s not my custom to speak to reporters, but today I shall make an exception.”
“I am Samuel, a Pharisee, one of the religious leaders of the temple. It’s our job to decide who’s in and who’s out. My friends and I have been interpreting what’s right and what’s wrong for years.”
“You have asked me why I shout ‘Crucify!’ with such vehemence. The answer is obvious. The man is clearly a phony. He claims to have been called by God, yet he eats and drinks with addicts, thieves, prostitutes, and other low-lifes. And then says that these sinners will get into heaven before good, honest, God-fearing people like us. Can you imagine? Why, he even healed on the Sabbath, which everybody knows is a day of rest commanded by God.”
“I know, you’re no doubt thinking that, as a religious person, I ought to be more merciful. Well, let me tell you – he has broken innumerable Roman laws, and the government is going to make it hard on everyone because of what he’s done. Isn’t it better that one homeless rabbi, who seems quite irrational, suffer, than for everyone to suffer? We don’t need more troublemakers stirring up the people. So by all means, I will continue to shout, ‘Crucify, crucify’”
Now the crowd is beginning to disperse. The verdict has been given. The people have had their way and as they began to leave, we stop one ordinary-looking woman and asked, “You, madam, what is your name and why are you here?” “I am Sarah. Just one of the many housewives of the city. I wasn’t planning on being here. I was doing some shopping and saw the crowd, so I drifted over.”
“Why did I shout ‘Crucify’? I guess I just got swept up in the emotions of everyone else. On the other hand, if so many people, and influential people at that, were saying he’s bad, there must be something here. You know, where there’s smoke, there must be fire.”
“Yes, it’s true. I was part of the crowd shouting hosannas a few days before. Everybody else was doing the same thing. He should have left right then. It’s become apparent that he doesn’t fit. I’ve heard he says outrageous things like, ‘God is more concerned with people who are not our kind.’ Ridiculous! Everyone knows WE are God’s special people. And furthermore, we don’t need religious fanatics who have very questionable morals, telling us to change our priorities.
These are the faces of the crucifiers. I wonder if they are much different from us. Although 2000 years separate us from those who were gathered in Pilate’s courtyard, I wonder what response we might make to the question, “What shall I do with this man?”
Let’s be honest. We are uncomfortable with change, and people who advocate change are rarely made to feel welcome in our lives. Somehow, in the unconscious part of our brain, the message comes to us. If these people really want to change our system, our world may fly apart. Either people have to at in, go along, adjust, or they ought to leave.
Do you recall the slogan of the ’60s? In the height of the Cold War, people used to say, “America – love it or leave it.” And that’s what the people of Jerusalem were saying – either love the system or leave it.
Jesus refused to leave. So they ended up crucifying him. That was then, and this is now, and still Pilate asks us the question, “What shall I do with this man?” -
Easter
April 16, 1995
One of the activities I thoroughly enjoy is greeting people at the end of the Easter service. Usually people come out with a real high, saying things like: “The Lord is Risen,” or, “Alleluia,” or, “Rejoice.” At other times, they will remark on the beauty of the music, or the architecture, or maybe be kind enough to say something about the sermon. Last Easter, I had a strange occurrence. Near the end of the line, a young man came up to me, shaking his head and saying: “I don’t know -I just don’t know.”
That young man has stuck with me all year. His words have left me wondering what really goes through our minds as we leave the church. Just as there is more than one door out of the church, so too is there more than one thought that goes through people’s heads as they leave the service. Following this line of reasoning, we could also say that there probably were many different thoughts that went through people’s heads on that first Easter, just as there were many paths leading from the empty tomb.
If you look at Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s accounts, you will find that they all agree that the women were the only ones who discovered the empty tomb. But there is a wide difference as to what happened after the discovery. Matthew and Luke go on to tell different stories of the women and further Resurrection appearances. But Mark tells the story in another way. His account ends abruptly with his saying: ‘The women fled, for trembling and astonishment had seized them, and they were afraid.” That’s all- they all left – fled in terror.
In the Second Century, some helpful people added 12 more lines to Mark’s Gospel – tidying up the ending and telling us where the women went. You might check your Bibles at home to see if your translation contains those later words.
But scholars agree that the real Mark ends his account with the words: “They were afraid.” There are no further appearances, no supper at Emmaus, no breakfast on the beach. There is nothing but the silent, precipitous, fearful conclusion. It’s as if Mark were telling us that the only words that the women were able to utter were: “I don’t know. I just don’t know what has happened.”
For me, this feels right. When something truly unusual happens, when something out of the ordinary occurs, there is nothing that can be said or done. We can only shake our heads and say: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Have you come here to get it all nailed down? To be given the last word about the Resurrection? To have it all explained? Spelled out for you in living Technicolor? What are you expecting? As I’ve said many times, what you expect often colors what you hear. If you’re looking for facts, you won’t find them. If you’re looking for truth, that’s something else.
I’m sticking with Mark, who tells us that the Risen Christ does his business in ways we least expect. He’s interested in truth. He doesn’t offer us certainty. We are given a mystery. The Resurrection account does not increase our knowledge. It simply adds to our sense of wonder. For you see, Easter is not about a ritual appearance in the Springtime. It’s about ecstasy at any time.
So Mark never got around to putting the finishing touches on his Gospel. But maybe that’s the whole point of the Easter story. It’s meant to be open-ended. It is what you decide to do with it. All we’re told is that Jesus is somewhere out in front of us. He’s gone on before us.
And that’s the truth of Easter.
Now this is scary business. No wonder Mark’s Gospel ends with the statement: ‘They were afraid.” Monday, the next day, is much more of a frightening topic when talking about the victory on Sunday. The future is more frightening than the past. There are no guarantees, no set answers, no path that leads to Monday. But that’s really what Mark’s Gospel is all about – the future, the day after. When the flowers fade and the music dies down, is when the rubber hits the road for most of us. Easter is about living a new life in the future, not escaping death in the past. Easter is the beginning of a journey, not an answer to your questions about God. Not a fact that allows you to sit back and feel comfortable about your religion. The Resurrection is a truth to challenge us in our living.
So, what are you going to do with Mark’s Gospel? How are you going to use his description to celebrate this magnificent day?
Well, that’s our problem. After all, we all came here looking for Jesus. But Mark tells us: “He’s not here. You just missed Him. By this time of the morning, He’s already in Galilee. He’s gone out before us. . .. AMEN. -
“Is Your Nickname Barnabus?”
Acts 4; 23-37
April 20, 1997
My youngest son and his wife are expecting a baby in a few weeks. I’ve been intrigued by how they are going about choosing a name for their child. They have been looking through books, consulting family records, and gathering all the latest California-type names. Weekly, we receive a phone call about some of the more exotic choices: Kellyona Douglas, Quincey Douglas, and (after the : NCAAs) Miles Douglas. Whenever we’ve been told one of these names, we’ve done our best to appear noncommittal.
One thing experience has taught us is that whatever name they choose, in a few short years, this youngest Douglas is probably going to end up with a nickname. And that nickname may or may not have any relationship to what his or her parents have chosen.
I had a roommate in Seminary called Rabbit. His given name was Richard. In grade school, he was a fast runner, and the name just stuck with him. Another friend of my wife was always called $snowflake. Her real name was Janet. Snowflake loved to ski, and she was always sort of flaky. The interesting thing about nicknames is that through the years, they often become the ones they are known by and we tend to forget their given names.
The same thing happened to the person in our first lesson. If I were to mention his name (unless you were listening attentively) I doubt that many would recall his given name. Joseph is what his parents called him. One of the problems is that there are no fewer than sixteen Josephs mentioned in Scripture, everyone from Mary’s husband, to the son of Jacob who was a ruler in Egypt, to a Joseph who lent his tomb for the burial of Jesus.
This particular Joseph was given a nickname by the members of the early church. And it’s instructive to reflect on just how he received his nickname.
Let me set the stage. Way back in the beginning of the church, they were faced with some huge problems. I’ll bet you will not be surprised when I tell you they were financial in (Why is that the church always struggles to make ends meet?)
But back to the story. The Church that started at Pentecost was made up of Jews who had been convinced that the carpenter from Nazareth had risen and was the Messiah. Out of this experience of the Risen Christ, they came together in a very close, loving community. But this community was viewed by many in the larger population as a threat to national unity. And so, those who were influential did their best to nip the movement right at the start. Economic reprisals were one of the Chief tools for discouraging radicals, just as they are today. To make matters worse for the small community, the church maintained a vision of sharing all things in common. Translated, this meant that each member bore the hurts and hardships of one another. This seemed like an exciting vision until more and more people became unemployed. Then the vision seemed more of a pipe dream and less of a unifying goal. This economic problem presented the church with one of the low points in the early community’s life.
When things looked darkest and Sunday appeals seemed to be falling on deaf ears, Joseph stepped forward. He sold a piece of property, presented the money to the Apostles, and paved the way for one of the finest moments in the history of the church. Joseph’s generosity inspired many others. It was because of ads magnificent act of generosity that Joseph was given the nickname Barnabus, which literally means son of encouragement.
Let me attempt to point out three reasons Joseph was given the nickname.
First, Joseph believed in the vision, that dream of what the church could be, and with God/s help, would be. Believing in the vision means more than simply acknowledging that it’s a good idea. Believing in the Vision means being committed to doing whatever it takes to accomplish the dream. Believing in the vision means exercising one’s imagination to see things that aren’t there, and to commit to things that are yet to be built.
Second, Joseph was willing to move forward now, and not wait until everything was nailed down. We might even say that he was willing to act on his hunches.
There is a piece of time-worn wisdom of the Church that goes, “Don’t look before you leap, you will decide to sit down.” Most of us have had an experience of stopping and considering all the pros and cons of a situation… and then never moving forward. Bob Cox, our Senior Warden, is fond of reminding us of “the paralysis of analysis.” Those inner voices that remind us of the “what ifs?” Can’t you just hear those voices saying to Joseph, What if you need the money for your old age? Or, “What if the Apostles don’t spend your money wisely?” Joseph, though, was able to move ahead on the promises of God and not get bogged down by the “what ifs.”
My third point is that Joseph had faith in the future. At a time when everybody else was feeling a sense of despair, Joseph possessed a sense of optimism and hope. At a time when the noble experiment of the Christian community was about to fall apart, Joseph stepped forward and laid his resources on the line.
I’ve said it before, one’s expectations of the way things will turn out often determine your present actions. If you think a situation is doomed to failure, your behavior is usually cautious and protective. If you think something will turn out well, you’re much freer with whatever you put into it. And Joseph, if nothing else, had great expectations.
So this is why the early church called him Barnabas. Before it was clear who he really was, his parents had named him Joseph. But as his real self emerged, the nickname Barnabas, son of encouragement, became a truer way of identifying this hero of the church.
St Philips has had a number of Barnabus people in its history – those heroes who have stood up, come forward, and made significant contributions to our ongoing life. People like John and Helen Murphey, Walter Roedeger, Mary Huntington, Harry Sinclair, and many others that I can’t recall at this time. They have been our Barnabas’s and have helped to make this place what it is today. And they will be remembered as Sons and Daughters of Encouragement.
But what about yourselves? I guess after 20 years that I can be frank with you. There are a number of people within the sound of my voice who have the resources to act in a Barnabus fashion, to put significant monies, 50, 20, 10 thousand dollars on the line for the future of this community. I believe there are some of you who if asked, would join the order of Barnabus, would be proud to be known as sons and daughters of encouragement. And so I’m asking… and counting on you to step forward.
How about it? . . . -
Easter Warnings
April 23, 2000
What a magnificent day! Easter is the crowning jewel in the church calendar. It’s truly the best day of the entire year. It’s the model for every Sunday. The church overflows with people. Flowers are everywhere. The music is outstanding. The hymns are all golden oldies. There is a magical sense of celebration in all that we do. It’s truly a great day to be alive and to be here in church.
But it’s also a dangerous time. A note of caution needs to be sounded. Easter may also be a time when you could be changed. There are forces within the service, hidden forces, which have not been tamed by our over-familiarity
And so, if you get too close, listen too intently, hear the message too well, if you pause too long by the empty tomb, your mind may be permanently discombobulated. Come to think of it, we should have put a notice in our bulletin, “Warning – Easter may be hazardous. Approach this service with caution. Your life could be changed forever.”
One of the changes might be that you would have to view yourself in a different way. I don’t know about you, but I frequently experience a crisis of confidence. I don’t feel that I am worth much. If the truth were known, sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see (to use a church term) a sinner staring me back. Sometimes when I’m sitting quietly in church and I review my life, I begin to think of that old black hymn, “It’s me. It’s me, O Lord. Standing in need of prayer.
My point, my warning, is that if we really hear the Easter message, we’re going to have to give up that view of ourselves. We’re going to have to admit that the most real thing about ourselves is that God loves, and that love is unconditional. No matter what you have done, or said, or have caused, no matter what – the basic message is that there is more mercy in God than sin in us. And that means you are forgiven, loved, appreciated, and worth more to God than you ever thought possible. As we focus on the empty tomb, we see that God will go to any length to assure us of our lovableness, even coming back from the dead.
My hope is that you will enjoy this day without getting too many surprises. I want to give you a fair chance to avoid dangerous paths. You might want to abstain from thinking too seriously about the Resurrection. The message of the Resurrection is a signal that the way we thought about life and death has to be reversed. If the Easter story is true, really true, then it is NOT that life is short and death is forever. It is life is forever, and death is short. Death is merely an event; something that happens to us all, but life continues, even after death
In funerals, I often am fond of saying, God doesn’t take death yet seriously. From God’s perspective, death is not an ending but simply the beginning of new life. Or as the old Latin requiem put it, as in our prayers for the dead, “Vita mutator, non-tollitar.” Life is changed, not ended.
This is the underlying claim of Easter. It’s as if God were like a good broker (I wrote this before the stock market went down), and God asks us to look beyond the short term. Our lives are not crammed between the dates of our birth and death. They are more like a long-term investment from God.
It’s a scary time for people who take the experience of Easter seriously. The fact is that you can’t inhale the fragrance of Easter and be content with life as it is. Listen once again to the story as it comes from the pen of St. Mark.
Three women were making their way through the cold, dark streets of Jerusalem, preparing for one final act of devotion a salute to a dead leader, a recognition of a past relationship. When they arrive at the cemetery, that place of death, the stone sealing the tomb had been rolled away and there sat a young man, dressed in a white robe. He gave them some unexpected news. “Jesus of Nazareth is not here. He is going ahead of you.”
And Mark’s Gospel says of the women, “They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement seized them.” The story ends abruptly with these words, “They were afraid.”
Have you ever wondered why they were so frightened? They came to pay their last respects to a dead leader. And they are suddenly told that he is alive and will be encountered in the future. There’s more to come. You would think they would react joyfully, but Mark puts it this way: “They were scared half out of their wits.”
The message from the young man is not about what God has done or is doing, but rather that you can expect more from God in the future. And this can be unsettling.
Undergirding this message is the realization that God is not finished with these women. There’s more to come. And the last word will be God’s.
For those of you who feel like most of your life is over, who feel that the future has already been shaped by your past; the message of Easter is truly startling. The message is simply that there is more to come. Much more. You ain’t seen nothing yet. And this is scary for it asks us to be like the three women; not settling for what is, but instead willingly placing our hand in God’s hand and being prepared to step into the unknown future.
My advice to many of you here this morning is, don’t pause by the empty tomb. Don’t listen to the message of Easter, for you may hear the words, “He is ahead of you.” You are being beckoned into the future, a God who doesn’t stop at death. And the message could be hazardous to your priorities. It could change the way you view life. You have had fair warning.
Happy Easter. -
Results not Appearances
April 19, 1992
Most of the time we are not seen for who we really are. We may be grateful for that. Most of the time we are accepted or rejected, judged or acquitted, embraced or snubbed on appearances. The same may be said about Jesus. Most of the time, he is accepted or rejected on appearances.
This is why Easter is a confusing day for those who take the gospel accounts seriously. The gospel story you just read is at best puzzling. we encounter the risen Jesus not as a brilliant parade savior, not as a victoriously outfitted leader. Jesus won’t resemble a gardener. Mary who stands on the edge of the burial place as she wants to view, worship and make sure the dead body was safe. She finds an empty tomb and what appeared to be a stranger outside. She supposes him to be a gardener we read it says to him Where have you put him?
What a perplexing, bewildering incident. Jesus comes back from the dead, and Mary, one of his closest friends doesn’t even recognize him. Can this be? Why would the gospel writer say she thought him to be a gardener?
Supposing him to be a gardener, it sounds as if we had best go back to central casting. Surely, a risen savior would have dressed for success, looked more triumphant, have been instantly discernible. Appearances are deceptive. Just as you cannot tell a book by its cover I guess it’s true that you can’t tell a risen savior by appearances. During the week before Easter, I spent a great deal of time reading scriptures, studying commentaries, and meditating upon the resurrection.
My learning this year is that the early church spent a minimal amount of energy on the empty tomb experience. Except for the gospel of Thomas, which you will not find in your Bibles, it was never accepted. All the other accounts of Jesus mentioned the empty tomb experience as a minor event. A blip on the screen a small incident that is recorded but certainly not highlighted.
Now the crucifixion, the passion, that is written up in great detail. You can’t help but recognize Jesus on the cross; there is no mistaking the dying man on Calvary. Where on Sunday, little is written and the few lines that are shrouded in mystery. Supposing him to be a gardener. How could Mary have been so wrong? But not only marry, but Jesus has two friends on the road or Peter, who looked into the tomb and walked away wondering. What are we to make of these baffling short takes?
And the answer, nothing. The early church admitted the confusion, the inability to discern the risen Christ, even when he stood in front of them. But the early church was more interested in the results of Easter, not on the appearances of Easter the proof was not to be found on what was seen or not seen on Easter morning. The burden of proof was to be found on how lives were changed as a result of Easter.
And so it is today. We are not here to debate what a risen savior might look like. We are here to declare and give thanks for the results of the resurrection. How things that were cast down are raised up and the things that have grown old are made new how lives have been changed the historian might find little evidence to support the story of the empty tomb, but no historian will dispute the fact that after Easter the disciples were not the persons they were before, in fact, so great was the enthusiasm of the followers of Jesus. Incidentally, the word enthusiasm comes from the Greek word trios, meaning possessed by God.
So great was the enthusiasm that we can say Christianity began with Easter had there been no risen Christ, there would be no gospels, no epistles, no New Testament, no sacraments, no Christian Church. These are all the results of Easter. Mary might have supposed him to be a gardener yet if we read on, we see she becomes aware of a change period a change in her as well as in him. What is clear by the record is that instead of despair she found herself to be in a community of hope. Instead of fear she was filled with enthusiasm.
And so good people, the message of Easter is not about appearances. Nor is it to be about resuscitated corpses that we may not recognize. Insert is a message about change, and the results are becoming enthusiastic. As it is written in the preface to the Roman Catholic requiem life is changed not ended.
We may not recognize him, but we can become aware of the results all around us. Life is changed not ended. We celebrate not an appearance, not a memory
. We celebrate a result. He is risen and therefore we are changed
Alleluia -
New Beginnings
Acts 10
Revelations 21: 1-7
April 23, 1977
One of the most enjoyable books of the past year was a novel called in the Beginning by Kayam Potok. Hotel starts out his novel with this reminiscence. I can remember hearing my mother murmur these words while I lay in bed with a fever. Children are often sick darling, that is the way with children. All beginnings are hard. You’ll be alright soon. I remember bursting into tears one evening because the passage of the Bible commentary had proven too difficult to understand. I was about nine years old at the time period you want to understand everything immediately, my father said, just like that. You only began to study the commentary last week. All beginnings are hard.
I say it to myself today when I stand at the start of a new school year. All beginnings are hard. Teaching the way I do is particularly hard. Often students are shaken. I say to them what was said to me. Be patient, you are learning a new way of understanding. All beginnings are hard
. And sometimes, I add what I have learned on my own. Especially beginnings that you make yourself. That’s the hardest of all.
This is precisely where Cornelius and Simon Peter found themselves. In our lesson this morning, facing a new beginning. Cornelius was a Roman centurion by trade and a religious seeker by temperament. One day it was announced to him that all his asking and seeking and knocking on the ears was going to bear fruit. He was about to be given new insight into ultimate reality, and he was told to send for Simon Peter, who was at Joppa. Cornelius did this, and the chain reaction was thrust to Peter, the big fisherman, out into a new situation. Realize that Simon Peter was a provincial Galilean Jew. Taught all his life not to associate with people to the West of him. He had never had the experience of interacting religiously with these people. Suddenly he was face to face with an entirely new situation. And like all new beginnings. I’m sure it was hard. It called for some new relationships and new ways to communicate the gospel. And I’m sure Simon Peter, as well as Cornelius, had lots of questions about each other and the new situation.
Life has a way of doing this to us, doesn’t it? Suddenly, when we’re sitting comfortably in our provincial, insulated world, where we have become accustomed to a way of life, where we know what to expect, suddenly we are thrust out into brand new situations. And, like all beginnings, they are hard and scary, and raise many questions in our minds.
I’m sure you realize by now that I’m not just referring to Simon Peter, or to myself. I’m referring to you also. You know this from your own life. Most of us would rather fight than switch. We would do almost anything rather than be thrust into a new beginning. It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s hard because new beginnings mean a sense of disequilibrium, a sense of change, a sense of the unknown. All beginnings are hard.
I suppose that is why most people and most institutions avoid new beginnings like the plague. They represent something hard, and oftentimes something painful. My observation has been that people and institutions have become past masters at avoiding new beginnings. And one way an institution can do this is just to keep doing the same things over and over and over again. The only thing they do is to sandpaper or oil up the old machines, once in a while.
Do you ever have the feeling, when you join an institution, any institution, that it’s almost like seeing a continuously running movie? I can recall that feeling as a child, when my mother gave me $0.50 to go to the neighborhood theater on a rainy day. Two or three films would be showing, but it never mattered when you arrived or when you left. It was all pretty much the same. Delightful, diverting, but ohh so very predictable. Another way for people to avoid new beginnings is to stop dreaming, to cut off the visions of what could be, and to settle down for what it is. John Gardner says, the reasons mature people stop growing is that they forget how to dream, and become less and less willing to try new beginnings. Gardner reminds us of the biblical truth, that without vision the people perish, and without new life, all the gains of the past slowly rot away. And without new beginnings, we are left with an endless routine.
One short parenthesis that I would insert in this, my maiden sermon. And that is, that I am not saying nor implying that the past is unimportant. One of my principal tasks as your new rector is to honor the past period. Saint Phillips has a glorious tradition, it has had a series of remarkable accomplishments with great leaders. Both lay and clerical. Without the past, we would be nothing, you know it and I know it. Our sense of history is important period I hope that I never get tired of hearing, and you never get tired of telling me, anecdotes and stories that are from your past.
Yet in a sense, all the wonderful past is just a prologue to our new beginning. Important as it is, and it certainly is, we can’t stop there. We have got to move into the future, building on the solid foundations that have been laid for us.
In the next few months, I intend to do a lot of listening period I want to hear about your past, but more than that, I want to hear about your visions and dreams. I started this listening process last weekend, with the vestry and long-range planning committee. And in the pulpit, I plan to share some of the hopes and dreams that I could bring to this magnificent place. I propose that we take as our theme song, for the next few months, that period piece I used to hear old timers play. You tell me your dreams, I’ll tell you mine. This is what Simon Peter did once he got to cesaria. He began to recount his experiences and share his vision. I can think of no better investment that we could make on this first leg of our journey together than sharing and meshing and time together our dreams.
Somehow, I’ve always been attracted to the dreamers in scripture. They always have a handle on reality, which is exciting as well as terrifying. One such person, John, is sitting on the Isle of Patmos dreaming dreams, having visions, looking into the heart of existence. This is what he wrote,
Then I saw a new heaven, and a new earth, and I heard a loud voice proclaiming from the throne, Now at last God has his dwelling among men! He will dwell among them, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, there shall be an end to death and to mourning and crying and pain, for the old order has passed away. Behold, I am making all things new.
I am making all things new is a long name, but it’s one of the names of God. I am making all things new. I am the new beginning. The alpha and the Omega. The beginning and the end. That’s who he is. That’s where he’s to be found, that’s his dwelling place.
And the dream of the Johns, and the Simon Peters, and all who have been touched by God’s grace is to find God in new beginnings, in the unknown, in the untested. For that, God’s dwelling.
We can’t ooze into the future; we have to leap into it, and thus find God. We can’t hold back ourselves from people who are different; we have to share our visions, and in the sharing, we will find God.
Well, what about yourselves? How’s it with you? Are you willing to risk dreaming dreams? Are you willing to go out into the unknown and find God in new ways? This is my challenge to you, on this, my first sermon.
As we think and pray about our new life together, perhaps T.S. Eliot, with his lines from The Rock, can speak to each of us. Let these words echo in your hearts, be grasped by them.
Where the bricks have fallen, we will build new stones. Where the beams are rotten, we will build new Timbers. Where the work is unspoken, we will build with new speech. There is work together, a church for all, and a job for each. Every man to his work.
Amen
/se