Reaching Out
Every week on Thursday, from about 4pm to 8pm, I play Dungeons and Dragons with a small group of people from around Rochester, and even one person who drives out from Buffalo each week. It’s one of my Sabbath routines, a space where I can set down the yoke and just be Sam, not Pastor Sam. For the first month or so that I was part of this group, most of them didn’t even know what my day job was. That changed one week when everyone else was talking about how they are able to marry their friends or family members because they had done the thing through the Universal Life Church. And then they asked if I was able to marry people, and I said “yes,” and then they said “Universal Life Church?” and I said “no, the United Methodist Church,” and they were like, “oh, you’re like, legit,” and I was like, “yeah, but that’s all good.” One of the reasons that this weekly routine is so important to me—aside from the social aspects, the opportunity to exercise my creativity, and the fact that someone always cooks a meal—is that it’s humbling. It takes me out of spaces where religion, and specifically United Methodism, is the norm, and out of spaces where I am given authority or privilege because of my clergy credentials.
When I’m there, I’m surrounded by people who were either never raised in religious communities or who have left the churches that they grew up in. I’m not there to be their pastor, or really to lead in any way. In fact, there’s specifically a Game Master there, whose job it is to loosely direct the story and keep us more or less organized. As we sit together and eat and play our game, I listen to the others talk about the world and its problems, or their lives and the ups and downs. Everything from education policy to attempts to legislate trans people out of existence, from new jobs to engagement announcements is discussed. While God is never mentioned, I believe that They are present still, in each conversation and moment of connection. And while I love that this group has trusted me enough to ask questions about theology and the church, I still appreciate the beauty of knowing that God still moves in the moments when we don’t hear Their name. Not in trying to convert or dominate the conversation with doctrine and dogma. But in stepping outside of what is familiar, taking time to listen beyond what is comfortable, and simply being in a place where your experience is not the norm and your way of thinking carries no presumed authority.
This, after all, is the ministry that Jesus models in the first section of this passage. Jesus is not seen here trying to fix the so-called sinners, those outside the fold, outside of organized religion. In fact, the only place he directs his teachings is towards the Pharisees, the religious establishment, who question why a man who claims to be a religious teacher would waste his time with those who have been rejected by, or perhaps have rejected, the structured religion. All Jesus does with these folks is gather them—and eat. He brings his disciples along with him, outside the Temple, outside of any holy place, to the home of a tax collector who had accepted an invitation to host. Jesus’ ministry in this passage, before he tells his disciples to go and make disciples, is to go into the world and listen. Maybe he did some correcting, and maybe he did some pointing out where God is in the midst of messy lives and a messy world. But what we see is dinner. And, even though Anna will tell you that every time we have dinner with friends the topics of church and theology somehow come up, when we sit down for dinner we usually just talk about life. We talk about the world, what seems terrible and what gives us hope. And in every word traded, even if that word is not “God,” God is still present in those conversations, and in the sharing of the meal.
So, our ministry is to look outside of the church. To foster trust and curiosity and relationships among us, yes. But also to share bread and conversations with those who are done with church or who have no connection to church—and simply to embody presence with them. However, Jesus’ ministry does not stop there, as nice as it would be to just say that we are called to gather for dinner together. While eating with the people who have been labelled as “sinners” and “unrighteous” is already a boundary-crossing in itself, Jesus takes this rejection of cultural limits a step further. As he is being ushered away from his dinner slash listening session, so he can casually bring a man’s daughter back from the dead, Jesus is stopped by a bleeding woman who reaches out and touches his cloak. Rather than dismissing her or snapping at her, Jesus calls her faithful, and says that it is her faith that has healed her. Here is a woman who, by religious law, was considered ritually unclean, reaching out and touching Jesus. He doesn’t reach out and touch her, nor is she escorted to him by her friends or community, though we can probably assume from her status as ritually unclean that she doesn’t have anyone who would go with her to be healed. She has been left behind by a dogma that left no room for her, and so she seeks out Jesus on her own, and uses her own agency, her own will, her own faith to reach out and touch him—and find wholeness for herself.
There are many who would share this woman’s story. The religious nones and dones, those who have no connection to church. The queer and trans people who have been ostracized, even in churches that claim a welcome. There are those who have banded together in other ways, built spiritual communities outside of the church that still reach out and touch Jesus, still have their faith affirmed and their personhood recognized as whole. But it often takes us looking outside the church to find them, and then stepping outside the church to hear them, and then standing outside the church to begin to build relationships and trust—and then to reconcile with them. This woman was unclean, untouchable for twelve years. That’s a long time to wait to have someone step close enough to you for you to grab on, and have them not pull away in disgust. Will we follow this call, will we follow Jesus, out into the world, stepping close enough to those deemed “unclean” that they could reach out and touch us? Will we pull away? Or will we look into their eyes and see God’s eyes staring back at us, reminding us that those we push away bear God’s image, too? This, after all, is where Christ is leading us.
In 1986, the Right Reverend John T. Walker, then Episcopal Bishop of the diocese of Washington, wrote a pastoral letter to the diocese urging parishes not to be afraid to minister to those in their communities who were HIV positive. He reminded them that there was no reason, either from a faith perspective or a scientific one, to shy away from casual contact with HIV positive individuals. He even explicitly urged his parishes not to bar anyone who was HIV positive from sharing in the common cup, the practice of everyone sipping the communion wine from the same cup. His urging was for the church to reject the label of “unclean” for those whom they had been told to fear, and to instead minister to them with extra care and attention, as Christ would have—affirming their faith and affirming their personhood as those whom God had created. The National Cathedral leadership responded to this letter by requiring HIV-positive members to identify themselves to church leaders, and encouraged those who continued to fear to dip, rather than sip. In the midst of a society that was othering HIV-positive persons, the church chose to continue that othering, rather than follow the example of the Christ who crossed boundaries of cleanliness and uncleanliness and tore down the walls we put up between us and those who don’t conform.
How will we, as Christ’s body the church, break these patterns? How will we choose courage and discomfort over fear and insulation? How will we rebuild the trust that was broken and lost over generations of othering and betrayal? These are big questions, and ones that we don’t have time to unpack right now. But we can begin by reaching out, and by listening. Not with an agenda, not because we’re waiting for an inroad we can take to bring those outside into the fold. Simply to listen, and to build and rebuild the relationships that are nowhere to be found. Perhaps there are those here who are already doing this work, and that’s great. It takes courage, and it takes humility. And it is the work to which each of us is called—the work of healing the world. As we remember this pride month that we are a reconciling church, may we reaffirm our commitment to restore relationships that have been broken by the church, to see God in those whom we have been taught to see as “sinners” and “unrighteous.” May we be bold in our humility, and daring in our willingness to build bridges and leave doors open—not only so that all know that they are welcome here, but so that we might remember that Christ calls us out into the world. So go, and listen, and be not afraid, and find God in the places where God is waiting. May it be so. Amen.
God in Community
I spent these last few days doing one of my favorite things in the world: attending Annual Conference. For those of you who are newer to the United Methodist Church, or who have been around your entire lives and haven’t heard, we United Methodists are divided up into geographic conferences for the purpose of mission and administration. The primary geographic divisions that we are split into are called Annual Conferences. Each year, the Annual Conference gets together to worship, conduct business, and discuss issues that are important to the church and the world—including the need to reclaim our Methodist heritage through music, the need for greater access to healthcare in New York State, the rights of immigrants, the importance of equipping local church trustees with the knowledge and resources to make facilities carbon neutral, and the role of generative AI in the Church. Looking at all the pieces of legislation that we passed as a body, I think it might be interesting to turn them into a sermon series. I’m almost sure that I’m not the only one who would find that interesting.
One of the other things that happens at Annual Conference is the Clergy Session, when all the clergy from the Annual Conference gather behind closed doors to talk about clergy stuff. At the Clergy Session, I was officially accepted as a Provisional Member of the Order of Elders in the Upper New York Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church, along with two other candidates. On Friday night, I was then commissioned for this work at a two hour-long service, surrounded by clergy and laity from all over the Upper New York Annual Conference, two United Methodist bishops, and even the Episcopal bishop of Central New York. It was a truly powerful experience, and one that I was glad to be able to share with those of you who came in person, those who watched the livestream, and those with whom I have been walking alongside throughout this process. It was a deeply affirming and uplifting experience for me, and I’m sure for many, especially since the Annual Conference has always been my real “home church.”
An integral part of my call to the ministry of an elder in the United Methodist Church is my call to be a part of this Connection. We often hear the word “denomination” used to refer to the different flavors of the church universal, but we Methodists prefer to refer to ourselves, broadly, as a Connection. The Annual Conference, ideally, is an expression of this connection. It is described in our Book of Discipline as the basic unit of church organization and ministry, which distinguishes us from other types of churches that organize primarily on the local level. We United Methodists are called to this theology of Connectionalism that sees everything we do as part of a global web of mission and ministry, of worship and learning, that is done in community. Even as we do ministry that is contextual to this particular time and place, it is necessary that we never think of ourselves simply as an independent church, just doing our own thing. The Connection, this theology of interdependence, is much of what makes us Methodist. It’s what insists that we are not alone in this world. It’s what reminds us of our obligation to one another, not simply in this particular community but around the world. It’s what, ideally, enables us to do ministry in a way that embodies solidarity and is more effective than if we were to try and do ministry by ourselves.
The theology of connectionalism is meant to live out the spirit of the quote from John Wesley that says that “the gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.” If we are living out our gospel faith, then we are living it out together. Not just with the people we see each Sunday or whichever day of the week your small group meets here at the Fairport United Methodist Church. But also with the people of Penfield United Methodist Church, East Rochester United Methodist Church, Macedon Center and South Perinton United Methodist Churches, Asbury First United Methodist Church. From Moheto United Methodist Church in Kenya to Corozal United Methodist Church in Belize. We can and do live out so much ministry in each of these churches. What kind of ministry could we live out together? Think of how many Methodists there are in the Rochester area. Think of how much good we could do by embracing the connection and seeing those who share this call as co-laborers in this gospel work or social holiness. To reject these relationships is to fail in our call to live out our ministry in the strength and accountability of the Connection.
Today is Trinity Sunday, the day in the life of the Church when we give special attention to the idea that our one God exists in three distinct and equal persons. Many pastors I know don’t bother with Trinity Sunday, since it’s easy to slip into heretical territory when talking about it. One United Methodist deacon from Tennessee posted this week in a clergy group, “so, what’s everyone’s plan to teach and preach the Trinity without dabbling in heresy this go around?” Others don’t see it as part of the lived-out theology that is central to Methodism. Some lean into the mystery of the Trinity, fixating on John Wesley’s word about its complexity or on the story of Saint Augustine telling the child not to even try understanding the Trinity. I used to be satisfied with using the words of German Theologian Karl Rahner as a cop out. He talked about God as a vast sea and our knowledge as a small island, and posited that, should we learn everything there is to know about God, the beauty of the sea would cease to be, and all that would be left is the desert of our certainty.
But, with regards to the Trinity, Rahner also believed that it was a mistake to hide behind mystery and ignore the beauty of the idea. The Trinity, after all, is the assertion that God’s very essence is not individual, but communal. God, who is our very being, and whose image we bear, is connection. If we were to try and live out our faith purely as individuals, ignoring the struggles of the world or the beauty of those around us, we would not be embracing the fullness of who God is. If we were to think that we could find all the answers on our own, or that we could solve all the pain and brokenness of the world on our own, or that we could survive on our own, or that the consequences of our actions only impacted us—we would not be affirming and embracing all that God is. God is community. God is social. God is relationship. God is Connection. Which isn’t to say that the United Methodist Church is right about everything and that our church institution is the embodiment of the Divine—we get a lot wrong, as these are flawed, human systems. But the ethic of connection, the idea that everything we do has a global impact, is, I believe, a step closer to living as God would have us live.
And what’s more, this divine connection is not limited to us as humans. It stretches out to everything that God has touched and exists within God. In the trees and grass, the water and the mountains. In all things living and unliving, there is God—and there are we. Our salvation, then, and our ministry, are bound up in our recognition of our interdependence—not our independence. We are part of a luminous web, as a part of creation and as a part of a mission and ministry that extends beyond the limits that we impose on ourselves and on God. As we go forth into our mission, as United Methodists and as a part of Creation, may we embrace this connection. May it free us from the bonds of isolation. May it be our impulse, our way of living and loving. This is who we are. This is who God is. This is who God is calling us to be. May we love in connection. May we embrace this mission that goes beyond what we can see. May we love the God who is many, and who is love and connection themselves. May this be our call. Amen.
The Spirit Falls Equally
Last Sunday, it was reported that thousands gathered on the National Mall in Washington, DC, for a day-long prayer rally. The purpose of this event was to “rededicate” the United States to God—as a Christian Nation, as “one nation, under God.” It was a gathering organized by right-wing political figures and leaders in evangelical Christianity in the United States as a means of galvanizing support for an ideology that unites American identity, and American supremacy, with white, Christian identities, and white, Christian supremacy. It was not a one-off event, nor was it a manifestation of a new ideology in this country. It was simply another event held by a growing movement of those who see any American who does not confess the Christian faith as not truly being American, and anyone who is not American as somehow less human. The gathering last Sunday proclaimed a gospel that sees humanity as conditional, God’s grace as limited, and the Holy Spirit as being bound to a particular nation and identity. It proclaimed God’s preference for those in power, those who wage wars, and those who make public statements of faith with their mouths, while allowing the poor to starve day after day. If only the prophets had something to say about that.
Perhaps instead of lifting up lamentations concerning the supposed lack of faith in this country, the leaders of this movement should have considered the words of Micah. What offerings should we bring to God? How should we worship the Lord and show our faith? By doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly. Or the words of Isaiah, who insists that the offering that is acceptable to God, the act of piety that God would have us perform, the fast that God chooses for us, is to seek justice for our neighbors. And if that isn’t clear enough, maybe the words of Amos, who declares that God despises our festivals and our pageantry, our rallies and our public insisting that our faith is right, that we love God the most and everyone else is wrong. Amos, who tells us to quiet our performative worship, and let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a flowing stream. But I digress.
This morning, our confirmands will be (have been) asked the following question: “Do you confess Jesus Christ as your saviour, put your whole trust in his grace, and promise to serve him as your Lord in union with the Church, which Christ has opened to people of all ages, nations, and races?” This is a line from our United Methodist baptismal vows. For those who were baptized as infants in the United Methodist Church, this statement was affirmed on your behalf. For those who have been confirmed in the United Methodist Church, this is one of the statements that we affirmed for ourselves. It packs a lot into a single question that we expect parents, sponsors, and later those pursuing confirmation to agree to. In the midst of all the unpacking that we can do, there is a vitally important claim that we make regarding the nature of the Church—that it is opened, by Christ, to people of all ages, nations, and races. In joining the Church, both the Church universal and the United Methodist Church, we affirm the claim that the body of Christ does not belong to any one people. It isn’t America’s. It isn’t the property or the birthright of any one group or tribe. The Church that was birthed at Pentecost is one in which the Spirit transcends the human borders that we put in place.
The Church birthed at Pentecost is one in which the Spirit transcends the human borders that we put in place. Not one that erases our identities, just the hierarchies we create—those that place male above female, white above Black, straight above queer, American above everyone else. The Church birthed at Pentecost unites those of different cultures, different languages, different genders, and different class status, allowing each person present to hear what was being said in their own language. Not one language to rule them all, not one language privileged over all others, but each language honored and uplifted and engaged—not erased. This is the creation of the Church, not as a new nation or an identity that replaces who we are and where we come from, but as a community called by the Spirit to become disciples—to pray and eat and learn and grow and trust one another. This is the Church, born at Pentecost, which witnesses the Spirit falling equally. Why, then, do we insist that the Spirit falls unequally? Why do we insist that the Spirit would fall on America more than Brazil, Belize, Haiti, Columbia, Zimbabwe, Congo, Russia, China, or any other place?
Why would we believe that the Spirit would fall any less on women, on those in the LGBTQ+ community, on immigrants and refugees? What makes us the Church, what unites us with the disorganized band of pilgrims gathered and confused on Pentecost, is not an ethnicity. It’s not a language. It’s not anything that we have created. What makes us the Church is the Spirit, calling us together, making us a people united in love. A people from many nations, from many backgrounds, of many different beliefs. A people of difference, who see God in one another. So, as we remember this day our baptismal vows, as we welcome these new members into the United Methodist Church and the Church universal, may we remember what it means to be the Church. May we learn from our newest members and our oldest. May we embrace one another as having been touched by the Spirit, as having been called by the same grace, and as sharing in the same divine image. May this called and gathered community not be distracted by threats of war and ideologies of supremacy. Instead, may we be the Church—bound in the love that transcends and embraces all difference. May this be the Church we build together. Amen.
Left Behind
Today is Ascension Sunday, the day in the liturgical year when we remember when Christ left his disciples for the second time. The past couple of weeks, we have been hearing passages from the gospel of John that have all been part of what’s known as the farewell discourse. This is the section of John’s gospel that contains all the things that Jesus wanted to make sure to say to his disciples before his death. This week, we have the opportunity to take a break from this long, drawn-out goodbye and look, instead, at what Luke’s gospel has to say about Jesus leaving the disciples after his resurrection. By this point in the story, Jesus has appeared post-resurrection. First, to Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary, mother of James. Then, to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Now, he shows up for the rest of the disciples, making sure that everyone who needs to know about the resurrection knows before he leaves.
Each interaction is pretty brief, and none of them leaves much time for asking questions or a big emotional reunion or any sort of processing of the grief and trauma that Jesus and his friends had shared. Jesus was gone. He had been killed. He had assured his friends that his death would mean something, that some change would come about as a result. And here he was, appearing to them as a group, resurrected, just as he had promised them he would be. “This is it,” they thought. “Jesus is back, and he’s going to set us free. He’s going to put up and show us that he was serious about all that Kingdom of God shtuff. Then they’ll all see that we were right this whole time.” Then, Jesus starts talking like he’s going to be heading out, so the disciples seize their chance and ask “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of Israel?” But they don’t get the answer they’re hoping for, though it might have been the answer they expected. “Wait,” Jesus says. “And do the things I’m telling you to do.”
The Ascension story can seem like one big anti-climactic disappointment. Jesus gets the disciples most of the way there, even comes back from the dead. It seems like the perfect time to get the upper hand on Rome—ghost Jesus leading an army of fishermen who have had their land and resources stolen to feed an imperial war machine. And then he just leaves…again. Perhaps we feel that sting still, in a world that refuses to change, that seems stuck in patterns of violence and bigotry. It can be easy to feel abandoned, let down, as if God has decided to leave us to figure things out on our own but we weren’t ready for such a responsibility. We can look around and wonder “where has our hope gotten us? What has our faith led us to? When can we expect the payout for our dedication, our commitment, our following?” The Ascension is hard, because it seems like a let-down. What happened to the Jesus who blessed the poor, who talked about the baptism by fire, who said he came not to bring peace, but a sword? Is this simply a story to explain why nothing had happened yet, to pacify us with the “everything happens in God’s time” platitude? Or does being left behind mean something?
Luke’s gospel isn’t the only one of the four that includes a story about Jesus ascending, though it is the only gospel that has always included this story. Mark’s gospel originally ended with the women finding the empty tomb and not telling anyone about it because they were terrified. Later on, there was a verse added about Jesus being taken up to Heaven to sit at God’s right hand. But that wasn’t always there. John’s gospel ends with a conversation between Peter and Jesus, with Jesus granting some sort of special status to the beloved disciple, who the writers of John’s gospel would probably say is John Matthew’s version of the story ends with the Great Commission, to go and make disciples of all the nations. While that might sound similar to what we hear from Luke, that’s where Matthew ends—with Jesus sending the disciples out. So, Luke’s gospel is set apart in this sense. No one else has Jesus ascending. Matthew and John specifically end with Jesus interacting with the disciples, still very much present among them.
So why would Luke do that? Why would Luke send Jesus away, take him out of the story? To get the full picture, it’s important to know that the author of Luke didn’t stop with the ascension. Rather, the book of Acts is a continuation of the gospel of Luke—not its own story. The very beginning of Acts, which is the first scripture we heard this morning, picks up right where Luke leaves off, and even gives us a recap of the closing scene of Luke’s gospel. And it’s the perfect way to open the second part of the story, because it shifts the focus from Jesus—the teacher and messiah who taught and led and raised up leaders—to the disciples, those whom Jesus entrusted to carry on what he began. This shift makes it clear, perhaps clearer than any of the other gospels, that the movement of the spirit and the revolutionary change that Jesus preached did not end with the death of Jesus or with the resurrection. The resurrection was only the beginning. The story continues with those who follow Jesus, who continue to preach and do the good works that he practiced in his ministry.
The ascension, then, isn’t the end of the story. It’s not the anti-climax. We’re just reading it wrong, because someone decided to put John in the middle of Luke’s really long gospel. And so the ascension, whether you believe it happened just like that or not, shouldn’t be a stumbling block. Rather, it ought to remind us that our call as the church is to continue the revolutionary, counter-cultural, life-altering work that Jesus began. It ought to remind us that Jesus' ministry did not end when he was murdered by the state, nor did it end when he was no longer physically present among the disciples. It ought to remind us that we are called to continue this ministry, and it ought to be a challenge to us not to get caught up in the disappointment that God hasn’t fixed everything, not to get caught up in the idea that God will do it for us, not to get caught up in the idea that we are somehow less responsible for living out this call to ministry than we would have been had Jesus hung around.
May we be called, this Ascension Sunday, to continue the story. May we be called not to complacency, but to share the Good News in word and deed with all people and in all places and with all of Creation. God still has work for us to do. The resurrection is only the beginning. May we live into this call, and do the work which Christ began to make this world whole. Amen.
We, The Athenians
This morning, I want to focus on the passage we heard earlier from the book of Acts. I’m going to read it again, though, to make sure that it’s fresh in our ears before I start talking about it. Hear these words from the Book of Acts:
Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, "Athenians, I see how extremely spiritual you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, 'To an unknown god.' What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. From one ancestor he made all people to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, so that they would search for God and perhaps fumble about for him and find him--though indeed he is not far from each one of us. For 'In him we live and move and have our being'; as even some of your own poets have said, 'For we, too, are his offspring.' "Since we are God's offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold or silver or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead."
This passage drops us pretty abruptly in the middle of the story of Paul in Greece, and more specifically in the city of Athens. It’s a passage about a travelling apostle, in a land that is not his own, trying to win converts to “the Way,” the new Jesus movement to which Paul had recently converted. He had been making his way around the Mediterranean, stopping at synagogues to argue the scriptures and try to convince his fellow Jews that Jesus was the messiah. He has some success in Thessalonica, and a little more in Beroea, before arriving in Athens. While in Athens, he witnesses what are described as idols, the multiple gods and spirits who had devotees in Athens, and by which he is horrified. He also finds a large community of philosophers, the intellectual elites who had the ability to spend their time thinking and debating and, as the author of Acts claims, spending their time “in nothing but hearing and telling something new.” And so, when this travelling preacher arrives in the Athenian marketplace bringing a new way of thinking, allegedly described by those who heard it as “pretentious babblings,” the elites politely kidnap Paul and take him in for questioning. And that’s where our reading for today begins, with Paul having been brought before this group of thinkers, who love hearing new ideas and discussing them. And, of course, we get to witness the hero of the New Testament explain to the pagan philosophers why they’re all wrong and he is right.
There is a traditional reading of this text that uses Paul as a stand in for the Church. This reading would have us project ourselves onto Paul, as those called to take the light of Christ out into the world—even going to places and residing among people who take on entirely different faiths and worldviews from us. It is this reading that brought encouragement to Christian missionaries, who travelled the world in order to convert those who worshipped many deities. Paul went to enlighten the spiritually lost and confused, those who did not know his God or who were already worshipping his God without knowing it. It’s this reading, this interpretation, that allowed and allows the Church as an institution to begin with the gentle, passionate, and pastoral explanation of who this God is and who we believe God to be, and end by insisting that those who hear these words repent and accept what is being taught to them. It’s a colonial mindset, one that sees those who follow Christ as rightfully civilising and converting those who worship too many gods, or who worship the wrong god. This reading remains present today, even in otherwise progressive Bible commentaries that see those in the organized Church as Paul, stepping out into a world that needs to know God, that needs us to reveal, to teach, to know better than. That sees us as stepping out into a world of religious pluralism, of non-religion, of atheism, and of those who identify as SBNR—Spiritual But Not Religious—and needing to set them straight.
But what if we flip the script. What if we see ourselves not as Paul, not as the one who makes God known to the pagan masses, but as the Athenians. The Athenians, after all, are the organized, the privileged, the educated, and the scholars. The Athenians are the institution, those with some degree of authority. They gather, intentionally, to seek greater understanding. They gather seeking to more fully know what the nature of the divine is, to know what and how to worship. They are a community that knows that they don’t know it all, and that’s a good thing. But they are also a community pulled in many different directions. This searching doesn’t seem to be driven by a desire or a need to build the kind of countercultural community we see the followers of Jesus constructing. It doesn’t seem to be a journey of trusting one another and whatever divine presence they choose to align themselves with. It doesn’t seem to be transformative. Rather, it seems to fall into the category of a leisure activity, something done to fill the time that needs to be scheduled alongside other activities. Other than prompting the construction of new shrines to even more gods, it doesn’t seem like this seeking leads the Athenians to live differently.
I’m not saying that these are bad characteristics or that we should be less curious, do less study, or ask fewer questions. I’m certainly not saying that we should have less diversity of thought and belief. But if we are the Athenians, the insiders, then we need to remember to listen to Paul. Not necessarily everything he writes in the epistles, and especially not everything that is attributed to him but written by other people. But Paul the traveller, Paul the outsider, Paul the incarcerated. We need to see Paul less as the Church, less as the institutional savior of humanity who convinces the world to come to Christ, less as us or the missionaries sent to aid in the domination of colonized bodies. We need to see Paul, in this particular instance, in those colonized bodies. We need to hear this outside voice, calling to us from outside our high places, telling us that the divine does not stay up on top of the hill, theologizing theoretically and philosophizing in absentia. Telling us that the divine does not remain in the shrines we build—in the cross, the altar, the churches, the stadiums, the markets, or the walls. But that the divine image flows through Creation, and is revealed to us in the voices that call to us from outside. The voices of the migrants, the indigenous, the women, and the bodies that have been colonized. The voices of the young adults who are talked over in Bible studies. The voices of children, who often know God better than we do ourselves. The voices of Creation, that cry out with all those we push to the outside of our search for God.
John’s gospel today reminds us that just because Christ had to leave the disciples, that doesn’t mean that the disciples were left alone. Christ sent the Spirit, to ensure that the work was still being done. To remind the followers of the Way that God is never far away, but that God is here with us. To remind them, and us, that God is not absent, but still at work in the world— moving and speaking to us. In our search for God, may we not overlook the voices of those who come from beyond our mountain top. May we cast aside any notion that we have all the answers and that it’s up to us to force those answers on the world. May we listen for what the Spirit is saying to us, and how we are being called to act. Because to know God is to love, fully and sacrificially and in the company of those we journey alongside. May we have the courage to listen, and to trust that God is present in the sharing and the receiving, than in receiving and responding others might come to see God at work in us—and trust that we can journey together in peace and in solidarity. Amen.
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.