The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday Isaiah 50: 4 – 9a
Sunday, April 1, 2012 Philippians 2: 5 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Mark 14: 1 – 15: 47
At three o’clock, Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Mark 15: 34
The liturgy on Palm Sunday is very strange. Every Palm Sunday, we begin, as we did this morning outside, acclaiming:
Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord.
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest.
And then, with palms in hand, we process around the church singing “All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Redeemer, King.”
Next thing we know, we are in the church, hearing the story of the passion, joining the crowds when they shout: “Crucify him!”
Today is properly known as The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. And today we move from palms to passion, from jubilation to condemnation as we take our place with the crowds who at first rejoiced as Jesus rode into Jerusalem and then, within days, demanded his death.
We begin this day hearing how the crowds shouted: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” as Jesus rides into Jerusalem. The word “Hosanna!” is an Aramaic word meaning “Save us!” and is an exclamation of praise and thanksgiving as God’s long awaited promised Messiah comes to set God’s people free. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, in humility, just as the prophet Zechariah had written five hundred years earlier - a clear sign that God’ s promise was coming true. Israel’s day of deliverance had come and no more would they be forced to live as a people oppressed by Rome.
But then, once in Jerusalem, Jesus refuses to take up arms against Rome and does nothing to save himself, calling down upon himself a charge of blasphemy by the high priest and the amazement of Pilate when Jesus refuses to answer the charges against him. As the story of the passion unfolds, Jesus looks less and less like a savior, resulting in the condemnation of the crowd who shout: “Crucify him!” and sheer contempt for this man who saved others but could not save himself. Whatever hope of salvation folk had when Jesus rode into Jerusalem quickly drains away.
And in our reading of the passion according to Mark, even Jesus is overcome by an overwhelming sense of God’s absence as he cries out from the cross: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” As the story of the passion comes to a close, we are left with a dead body and a failed and forsaken Messiah.
Now I know that we all know the “end of the story” and that today’s reading of the passion will be followed next Sunday, on Easter, with the story of the empty tomb. We know the end of the story and we know that God has neither forsaken Jesus nor the people of Israel. So staying in this place of God forsakenness into which we are invited today and asked to remain throughout this week, will be a challenge.
Today is the first day of Holy Week, the most somber week of the liturgical year. Today we hear the story of the passion according to Mark, on Thursday we will remember the events of the Last Supper, and then, on Friday, we will hear the passion according to John and strip the altar. We begin a journey this morning from hope into despair, from joyous expectation into a wrenching desolation. When we leave this church on Friday night, all signs and symbols of our faith will be gone. The story will be over.
And yet we dare to call this week “holy.” Holy is not how I would describe the last week of Jesus’ life. The crowds who first hailed him a King, quickly turned against him. His disciples fall asleep at the height of Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus is condemned to death on trumped up charges and then inhumanly humiliated. And then we hear Jesus’ horrible cry of desolation from the cross: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” The story of the passion is the story of the day God was hidden from everyone, even Jesus.
We dare to call this week “holy” because in all of the suffering of that last week, God was supremely present, bringing about God’s good purposes in a way no one could see or even begin to imagine. The darkness of Holy Week was overwhelming but not God forsaken. But no one, not even Jesus, according to our evangelist Mark, could see through that darkness.
Which brings us round to the “So what?” of Holy Week. During Holy Week we are asked to step into that place and time where God was nowhere to be found, where the love, mercy and peace of God was, for all who had eyes to see, utterly absent. And who among us has not known times when darkness seems to surround us on all sides, when all hope is lost, when we can see nothing but despair and misery? I pray that for most of us those times are fleeting but also know for some of us those times can linger sometimes beyond human endurance.
Holy Week is not for the faint of heart. Holy Week invites us into the darkest depths of despair, bidding us to remember that God was not absent the day Jesus died, although no one, not even Jesus could see that. Holy Week gives chase to cheap words of comfort in the face of every suffering – words like “Well, look on the bright side – things could be worse,” “Don’t worry; things will get better,” and my personal favorite, “You just need to pray harder.” Jesus did not die on the cross because he was not praying hard enough. On the cross, Jesus takes his place with every human being who suffers, everyone who wonders if God is truly present with them in their loneliness and despair. On the cross, God himself suffers the agony of being human in an inhuman world.
Holy Week is for all of us who are human and whose heart despairs in the midst of things we cannot understand. The solace of Holy Week is the solace of solidarity – God really knows what it’s like to be human.
Linger in Holy Week this year. Come to the service on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Come because you are human and being human means we will suffer. Come because the “one who comes in the name of the Lord” was human just like us. And come, remembering that on third day, God raised him from the dead.
Sunday, April 1, 2012 Philippians 2: 5 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Mark 14: 1 – 15: 47
At three o’clock, Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Mark 15: 34
The liturgy on Palm Sunday is very strange. Every Palm Sunday, we begin, as we did this morning outside, acclaiming:
Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord.
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest.
And then, with palms in hand, we process around the church singing “All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Redeemer, King.”
Next thing we know, we are in the church, hearing the story of the passion, joining the crowds when they shout: “Crucify him!”
Today is properly known as The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. And today we move from palms to passion, from jubilation to condemnation as we take our place with the crowds who at first rejoiced as Jesus rode into Jerusalem and then, within days, demanded his death.
We begin this day hearing how the crowds shouted: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” as Jesus rides into Jerusalem. The word “Hosanna!” is an Aramaic word meaning “Save us!” and is an exclamation of praise and thanksgiving as God’s long awaited promised Messiah comes to set God’s people free. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, in humility, just as the prophet Zechariah had written five hundred years earlier - a clear sign that God’ s promise was coming true. Israel’s day of deliverance had come and no more would they be forced to live as a people oppressed by Rome.
But then, once in Jerusalem, Jesus refuses to take up arms against Rome and does nothing to save himself, calling down upon himself a charge of blasphemy by the high priest and the amazement of Pilate when Jesus refuses to answer the charges against him. As the story of the passion unfolds, Jesus looks less and less like a savior, resulting in the condemnation of the crowd who shout: “Crucify him!” and sheer contempt for this man who saved others but could not save himself. Whatever hope of salvation folk had when Jesus rode into Jerusalem quickly drains away.
And in our reading of the passion according to Mark, even Jesus is overcome by an overwhelming sense of God’s absence as he cries out from the cross: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” As the story of the passion comes to a close, we are left with a dead body and a failed and forsaken Messiah.
Now I know that we all know the “end of the story” and that today’s reading of the passion will be followed next Sunday, on Easter, with the story of the empty tomb. We know the end of the story and we know that God has neither forsaken Jesus nor the people of Israel. So staying in this place of God forsakenness into which we are invited today and asked to remain throughout this week, will be a challenge.
Today is the first day of Holy Week, the most somber week of the liturgical year. Today we hear the story of the passion according to Mark, on Thursday we will remember the events of the Last Supper, and then, on Friday, we will hear the passion according to John and strip the altar. We begin a journey this morning from hope into despair, from joyous expectation into a wrenching desolation. When we leave this church on Friday night, all signs and symbols of our faith will be gone. The story will be over.
And yet we dare to call this week “holy.” Holy is not how I would describe the last week of Jesus’ life. The crowds who first hailed him a King, quickly turned against him. His disciples fall asleep at the height of Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus is condemned to death on trumped up charges and then inhumanly humiliated. And then we hear Jesus’ horrible cry of desolation from the cross: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” The story of the passion is the story of the day God was hidden from everyone, even Jesus.
We dare to call this week “holy” because in all of the suffering of that last week, God was supremely present, bringing about God’s good purposes in a way no one could see or even begin to imagine. The darkness of Holy Week was overwhelming but not God forsaken. But no one, not even Jesus, according to our evangelist Mark, could see through that darkness.
Which brings us round to the “So what?” of Holy Week. During Holy Week we are asked to step into that place and time where God was nowhere to be found, where the love, mercy and peace of God was, for all who had eyes to see, utterly absent. And who among us has not known times when darkness seems to surround us on all sides, when all hope is lost, when we can see nothing but despair and misery? I pray that for most of us those times are fleeting but also know for some of us those times can linger sometimes beyond human endurance.
Holy Week is not for the faint of heart. Holy Week invites us into the darkest depths of despair, bidding us to remember that God was not absent the day Jesus died, although no one, not even Jesus could see that. Holy Week gives chase to cheap words of comfort in the face of every suffering – words like “Well, look on the bright side – things could be worse,” “Don’t worry; things will get better,” and my personal favorite, “You just need to pray harder.” Jesus did not die on the cross because he was not praying hard enough. On the cross, Jesus takes his place with every human being who suffers, everyone who wonders if God is truly present with them in their loneliness and despair. On the cross, God himself suffers the agony of being human in an inhuman world.
Holy Week is for all of us who are human and whose heart despairs in the midst of things we cannot understand. The solace of Holy Week is the solace of solidarity – God really knows what it’s like to be human.
Linger in Holy Week this year. Come to the service on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Come because you are human and being human means we will suffer. Come because the “one who comes in the name of the Lord” was human just like us. And come, remembering that on third day, God raised him from the dead.
Good Friday Isaiah 52: 13 – 53:12
Friday, April 6, 2012 Hebrews 10: 1 – 25
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 18: 1 – 19: 37
Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”
John 18: 36
We hear the story of the passion tonight, the same story we heard last Sunday when we heard the story of the passion read dramatically, when we took our place with the crowds who shouted “Crucify him!” Not all four gospels tell the story in exactly the same way - they differ in the details – but all four gospels tell the story of the day Jesus died on a cross. The story of the passion is central to all four gospels; without the story of the passion we would have no gospel, no good news.
The story of the passion is not the bad news before we get to the good news of Easter. Easter is not God’s way of undoing all the awful things that happened on Good Friday. The events of Good Friday – Jesus’ betrayal and arrest, his condemnation on false charges and the mockery of the soldiers as well as the crowds – were awful, but not on that account simply a miscarriage of justice, an injustice that never should have happened.
The event of Good Friday – Jesus’ death on the cross – was mysteriously enfolded within God’s good purposes, ordained by God to be the way God was delivering God’s dearly beloved creation from evil and death.
Good Friday was divinely ordained. And, whereas the story of the passion is central to all four gospels, only in the gospel of John, from which we hear tonight, do we hear that the crucifixion was a revelation of the glory of God. On the cross, the Son of God glorifies his Father. Tonight, as we hear the passion according to John, we witness the story of the passion from above, from beyond this world of flesh and blood, from before time, when “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” as John tells us in the opening verse of his gospel.
In the gospel of John, Jesus is the Word of God sent into the world to do the will of the One who sent him. On the cross, at the moment of his death, in the gospel of John, Jesus’ last words are: “It is finished.” Jesus’ death is not a miscarriage of justice but the completion of the purpose for which he was sent into the world which was to reveal God to a world who did not know God. What Jesus reveals is a God whose very life is a communion of love between God as Father and God as Son. Jesus’ death is an offering of love from the Son who has received all that he has from the Father and, now, out of love, offers everything back.
All four gospels tell us that Jesus’ death was a voluntary death, that Jesus could have escaped death at the hands of Rome but did not. But only in the gospel of John are we invited to see Jesus’ death as an act of love, as the Son gives to the Father what the Father had given to him. Our evangelist John invites us to see what looks for all the world like a failure, a Messiah who saved others but was powerless to save himself, as an act of love, an intimate communion in which the Father gives all to the Son and the Son returns all to the Father. Perhaps the only way to understand this night is to think about your most intimate relationships and what you would and what you would not do to and for those you love. Tonight is very personal and very intimate.
On the cross, in the gospel of John, we are witnessing a divine dance of love.
The church would take centuries to grapple with the significance of the way our evangelist John understood the crucifixion. Prompted in large measure by this strange gospel, the church would eventually articulate the doctrine of the Trinity – that God is a communion of love between God as Father and God as Son. God is not a solitary “thing” that exists in splendid isolation but a dynamic communion of love between God as Father and God as Son, an eternal relationship of giving and receiving.
And this communion of love is the ground of our being, the power that brings us to life and keeps us in life. The glory of God is the love which binds the Father to the Son and the Son to the Father, made known to us as the Son offers himself completely to the Father on the cross. And you and I are invited to share in this glorious life of God.
And yet, we draw back, draw back at the sight of the cross, recoil at this picture of suffering and death, unable to see the glory of God as Jesus breathes his last. We cannot fathom how the power of love, which appears as weakness on the cross, can possibly be more powerful than the power which was able to put Jesus to death.
But the power that killed Jesus, the power of violence, is a pretentious power, not true power which belongs only God. “At the heart of Christian faith in Jesus,” writes theologian Arthur McGill, to whom I am indebted for my thoughts tonight, “is the knowledge that true power belongs only to God. The distinctive mark of God’s power is service and self-giving. And in this world such power belongs only to him who serves. In the light of such a faith, the Christian has no final fear before the pretentious claims of violent power.”
Jesus could have exercised the power of violence, overpowering his accusers and captors, reigning down fire on Rome and all her legions. But Jesus says to Pilate: “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”
The kingdom into which we are invited this night is a kingdom in which the power of violence no longer rules. The kingdom into which we are invited this night is a kingdom in which life flourishes, all of life, as we serve one another, giving to and receiving from one another all that we have and all that we are. In this kingdom, our needs and those of others are not opportunities for exploitation but reasons to serve, to love and to find life.
Friday, April 6, 2012 Hebrews 10: 1 – 25
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 18: 1 – 19: 37
Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”
John 18: 36
We hear the story of the passion tonight, the same story we heard last Sunday when we heard the story of the passion read dramatically, when we took our place with the crowds who shouted “Crucify him!” Not all four gospels tell the story in exactly the same way - they differ in the details – but all four gospels tell the story of the day Jesus died on a cross. The story of the passion is central to all four gospels; without the story of the passion we would have no gospel, no good news.
The story of the passion is not the bad news before we get to the good news of Easter. Easter is not God’s way of undoing all the awful things that happened on Good Friday. The events of Good Friday – Jesus’ betrayal and arrest, his condemnation on false charges and the mockery of the soldiers as well as the crowds – were awful, but not on that account simply a miscarriage of justice, an injustice that never should have happened.
The event of Good Friday – Jesus’ death on the cross – was mysteriously enfolded within God’s good purposes, ordained by God to be the way God was delivering God’s dearly beloved creation from evil and death.
Good Friday was divinely ordained. And, whereas the story of the passion is central to all four gospels, only in the gospel of John, from which we hear tonight, do we hear that the crucifixion was a revelation of the glory of God. On the cross, the Son of God glorifies his Father. Tonight, as we hear the passion according to John, we witness the story of the passion from above, from beyond this world of flesh and blood, from before time, when “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” as John tells us in the opening verse of his gospel.
In the gospel of John, Jesus is the Word of God sent into the world to do the will of the One who sent him. On the cross, at the moment of his death, in the gospel of John, Jesus’ last words are: “It is finished.” Jesus’ death is not a miscarriage of justice but the completion of the purpose for which he was sent into the world which was to reveal God to a world who did not know God. What Jesus reveals is a God whose very life is a communion of love between God as Father and God as Son. Jesus’ death is an offering of love from the Son who has received all that he has from the Father and, now, out of love, offers everything back.
All four gospels tell us that Jesus’ death was a voluntary death, that Jesus could have escaped death at the hands of Rome but did not. But only in the gospel of John are we invited to see Jesus’ death as an act of love, as the Son gives to the Father what the Father had given to him. Our evangelist John invites us to see what looks for all the world like a failure, a Messiah who saved others but was powerless to save himself, as an act of love, an intimate communion in which the Father gives all to the Son and the Son returns all to the Father. Perhaps the only way to understand this night is to think about your most intimate relationships and what you would and what you would not do to and for those you love. Tonight is very personal and very intimate.
On the cross, in the gospel of John, we are witnessing a divine dance of love.
The church would take centuries to grapple with the significance of the way our evangelist John understood the crucifixion. Prompted in large measure by this strange gospel, the church would eventually articulate the doctrine of the Trinity – that God is a communion of love between God as Father and God as Son. God is not a solitary “thing” that exists in splendid isolation but a dynamic communion of love between God as Father and God as Son, an eternal relationship of giving and receiving.
And this communion of love is the ground of our being, the power that brings us to life and keeps us in life. The glory of God is the love which binds the Father to the Son and the Son to the Father, made known to us as the Son offers himself completely to the Father on the cross. And you and I are invited to share in this glorious life of God.
And yet, we draw back, draw back at the sight of the cross, recoil at this picture of suffering and death, unable to see the glory of God as Jesus breathes his last. We cannot fathom how the power of love, which appears as weakness on the cross, can possibly be more powerful than the power which was able to put Jesus to death.
But the power that killed Jesus, the power of violence, is a pretentious power, not true power which belongs only God. “At the heart of Christian faith in Jesus,” writes theologian Arthur McGill, to whom I am indebted for my thoughts tonight, “is the knowledge that true power belongs only to God. The distinctive mark of God’s power is service and self-giving. And in this world such power belongs only to him who serves. In the light of such a faith, the Christian has no final fear before the pretentious claims of violent power.”
Jesus could have exercised the power of violence, overpowering his accusers and captors, reigning down fire on Rome and all her legions. But Jesus says to Pilate: “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”
The kingdom into which we are invited this night is a kingdom in which the power of violence no longer rules. The kingdom into which we are invited this night is a kingdom in which life flourishes, all of life, as we serve one another, giving to and receiving from one another all that we have and all that we are. In this kingdom, our needs and those of others are not opportunities for exploitation but reasons to serve, to love and to find life.
Easter Day: The Sunday of the Resurrection Acts 10: 34 – 43
Sunday, April 8, 2012 I Corinthians 15: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 1 - 18
Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”: and she told them that he had said these things to her.
John 20: 18
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
That acclamation is being made all over the world today, as folk gather together to celebrate Easter. The news of the empty tomb is greeted with joy and usually with great fanfare as we do this morning. Our choir sounds like the heavenly host, lovely white lilies grace the altar and windows, and this church is full with family and friends. Today is a glad and glorious day as we celebrate the good news that the tomb was empty.
At the heart of Christian faith is the claim made in all four of our gospels that Jesus was crucified and on the third day was raised from the dead. All of our evangelists know the startling claim they are making and do not shy away from letting us know just how unbelievable was the news that Jesus had been raised from the dead. All four gospels tell us that women were the first to make the discovery and, in the ancient world, women were not perceived to be reliable witnesses. And in the account of the Resurrection which we hear this morning from the gospel of John, Mary initially believes the body has been stolen.
Unreliable women make the discovery and no one actually sees the Resurrection so the possibility that the grave had been robbed was plausible. Our evangelists are, just as we are this morning, making an impossible claim. And next Sunday, as we always do on the Sunday after Easter, we will hear the story of Doubting Thomas who, like all of us, struggles to understand the impossible.
And so, throughout the history of the Church, arguments have been made to make the impossible more possible. Perhaps, some argue, the Resurrection was simply the emotional response of distraught disciples following the horror of the crucifixion. Perhaps, the Shroud of Turin will “prove” that the Resurrection really happened. Maybe Jesus did not really die but was just unconscious for three days. And for some, the whole idea of Resurrection is simply the product of the imaginations of a primitive and unscientific people and best forgotten.
Of course, the Church has not forgotten the Resurrection and in a minute when we confess our faith the words of the Nicene Creed we will say: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Our hope is that what happened to Jesus will happen to us; we look forward to God doing the impossible again – resurrecting our dead bodies.
Which we all know is impossible.
What may be possible is that our soul will go to heaven when we die. That possibility was given to us by the Greek philosopher Plato four hundred years before Christ. For Plato, we have immortal souls, a part of us that will live on forever. When we die, we leave behind our physical bodies, which only serve to keep us trapped in this world of time and matter.
Unfortunately, Mary this morning discovers an empty tomb, a tomb without a body and then meets a person who calls her by name and who she then recognizes as Jesus. If Plato was right, Mary should have found a body and met a ghost.
Alternatively, what might be possible is that when we die, we, following the cycles of nature, we will “come back to life,” like spring follows winter. Death is a little bit like hibernation and really not final and permanent. On this account, Jesus’ resurrection is not so impossible – it happens to daffodils all the time.
Our claim this morning that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead is an impossible claim and not a claim we can “prove” nor understand in the way we can understand the law of gravity. What we confess this day is that God did the impossible and we look forward in hope to that day when God will do the impossible one last time – creating a new heaven and a new earth in which we will live in bodies no longer subject to death in a world that knows only justice and peace and joy.
That hope is founded on the Resurrection and is far grander and more beautiful than any idea we might come up with to understand what happens when we die. Jesus’ risen body, a body that was recognizable and which could be touched and which ate breakfast on the beach with his disciples, is the hope and the promise God gives to us. What God has promised, God will bring about.
Today we celebrate what Saint Paul calls the “first fruits,” the first window we are given on what life in this new heaven and new earth will be like. We are given this morning a vision of things yet to come and this vision is glorious beyond words. In Jesus’ resurrection, God’s kingdom has come, a kingdom in which in the words of Revelation: “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
And we, just like our evangelists, are sent into the world to proclaim this vision, this promise, and to anticipate that coming kingdom now – to strive for justice and peace, relieve suffering, to comfort the afflicted and bring hope to the hopeless. The story of the Resurrection which we hear this morning is not meant simply to be a private consolation, an assurance that we will have a share in God’s coming kingdom. The story of the Resurrection is “good news for all people” and those who most need to hear this story and see this story incarnated in deeds of mercy and compassion, are all those for whom life in this world cannot pass away soon enough.
The news we hear this morning is impossibly good news – maybe too good to be true. I sometimes wonder if we are afraid to hope for so much, to really believe that this world in which live – a world filled with suffering and violence and broken relationships and mistrust – will ever be different. Afraid to hope that God indeed can and will make all things new, we “make do” as best we can for as long as we can. We settle for ‘happiness” in whatever form we can find it, not daring to believe that joy, not just happiness, is God’s desire for us.
And even the Church has, from time to time, not always been a place that takes to heart this vision of God’s coming Kingdom. The church can and has been for many, a place, not of comfort and joy, but rather a place of pain and grief. And sadly, many have just “given up” and walked away, unable or unwilling to believe that God can make all things new in the church as well as the world.
In the gospels, we find Jesus enjoying the fellowship of all kind of folk on any number of occasions, and most of these encounters took place over a meal. And when Jesus taught about the kingdom of God, he often likened God’s kingdom to a wedding feast, a great banquet with fine food and wine to which all are invited – the rich and the poor, the weak and the strong, the young and the old, the fit and the lame, the sinner and the saint. In a few minutes we will be invited to share in a great feast, joining one another at the altar to eat bread and to drink wine, “the holy food and drink of new and unending life” in Christ, as I will say in the Eucharistic Prayer. This meal that we share is not a quaint ritual but a foretaste of the heavenly banquet we look forward to with Christ in the world to come. And on that day, in the words of Saint Paul, we who “now see in a mirror, dimly,” “will then see face to face” and we, who now “know only in part; then will know fully, even as we have been fully known.”
Rejoice this day and enjoy this day and give thanks this day. Come, feast on the gifts of God and hold fast to the impossible words we hear this morning from Mary Magdalene, whose tears were turned to joy, sending her out to announce for all the world to hear: “I have seen the Lord!”
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
Sunday, April 8, 2012 I Corinthians 15: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 1 - 18
Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”: and she told them that he had said these things to her.
John 20: 18
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
That acclamation is being made all over the world today, as folk gather together to celebrate Easter. The news of the empty tomb is greeted with joy and usually with great fanfare as we do this morning. Our choir sounds like the heavenly host, lovely white lilies grace the altar and windows, and this church is full with family and friends. Today is a glad and glorious day as we celebrate the good news that the tomb was empty.
At the heart of Christian faith is the claim made in all four of our gospels that Jesus was crucified and on the third day was raised from the dead. All of our evangelists know the startling claim they are making and do not shy away from letting us know just how unbelievable was the news that Jesus had been raised from the dead. All four gospels tell us that women were the first to make the discovery and, in the ancient world, women were not perceived to be reliable witnesses. And in the account of the Resurrection which we hear this morning from the gospel of John, Mary initially believes the body has been stolen.
Unreliable women make the discovery and no one actually sees the Resurrection so the possibility that the grave had been robbed was plausible. Our evangelists are, just as we are this morning, making an impossible claim. And next Sunday, as we always do on the Sunday after Easter, we will hear the story of Doubting Thomas who, like all of us, struggles to understand the impossible.
And so, throughout the history of the Church, arguments have been made to make the impossible more possible. Perhaps, some argue, the Resurrection was simply the emotional response of distraught disciples following the horror of the crucifixion. Perhaps, the Shroud of Turin will “prove” that the Resurrection really happened. Maybe Jesus did not really die but was just unconscious for three days. And for some, the whole idea of Resurrection is simply the product of the imaginations of a primitive and unscientific people and best forgotten.
Of course, the Church has not forgotten the Resurrection and in a minute when we confess our faith the words of the Nicene Creed we will say: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Our hope is that what happened to Jesus will happen to us; we look forward to God doing the impossible again – resurrecting our dead bodies.
Which we all know is impossible.
What may be possible is that our soul will go to heaven when we die. That possibility was given to us by the Greek philosopher Plato four hundred years before Christ. For Plato, we have immortal souls, a part of us that will live on forever. When we die, we leave behind our physical bodies, which only serve to keep us trapped in this world of time and matter.
Unfortunately, Mary this morning discovers an empty tomb, a tomb without a body and then meets a person who calls her by name and who she then recognizes as Jesus. If Plato was right, Mary should have found a body and met a ghost.
Alternatively, what might be possible is that when we die, we, following the cycles of nature, we will “come back to life,” like spring follows winter. Death is a little bit like hibernation and really not final and permanent. On this account, Jesus’ resurrection is not so impossible – it happens to daffodils all the time.
Our claim this morning that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead is an impossible claim and not a claim we can “prove” nor understand in the way we can understand the law of gravity. What we confess this day is that God did the impossible and we look forward in hope to that day when God will do the impossible one last time – creating a new heaven and a new earth in which we will live in bodies no longer subject to death in a world that knows only justice and peace and joy.
That hope is founded on the Resurrection and is far grander and more beautiful than any idea we might come up with to understand what happens when we die. Jesus’ risen body, a body that was recognizable and which could be touched and which ate breakfast on the beach with his disciples, is the hope and the promise God gives to us. What God has promised, God will bring about.
Today we celebrate what Saint Paul calls the “first fruits,” the first window we are given on what life in this new heaven and new earth will be like. We are given this morning a vision of things yet to come and this vision is glorious beyond words. In Jesus’ resurrection, God’s kingdom has come, a kingdom in which in the words of Revelation: “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
And we, just like our evangelists, are sent into the world to proclaim this vision, this promise, and to anticipate that coming kingdom now – to strive for justice and peace, relieve suffering, to comfort the afflicted and bring hope to the hopeless. The story of the Resurrection which we hear this morning is not meant simply to be a private consolation, an assurance that we will have a share in God’s coming kingdom. The story of the Resurrection is “good news for all people” and those who most need to hear this story and see this story incarnated in deeds of mercy and compassion, are all those for whom life in this world cannot pass away soon enough.
The news we hear this morning is impossibly good news – maybe too good to be true. I sometimes wonder if we are afraid to hope for so much, to really believe that this world in which live – a world filled with suffering and violence and broken relationships and mistrust – will ever be different. Afraid to hope that God indeed can and will make all things new, we “make do” as best we can for as long as we can. We settle for ‘happiness” in whatever form we can find it, not daring to believe that joy, not just happiness, is God’s desire for us.
And even the Church has, from time to time, not always been a place that takes to heart this vision of God’s coming Kingdom. The church can and has been for many, a place, not of comfort and joy, but rather a place of pain and grief. And sadly, many have just “given up” and walked away, unable or unwilling to believe that God can make all things new in the church as well as the world.
In the gospels, we find Jesus enjoying the fellowship of all kind of folk on any number of occasions, and most of these encounters took place over a meal. And when Jesus taught about the kingdom of God, he often likened God’s kingdom to a wedding feast, a great banquet with fine food and wine to which all are invited – the rich and the poor, the weak and the strong, the young and the old, the fit and the lame, the sinner and the saint. In a few minutes we will be invited to share in a great feast, joining one another at the altar to eat bread and to drink wine, “the holy food and drink of new and unending life” in Christ, as I will say in the Eucharistic Prayer. This meal that we share is not a quaint ritual but a foretaste of the heavenly banquet we look forward to with Christ in the world to come. And on that day, in the words of Saint Paul, we who “now see in a mirror, dimly,” “will then see face to face” and we, who now “know only in part; then will know fully, even as we have been fully known.”
Rejoice this day and enjoy this day and give thanks this day. Come, feast on the gifts of God and hold fast to the impossible words we hear this morning from Mary Magdalene, whose tears were turned to joy, sending her out to announce for all the world to hear: “I have seen the Lord!”
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
The Second Sunday of Easter Acts 4: 32 - 35
Sunday, April 15, 2012 I John 1: 1 – 2: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 19 - 31
So the other disciples told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
John 20: 25
Every year, on the Sunday right after Easter, we hear the story of Doubting Thomas from the gospel of John. Last Sunday, on Easter, we heard Mary Magdalene exclaim: “I have seen the Lord!” and now this morning, Thomas says: “I will not believe.”
Thomas’ doubt that Jesus has risen from the dead, has often been seen as faithlessness, a refusal to believe the testimony of Mary and the other disciples. Thomas was not present either at the empty tomb early in the morning or in the evening, when the disciples, we are told, are gathered together behind locked doors. Thomas has not seen the Risen Jesus and declares: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Thomas needs to see to believe.
Sometimes, though, Thomas signifies not faithlessness, but a valid skepticism in the light of a testimony that is incredible. Thomas is simply acting responsibly, refusing to blindly follow the witness of others which makes no sense. Thomas’ doubt is the appropriate response of a reasonable person when confronted by the impossible. To doubt the claims of others keeps us from falling prey to snake oil salesmen.
Jesus clearly does not simply dismiss Thomas in our reading this morning. Indeed, Jesus appears to Thomas, and invites Thomas to do exactly what Thomas needs to do – touch Jesus’ hands and put his finger in Jesus’ side. And in that encounter – in which we never learn if Thomas actually touches Jesus’ wounds – Thomas is brought to a confession of faith, acknowledging Jesus as “My Lord and my God!” To which, Jesus responds: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”
You and I are “the ones who have not seen.” None of us have seen the Risen Jesus and the claims of faith we make are rooted in the witness of others, who we never knew and who are all now long dead. What we have is the witness of those who had seen or knew those who had seen Jesus. The whole of the New Testament is their witness, their testimony, that on the third day God raised Jesus from the dead.
But their witness was written in Greek, not a language with which most of us are familiar. And their witness was hand written and hand copied, leaving us multiple manuscripts which are not always identical. Moreover, what we find in the New Testament was written within a span of about one hundred and fifty years after the crucifixion and resurrection. We are not just those “who have not seen,” but we are those who neither speak the language nor live in a world of miracle workers, Jewish Temples and Roman governors and can only guess at which manuscripts are most “authentic.” Believing the witness of the New Testament does not eliminate the need to ask questions; indeed, reading the New Testament requires that we ask questions.
Our evangelist John writes his gospel, he tells us this morning, “so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” To “believe” for the sixteenth century Protestant reformer Martin Luther meant to trust, not just to assent to certain doctrines. “What” we believe is contained in the words of the Nicene Creed; “that” we believe these claims to be truthful claims about God is an act of trust, a commitment we make before we can know what those claims mean. “Everything depends upon faith,” Luther wrote. “The person who does not have faith is like someone who has to cross the sea, but is so frightened that he does not trust the ship. And so he stays where he is, and is never saved, because he will not get on board and cross over.” Getting on board the boat is everything; we need to trust the boat will not sink.
In the story we hear this morning, Thomas, who is not with the disciples when Jesus first appears to them and subsequently “doubts” the veracity of their witness, continues to keep company with the disciples, even though they have told him things he does not believe. A week later, Thomas is with them when Jesus appears to the disciples a second time. In spite of his doubts, Thomas does not jump ship.
The desire to say anything at all about God - and our evangelist John has a lot to say about God - is the desire of love to know the object of our love. Our own experience tells us we want to know those we love – we want to know what they like and dislike, what brings them joy and what burdens they bear. We want to know about them because we love them. We might even go so far as to say that we cannot really know another human being until we love them. Knowing another human being truly comes after, not before, we fall in love.
Theology is much the same way. Loving God comes before we can even begin to understand the meaning of God’s act in Christ. In the words of Saint Anselm of Canterbury, written in the tenth century: “Unless I first believe, I shall not understand.”
The Thomas who doubts the witness of the disciples this morning is the same man who earlier in John’s gospel is willing to die with Jesus. Jesus, at that point in the gospel, is headed to the tomb of Lazarus and into a town where the Jews had tried to stone Jesus. The disciples are trying to persuade Jesus not to go and Thomas alone says: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Those are words of love. Thomas’ subsequent doubt that Jesus has risen from the dead - Thomas’ desire to see for himself - is rooted in a relationship of love.
Faith – our trust in God - leads us to question and to ponder and to read and to struggle to understand. “Nothing in theology,” wrote the twentieth century theologian Karl Barth, “is self-evident.” Doubt, in this sense, Barth argues, is immanent to the task of theology – the quest for knowledge of God. We must and should ask questions. In the back of The Book of Common Prayer in a section called the Catechism, basic questions of faith are posed and answered so that all of us and most especially those desiring to be baptized might come to understand, at least in part, what they are getting into. In the words of a poster that was popular some years ago, “Baptism is not brainwashing.” We do not leave our minds at the front door when we come to church.
We come to the witness of the New Testament in trust, or said another way, we entrust ourselves to the New Testament. We do not presuppose what we will find when we come to the texts of the New Testament but unless we actually take up these texts, we will never know what God is saying to us through these witnesses.
In the gospel of John, faith itself is a gift from God. Thomas’ doubt is overcome by Jesus; all Thomas did was show back up a week later. Of course, “showing up” is sometimes our greatest challenge. We all, each of us, have more than enough reasons to give up on our journey of faith, to become wearied by the intellectual demands to understand, the cacophony of voices that surround us in our time proclaiming this or that to be true. Engaging our faith is never a smooth straight road, never without potholes. Faith is a journey, not a destination.
Which brings me round to our Easter forums which will begin this afternoon. Today we will begin a difficult conversation as we consider the blessing of same sex relationships. And we will begin with scripture, with trying to understand what the Bible tells us about what constitutes a holy relationship. And we will come to this conversation with a host of convictions, not the least of which is the conviction I know we all hold that we will not hurt one another. What we will begin this afternoon will not be easy. I am not initiating these forums to cause us pain but in the assurance that Christ is risen and is in our midst. I am convinced we care about one another and it is precisely because we do care about one another, that I am holding these forums.
With the permission of the bishop, I will be making my own determination as to whether or not to bless same sex relationships. Our Easter forums are not a referendum. These Easter forums are an opportunity for all of us to wrestle with scripture, consider what is happening within the church and to inform our consciences. What I will do or will not do will be informed but not determined by our conversations.
Which means, I hope, that everyone who comes to these forums will feel free to offer their perspectives and insights around a topic about which I know we do not share a like mind. We all do not see things the same way and that is a good thing. Likewise, I hope folk will feel free to simply come and listen and not feel burdened to say anything at all if they choose not to.
Thomas wanted to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man he loved and saw crucified and buried had risen from the dead. Thomas wanted certainty. Certainty in matters of faith is not possible for those of us who can no longer “see” the Risen Christ and who must now depend upon the Holy Spirit to lead us and guide us. As we continue our journey of faith this afternoon, I trust that will happen.
Sunday, April 15, 2012 I John 1: 1 – 2: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 19 - 31
So the other disciples told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
John 20: 25
Every year, on the Sunday right after Easter, we hear the story of Doubting Thomas from the gospel of John. Last Sunday, on Easter, we heard Mary Magdalene exclaim: “I have seen the Lord!” and now this morning, Thomas says: “I will not believe.”
Thomas’ doubt that Jesus has risen from the dead, has often been seen as faithlessness, a refusal to believe the testimony of Mary and the other disciples. Thomas was not present either at the empty tomb early in the morning or in the evening, when the disciples, we are told, are gathered together behind locked doors. Thomas has not seen the Risen Jesus and declares: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” Thomas needs to see to believe.
Sometimes, though, Thomas signifies not faithlessness, but a valid skepticism in the light of a testimony that is incredible. Thomas is simply acting responsibly, refusing to blindly follow the witness of others which makes no sense. Thomas’ doubt is the appropriate response of a reasonable person when confronted by the impossible. To doubt the claims of others keeps us from falling prey to snake oil salesmen.
Jesus clearly does not simply dismiss Thomas in our reading this morning. Indeed, Jesus appears to Thomas, and invites Thomas to do exactly what Thomas needs to do – touch Jesus’ hands and put his finger in Jesus’ side. And in that encounter – in which we never learn if Thomas actually touches Jesus’ wounds – Thomas is brought to a confession of faith, acknowledging Jesus as “My Lord and my God!” To which, Jesus responds: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”
You and I are “the ones who have not seen.” None of us have seen the Risen Jesus and the claims of faith we make are rooted in the witness of others, who we never knew and who are all now long dead. What we have is the witness of those who had seen or knew those who had seen Jesus. The whole of the New Testament is their witness, their testimony, that on the third day God raised Jesus from the dead.
But their witness was written in Greek, not a language with which most of us are familiar. And their witness was hand written and hand copied, leaving us multiple manuscripts which are not always identical. Moreover, what we find in the New Testament was written within a span of about one hundred and fifty years after the crucifixion and resurrection. We are not just those “who have not seen,” but we are those who neither speak the language nor live in a world of miracle workers, Jewish Temples and Roman governors and can only guess at which manuscripts are most “authentic.” Believing the witness of the New Testament does not eliminate the need to ask questions; indeed, reading the New Testament requires that we ask questions.
Our evangelist John writes his gospel, he tells us this morning, “so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” To “believe” for the sixteenth century Protestant reformer Martin Luther meant to trust, not just to assent to certain doctrines. “What” we believe is contained in the words of the Nicene Creed; “that” we believe these claims to be truthful claims about God is an act of trust, a commitment we make before we can know what those claims mean. “Everything depends upon faith,” Luther wrote. “The person who does not have faith is like someone who has to cross the sea, but is so frightened that he does not trust the ship. And so he stays where he is, and is never saved, because he will not get on board and cross over.” Getting on board the boat is everything; we need to trust the boat will not sink.
In the story we hear this morning, Thomas, who is not with the disciples when Jesus first appears to them and subsequently “doubts” the veracity of their witness, continues to keep company with the disciples, even though they have told him things he does not believe. A week later, Thomas is with them when Jesus appears to the disciples a second time. In spite of his doubts, Thomas does not jump ship.
The desire to say anything at all about God - and our evangelist John has a lot to say about God - is the desire of love to know the object of our love. Our own experience tells us we want to know those we love – we want to know what they like and dislike, what brings them joy and what burdens they bear. We want to know about them because we love them. We might even go so far as to say that we cannot really know another human being until we love them. Knowing another human being truly comes after, not before, we fall in love.
Theology is much the same way. Loving God comes before we can even begin to understand the meaning of God’s act in Christ. In the words of Saint Anselm of Canterbury, written in the tenth century: “Unless I first believe, I shall not understand.”
The Thomas who doubts the witness of the disciples this morning is the same man who earlier in John’s gospel is willing to die with Jesus. Jesus, at that point in the gospel, is headed to the tomb of Lazarus and into a town where the Jews had tried to stone Jesus. The disciples are trying to persuade Jesus not to go and Thomas alone says: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Those are words of love. Thomas’ subsequent doubt that Jesus has risen from the dead - Thomas’ desire to see for himself - is rooted in a relationship of love.
Faith – our trust in God - leads us to question and to ponder and to read and to struggle to understand. “Nothing in theology,” wrote the twentieth century theologian Karl Barth, “is self-evident.” Doubt, in this sense, Barth argues, is immanent to the task of theology – the quest for knowledge of God. We must and should ask questions. In the back of The Book of Common Prayer in a section called the Catechism, basic questions of faith are posed and answered so that all of us and most especially those desiring to be baptized might come to understand, at least in part, what they are getting into. In the words of a poster that was popular some years ago, “Baptism is not brainwashing.” We do not leave our minds at the front door when we come to church.
We come to the witness of the New Testament in trust, or said another way, we entrust ourselves to the New Testament. We do not presuppose what we will find when we come to the texts of the New Testament but unless we actually take up these texts, we will never know what God is saying to us through these witnesses.
In the gospel of John, faith itself is a gift from God. Thomas’ doubt is overcome by Jesus; all Thomas did was show back up a week later. Of course, “showing up” is sometimes our greatest challenge. We all, each of us, have more than enough reasons to give up on our journey of faith, to become wearied by the intellectual demands to understand, the cacophony of voices that surround us in our time proclaiming this or that to be true. Engaging our faith is never a smooth straight road, never without potholes. Faith is a journey, not a destination.
Which brings me round to our Easter forums which will begin this afternoon. Today we will begin a difficult conversation as we consider the blessing of same sex relationships. And we will begin with scripture, with trying to understand what the Bible tells us about what constitutes a holy relationship. And we will come to this conversation with a host of convictions, not the least of which is the conviction I know we all hold that we will not hurt one another. What we will begin this afternoon will not be easy. I am not initiating these forums to cause us pain but in the assurance that Christ is risen and is in our midst. I am convinced we care about one another and it is precisely because we do care about one another, that I am holding these forums.
With the permission of the bishop, I will be making my own determination as to whether or not to bless same sex relationships. Our Easter forums are not a referendum. These Easter forums are an opportunity for all of us to wrestle with scripture, consider what is happening within the church and to inform our consciences. What I will do or will not do will be informed but not determined by our conversations.
Which means, I hope, that everyone who comes to these forums will feel free to offer their perspectives and insights around a topic about which I know we do not share a like mind. We all do not see things the same way and that is a good thing. Likewise, I hope folk will feel free to simply come and listen and not feel burdened to say anything at all if they choose not to.
Thomas wanted to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man he loved and saw crucified and buried had risen from the dead. Thomas wanted certainty. Certainty in matters of faith is not possible for those of us who can no longer “see” the Risen Christ and who must now depend upon the Holy Spirit to lead us and guide us. As we continue our journey of faith this afternoon, I trust that will happen.
