Greater Works Than These
How do you know God? How do you know Jesus? How do you know what they look like or what they want or what kinds of things they’ve experienced? How do you know when someone is a person of faith? How do you know what the truth is? Does it matter? Between last week’s gospel reading, which painted Jesus as a gate to a sheep pen, and this week’s gospel reading, in which Jesus insists that he is the way and that no one gets to see God except through him, it can be easy to see why some communities seem to worship Jesus the bouncer. God’s house is not a beloved community, but a gated development with a guard house—and Jesus is the guard inside. The righteous, those who know the truth, are the ones who have accepted the understanding of Jesus as God’s son, and who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus is the only way, the path to the top of the mountain—whatever that means. This passage has always kind of troubled me, and not just because it makes me think of the implications for all the non-Christian friends I grew up with. Even for Christians, it always seemed to be used more as a cop out or a way for us to rest assured in knowing that, no matter what, as long as we believe in Jesus and accept him as our personal savior, then we’re fine and everyone else had better figure that out before it’s too late for them. We have Jesus, and no one gets to God except through him. So, we’re good. Come and get him.
But, that brings me back to my original questions: how do we know God, and how do we know Jesus? Because we can claim Jesus all we want, we can look at what the gospels say about the one we call the Christ. We can read different translations and Bible commentaries and the epistles. And you could even see what approximate contemporaries of Jesus, like Josephus, were saying. And while much of that can help us to get a sense of who Jesus is and what he looks like, I’m not sure if that gets us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help us God. Amy Jill Levine, a Jewish scholar of the New Testament, sees the “truth” that Jesus refers to in this passage not as broad, universal knowledge. Truth, in this context, is about personal knowledge. Jesus is our personal knowledge of God, and so to know Jesus is to know God. So, we can know God through Jesus. But the question still remains: how do we know Jesus? We can look to the gospels, and see a man born into poverty under scandalous circumstances. We can see a refugee, who had to flee across the border into Egypt to escape the brutal violence of a king. We can see a homeless man who travelled from place to place, depending on the hospitality of strangers and friends in order to get by. We can see a man who was outspoken about how people use their wealth, how people insulate themselves from those they don’t like, how our preoccupation with violence would be our own destruction. We can see a man who was unwilling to back down, and who was killed by an unholy alliance of church and state because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it would have served him best.
That is how we can begin to know Jesus, and so that’s how we can begin to know God: as one who lived the cycles of human life, who spoke out and spoke up, and who suffered a human death at the hands of fellow humans. This passage from John has us hear Jesus claim that he is known, in part and for some, by what he says. When Phillip challenges Jesus, because he still doesn’t understand, Jesus seems dismayed that Jesus’ words alone might not be enough for some to know him. And so, he offers an alternative: that he might be known by what he does. Suddenly, Jesus isn’t just the one standing on a mountain, proclaiming God’s favor for the hungry, the poor, those struggling under enormous weights, and those who long for liberation. Suddenly he’s not just the one arguing with the Pharisees or conversing with tax collectors. He’s also the one who heals the sick, who drives out the spirits that torment people. He’s the one who talks to women and strangers, who brings together feasts for thousands, and who calms even the wildest storms. He cares about those that no one else does, cares that bodies are healthy and whole, and cares that even Creation crying out is caressed and soothed. We see this in Jesus, and so we see that this is who God is, too. The God who cares deeply for the wholeness of Creation, who longs to see it repaired and set into right relationship. The God who makes young mothers sing out, from generation to generation, that the powerful are brought low and the lowly are lifted. We see this God through Jesus, who shows us the truth.
But, how do I know Jesus? How do you know Jesus? We can look from afar at the stories of Jesus, at the actions of his followers, both the Christ-like and the not-so-much. But how can we know Christ for ourselves? We have our means of grace, our practices and experiences of coming into contact with grace, and catching glimpses of Christ. We take communion, we sing, we pray. But we also look Christ in the face each day, or we ought to at least. In Matthew 25, Jesus tells his followers that he was hungry and they fed him, that he was naked and they covered him, that he was sick and in prison and they comforted him. And when they respond that they had done no such thing, Jesus tells them that whenever they have fed the hungry, whenever they have clothed the naked, whenever they have visited the sick or the imprisoned—or those in shelters or detention facilities or psych wards—they have done those things for Christ. Jesus makes himself known to us in the lives of the poor, the sick, the naked, the unhoused. In the lives of the stranger, the disabled, the queer, the young. In the lives of disenfranchised voters and those caught in the crossfire of war and economic disputes. In those who suffer, in those we overlook, in those we avoid or walk right past—Christ is made known to us. We can know Christ in the least among us. Therefore, we come to know God when we come to know our neighbors, and when we see them not simply as projects or places of need, but as those who know God more deeply than we do ourselves.
Christ tells us in this passage that those who know him will continue the works that he has done—and will do greater works than these. When we come to know Christ, there will be signs. Not in bold proclamations and shouts from the rooftops. Not when we tout that we are right and everyone else needs to get on the same page as us. But when we meet Christ in those at the margins, in the places that are not known to us or where we are uncomfortable. And when we embrace Christ in our world, and take up the works that he began. This is how we will know Christ. This is how Christ will be made known through us. May it be so. Amen.
All Things in Common
Where do you feel safe? Where do you feel comfortable? Where do you feel like you belong, like your needs are met, like nothing can touch you? Where do you feel like if you were to make a mistake, or a hundred mistakes, you could still be embraced unconditionally? When I was in seminary in New Jersey, I lived with my uncles for a year and a half. There was a lot to love about living with them. The hospitality, the sense of comfort and acceptance. The experiences I would have, just tagging along with them. The sense of home. One of the greatest things about living with them, though, was meeting all the people I otherwise never would have. From Broadway stars and famous musicians, like the drummer from the band Bleachers, who regularly plays with Taylor Swift, to political experts who appear on CNN and are asked to write opinion pieces for the New York Times. Mixed in with all the renowned and recognizable people I got to meet were the Boldens, an older couple called Papa Frank and Mama Penny. Every Sunday, Frank and Penny host Sunday Dinner at their home, inviting people from all walks of life to eat together. They would host family, church friends, neighbors, seminary students, friends of their friends. The devoutly religious and the militantly atheistic. Citizens and recent immigrants. It was simultaneously an honor and a given, to be invited to Sunday Dinner at the Boldens’.
The first Sunday I was invited to their house for dinner, I went because I had nothing else going on. I did not know what to expect, only that I was going to get a home-cooked meal, and being a grad student who commuted and spent a lot of time on the road, that was enough for me. When we got there, we had barely stepped through the door when Penny rushed over to embrace us, planting a big kiss on each cheek. Even me, whom she had never met before. I was handed a glass of some of the best red wine I had ever tasted, and then followed the crowd out back to the deck, being introduced to people as I went. Once we were outside, conversation flowed easily, genuine interest was shown, connections were made. At one point, everyone went inside to replenish their drinks and refill their appetizer plates from the charcuterie board, and I stayed outside. Before long, Frank walked over and said “Sam? I’m Frank. Come here, I’ve got a job for you.” So, I followed him over to a green container with a crank attached to the side. He sat down, turned the crank for a minute or two, then told me to sit there and keep turning it until he came back. So, I did, and after about ten minutes he came back over and said “that should be good. Do you know what you just did?” Then he opened the container, showing me the homemade strawberry ice cream I had just churned by hand, and said “you just made us dessert. Thanks, Sam!” And then he carried it away to harden up in the freezer.
Week after week, I went back. There was a core group of folks who were there each week, and other folks who were just passing through, or who only came once in a while. Some drove hours to be there each week. Others took trains and buses. And it wasn’t just for Penny’s cooking, as amazing as that was, nor was it for the fine wines and imported cheeses. It was for the hospitality, the sense of belonging, the community that would work to understand even if they didn’t get you at first. It was for a place that encouraged conversations about the two topics that other dinner parties would forbid (religion and politics), and that welcomed differing opinions as long as you were prepared to unpack them. Whether you had yet to finish second grade or were working from multiple graduate degrees, this was a space where conversation was encouraged, and where you were expected to join in. But not just to join the conversation, but to lend a hand in the kitchen, set and clear the table, entertain the little kids, and wherever there was a need. To join in sharing your story, your dreams, your struggles, your beliefs, and to be a recipient of the same from others. They celebrated birthdays, they celebrated with me when I got engaged, they sent me with their best when I graduated, and, now that my sister is there, they’re doing it all over again.
This isn’t the norm, at least not in all places and spaces or for all people. For many, there is no place like this, not even on a temporary basis. It was a place of safety and comfort, not because everyone agreed or no one was ever challenged, but because even if you took a different stance Papa Frank would still serve you dessert at the end of the night and invite you back the next week to elaborate on why you think or feel the way you do. And Mama Penny would still bust your chops, shake her finger at you, and give you a great big hug. Trust, in that space, is the default. By default, you are let in, you are fed, and you are given the floor. The door is not meant to keep out those who need shelter, food, or company. Mostly, the door is to keep the dogs inside. But more than anything, the door is there to be opened, to show that there is a physical space for each of us, and that all we have to do is accept the invitation—that is simultaneously an honor and a given, something unique and individual, and still universal. God’s grace lies in the door that opens not just to the smart sheep or the accomplished sheep or the agreeable sheep or the familiar sheep. God’s grace is in the door that opens not just to the white sheep, the straight sheep, the wealthy sheep, or the sheep that conform to our traditional models of gender or family.
God’s grace is in the door that opens to the sheep who earnestly seek to be a part of the flock, and who need the shelter and safety of the closed door to know that this isn’t conditional and that no one is itching to get rid of them. This is the grace of a community that gathered in the midst of Roman occupation, when it wasn’t acceptable or normal to do so. When this apostolic community gathered, as they do in this passage from Acts, they did so in a way that wasn’t normal. They met across the boundaries drawn by class and social status. There were those whose needs—whether they be spiritual, social, or economic—were not being addressed by society at large. So they met with those who were called to seek wholeness of spirit and wholeness of body together, who were so driven by the call of the Spirit and by their faith in Christ, that they emptied themselves of what they had for the sake of others. They lowered their own economic statuses for the needs of others, blurring the lines between family and strangers. They met in places where they could keep the door closed—not to keep out neighbors, but so that it might be opened to those in need, and closed to keep the marginalized safe.
Christ the gate is not about keeping out the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. Christ the gate is about establishing a community that cares for one another, that tends to the unmet needs of strangers and friends, that seeks to follow the example of the Christ who put all of himself at risk for the sake of those he loved. Christ the gate is not an excuse for exclusion, or a means of justifying locking the doors of our hearts, our communities, or our nation to keep out those we would rather not see or encounter. The grace is in our willingness to accept the invitation of a gate that will open to us, and in our willingness to step into a community that is intentional in how it welcomes, interacts, and grows together. Each of us is invited, to take part in this welcome, to step through this gate, to be a part of a community that is not normal, is not simply an activity or part of the weekly routine. Each of us is invited, personally and as a whole, to encounter the grace of a door is open to us. Let us eat together. Let us disagree, not in passive silence but robust conversation. Let us hold one another in comfort and safety, without condition. Let us know one another. And, together, may we listen for the voice of the shepherd, who calls us in and sends us forth. Amen.
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.
Reset
Acts 2:14, 22–32
Psalm 16
1 Peter 1:3–9
John 20:19–31
Good morning, church. Grace and peace to you in the name of our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It is truly a blessing to be with you today. I want to begin by saying how grateful I am to be able to stand in for Pastor Sam Smith during his hour of need. Moments like this remind us that ministry is never just about one person, but about the body of Christ showing up for one another with love, humility, and care. I am also sincerely thankful to my pastor, Pastor Sebrone Johnson of Greater Harvest, for allowing me the opportunity to come and support my friend today. I do not take that lightly, and I am grateful for his trust, leadership, and covering. And I also want to thank my fiancé, Andre, for his support today. Anyone who serves in ministry knows that support matters, and I am deeply grateful for the encouragement and steadiness he gives me. Thank you for welcoming me into this space. It is an honor to worship with you and to share the Word today. I will be referencing all four lectionary texts today: Acts 2:14, 22–32; Psalm 16; 1 Peter 1:3–9; and John 20:19–31 as we consider this word from the Lord: Think Reset.
Let us pray.
Risen Christ,
stand among us.
Speak peace to our fears,
clarity to our minds,
and hope to our hearts.
And by the power of your Holy Spirit,
reset in us what has grown weary, guarded, or cold.
Amen.
There are moments in life when the issue is no longer effort. The issue is that something needs to be reset. You know the moment. Your computer freezes. Your phone starts acting strangely. The screen stares back at you with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being asked to do the dishes. You tap it. You close apps. You reopen apps. You press buttons with increasing authority, because apparently many of us believe firmness is a technology strategy. And eventually, with the wisdom born of frustration, you say the ancient and sacred words: “Let me just reset this.” Now a reset is not the same as giving up. A reset is not failure. A reset is not the end. A reset is what happens when something must be interrupted so it can be restored. A reset is what happens when a system can no longer keep going as it has been. A reset is what happens when life as we knew it stops making sense.
And that is where these texts meet us today. Because if we are honest, all of these disciples are living in the aftermath of collapse. Their expectations had crashed. Their certainty had shut down. Their hope had become unresponsive. They had built their understanding of Jesus around triumph, restoration, visible power—and then came the cross. Then came the grave. Then came fear. Then came locked doors. But then came resurrection. And resurrection is God’s holy reset. In John 20, the disciples are behind locked doors “for fear.” Not strategy. Not discernment retreat. Not a prayerful planning session. Fear. Their world had been shattered. The one they loved had died publicly, violently, humiliatingly. Their dreams had not merely been delayed. Their dreams had been buried. And yet Jesus does not enter that room to scold them for being afraid. He does not say, “You should be over this by now.” He does not say, “If you had more faith, those doors would already be open.” He steps into the room they locked, stands in the middle of their anxiety, and says, “Peace be with you.” I love that about Jesus. He does not always wait for us to get ourselves together before he shows up. He steps right into the mess. Right into the confusion. Right into the cluttered living room of our souls.
And he says, “Peace be with you.” That is a reset. Because peace, in this text, is not mere calm. It is not spa music. It is not pretending everything is fine. It is the presence of the risen Christ reordering reality. It is Jesus saying, “I know death had the loudest speech on Friday, but Sunday has the final word.” Some of us know what it means to live behind locked doors.
Maybe not wooden doors with hinges and latches, but emotional doors. Spiritual doors. Doors reinforced by disappointment. Doors deadbolted by betrayal. Doors secured by grief.
Doors locked because the last time we opened our hearts, life walked in and rearranged the furniture. And when you have lived long enough, you learn how to function while locked up.
You can smile while locked up. Work while locked up. Serve while locked up. Sing while locked up. Even preach while locked up. But the text reminds us that the risen Jesus is still able to enter spaces that fear has sealed. That is good news for somebody this morning.
Because resurrection means your fear is not final. Your wound is not final. Your doubt is not final. Your Friday is not final.
And yet, if we keep reading, the text gives us Thomas. Lord, bless Thomas. Thomas has gotten such a bad reputation over the years. “Doubting Thomas,” we call him, as if none of us have ever needed a little evidence before rearranging our lives around a miracle. Thomas is the disciple for anybody who has ever said, “I hear what you’re saying, but I need a little more than vibes.” And I appreciate Thomas because he reminds us that doubt is not the opposite of faith. Sometimes doubt is simply wounded faith asking for a place to breathe.
Thomas says, unless I see, unless I touch, I will not believe. And what does Jesus do? He comes back for Thomas. That will preach all by itself. Jesus comes back for the one who missed the first moment. Jesus comes back for the one still struggling. Jesus comes back for the one who cannot force certainty. He does not shame Thomas. He invites him closer. There is something deeply moving about a Savior who is not threatened by our questions. Christ is not insecure. He is risen.
He can handle inquiry. He can handle wrestling. He can handle the places where intellect and ache collide. That matters, because sometimes the church has treated serious questions like spiritual disloyalty. But the gospel does not ask us to become intellectually lazy. It invites us into trust robust enough to face mystery.
Faith is not pretending there are no scars. Faith is seeing the scars and still confessing, “My Lord and my God.” Frederick Buechner said, “The worst isn’t the last thing.” That is not cute church language. That is resurrection theology. The wounds are real. The cross was real. The grief was real. But none of them get the final word. N. T. Wright writes that Easter is the beginning of God’s new creation. That means resurrection is not just a happy ending after tragedy. It is God starting a new world right in the middle of this one. That is exactly what John 20 shows us. Jesus is not merely comforting frightened disciples. He is inaugurating new creation in the middle of their fear. And then he breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” That breath matters. It echoes Genesis, where God breathed life into humanity. Here, the risen Christ is doing new creation work. Resurrection is not just resuscitation. It is re-creation. Jesus is not merely getting the disciples back to where they were before Good Friday. He is making them new. That is what God does in a reset. God does not always restore us to the old version of ourselves. Sometimes God births a wiser, deeper, freer, holier version through what we have survived. Some of us keep asking God to return us to what was. But what if God is saying, “No, beloved. I am taking you into what shall be”?
Now move with me to Acts 2. Peter stands up and preaches. Do not miss how remarkable that is.
This is the same Peter who denied Jesus. Not once or twice but three times. The same Peter who cracked under pressure. The same Peter who knew what it was to fail publicly. If Peter had a modern church profile, somebody would have said, “Maybe let him sit down for a season.” And yet here he is, standing with clarity and boldness, declaring the risen Christ. Do not miss the reset in Peter. Resurrection did not merely prove that Jesus was alive. It transformed broken disciples into bold witnesses. Peter says that Jesus was crucified, yes, but death could not hold him.
Why? Because God was at work even in what looked like defeat. Peter reaches back to Psalm 16, where David declares:
“You will not abandon my soul to Hades.”
“You show me the path of life.”
And elsewhere in that psalm:
“I keep the Lord always before me.”
“My heart is glad, and my soul rejoices.”
“Because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.”
This is not denial. This is theological defiance. Psalm 16 does not say life is painless. It says God is present. It does not say trouble never comes. It says trouble does not get custody of your future. It does not say the grave is unreal. It says the grave is not ultimate. And that is where the reset begins: when we stop letting what has happened to us define what is possible for us. Peter says God raised Jesus up because it was impossible for him to be held by death. Impossible. Peter does not say death was intimidating.
He says death was outmatched. Karl Barth described the resurrection as God’s proclamation of victory. And that is exactly what Peter is doing. He is not giving a motivational talk. He is announcing that heaven has already settled the matter. Jesus Christ is risen. And death does not get the final word.
Now let us listen to 1 Peter 1, because Peter deepens this beautifully. He says we have been given “a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” A living hope. Not a polite hope. Not a fragile hope. Not decorative hope. Not Sunday-only hope that disappears by Monday morning when the emails start rolling in and the coffee has not yet done the work of sanctification. A living hope. Hope with breath in it. Hope with movement in it. Hope that survives bad news, long nights, and unwelcome diagnoses. A living hope is not positive thinking dressed in church clothes. It is resurrection confidence. Peter goes even further and says that though we may suffer various trials, these are refining us, proving the genuineness of faith.
Now nobody likes that verse at first glance. Let us tell the truth. We all enjoy the part about joy unspeakable. We are less excited about the part where faith is tested by fire. Nobody frames that verse and hangs it in the kitchen next to the fruit bowl.
But it is still true. Because there are some things God does not merely remove; God refines. There are some places where the reset comes not by escape, but by transformation. And this is where mature faith differs from shallow optimism. Shallow optimism says, “If I love God, nothing hard should happen.” Mature faith says, “Even when hard things happen, God is still at work, and because Christ is risen, I am not abandoned.” That is the theological foundation of Christian hope. Not avoidance of suffering. Victory through it. Not denial of pain. Redemption in it. Not exemption from death. Resurrection beyond it. I have seen the need for that kind of reset in both my Human Resources work and my collegiate teaching. In organizational life, there are seasons when everything looks productive on the surface, but underneath the culture is strained.
Meetings still happen. Emails still go out. Everybody is smiling in the Zoom square. But trust is thin, communication is brittle, and morale is quietly unraveling.
And in those moments, surface changes will not fix what is deeper. You do not need cosmetic adjustment. You need truth, clarity, accountability, and renewal. The same is true in teaching. Students often walk into a classroom carrying more than books. They carry hesitation, old assumptions, fear of failure, and uncertainty about whether they belong. And one of the most important things a teacher can do is create room for honest engagement, the kind of room where questions are not treated as weakness, but as part of the path toward understanding. That is why Thomas matters to me. He reminds us that faith is not the absence of questions. Sometimes faith is the courage to bring your questions all the way to Jesus.
And Peter matters too. He reminds us that failure need not be final. And the disciples behind locked doors matter. They remind us that Jesus comes into spaces fear has sealed shut. Don’t you just appreciate how inclusive Jesus is? I remember a season in my own life when everything felt layered at once. Not one problem. A collection. A little fatigue over here. A little disappointment over there. A little unanswered prayer on top. A little “Lord, are we still on speaking terms?” beneath the surface. I was doing what needed to be done, showing up where I needed to show
up, checking the boxes, handling responsibilities, and still feeling internally like the spinning wheel on a frozen laptop. I was spiraling. I was functioning, but not flourishing. And one morning, in all my sanctified frustration, I said, “Lord, I do not need a motivational quote. I need you, I need a reset.”
Not a vacation. Although nice. Not a distraction. A reset. A resetting of my mind. A resetting of my heart. A resetting of what I was trusting. A resetting of the belief that certain things had to fall into place before I could be whole. And what the Lord began to show me was this: I had let my peace become too dependent on outcomes. I had tied my joy to resolution, my hope to visible progress, my steadiness to whether people behaved, responded, apologized, agreed, or changed. And when those things did not move, neither did I. But resurrection teaches us that God’s power is not dependent on ideal conditions. Jesus rose in a world still ruled by Rome. He rose before every enemy was silenced. He rose while some people still doubted. He rose while grief was still fresh. That means your reset does not require perfect circumstances. It requires the presence of the risen Christ. So here is the question the text puts before us: Where do you need a reset? Where has fear locked the door? Where has disappointment frozen your spirit? Where has grief narrowed your vision? Where have you kept going outwardly while inwardly something has stalled?
Hear the witness of scripture.
From John 20:
“Peace be with you.”
From Psalm 16:
“You show me the path of life.”
From Acts 2:
“It was impossible for him to be held by death.”
From 1 Peter 1:
“He has given us a new birth into a living hope.”
That is the Christian claim. Not that life is painless. Not that disciples never doubt. Not that good people never grieve. But that in Jesus Christ, death has been defeated, hope has been made living,
and new creation has already begun. So the good news this morning is not that you must fix yourself before Christ comes near. The good news is that Christ comes near precisely where we are afraid, guarded, uncertain, and tired. He still enters locked rooms. He still speaks peace. He still shows scars. He still breathes Spirit. He still turns fear into witness, doubt into confession, and broken disciples into Easter people.
And that means whatever has stalled in you is not beyond the reach of God. Reset is possible. Not because we are strong enough. Not because we are certain enough. Not because we have everything together. But because Christ is risen. And because Christ is risen, the worst thing is never the last thing. The world will always hand us reasons to be afraid. There will always be locked rooms, fresh griefs, unanswered questions, and powers that act as though death has the final say. But the church does not gather to rehearse despair. The church gathers to announce resurrection. We are here to say that fear is not Lord. The Empire is not Lord. Death is not Lord. Despair is not Lord. Injustice is not Lord. Oppression is not Lord. Jesus Christ is Lord. And because he lives, we will not surrender to cynicism. We will not bow to hopelessness. We will not make peace with systems that diminish human dignity or deny the image of God in any of God’s children. For the risen Christ still stands among his people, still says, “Peace be with you,” and still sends us into the world as witnesses to a hope that refuses to die, a mercy that refuses to quit, and a justice that refuses to be silenced. And maybe that is the reset some of us need today:
to remember who is Lord, to release what fear has been holding, and to rise from this place with hearts made steady by the peace of the living Christ.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Christ Still Rises
Easter Sunday
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
John 20:1-18
Growing up, Easter was exactly the same year after year. My dad being a pastor, we couldn’t really go anywhere, so my grandparents, my dad’s parents, would always come spend Easter with us. They’d drive down to the Albany area from their home in Saranac Lake on Good Friday, and leave mid-afternoon on Sunday. Don’t read too much into that. Since Sunday was the big day, with lots going on, we would always have Easter dinner on Saturday—which was always ham, potatoes in some form, some roasted vegetables, and a relish tray full of pickles and olives. During the years my brother spent as a vegetarian, his plant-based celebration roast joined the table, too. Saturday morning was for coloring the eggs, which we would dye in the fancy tea cups. One of my favorite bits a long, long time ago (definitely not recently), was sipping the vinegar-based dye out of the tea cups, pinky out like a gentleman. I would say it never got old, but it only might have been a little funny the first time. Sunday after church, we would always find a trail of plastic Easter eggs leading up the lawn, through the front door, and to Easter baskets waiting in the living room. Lunch on Sunday was always ham sandwiches and the rest of the leftovers from dinner the day before. And, of course, after lunch was the egg-cracking contest, which I’ve learned is not something that everyone does. For those who don’t know, the egg-cracking contest is when everyone gets one of the dyed hard-boiled eggs and you turn to the person sitting next to you, knock your eggs together, and whichever egg doesn’t break is the winner. Then you keep going like a tournament until there’s a winner, and then you keep going still until all the eggs have been cracked.
And then the grandparents would pack up their things, load up the car, stand around chatting in the driveway for a bit, and go back home. And that’s how I knew, year after year, that Christ had still risen—because it always looked the same.
And then it didn’t. Easter in 2020 looked nothing like that. There were eggs, sure, and there was ham. But there were no grandparents. Church was pre-recorded, and there were no grand hymns played on the organ and sung by hundreds. There was no communion, in any sense of the word. People were dying, from the pandemic and from increasing racial violence, everything was in turmoil, and it seemed like the world was coming to an end. And the craziest thing happened that Easter Sunday: Christ still rose. In spite of everything, Christ still rose. The next year, in 2021, restrictions had loosened up significantly and I had been able to return to college. But, because restrictions hadn’t been totally removed and travel was still limited, I wasn’t able to make it home at all for Easter. So, I spent that Sunday in Plattsburgh, with my mom’s parents at their church. And I sang the hymns, and there was ham, and there were eggs. And there were grandparents, too, though not the usual ones. It was different. Not bad at all, but different. And, once again, funnily enough, Christ still rose that day, in spite of things not being quite right or normal or exactly the same as they had always been, year after year after year. Through fear and confusion, through illness and violence, through war and threats of war, still Christ rose—and still Christ rises, again and again. Not because he is manifested through ham and eggs and the wonderful, triumphant hymns played so powerfully on the organ. But because of those who have borne witness to Christ since Mary preached the first Christian sermon on that first Easter Sunday. In the lives and witnesses of the least among us—the tired, the hungry, the unhoused, the queer, the transgender, the undocumented—Christ is made known to us. Through the lives and witnesses of those who have the courage to live fully and authentically into the life that God is creating for and with each of us and all of us. Through the lives and witnesses of those who dare to live out the resurrection hope to which we are called this day.
Christ still rises, even in the midst of all the fear and anxiety that plague our lives. Christ still rises, even in the midst of struggle and injustice. Christ still rises, even when we can’t see the empty tomb, even when we don’t recognize him walking and moving and living among us. Christ rising isn’t contingent upon our rituals or traditions, however lovely they may be. Christ has already risen, and Christ continues to rise—when we are bold enough to recognize the face of God in those our culture would deem lesser than us. When we step out of our places of comfort and into the spaces that are difficult, where we can’t possibly imagine life could be. When we allow ourselves to have Christ’s resurrection proclaimed to us, remembering that we may very well not be Mary in this story. And that’s ok, if we are willing to listen. Because Christ still rises, when we walk as Christ walked before us. When we share with our neighbors in God’s abundance, when we step out into places that aren’t safe or respectable, when we seek healing and wholeness, in body, mind, and spirit for all of Creation. Christ’s rising does not come by way of destruction, by military might or a great show of force. He does not rise, conquering or occupying. Christ rises in those whose homes, schools, hospitals, and churches have been bombed and ruined. Christ rises in those who have walked hundreds of miles through deserts and forests for even the chance at safety. Christ still rises, in those we are told to hate and fear. No matter how hard we try, Christ still rises, Christ still rises today.
May we hear this call, not only to share the good news that Christ is risen, but to hear the good news. That even in the midst of death and destruction, even in the midst of sickness and violence, even in the midst of chaos and confusion, Christ still rises. May we rise with Christ, walking where he first walked, loving as he first loved us, and to live into the life which Christ has opened to each and to all of us. May we follow this death-defying God into the fullness of new life, as Christ still rises—even among us. Amen.
Sunday’s Palms
On December 10, 1989, during the height of the AIDS epidemic, thousands of protesters gathered outside of St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City to demand that the Catholic Church change the ways in which it was addressing the AIDS crisis. At the time, the archdiocese of New York was led by Cardinal O’Connor, who was an outspoken opponent of using prophylactics and comprehensive sex education as means of combatting the spread of HIV and AIDS. He was also firm in his understanding of homosexuality as sinful, which contributed to the demonization of members of the LGBTQ community and the perception of AIDS as a form of divine retribution. As he was such a powerful figure at the time, who was able to influence public policy in a number of areas, the AIDS activist organization ACT UP had begun directing its attention at Cardinal O’Connor. Their organizing efforts gained notoriety on that Sunday in December, when protesters gathered mostly outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They carried signs critiquing Church dogma and urging the Church to see that the over 100,000 people who had died in the United States from HIV/AIDS were people of sacred worth. That morning, as the roughly 7,000 protesters gathered outside the Cathedral, a few dozen entered the church intending to stage a silent demonstration. It quickly turned into a not-so-silent demonstration, as members of ACT UP began to shout to Cardinal O’Connor to stop ignoring those dying from AIDS, to recognize that people were dying, and to do something about it. Mixed into the voices calling out Cardinal O’Connor’s bigotry were cries for help, for justice. As the demonstration continued, the activists inside the Cathedral began lying in the aisles, carrying out something called a “die-in” to bring attention to the lives being lost each day, their bodies laid out like coats and palm branches waiting to welcome freedom from death itself.
Many of those taking part in this demonstration were people living with AIDS, a disease that would most likely lead to the end of their lives. They knew that they were most likely dying, if not from AIDS-related causes than from the violence that disproportionately occupied the same spaces where AIDS was common. They saw death on the horizon, and rather than turning away, rather than keeping their heads low and trying not to draw attention to themselves, they faced that death head-on. They did as Christ did, when he rode head on into the very city that was home to the religious leaders he had spent his entire ministry pushing back against, challenging, questioning, prodding, and embarrassing, knowing full well that he had upset enough people with the means to end his life that that was a very real possibility—if not a guarantee. Even so, he rode on, not with the triumphant prestige of a warlord or an emperor, but as one who was willing to put his life on the line for those whose backs were against the wall. Jesus surely would have known what was waiting for him in Jerusalem. The reasonable thing for him to do would have been to stay as far away from the city as possible, to disband his group of followers, take up his father’s trade, and live a quiet life in the country. But instead, Jesus does the unreasonable thing. He puts his life, his body, in between those in power and those at the margins. He draws attention to the ways in which the people around him are suffering, and pushes back—not in the way that the zealous rebels of his time would have, but by acts of non-violent resistance. Because violence belongs to the powers of this world, and it has no place in the beloved community that Jesus was building among those who loved him. That non-violent spirit is the one Jesus carries with him over the coats and palms on his way to Jerusalem, not because he does not anticipate violence against him, but because he knows that the kin-dom is not born out of violence. Rather, it is born out of standing together, supporting one another, and being willing to put our own well-being at risk for others.
But it’s also important to recognize who the people were in the crowd, who it was that laid out their palms and coats. It wasn’t the people of Jerusalem. Remember, the passage says that the city was confused, that they were in turmoil trying to figure out who it was that was causing such a commotion. No, these were the people from outside the city, from small villages and other cities. These were pilgrims who had made their way to Jerusalem for the Passover remembrances. In a quite literal sense, they weren’t the insiders. They didn’t live in the holy place, they didn’t live in the religious, cultural, and economic capital of the province. They were pilgrims, many of whom travelled long distances, almost all of them by foot. They were tired, dirty, and far from home. They weren’t comfortable. And, contrary to what many would argue, these were not the same people who turned on Jesus at the end of the week. Classics scholar and translator Sarah Ruden points out that the original Greek in which the gospels were written uses two different words to describe these groups. These weren’t the people who brought accusations and testified against Jesus. Those were the insiders, the people closer to the center of political, economic, and religious power. Which makes sense, since those were the folks that Jesus said ought to give away all their possessions and all their authority and follow him into struggle. So, while there’s something kind of poetic about the Palm Sunday crowd being the ones to turn on Jesus on Good Friday, it makes much more sense and is more correct to say that these were two different crowds. One who welcomed Jesus, a fellow pilgrim along the way to a city rife with power and in need of change. One who could not comprehend the witness of a shepherd king who couldn’t seem to help himself when it came to rubbing those in power the wrong way. One who saw that the “the aftermath of non-violence is the creation of the beloved community,” and one who could not see that “the aftermath of violence is tragic bitterness,” as Dr. King put it.
After all, that is the example that Christ sets in this parade he puts on—that the beloved community is born not out of violence, not out of conquest, not out of cultural, racial, religious, and ideological homogeneity. But rather that it is built out of a concern for the outsider, a concern for those whose lives are regarded as sinful or worthless. It is built out of a concern for the sacred worth and the dignity of each part of Creation that bears the imago dei, the image of God, which is all of it. It is built when our love for one another overcomes the fear of death, and drives us to hear the cries of hosanna, ayudanos—help us, save us, stop letting us die—and we respond to these cries. It comes not only in the act of helping and responding to cries for help, but when we have the courage to cry out for ourselves, asking others for help. The beloved community, that sacred bond to which we are called in this place, becomes apparent when we become bearers and keepers of one another, so that none of us struggles alone. Not because it benefits us, not because of some animal instinct to band together in packs that compete with one another. But because it doesn’t make sense. The beloved community is not about self-preservation—that’s not one of our values. The beloved community is about offering all of ourselves for the sake of others, so that we might all experience the abundant, eternal, good life that Christ calls us towards. That comes not by turning away from death, not by turning away from the cries of our fellow pilgrims, not by ignoring the immigrant or the unhoused person or the people dying of AIDS or anyone whose back is against the wall in grand ways or simple. It comes by facing towards death and continuing our ministry in spite of it all. It comes from living as Easter people, as those who serve a death-defying God, and as those whose love for one another and all of Creation is greater than our fear. May this be our call, even as we walk this road to Calvary. Amen.
Can These Bones Live?
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” What absolutely heart-wrenching words to hear, especially from one of your friends. Even when said to Jesus who, let’s face it, absolutely could have stopped Lazarus from dying. But instead, this man who we’re told loves Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, and who has already healed multiple other people, chooses to wait a few days so that his publicity stunt has a bit more of an impact. It feels like such a natural reaction to the death of a loved one, and it’s something I’ve heard over and over again during the last six months in my work as a chaplain intern at Strong Memorial. It’s part of why my chest fills with dread when I get a call to visit a family in the ICU, because I know that in making decisions about end of life care there will be those who blame themselves or the doctors and nurses or other members of their families. If we had gotten there sooner. If the doctors had diagnosed more quickly. If some miracle had taken place. It’s part of how we make sense of death and other crises in our lives. If only blank had happened, this person wouldn’t have died. If only Jesus hadn’t taken his sweet time, Mary says, Lazarus would still be alive. Perhaps the one thing that Mary thought she could count on was that Jesus would be there, that when she sent for him, he would come running. The fact that he showed up days late is enough to shake her faith, to question where the blame really lies. Putting this back on Jesus gives Mary back a little control. At least now she has someone to blame.
There’s nothing quite like death that makes us feel so powerless. Even when we find ways to blame ourselves, that blame still doesn’t hide the fact that death is a mystery, and that sometimes there just isn’t anything we can do to stop it. And this death that makes us feel powerless comes in many forms. It’s not just the literal, bodily death that sees us pulseless and breathless. There’s also what theologian Brian Blount refers to as living death. This is the death that is woven into our world, that tells us that we are competitors rather than beloved children of the divine. This is the death that comes from doing soul-crushing work, rather than the work that our souls must have. This is the death that comes from the violence that patriarchy and white supremacy and queerphobia do to both body and spirit. This living death makes lifeless creatures out of both victim and perpetrator, pulling each of us away from the fullness of life. It leaves us bound, sealed in the darkness of the tomb, waiting to hear the voice of one who speaks life to us. We continue to move through lives that don’t seem to resemble the fullness of life, in the midst of systems and institutions that bring about death on a daily basis. The death of being denied healthcare, because your health is not profitable. The death of having your children torn from your arms because they are citizens and you are not. The death of broken relationships that don’t seem to bear any hope for reconciliation. Living death follows us on a daily basis. And who is left to speak to us all and call us out of the tomb, when all of us are living in death together?
That’s the part of these passages that ought to be our guide, I think. That the bones don’t come back together because they decide to on a whim. That Lazarus doesn’t just wake up and decide to not be dead anymore. God tells Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. That word that we often read as prophesy, in this case is a verb. God tells Ezekiel to take action, to call out to the dry bones of his people, to call out to the winds and the spirit, and to move with them from death into life. God does not abandon, even the dead. Rather, God moves through others among us to bring life to where life is lacking. God still calls to us, even when we get swept up in the systems that drain our life and the lives of others. God still calls us into the fullness of life, even when it is difficult, even when we won’t dare to dream about the possibility of what life could look like if we were to cast off the burden of death. Our task is to step out into the fullness of life, to recognize in ourselves and in one another the image of the divine, the face of God. The movement from death into life is one that seeks to feed the soul, to find belonging and place in the body. And it is an embodied experience. After all, God doesn’t tell Ezekiel to prophesy to the spirit alone, but to the bodies that God has knit back together. That search for wholeness, for the completeness that is the resurrection life, is a task that is both personal and communal—and it is a task that demands much from us.
Perhaps that’s why death is where we’ve become comfortable. The tomb, after all, is a pretty safe place to be. When Lazarus is in the tomb, he doesn’t have to worry about the Roman occupation or putting food on the table. He doesn’t have to worry about making sure that his sisters are cared for, or what people think of him for being a friend of Jesus. He gets to rest, no longer having to work and sweat for a living. Perhaps the death that found Lazarus wasn’t quite so bad. And hey, if you want to argue that this is the same Lazarus who was abused and neglected by the rich man, then he’s sitting beside Abraham having a grand old time. There are those who find comfort in living death, in systems and structures that drain life. There are those who find profit and privilege and literal killing and in the killing of spirits, of hopes, of identities and senses of belonging. And while there are those who delight in the dealings of death, there are also those who simply stay in the tomb because it’s what’s safe, what’s known. The tomb is the way that the world works. But we are called—by Christ, by the Spirit, and, God willing, by one another—to step out of the tomb. We are called to come out! To come out of the comfortable places where we reside, and to step into the work of calling ourselves and others to life. This is what it means to proclaim the resurrection. When Easter Sunday comes around and we all say “Christ is risen, Christ is risen indeed,” that is only one small part of what it means to proclaim the resurrection life. We proclaim it to one another, we proclaim it to ourselves. We proclaim it when we seek to live the fullness of life, and to make space for others to do the same.
Last Sunday I offered a prayer for a woman named Tanya who passed away. Tanya Linn Bennet was one of the deans of Drew Theological School where I went to seminary. She was a pastor, a mentor to generations of students and faith leaders, and a friend. About ten years ago she wrote the text of a song that Mark Miller wrote the music for. It goes “Come out! Come out of your comfortable places. Come meet Jesus in the difficult places. Have you not heard? Every valley’s exalted, mountains made low and the lowly exalted. Come out! Come out, of your well-to-do places. Come meet Jesus in the struggling spaces. Come out! The Kindom of God is upon us. Come out the wilderness and follow Jesus.” We are called, to meet Jesus in the difficult places. We are called, to come out of the tomb, out of the safe and comfortable places we know, and to meet death with the life and hope of the resurrection. We are called to live this life, live this hope, and to call others to do the same. This life is for all who live in death. This life is for us. May we come out. May these bones have life once again. May it be so. Amen.
All I Know
“I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” One of the things that I personally appreciate about Jesus is that he likes to argue. He argues with Pharisees, with the disciples, with strangers he meets while travelling. He even pushes back against God just before and during his crucifixion. And yet, when the disciples in this passage seem like they’re trying to start something by asking Jesus who sinned so that this man would be born blind, Jesus seems to brush them off. I, for one, might have had a hard time not engaging with this question, but mostly because I think it’s silly to ask if the blindness of the man who was born blind was caused by the man’s sins. They probably thought they were on to something when they asked that question, but it sets up a theological position that I find pretty troubling and that I think would be difficult to support with other parts of scripture. But Jesus once again resists temptation and chooses not to engage with this line of thinking. Instead, he says that this man’s blindness is not a punishment, but a way for God to be made known in the world. Jesus deliberately removes any mention of sin from the man’s status and disability, and replaces the idea of sin with a sense of obligation to the man. He doesn’t really get into the nitty gritty theology of the man’s disability, only that the man needs help, that the man’s existence demands that Jesus and the disciples do God’s work—the work of healing and restoration. He doesn’t get lost in the struggle to explain away struggle or hardship, but moves swiftly into the work that both God and this man require of him. He sees this man, who had been pushed to the margins of the community and forced to beg on the street, and does what he believes will restore him to the community.
Jesus stands in stark contrast to those at the center of the social and religious structure, who taught the disciples to ask the question that Jesus rejects. He doesn’t question if the man is worthy, doesn’t question that his socio-economic status is not him living into the fullness of life that God would have him live, doesn’t question that God’s concern for this man is at least as great as God’s concern for any other person. Jesus doesn’t wait for a study, doesn’t wait for permission, and doesn’t even wait to ask if what he’s doing is legal—which it wasn’t, according to the Pharisees. He sees one of God’s beloveds, one of the least among us, and recognizes the face of the divine in him. He sees one who has been pushed out of the community and left by the devoutly religious to the limited mercy of strangers, and when the disciples want to start talking about the man and passing judgement, Jesus responds by effectively saying “pipe down, all of you. We have work to do.” Jesus’ initial response, his reflex, is not to mess around wondering about whether the man is sinful or the product of sin or if he was worthy. He doesn’t respond to the disciples’ question with a question or try and coax the correct answer out of his followers. He sees a man in need of a neighbor, and he does what he can to help. We can leave the question of why this man was born blind to the medical experts. The question that each of us is called to ask in the moment is “what do you need?”
This isn’t to say that it’s not important to look at the root causes of suffering in our world and our communities. True justice can only come when we realize that the economic systems that feed on white supremacy, xenophobia, and exploitation cannot set us free. But while the work of building a truly just society is ongoing, there are people who are hungry. There are people who are sick. There are people who are rejected by their families, their communities, and society because they don’t fit the model of a typical, productive member of society. And while conversations about systems and structures that do violence are important, it’s also important to meet the immediate needs of those around us. Not to quibble about who is worthy of resources or who ought to experience God’s grace at work in their lives. But to give as freely as we have received. To welcome the stranger and the outcast, regardless of how they look, how they speak, or whether it is legal to do so. To show mercy to the unhoused, to those who are hungry and thirsty and naked. To embrace into loving community those who are alone, who have been rejected, and who have been made to think that there is anything that they can do to make God love them less. The work of justice is ours to do. But so is the work of mercy, the work of loving openly and honestly and courageously.
The lectionary has the reading continue past where I chose to end it. In the verses that follow, the man continues to try and defend himself, to justify why he should be permitted to remain in the community. He pleads with the leaders of the community, witnesses to the ways in which he has experienced mercy and grace and a recognition of his sacred worth as a child of God. But the insistence of his sinfulness, and of the sinfulness of the one who had shown him mercy, continues until he is driven out once again. The reading ends with an exchange between Jesus and the Pharisees, in which Jesus finally answers the question about where the sin lies in this story. The sin is not in the man born blind, or even in his parents. The sin is not in being blind, nor is it in breaking the Sabbath in order to perform works of mercy. Instead, the sin lies in the people and conditions that set this man apart from the community. The sin lies in seeing him as less than, as unworthy, as one whom God has rejected. The sin lies in not caring for the vulnerable in their midst—and in leading others to reject mercy for the sake of purity or strict obedience to a misreading of the law. Jesus is clear that there is sin present in this story. And that sin remains when we allow the vulnerable, those image-bearers of the divine in our midst, to be abused, neglected, and called sinful. That sin remains when we see our neighbors as the world sees them—as broken, worthless, unclean, or unworthy—instead of how God sees them.
Jesus performs two healing acts in this story—or, at least he attempts two healing acts in this story. The first is the sensational, the headline, the attention-grabber: Jesus Heals a Blind Man. The second act, the one that he attempts, is to restore the man to the community. The human tendency towards rejection, towards individualism, towards assigning blame to anyone but especially not ourselves proved more difficult to overcome than a simple lack of vision. If only Jesus could have rubbed some spit-mud on the gathered community and changed these inclinations. When we look at our neighbors, what do we see? Do we see their sins, however we define them? Do we look with eyes seeking reasons not to show mercy? Do we hope to find people who are unworthy, beyond our capacity to help, who are simply part of cycles that we couldn’t possibly disrupt? Do we seek out reasons, excuses, not to expand God’s grace and the joy of community? We are called to give all of what we have and all of who we are, to love with reckless abandon, and to center those who have been pushed out of community. We are called to walk together into the fullness of life, which is a gift from the death-defying God we follow. May love, may mercy, may the grace of God be so natural for us that we can’t help but share these with our neighbors. May this by our call. Amen.
Born Again
Poor Nicodemus. That was my first first thought when I read this text in preparation for today. Poor poor Nicodemus. This man took the time to seek out Jesus, calls him “rabbi,” and acknowledges that he must be sent by God because of all the incredible things he has done. He humbles himself by going to Jesus. As a Pharisee, Nicodemus could easily get away with claiming that he was a spiritual expert and that he has all the answers. But instead he goes to this homeless, itinerant preacher, and calls him “rabbi.” Isn’t this what Christ asks of us? To go to him, follow his ways? See him as our teacher? Jesus should have welcomed Nicodemus with open arms!
But what does he do instead? He starts uttering total nonsense! Here comes Nicodemus, Poor Nicodemus, who didn’t know what he was getting himself into, admitting that Jesus is of God and submitting himself to Christ’s teaching, and there goes Jesus, talking about being born from above like it’s completely clear what that means. And when Nicodemus comes back and says he doesn’t understand, asks Jesus to clarify what this means, Jesus spits out even more riddles, talking about “what’s flesh is flesh and what’s spirit is spirit,” and how those who are born of the spirit are like the wind which blows where it chooses. And when Nicodemus, Poor Nicodemus, still doesn’t understand, Jesus seems to snap back at him.
Suddenly, he goes from teaching Nicodemus in riddles to jabbing at him, talking about how he’s supposed to be a teacher of the people but he doesn’t understand the spiritual truths that Jesus is handing him, and that no matter how many times Jesus explains it, Nicodemus just won’t seem to get it. And then, just when you thought he might have had enough, Jesus starts right back up with more cryptic teachings, this time about having descended from heaven and needing to be lifted up and eternal life and on and on…
Perhaps I read it this way because I can certainly relate to Nicodemus. I read this and thought back to years of staying after school, desperately trying to understand not the way to eternal life, but the mysteries of algebra and geometry that elude me to this day. Years of asking for a better explanation and getting only repeated lines about angles and formulas to no avail. Years of teachers trying valiantly to remain patient and explain it just one more time. I read this passage knowing that not everyone learns the same, and giving Nicodemus the benefit of the doubt seemed the least I could do. Part of me wanted to believe that Nicodemus’s lack of understanding is due to Jesus just being a bad teacher who inundates his students with mystic sayings until they’re in over their heads and struggling to keep up. That would certainly make me feel better when I’m having a difficult time with a text.
While some of this may be true, I don't think that this explanation for why Nicodemus remains confused really holds up. In fact, I think that Nicodemus fully understands what Jesus is trying to tell him, and is really playing the fool. And I think Jesus knows it, too. Nicodemus is a Pharisee. We are told that he is a leader of his people, presumably with some power and influence in society. He was respected, a legal expert to whom people looked for guidance and discernment. He doesn’t strike me as the foolish type. So then why doesn’t he seem to understand what Jesus is trying to get across to him? The short answer is, because it’s hard.
We know that Nicodemus has been keeping an eye on Jesus for a little while at this point. He has heard Jesus referred to as the King of Israel, the Lamb of God, the one who takes away our sins. He has seen Jesus turn water into wine and drive the money changers out of the Temple with a whip of cords. He knew full well that he was talking to Jesus, who was said to baptize the world with fire and overturn the established political and economic order. Jesus, who called his disciples by name and asked them to leave behind their work and join his cause. Maybe Nicodemus resonated with this Jesus. Maybe he got excited and passionate and as soon as he heard Jesus was going to be around, he dropped everything to go meet him, even if it was the middle of the night.
Maybe he got all the way there before he realized — this was going to be a lot of work. He had allowed Jesus to carry him to the edge, but when it came time to hear Jesus’ call, to put into action all of the values that we uplift as the ethic of Jesus, suddenly it became too real. He thinks about losing his power, his influence, his livelihood. And so he clams up. He does nothing. “Your responsibility is to instruct Israel in matters of faith, but you do not comprehend the necessity of life in the Spirit?” Jesus asks incredulously. Jesus knows Nicodemus is no fool. And Nicodemus returns to life as normal.
How often do we fall into this same habit? Do we, like Nicodemus, encounter truths that bring us to the edge of something greater, that carry us up the mountain, only to stop short, frozen with dread at what might be waiting for us on the other side? Do we make conscious choices to ignore transformative truths because we don’t want to hear them? I think of the scientists employed by Exxon who knew as early as 1977 that climate change was real, and that it would have devastating effects on the future of the planet. For more than forty years, fossil fuel corporations have known that their business is killing the planet. They have been staring, eyes wide open at these truths, unwilling to take a step forward and risk precious profits for the sake of the planet. I think of lawmakers in Tennessee, Texas, Ohio, Kansas, Florida, and numerous other states who have passed laws banning transgender minors from accessing the healthcare they need in order to live healthily and authentically. Lawmakers who heard truths from doctors, parents, and transgender children crying out, bringing warnings about the incredible harm these bans cause to young people and families across the state. Lawmakers who took these cries in stride and voted to condemn children.
As followers of Christ, we are no strangers to being at the edge. We hear Jesus’ call into a new way of being. We hear Christ’s summons, beckoning us towards total dependence on God, towards a recognition of the interconnectedness of creation, towards the kingdom of God in which the poor are filled and the privileged are brought low. But it’s easy to get discouraged. We allow recessions, constant war, local and federal police violence, and fear mongering to shut us up. It can become difficult to see how any talk of change can lead to anything but disappointment when nothing seems to get better. It’s ok to struggle. It’s ok to wrestle. Lucky for us, we’re Methodists, which means we believe in Prevenient Grace, which means that God will keep guiding us towards the edge, even when it feels hopeless.
We have work to do. Exciting, awe-inspiring work that leads to a New City, a new way of existing in relationship with the rest of creation, an entire world restored. Work that calls us to act in ways that disrupt our lives, our communities, our institutions. Work that can certainly be intimidating. But it is this work that brings us hope, leads us into the light, and will bring about God’s reign on Earth. God leads us to the edge of something new, something life-giving, and leaves it to us to decide. Do we follow the call, or act like we never heard it in the first place? Amen.
Bread and Roses
For several years now, I’ve made it a point to watch the movie Pride at least once a year. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Pride is a movie about the events of the coal miners’ strike in the United Kingdom in 1984-1985. It centers on a group of young gay and lesbian activists based in London, who recognize that the oppression they endure at the hands of police, politicians, and the public is not so different from what the striking coal miners endure. It tells the story of how this group of activists became stalwart fundraisers and organizers on behalf of those on strike—collecting loose change in plastic buckets on street corners to send direct aid to the miners and their families. As part of living out this recognition of shared struggle, the gay and lesbian activists end up travelling from the City of London, where there is relative safety in the midst of a lively LGBT scene, to a tiny village in the South of Wales where everyone is directly impacted by the strike. I won’t spoil too much, because it really is a beautiful movie and I highly recommend it. But there is one scene that never fails to bring me to tears…ok, there are many scenes that never fail to bring me to tears, but one in particular that I want to lift up today. Once the activist group, named Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners, has settled in a bit and built some strong relationships with folks in the village, there comes a time when everyone is sitting together in the union hall, drinking and talking together. After the leader of the activist group stands up to declare his intention to continue and amplify the group’s support for the miners, a young woman from the village stands up and begins to sing a well-known song in the labor movement. The scene goes on, and becomes more and more powerful as more voices from the crowd join in with each verse until everyone in the room is singing together.
The song that they sing in this scene is called “Bread and Roses.” While the origin of this pairing of bread and roses together is uncertain, its modern usage in organizing movements probably began around 1910, when a woman named Helen Todd used it while advocating for women’s suffrage and better conditions for working class women in Chicago and California. It was quickly picked up by women organizers across the country. The lyrics of the song that they sing in Pride come from a poem that was inspired by the work of the suffrage and labor movements, written by James Oppenheim. The words to the song go: “As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day/A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill-lofts gray/Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses/For the people hear us singing, "Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses." As we go marching, marching, we battle, too, for men/For they are women's children and we mother them again/Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes/Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us Bread, but give us Roses. As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead/Go crying through our singing their ancient song of Bread/Small art and love and beauty their trudging spirits knew/Yes, it is Bread we fight for—but we fight for Roses, too.” Each line of this poem, each verse of this song, calls us back again and again to the stance, to the truth, that simply not starving is not the same as living into the fullness of life. That, as labor and women’s rights advocate Rose Schneiderman put it, living and existing are not the same thing. Each line, as it is sung, points us to the truth that is summarized by Jesus in this gospel passage, that “one does not live by bread alone.”
The season of Lent is a time of preparation, a time of orienting ourselves towards the resurrection life that dawns at Easter. Throughout this season, we ought to consider what the fullness of this resurrection life looks like. In our Thursday Lunch Group this past week (shameless plug), it was pointed out that the line in this passage that tells us how hungry Jesus was after not eating for several weeks, while it may seem obvious, is an important reminder of Jesus’ humanity. It is a reminder that Jesus needs to eat, although with all the eating Jesus does throughout the gospels, I’m not sure how we could really forget. It’s a reminder that Jesus has human needs and human desires and human pains. And, we can argue based on his response to the Tempter, he probably understood that the fullness of human life cannot be achieved simply by sustaining our bodies alone. He knows because of his humanity, that the fullness of life comes when our basic needs are met, but also when we are able to engage with the ways in which God speaks to us in our lives. Through visual arts and performing arts, through playing and listening to music, through making people laugh and being made to laugh. Through cooking and enjoying food, not only as sustenance, but as art. He knows that the fullness of life comes when we are enabled to listen to God, in Creation and in one another, as part of the Beloved Community. This is the food that nourishes us beyond just the point of filling our bellies, but to the satisfaction of our souls. It is the food that can indeed sustain us, even when bread is scarce, and bodies are starved.
This is the sustenance that was consumed by Jewish musicians in concentration camps, who wrote and performed music even as they were held captive in brutal violence. This is the sustenance that fed blues artists, that reverberates through jazz clubs and concert halls, that brings us to tears when we watch a performance or a movie, even when we’ve seen it a dozen times or more. This is the sustenance that feeds immigrant communities, through the music and dance and language that comes from home, which is passed down from generation to generation. This is the sustenance that feeds queer communities, by poems and symbols, by subversive music and norm-defying art. Our being fed, our living of life to the fullest, comes from more than simply satisfying our basic needs. One does not live by bread alone, but by bread and roses—by the myriad ways in which we encounter God, and the multitudes of ways in which God speaks to each of us. And so it becomes our responsibility, our summons as Easter People, to ensure that we not only find roses for ourselves, but that we offer others their roses as well. It is our call, as Easter People, to engage with the arts, whether that be fan art or the symphonies of Gustav Holst (speaking of art that makes me cry). Whether we speak the language or can hear the voice of God speaking to us or not. It is our call, as Easter People, to live into the fullness of life by bread and roses—and to ensure that others may have their bodies and spirits fed, as well. To ensure that each of us has the opportunity to practice the arts, to find passion and beauty and whimsy and rest and the voice of the divine speaking life into souls wearied by death.
Lent is a season of preparation and piety. It may seem like I am preaching indulgence in the midst of a season of fasting, but I promise I’m not. Bread and roses is not a call for excess, it’s not a call for us to gorge ourselves, to live to some hedonistic extreme. It’s not about some never-ending quest for more and more or some insatiable desire to have everything. Rather, it is a statement of humility, of acknowledging our human need for food, but also our human need for something more. Our preparation, this Lenten season, ought to point us towards that Easter morning, towards that triumph over the sting of death that each of us longs for. Part of that triumph is living into the fullness of life. That is the liberation that we experience here on Earth—liberation from the hunger that plagues our bodies and that which plagues our hearts. As we journey onward, may we listen for where God is speaking to us out in the world. May we seek out that which gives us life, that which feeds us until our hearts are satisfied. May we make it so that others may do the same. We cannot live by bread alone. Give us bread, but give us roses, too. Amen.