Hope Weed

April 16, 2017     Easter
Colossians 3:1-2     Matthew 28:1-10

Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed!

So how exactly did things go, that resurrection morning? The gospel stories don’t exactly match up. Matthew says that when the women got there, the stone was still in place. Mark says that when they got there was a young man in a white robe sitting inside the tomb. Luke talks about two men in dazzling clothes who said to the women, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” John tells the story of Mary meeting the man she thought was a gardener, until she recognized him as Jesus and cried out, “Rabboni!”

Four different gospels: four different stories. How did that happen? Oh, who knows! The gospels weren’t written down for many decades after Jesus lived and died and rose again, so maybe the stories got confused. Perhaps they each were told by different people, with different perspectives, until what was written down in each gives us a slightly different view of what happened.

I’m not sure those differences are all that important, actually, because there’s a central idea in each one that is absolutely the same: Jesus rose from the dead. And maybe we’re not meant to know exactly how that happened but to see it as the women who came to the tomb that morning did—as something inexplicable—as the most amazing mystery the world has ever known.

The inexplicable mystery that means that God is more powerful than death. That sin is overcome. That love wins.

It’s not up to us, after all, to set about proving it. We can only choose to trust in it. Live it. Point to it as the foundation of our trust in God.

I like the way Frederick Buechner puts it:

In the last analysis, you cannot pontificate but only point. A Christian is one who points at Christ and says, ‘I can’t prove a thing, but there’s something about his eyes and his voice. There’s something about the way he carries his head, his hands. The way he carries his cross. The way he carries me.’ (Originally published in Wishful Thinking)

We know the essential truth of the resurrection because we know the essential truth of Jesus in our lives. And when we find ourselves doubting—as we all do, from time to time—we look to the ways the lives of other Christians point to Jesus.

Sometimes that pointing is dramatic: a resurrection moment!

If you’ve been coming to Celebrate Recovery on Tuesday nights, you’ve heard the testimonies of people whose lives were filled with death. Drug addiction, eating disorders … prison, hospitalizations … despair. And then they found the risen Christ in their lives—the Christ they thought could not possibly love them—and they began to live again.
Those are resurrection stories.

There’s a story that I heard this week about a young couple who are members of First Presbyterian Church in Charlotte, NC. They’re in their late 20’s, with two children, and not too long ago his struggle with kidney disease became dire. His wife turned to Facebook for help—her husband would not live without a new kidney. An acquaintance of hers read her plea and pointed it out to her husband … who ended up donating the kidney this stranger needed in order to live. He volunteered to be a donor, he said, because of his Christian faith.
That’s a resurrection story!

And sometimes they’re simpler.

• A phone call “out of the blue” to a person who was feeling depressed.
• A giraffe named April finally giving birth to her baby yesterday morning.
• The third-grade girl who came by the church this week with two boxes of toys from a drive she had initiated amongst her friends … and the Sykes Toy Project volunteers who will resurrect those toys and many, many others.
• An invitation to lunch that brings a recluse out of her home for the first time in months.

Resurrection stories are all around us. And actually, they’re unstoppable. That victory of life over death, of love over apathy, of peace over antipathy—it’s unstoppable.

A man who was my campus pastor when I was in college, Rev. J. Barrie Shepherd, published a poem about 10-15 years ago called “Hope Weed,” in which he talks about the “unstoppability” of the resurrection.

Our Christian symbols seem, at times, not quite
appropriate to the meaning that they bear.
For instance, take the Easter lily, white
and fragile sign of resurrection. Rare,
its graceful silent trumpet greets the light
of March or April only under glare
of florists’ lamps, unnaturally bright.
You never find them in the open air
before July. A better flower for Easter Day
would be, as every angry gardener knows,
the dandelion, seeded by the gay
abandoned wind that, as it listeth, blows.
No matter how we weed out every stray,
digging as deep, the root still deeper goes.
And when, at last, we quit and go away
the rain falls, and a host of fresh bright foes
stands resurrected, and the garden glows.

No matter how much we might try to dig up, plow under, or pave over the Resurrection … the rain falls, and there it is again, blooming in the glowing garden.

The truth of the Resurrection—the at-the-core true mystery of the Resurrection—is that it will always be there, no matter how much we try to ignore it or shove it aside.

And because of that truth, we have hope. We have confidence. God loves us. Death cannot defeat us. We need not live in fear.

“Do not be afraid.” Twice in the 10 verses of this story from Matthew we hear those words.
“Do not be afraid,” the angel says; “I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised.”
And “Do not be afraid,” says Jesus; “Go and tell my brothers … [and] they will see me.”

Through the centuries that truth rings out to us all: Do not be afraid.

I say to you this morning, Do not be afraid.

When anxiety comes, when the news seems too frightening to bear … when loved ones are suffering and acting out in horrible ways … when the diagnosis from the doctor is dire …
Do not be afraid.
Know that even through the worst of times, the truth of the Resurrection lives on. God wins. Love is victorious.

In the words of poet Elizabeth Rooney, “We are laid open to infinity / For Easter love has burst his tomb and ours.” And we are invited to dance with our Lord.

Opening (Elizabeth Rooney)

Now is the shining fabric of our day
Torn open, flung apart, rent wide by love.
Never again the tight, enclosing sky,
The blue bowl or the star-illumined tent.
We are laid open to infinity
For Easter love has burst His tomb and ours.
Now nothing shelters us from God’s desire—
not flesh, not sky, not stars, not even sin.
Now glory waits so He can enter in.
Now does the dance begin.

The dance has begun. The dandelions of resurrection won’t be defeated. Love is victorious.

Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed.

Alleluia! Amen.

Go (Home) Amazed

March 27, 2016 (Easter)

Isaiah 65:17-25     Luke 24:1-12

 

We live in a world filled with darkness. With evil.

• Terrorist attacks in Brussels. And also Turkey, the Ivory Coast and Nigeria, and in a soccer stadium in Iraq.
• An acknowledgement from John Erlichman that the Nixon era war on drugs was designed to destroy the leadership cohesiveness of hippies and African-Americans. “Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.”
• Five-hour lines for voting in Arizona.
• And of course, climate change.

Way too often it feels like the world is, as people used to say, going “to hell in a handbasket.” How can we help but despair?

In the face of that comes Easter. The Resurrection. The tomb is empty. “He is alive!”
Because the resurrection means that death does not win. Death and greed, abuse and violence: they don’t win. All the dark stories in the news? They don’t win.

God wins. Good wins.

For the essential story of Easter is the story of good vs. evil—of hope vs. fear, life vs. death. It’s a story we can celebrate every day.

• Every time we glory at a sunset or the view from a mountaintop or sunlight glinting on water … or a new baby, a new marriage, we are celebrating the resurrection. The triumph of hope over fear, of life over death.
• Every time we read a book, see a movie with a happy ending, we are in essence celebrating the resurrection.
  • Some of those movies and books, of course, are better than others. A number of years ago I spent several months reading everything I could find by the author Madeleine L’Engle, starting with my childhood favorite, A Wrinkle in Time. After a while I realized that every time I finished one of her novels (even one that wasn’t really all that good), I felt like I’d been praying. They’re all about the battle between good and evil—and good always wins. It’s a profound message. I’d have to call them “resurrection books.”

Resurrection promises that God is all-powerful and that even in the face of the worst the world has to offer, God not only perseveres—God triumphs.
Let me repeat that: Even in the face of the worst the world has to offer, God not only perseveres but triumphs.

Even in the face of the religious rulers being so threatened by Jesus that they had him killed. Even in the face of the people who had cried Hosanna at the beginning of the week now shouting Crucify him. Even in the face of terrorism and climate change, of evil leaders and pervasive prejudice … of drug addiction and gun violence, of mental illness and child abuse. Even in the face of us thinking we can get along without Jesus except maybe on Sunday mornings.

Even in the face of the worst the world has to offer, God not only perseveres but triumphs.

Resurrection means that we can go through our lives—all the parts of our lives—with hope. Resurrection means that we can go through our lives—even the parts of our lives that are just horrible, the parts where we can’t feel God’s presence at all—we can go through all that with hope that joy will blossom again. Resurrection hope is not a belief that everything will work out just the way we want it to but hope that no matter how it turns out, God can and will create good from it.

Our Resurrection lives—our Easter lives—reflect those promises. Our Easter lives have us living both in the kingdom of this world and in the kingdom of heaven—both at the same time. The kingdom of heaven—the kingdom of God—is where God’s will reigns. Where Jesus the Prince of Peace is way more important than whoever is going to win the next election.

The kingdom of God shows up in the middle of the kingdom of this world—

• When college students take their spring breaks to build toilets for schools in Jamaica or play educational games with children in Belize.
• When our One Great Hour of Sharing contributions help feed migrants in Hungary.
• When church members and others gather every week to fix broken toys so they can be given to children at Christmas.
• When people are just plain nice to each other!
  • Have you seen my new favorite hat? It’s the one that says, “Make America Kind Again.”

 

There’s an old Cherokee legend about the little boy who comes to his grandfather, very upset about what some other child has done. “There are two wolves inside each of us,” the grandfather says. “One is evil—filled with envy, regret, greed … arrogance, self-pity … resentment and lies. The other is good—he is joy, peace, love… serenity, humility, kindness, and generosity.”

“Which one wins?” the young boy asks.

And his grandfather smiles and says, “The one I feed.”

Those are the two kingdoms we live in. And the one that will blossom in us is the one we choose.

We do have that choice, every hour of every day—to move toward despair over the evil in the world, or to move toward the hope of the resurrection, in the kingdom of God. Even when it’s hard to believe that the resurrection is real. Even when it’s hard to believe that God wins. Even in the face of all our despair and all our doubts … We have that choice.

And the truth is that when we choose the resurrection promise of hope—even if doubts and despair come nigh to overwhelming us … when we choose hope, hope comes alive in us. Christ comes alive in us.

 

At the end of this morning’s gospel reading, we hear that Peter went home, amazed at what he had seen. He didn’t yet quite know what it was that had happened, but when he saw an empty tomb, with burial clothes strewn about, he was amazed. Hope crept in. To be amazed is to open ourselves up to hope.

And so I say to you, choose hope. Choose amazement and wonder and joy.
Go into the world amazed at God’s power and God’s redeeming love. Even if you’ve heard the story hundreds of times before, be amazed.

Be amazed. Open yourself to hope. Open yourself to the resurrection promise that tells us that, ultimately, we have nothing to fear. For God has overcome the grave, overcome death … overcome evil, overcome despair. God has given us life—life filled with peace and joy and love and hope. Life eternal, starting today!

The One Who Knows My Feet

March 24, 2016     Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17     John 13:31-35

 

So. Foot washing.

In first century Palestine, foot washing was important part of body care. People were walking around in sandals in sand and dirt (and who knows what else) all day. Their feet were dirty. Servants would wash people’s feet—foot washing was definitely a job to be done by servants—“lessers”

So we “get” what a radical thing it was for Jesus to wash his disciples’ feet. Back then.

But today? The most common responses to the idea seem to be discomfort, embarrassment. Foot washing can be very intimate. Those of us who get pedicures or go to podiatrists are used to having “professionals” deal with our feet, but having someone we know personally see our feet that close? Ooh. Our bunions, our crooked toes, our chipped nail polish—ooh.

We stuck with a symbolic pouring of water this evening, but what if the person washing actually grabbed your foot and scrubbed it? Took a scraper to those calluses. Dug under the nails. Loofah-ed off the dry skin.

That would be intimate. Such a person would really “know” our feet.

 

It’s really a wonderful metaphor for our relationship with Jesus, isn’t it?
Jesus is the one who knows our feet.

Jesus knows our bunions, our calluses, our crooked toes. Jesus knows the foot cramps we get at night and the pain of the wrong shoes or too much walking. All of it. All of those parts of our feet that we would prefer to hide or disguise or ignore.
And the rest of us, too, of course. Jesus knows the bunions of our hearts, the calluses of our souls.

And Jesus really, really, really wants to wash them clean.

Cool.

But can Jesus wash us clean if we refuse to take off our shoes—to be vulnerable? Can Jesus scrape off the calluses of our souls if we keep ourselves securely armored? If there are “No Trespassing” signs on our hearts?

Being willing to have Jesus wash our feet means that we need to be vulnerable. We need to let Jesus in. Jesus already knows all the stuff we like to keep hidden, anyway, but Jesus can’t make us clean if we won’t let him in.

And letting Jesus in also means letting others in. That’s one of the ways Jesus washes us clean, is through the other people in our lives.

I think this may have been part of Peter’s problem, back there in that upper room. Peter was bold and brash—he was the one who jumped out of the boat to walk on water with Jesus, remember? He was the one who rebuked Jesus when Jesus tried to explain what was going to happen to him—the suffering and death and resurrection. Remember? When Jesus said, “Get behind me, Satan”? Peter was good when the new ways of doing things were his idea, when he was the one proudly marching off to do for others, when he was in control, in a way. But when it came time to have someone he loved and respected kneel at his feet and serve him? Well.

I’ve known Peters in my life, and Patricias (you know, female Peters). The woman in her 70’s who didn’t want to have her second knee replaced “because people were so helpful last time.” She was known in her community as someone always willing to help others, but when it came to being served? Well.

Letting others serve you means that they may see the piles of mail on your dining room table … or the old, crummy bathrobe you wear when you’re not feeling well. Letting others serve you means that they may come right up against some of the bunions on your heart or the calluses on your soul. They might figure out that you’re not perfect.

They might actually love you more when you let them in to see the real you.

 

And that’s what Maundy Thursday is really all about.
The word “maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning “commandment” (also the source of the word “mandate”). The Latin at the beginning of each Holy Thursday service was Mandatum novum do vobis—“a new commandment I give unto you.” That’s what Jesus said later that night, after he had washed the disciples’ feet. “I give you a new commandment.”

John 13:34-35 “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Mandatum novum do vobis. Love each other. Love each other enough to risk being vulnerable in front of each other—to let your calluses and your bunions, your unpaid bills and your ratty bathrobe—to let all of that be seen. And maybe even ministered to.

Love each other enough to accept the cracked heels and dead skin on other people’s souls. And to minister to them as they minister to you.

That’s called being friends. That’s called walking alongside.
That’s called being “in communion.”

In communion. Friends who love because Christ first loved us. Fellow servants who care because Christ first cared for us.

Christians who come together on this night to remember the words and actions of our brother Jesus. The one who ate and drank with his friends at this last supper. The one who served them by washing their feet.

Our brother Jesus, who loved his friends then … and loves us now. Enough to wash us clean.

Amen.