In the Breaking of Bread
Two weeks ago, we celebrated the rising of Christ, Christ’s triumph over death, his victory over all of that which keeps us bound, and his call to rise with him, as we are set free from all that kills us today. I had the joy and privilege of sharing in this day of resurrection with all of you for the first time, and it was beautiful. And then, just as I was sitting down to Easter dinner with Anna’s family, resting assured that Christ had, indeed, still risen, I got the call that my grandfather had died—and it felt more like Good Friday than Easter. This was the grandfather who lived in Plattsburgh, where I spent that Covid Easter I mentioned two weeks ago. He was my mother’s father—a math teacher, second-career United Methodist pastor, scout leader, father of four and grandfather of nine. We called him Poppa. For a time when my siblings and I were growing up, he and my grandmother only lived about a half-hour away. They would wait at the bus stop with us on the first day of school, come by throughout the week to help with homework, and stay with us kids when my parents wanted—or needed—a break. He loved kids, and was generous with his time, his gifts, and his laughter. He went to the same seminary I graduated from, too, and if you’re ever in my office and see the big fancy frame that my seminary degree is in, that was his.
Last weekend, as you know, I was up in Plattsburgh for his memorial service. We shared lots of stories, and there was a truly packed house, representing only a sampling of all the lives he had touched. I could easily just spend the next ten minutes standing here telling stories about my grandfather, and just hoping that a message comes through. But instead, I’ll just share the common thread that runs through much of what was remembered last weekend. He always welcomed visitors—not just with words, but with treats. For a while when I was a kid, it was Jolly Ranchers. He also always had these green muffins that were pistachio flavored, and he was always willing to offer one. And if you didn’t accept a whole muffin, he would cut it in half and offer you half. And if you didn’t accept the half, he would cut it in quarters, and offer you a quarter. If he went into the kitchen to get a clementine, he would always bring at least one extra and offer it to the guests. And if you tried to politely decline, he’d tear it in half, and offer you half. It didn’t matter what it was, there was always something to share.
For the last several years, as he struggled with dementia, his treat was mint Lifesavers, which he kept in a big glass jar by his recliner. If we were sitting in the living room, he’d get up and do a lap around the room periodically, handing out Lifesavers as he went. In the midst of conversations, especially when he wasn’t able to follow along, he’d stay seated and sneak mints to people as they walked by, or he’d toss mints to people discretely and act innocent when my grandmother would give him a look. If at any point he offered you a mint and you tried to decline, he would pretend to accept this rejection, then stand like a gentleman, offer you a handshake, and leave a mint in your palm anyway. He’d sneak then into coat pockets, purses, suitcases. You could go for the afternoon and leave with a dozen lifesavers in your pocket, whether you wanted them or not. He did this at church, at other people’s homes, when he would show up to support the grandkids at their activities. It’s how he showed others that they were loved and accepted, and that they were welcome. Even as other parts of him began to fade away—even as he forgot that he was a pastor, even when he could no longer do math or sudoku, even when he lost interest in Doctor Who and Dungeons and Dragons—he still knew hospitality. He still knew generosity. He still knew what it meant to show love, if just in simple ways.
What stayed, both with my grandfather and with all those who knew him, wasn’t simply his lessons and intellect, although those were remembered and shared. More than anything, though, what stayed was love. And not simply love spoken, but love that could be seen, and touched, and felt. As frustrating as I’m sure it was for Jesus to show up and find two people whom he had taught and have to teach them all over again, I think there’s grace and truth in that. There’s grace and truth in seeing that knowing Jesus is not simply about knowing how to interpret the scriptures or getting all the doctrine sorted out in our heads. Knowing Jesus isn’t about believing correctly, whatever correct belief means. Rather, knowing Jesus comes through witnessing love in action. It’s not in the words of wisdom or the grandeur of hoped-for redemption that doesn’t seem to come to fruition, but in the act of sharing food with friends and strangers. It’s in the everyday movements of expanding family beyond just those with whom we share blood, the grace and patience to sit together and rest for a while. When we have the courage of heart to share of what we have, to “give so much that we become gift,” and to love so much that we become love. This is our call, after all, as followers of Christ and as people called Methodists.
I also believe that this is why we are called to be part of a church community. Sure, we may be drawn in by certain beliefs or the ways in which particular communities interpret scripture. But love is what binds us together. We are here to know Jesus, the risen Christ made known to us in all the forms of communion that we engage with. Through eating together, through hosting and hospitality, through fellowship and the sharing of gifts. We are here to make Jesus known to others, not, as Ruth Duck would say, “to preach our creeds or customs, but to build a bridge of care.” The church is a call not to be made perfect in thought, not to be made perfect in belief, not to be made perfect in correcting others or explaining away every mystery of the divine. But to be made perfect in love, so that everything we do might be motivated by love. So that love might be the very fiber of our being. So that even when all else has failed, even when our hopes and dreams might go unrealized, even when we don’t recognize the risen Christ walking this road beside us— that we might still practice the love which Christ taught us.
Siblings in Christ, this is our call as Easter people. To remember Christ not only in our words, not only in our studies, not only in our thoughts. But to remember Christ in how we love. In the breaking of bread. In fellowship with strangers and with those known fully to us. In speaking out for those whose voices have been silenced and who are made to live in fear. Christ has shown us how to love: tenderly and completely, even to the end. May this be our call, as we live into the resurrection life which Christ has opened to all of us and to each of us. To be remembered not for believing well or knowing well. But to walk on as part of the full and perfect love that Christ became for us. In all that we do, may we know Christ by love, and may we make Christ known by the same. Amen.