Fifth Sunday of Easter

John 13:31-35


The pastor at the church where I interned was, like me, raised in the Southern Baptist church. We'd occasionally joke about a particular tradition within that branch of the Church called the Love Offering. Love offerings were often taken up for a visiting preacher, guest musician, or when a minister was moving off to another congregation.


You can probably guess the inherent problem with this tradition. The amount donated could be said to directly equal the amount of love a particular congregation has for you. If the offering plates are overflowing, then there's obviously a lot of love in the room. But if all you hear is the clatter of change against the brass…well, hopefully you have a family or a pet that loves you.


I'm not sure if any pastor has ever tried using today's Gospel reading before taking up a love offering, but it would fit. We are to be known, Jesus says, by our love. Our identity as disciples of Jesus isn't related to how much of the Bible we have memorized, how often we're in church, the degrees we hold, or even by the symbols we wear. Our ID card that we show to prove that we are indeed followers of the man from Nazareth is the love we show to one another.


I've often wondered if the disciples realized how difficult a task Jesus was putting before them. Really, Jesus, in our love? Can't it just be our prayer life or our ritual or even by wearing some special shirt or something? I mean, love, that's hard. That's really hard. Because that means whenever I'm not being loving (like when I called the slow driver in front of me those creative names) I've really got no way to prove I'm actually your follower.


Loving is hard. It requires work on our part to love others. Sure some people are easy to love. But then there's that bagger at the store who always crushes the bread. And there's that person that insists on playing their radio really loud when they arrive home, no matter what the hour is.


Of course, the fact is, we're not expected to love them on our own. If we've really opened ourselves to the love of Christ, then that love has a habit of overflowing onto others. Maybe it's the fact that we realize that Jesus loves them too. Or maybe it's the fact that love changes us. Maybe it identifies us as Jesus' disciple because it slowly makes us look and act more like Jesus.


And, if we realize that love is transforming others into being more like Jesus, then loving them becomes loving Jesus. Then it's sort of like we're giving back the love that Jesus gave us. I guess our love, then, becomes an offering—a love offering.


Loving Creator, you loved us first and you desire only that your love fill us and change us into the people you created us to be. Let us never be mistaken for anything else than your followers.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

Acts 9:36-43

 One of the important rules of storytelling is economy. If something doesn't serve the story it should be cut out of the final draft. This is especially true of characters. It can be really difficult for a reader to distinguish different characters from one another in a story. So, as a result, you don't want to crowd a narrative with unimportant names. While it might be interesting to you as a storyteller to note that the doorman's name is Fred, if they aren't going to play an important part in the story, you leave out that detail.


The Bible, however, breaks these rules right and left. Take this week's reading from Acts. We're given three names in this story (four if you count Tabitha's Greek name). Peter is important because…well because he's Peter. Last week he was standing on the shore with the risen Jesus and today he's a travelling evangelist raising a woman from the dead. And Tabitha's important. If someone is raised from the dead, we want that name. Her name goes in the list with Lazarus and the guy who fell out a window while Paul was preaching.


But this last person "a certain Simon, a tanner." Who's this guy? His name appears four times in Acts, and each time it's just to note that it was in his house that Peter stayed. He never says anything. He isn't sick and, subsequently, healed. He doesn't die and come back to life. It doesn't seem like he did much of anything other than give Peter a hot meal and a roof to sleep beneath. That's nice and all, but he really doesn't do anything to advance the plot. In a good (and perhaps proper) narrative, he'd be left out completely. Who cares about a minor character like him?


Who cares? Well, the biblical writers cared. And in doing so they didn't so much break a storytelling rule as redefine what it means to be an important character. Think about it, this Simon, in the grand scheme of things, didn't do anything that exciting. While I'm sure Peter appreciated the hospitality, I doubt any of us were on the edge of our seats wondering at which house Peter stayed.


But here we have just one more bit of evidence how Jesus turns everything upside down. In any other story our "certain Simon" wouldn't be worth a mention. Yet here, in the Biblical story, he's an important person. And why? Because he did just what Jesus told Peter to do: "Feed my sheep." Just by being kind, loving, and hospitable, this "certain Simon" went from nobody to someone whose name is remembered centuries later.


Makes me wonder, which (truly) important people belong in my story? And am I living a life that makes me worth remembering?


God you are our gracious host, inviting us to sit and eat with you. Help us to see as you see and acknowledge the characters that are truly worth including in the story.

Third Sunday of Easter

John 21:1-19

Have you ever had that dream? You know the one: you're at a party, or maybe walk into a important meeting, or see the cue for your appearance on stage only to realize that…you forgot something this morning. The dream comes in various ways. Sometimes you're in your PJs. Sometimes, especially for guys, you realize you somehow left your pants hanging on the back of the chair. And then there's the time where you must've been in a really big hurry because you forgot to put anything on at all.


Now some commentaries try and pretty up this week's Gospel and say that Peter had just stripped down to his underwear. But that's not what we hear, is it. Hearing that Jesus is the stranger on the shore Peter tosses on his clothes "for he was naked." It makes sense that before greeting someone important like Jesus, Peter felt the need to look a bit more presentable. But it does seems kind of silly to put your clothes on before going for swim, doesn't it? That's what Peter did, though.


Even without a book on dream analysis, we all know that getting caught naked in front of people (dreamt or real!) isn't so much about being undressed. Sure, it's embarrassing for people to see that we haven't been keeping up our workout schedule, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is the vulnerability. Being naked or even just improperly dressed in front of others just feels so…well, naked. We feel like we're exposed. It's as if every part of us is suddenly on display for everyone. And we can't hide anything.


Peter tried to cover up his vulnerability. He arrived wet and out of breath, but he was not quite so vulnerable as he had been. To stand before Jesus, the one he'd denied and abandoned, naked would have been too much to take. But clothes aren't enough, he finds, to hide him from that gaze.


"Peter," Jesus asks, "do you love me." Peter tries to hide his vulnerability, this time behind words. "You know I do," he answers twice. But the question probes deeply. It strips away all his effort and leaves him, in the end, naked—emotionally and spiritually—before Jesus. And he must admit that there is no hiding. He must admit that before Christ he is completely vulnerable.


Jesus' question to Peter isn't just for him, it's for us as well. It leaps off the page and makes us want to run for our clothes—our excuses, our list of accomplishments, our busy schedule. But no matter how much we throw on, we find that Jesus is still there loving us and asking "Do you love me?"


God of love, you know that we love you. You also know all things. Help us as we tend to the sheep we find along our way.

Second Sunday of Easter

Luke 20:19-31, Revelation 1:4-8


"Where are you?" God says, walking in the garden in the cool of the afternoon. Who knows how long the Creator brushed past the bushes and leaves before the first man and woman stepped out of their hiding place. Perhaps it was when God was almost on top of them. Perhaps the One who had breathed life into Adam was about to step right into the middle of their hiding place. Whatever it was, Adam stood up and says that, indeed, they had heard that God was near, but they had been afraid. So, they hid.


Jesus, in today's gospel, comes wandering right into the middle of the disciples' hiding place. They were hiding out of fear. And with good reason. Their leader had been executed just as any political prisoner was. He'd endangered the Pax Romana—the Peace of Rome. The great and mighty empire could not allow anyone to disrupt that peace. And everyone knew that the followers of an executed leader could, quite likely, start their own brand of trouble. There was, after all, the missing body at the tomb and the (fake) story about its theft.


Like Adam and Eve, the disciples had walked together with their Beloved in the afternoon. They knew, as the prophet once declared, that their Redeemer lived. But they were afraid. They are, thankfully, just like me.


One day, I often think, someone will discover that I'm a fraud. They'll stumble upon me and find that I'm not as brave, strong, impervious, perfect as I've labored to appear. And then the truth will come out. I'll be known for who I really am. So I am afraid of being found out, of being found. So I hide. I hide out of fear.


But the Divine tends to find us no matter where we are. Whether its Adam and Eve in the garden, Elijah hiding in a cave, or the disciples behind a locked door, the God-Who-Sees always finds us. And, when we least expect it, appears in the midst of us. And says the words that surprise us: "Peace to you."


Peace, not like Rome can give—peace maintained at the end of a sword, peace that demands a subjugation and a bit of a lying. No, not like Rome, America, jobs, denominations, or any other human-made entity can give. My peace, says Jesus, I give.


But what is this peace that Christ can give that no other can. No more, or less, than the peace that is "I am the Alpha and the Omega." I'm first and last, start and finish, yesterday and today, childhood and old age. I know who you've been.


I know who you can be.


Alpha and Omega, you have seen the tomorrow that brings us anxiety, and you know who we truly are and who we can truly be. Come into the midst of our fears and breathe on us.

(Thanks to Jill for reminding me what Jesus says in this week's reading, which helped me figure out what this passage was trying to say to me.)

Easter Sunday

Luke 24:1-12, I Corinthians 15:19-26

My wife, when she was growing up, went to a small country church. On Easter morning, they congregation would gather at the small graveyard near the church to hear the story of the women who went to the tomb only to find that Jesus wasn't there. It was, I've always thought, the best place to hold an Easter service. Where else to think about empty tombs and the resurrection of the dead than one of the many places where we are reminded that Christ's, and our, old enemy has not yet been wiped out.


Perhaps it's because I'm working on a sermon for my preaching class, but I find myself thinking about another scene among the tombs on this Easter morning. If you look back several chapters in Luke (around chapter eight), there's the story of the Gerasene Demoniac. Luke tells the story of a man who's long been possessed by many demons. He has not been home in a long time. And he lives among the tombs and graves like one of the dead. While he is physically alive, socially he is a dead man since no one approaches him, talks to him, or touches him.


Jesus, of course, frees this man—literally saves him in Luke's words—from the demons. In his right mind again, he asks if he can come along with Jesus. But Jesus tells him no and sends him to a place he has not been in a long time—home. He completes bringing him, in a way, back to life.


On this day we hear scripture and song that reminds us that the sting of death has forever been removed. The grave's victory has been snatched away in one quiet act before dawn. And this is good news—death is not the end. Death cannot separate us from God. And death will only separate us from each other for a little while.


But it is important to remember that this mighty act of God is not just an overcoming of physical death. It is also a defeat of all kinds of death. It shows us that even the social death that comes from illness, layoff, or other social catastrophe can be overcome. It shows us that there is, no matter how bleak the situation, hope in darkness.


It also challenges us to continue that work of resurrection in the world. You or I cannot raise those who are physically dead, but we can reach out and bring resurrection to those who are dead in other ways. There are those, like the Gerasene demoniac who live a life in the tombs who need our help in finding their way back home.


Risen Christ, resurrect in me the dead parts that have forgotten how to love. And make me an agent of resurrection in this world.

Maundy Thursday

John 13

Jesus loved to eat.


I mentioned this to someone recently. It's one of those little details that, when you look for it, pops out in the Gospels. Think about it for a moment, just think of the stories you know about Jesus. How many of them involve a meal?


There's the story of Zacchaeus—where Jesus sort of invites himself to dinner.


There's the story of Mary and Martha. You know that one: Mary is sitting and listening to Jesus and Martha complains that she's not doing a thing to help her out. What do you think she wants help with anyhow? Dinner, of course.


Every time you turn around it seems Jesus is sitting down at the table with somebody. One evening he's at the house of some Pharisee. Another evening, he's getting complaints from the Pharisees because of who he's chosen to sit down and eat dinner with—those sinners and tax collectors.


Tonight we remember the last meal before Jesus' death. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all call this a Passover dinner. John, however, tells us that this is a dinner before the Passover. Whether it was or was not the Passover meal doesn't really matter. What matters is that Jesus, in the last hours, sat down and shared a meal with his friends.


Why do we see Jesus sitting at table so often? Well, one reason is that this sort of hospitality was and is very strong within the Jewish culture. A professor once told me that the families near a Rabbinical school would fight to see who would get to invite the students to their home for Passover. It's a very big deal to have someone come and share a meal with you. In that sense, it's no surprise that Jesus—a wandering teacher—would find himself with no shortage of invitations.


But, beyond culture and religion, I think there's something more to Jesus' repeated dinner scenes. I think Jesus understood that there is something sacred about sitting down and sharing a meal with someone. It takes a commitment of time to offer or accept an invitation to eat with another. It also implies exclusivity—that those moments are reserved just for who is at the table. And it takes a small amount of vulnerability—the very act of stopping to eat is just one more proof that we are human.


As we enter these moments of Jesus' final meal, prayers, betrayal, trial, and death, let's think about what Jesus spent so much of his time doing. And, in the coming weeks and months, pay closer attention to those we are privileged to share a table with. And try, hard as it may be, to treat those moments as a sacrament.


God of the table, come and dine with us this night and every day. Help us to see you in everyone who surrounds our table.