Straight from the Heart

 

Luke24:13-35

The poet Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote a beautiful line: Christ plays in ten thousand places. And it seems to be so in the Easter season. In these days following the resurrection, it seems like he is everywhere at once. Better than when he was bound by human flesh! He is in the garden, in the upper room, at the lakeshore, on the road to Emmaus. Apparently, all at once.

Here we are still in the same day we were in two weeks ago. For you and me, the Easter lilies are starting to die back, and the jellybeans are all eaten. But the gospel still has us on the day of Christ’s resurrection.

One of the things that happened on this day was a couple of the disciples walking to a place called Emmaus. I wish I could tell you something about this place called Emmaus.

I have done some searching to learn something about this place, but I came up with nothing of use. Some have proposed that it is a place about seven miles northwest of the city of Jerusalem, known as el-Khubeibeh. Others have suggested it is a place about eight miles southwest of Jerusalem, known as Khurbet Khamasa. And there are other places that have been suggested. So one thing I know for sure is that we have no idea about Emmaus.

But it doesn’t really matter where Emmaus was. It doesn’t matter why they were walking there because it is more important that they are walking away from Jerusalem than that they are walking toward a place called Emmaus.

Cleopas and the other disciple are walking away from the scene of the crime. In the past three days they have been witness to fearsome things. Their teacher, Jesus, was taken from them, arrested by the Roman soldiers. Once in the hands of the soldiers, they surely knew that things were unlikely to get better. He was beaten, interrogated, beaten some more, then crucified.

He died, and a few of his followers asked permission to take his body down. They wanted to give him a decent burial. It is, perhaps, surprising that the authorities permitted his body to be taken. The Romans liked to keep bodies up in the crosses lining the road for a good long time, to make sure everyone saw what they could do.

He was buried on Friday afternoon. But they were hurried since the sabbath was upon them. They knew they would have to come back to finish the work later.

And they did. Before sunrise on the day after the sabbath, some of the women returned to the tomb. But incredibly, something else terrible had happened. His body was gone.

Imagine this for a moment. Consider your own experience with the burial of loved ones and try to imagine just how that felt.

It had to feel truly awful. However, even this, it seems, would not be enough. The women reported to the others that they had seen an angel who told them Jesus was alive. He was not in the tomb because he was alive.

Still, there were others who were saying the body had been stolen, or hidden. By whom? It depended on who you asked. It could have been grave robbers. Or it could have been some of his followers.

The disciples of Jesus had been on some wild roller coaster ride of emotion during these few days. For a brief moment it seemed as though everything ended on Friday afternoon when Jesus breathed his last. But their mourning was interrupted by these other events and reports.

One thing I am certain of, among all the things they were feeling there was fear. They were afraid of what had already happened, and they were afraid of what might happen next. They were afraid for their future.

And so, in fear, these two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem. But they are also just walking.

Walking is something we do when we have a lot to think about. When you have some big feelings to process. The action of walking, left foot, right foot, over and over actually helps your brain do the work of processing something hard. The rhythm, the symmetry, encourages healthy brain activity. It helps relieve stress and fear.

And we can be sure these two disciples had some stress, some fear, and a lot of stuff to think through. So they did what many of us would do – they walked. And they talked.

While they walked and talked someone came alongside them. A stranger, and whether he was welcome, I do not know. But when the stranger asked them, “What are you guys talking about?” they stopped dead in their tracks. Sad. And they proceeded to lay it all out for this stranger, the whole sordid story of all that had gone on in the past few days. It was painful to talk about, but they needed to talk about it.

The stranger’s response was surprising to them. “How slow of heart you are to believe,” he said.

When they arrived at Emmaus it was near evening. Somehow, they just didn’t want to take leave of this stranger, so they urged him to stay with them. Stay, eat with us, stay the night, for the day is almost ended.

And it was when they sat at table together, these three; and when the stranger took the bread and gave thanks and broke it and gave it to them – it was then that these two disciples recognized him. Jesus. And in that same instant, he was gone.

The disciples turned to each other in amazement. Now they were putting it together. Were not our hearts burning within us as we were walking and talking with him? Things are clicking into place. Now it didn’t matter that the hour was late, they ran back to Jerusalem to tell the others what had happened – that the Lord had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

And this, of course, is part of our story and part of our ritual. It is part of our identity. We often call ourselves people of the book, of the word. But as great as words are, they only take us so far. And then it becomes about what we do. What we do will carry us the rest of the way.

It is not just words but also actions that strengthen and deepen our faith. It is not just words but also actions that deepen and express our love. There is a point at which the power of faith and the power of love have to go beyond words. 

And so when we have big overwhelming feelings we might take a walk. When we have great joy we might run or dance. When we are in need of Christ’s presence, we have holy communion, the bread and the cup.

When the words were spoken, and the bread was broken, then their eyes were opened. Actions can break through where words are not quite enough. When we partake of the holy meal we are in his presence. Meet you at the table – I promise, is what he said. But I feel that this is something we don’t avail ourselves of enough. The bread of heaven, the cup of salvation, these are always nourishing to our souls, and I will take them any time they are offered.

This sort of reminds me of the story in the book of Acts where the apostle Philip encounters an Ethiopian on the road who needs someone to open the meaning of the scriptures to him. So Philip does just that. Then the Ethiopian wants to be baptized. He points to a body of water nearby and says to Philip, “Look – here is water. What is to prevent me from being baptized?”

What, indeed.

Well, we have rules about the administration of the sacraments, which are meant to prevent their misuse. But the rules are not meant to limit our access to these life-giving and life-sustaining elements.

When we gather together to share the Lord’s Supper, we know that Jesus is right there with us. Christ plays in ten thousand places, and the table is definitely one of them. This is one place he has promised to always meet us. Just as he was there with the two disciples on the road, he is there with us whenever we gather at the table. Watch, next time. Watch and perhaps you will see. As we share the bread and the cup, you may see him as a spark that lights between us. As you look in someone’s eyes, you may feel Christ’s presence between you. Heart to heart.

Words are necessary, I know this is true. But just as necessary are the actions of faith. There comes a point where our actions are just what is needed to give life to our faith. Things will click into place and we will know. The actions of faith are sacred, because they come straight from the heart.

 

Full of Gladness

Acts 2:14a, 22-32

John 20:19-31

There is a cute scene in the middle of The Sound of Music, when Maria and Georg first express their love for each other. They are sharing their memories of the moment when they each knew they loved the other one. When I was little, I thought it was embarrassing, but as an adult I think it is my favorite scene.

Don’t we just love to remember exactly when something good first began? The moment I knew I loved you. The moment I knew I wanted to be a mother, or a father. The moment our friendship began. These are moments that stick in our memory and we visit them now and then, for the pleasure of them. The moment when we experienced the beginning of a new thing – a life-changing thing.

Occasionally, the new thing is really big, bigger than a personal relationship but a movement that we are a part of. Like the moment when the church first began.

You and I weren’t there. But, still, we can wonder about it. When did it all begin? Was it the moment when the women at the tomb first heard, “He is not here” and ran to tell the other disciples? 

Was it the moment Jesus appeared to the men who had followed him through his ministry, breaking through the locked door, busting into that upper room?

How do we pin it down? Because the gospels give us several of these moments to choose from. In addition to this one about the upper room, there is the story of Mary alone in the garden with Jesus. And there is the story of the two disciples who encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus, and the one where Jesus cooks them breakfast on the lakeshore. And there are more such stories, apparently, John tells us. So is it possible to pin it down to a moment?

When was the church first born? The answer I have given many times is that it happened when we received the Holy Spirit. This is actually part of this story from John, when Jesus says to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit,” and he breathes on them. But, of course, there is another version of how they received the Spirit. It was on the day of Pentecost, which happens to be the day when Peter is giving this sermon we heard today from the book of Acts.

We have, you might say, an abundance of origin stories. So the question I have is, what can we make of all this?

There is one thing that I know from this; although it may not be the most obvious thing, I think it is essential. It is about community. People come to faith in community; people grow in faith in community; people nurture their faith in community; people live out their faith in community. The church was born in community.

I say this, in part, because the value of community is disappearing in this world today, the understanding of how much community is a part of being human. But I also say this precisely because there are so many of these origin stories. What was the exact moment? There were multiple moments. It happened for Mary at the tomb; it happened for Thomas in the upper room; it happened for the two disciples walking to Emmaus while they sat at that table watching Jesus break the bread. It happened for thousands more when Peter, surrounded by the first disciples, spoke the good news to the Jews gathered in Jerusalem for Pentecost. 

And, yes, the church is born when the Spirit of life is given and received – the Holy Spirit of God.

The church is born when people get moving. The women at the tomb ran back to tell the men what they have seen and heard. The men in Emmaus ran back to Jerusalem to tell the others what they have seen and heard. The 12 men gathered in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost stepped out into the gathering to tell anyone who is listening what they have seen and heard.

The Church is born when people of faith start walking and talking.

Like Peter. He stood up and said to the crowd, listen to what I have to tell you about Jesus, the man God raised up; the one whom death could not hold down. Peter reached back to the words of David, their shared history, saying, The Lord is at my right hand, so I shall not be shaken. I will live in hope, for he has made known to me the ways of life. And I am full of gladness.

“My heart was glad and my tongue rejoiced,” Peter repeats these words from David’s psalm. Because, the moment you know, the moment faith is born in your heart, is a moment of gladness, of joy.

Like the words from the beloved hymn, Amazing Grace: “How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.” 

I know what you are thinking now – many of you, anyway. You’re thinking, I don’t remember the moment, the hour, I first believed. I came to faith by osmosis – I was born and raised swimming in the waters of the church. I can’t remember a time when I did not believe.

This is the story for many of us. And perhaps there are moments you wish you did have such a memory, a moment when you felt the spark of something new and wonderful. But this doesn’t suggest a deficit in your faith life. It is only something to be deeply thankful for, to know that you were cradled in the arms of the church all your life long.

There isn’t just one moment you can point to when your faith was born. And there isn’t just one moment we can point to when the church first began. Because it was the collective words and actions of a community of people. We do this thing together.

And just like those first followers of Jesus, in our gladness and rejoicing we don’t erase the pain and suffering. The women ran from the tomb experiencing both fear and joy. The men rejoiced as they bore witness to Christ’s wounds, which were still there. The suffering and death of Christ become the center of the Apostle Paul’s gospel that he carries throughout the land. It is as we read in Isaiah, “By his wounds we are healed.”

This is probably the paradox that is hardest for us to live with, but it is an essential truth of the gospel: Because of the sin and suffering of the world, Christ died. Because he suffered, we may find healing. Through his death and resurrection we may have new life.

For us, this is indeed good news, filling our hearts with gladness. But this good news will lead us to open our eyes to all the suffering that exists in the world, to open our hearts to it – just as Jesus did. Just as his early followers did. Just as the church has always done. 

This is at the heart of the matter: We follow in Christ’s footsteps, knowing ourselves to be wounded healers. We carry out his mission: to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed. 

And we do it together, as the community of Christ. That, too, is at the heart of the matter. The church is born and lives in community.

I am glad you are here, a part of this community. And if you are joining us by livestream, I hope you will consider joining us in-person, to be a part of this community, getting to know us and letting us know you.

Remember that rhyme we used to say as children? Here is the church, here is the steeple; open the doors and see all the people. Only, sometimes children fold their hands together the wrong way and open the doors to find there are no people inside. If there are no people in the church, there is no church – at least not in the building. The church is the people. The church is the community we find in Christ.

We are the church – wherever we go. Drawing strength from one another, breathing in and out the Spirit of God, meeting fear with love and joy.

Photo by Chang Duong on Unsplash

Love Is Our Religion

Matthew 28:1-10

Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed. Powerful words we say to one another on Easter morning. But only powerful because we know the story behind it  – a story that gives meaning to everything. 

The particular story of this day is the one about the women who came to the tomb early. They came to tend the body of their beloved, but it was gone. The tomb was empty. Angels appeared and said to the women, “He is risen; you will see him again in Galilee, the place where it all began.” 

It goes back to Galilee, where his ministry began. But there is much more to it than that, isn’t there? It goes back to Bethlehem, where he was born – this child called Immanuel, God with us. Because God so loved the world. It goes back to Bethlehem.

But it goes back much further, doesn’t it? It’s a story that actually goes back thousands of years and encompasses everything we know. It’s a story about God who created this amazing world and just loves it – and all of us in it. It’s a story that was written thousands of years ago and that is still being written today in so many ways. 

And so I can think of no better way to talk about Easter, what it means to us, than to tell you a story. In the middle of an epically long book, The Deluge, by Stephen Markley, there is a story about Tony.

Tony is a scientist. Who, unfortunately, really has no friends. He is not good with people, too gruff and too blunt. He is a prickly man – with reason. Tony’s wife died years ago after a very brief battle with cancer. She left him alone with two young daughters to raise. Even decades later, he wears his bitterness like a shield.

Tony is also bitter about his life’s work. He has devoted himself completely to convincing people that they need to respond to the climate catastrophe he sees coming. But he is unable to convince anyone, and his urgency pushes people away.

As a result, Tony’s relationships are few. Aside from his two daughters, there is his brother-in-law, whom he just tolerates. Corey and Tony have absolutely nothing in common. Their lives, their values, their politics, are polar opposites. Tony is all about saving the world and Corey is all about making money – lots of it. 

One day Tony gets a call from his older daughter Holly, who is worried about her sister, Catherine. Catherine lives all the way across the country, in Los Angeles. There are wildfires raging. These fires have, of course, become a normal feature of the weather in California, and now they are encroaching on the city. Several fires from different directions coming together – they are uncontrollable. Holly is worried because she can’t get in touch with Catherine.

Tony can’t reach her either. As they watch the news coming out of California, frightened and helpless. They know Catherine is in her apartment, or at least her phone is, because the sisters have location sharing with each other. Holly and Tony, along with the rest of the nation, are watching this disaster grow bigger by the hour. 

People are calling this one El Demonio, because when they looked up at the smoke clouds they thought they could see a demonic face in it. The city of Los Angeles is about to go up in flames. The call goes out for the whole city to be evacuated. And Catherine is still not answering her phone.

Tony calls a professional acquaintance, whom he thinks might have some inside information that would be helpful. It’s hard to imagine what he might be able to tell Tony that would help, but Tony is desperate. He gets Ash on the phone to ask him what he knows about the fires. Ash sends him some technical reports. 

Ash is an interesting character. He is a brilliant man with little to no ability to engage with others on an emotional level. He is pretty far on the autism spectrum, and his human-to-human interactions are usually very awkward. So try to imagine it: you have these two guys on the phone together, neither one of which has great interpersonal skills. Ash is talking about technical matters related to the fires, which are endlessly interesting to him. Tony tries to listen while his heart is practically bursting out of his chest because he is so afraid for Catherine. Tony finally interrupts Ash. “My daughter is there,” he tells him, “and I can’t reach her.”

The tone of the conversation shifts then. Ash understands now that this not a purely intellectual interest for Tony. Ash may not experience things the same ways most people do, but he is an astute observer of life, studying humans as if they were an alien species. On an intellectual level, he understands – sort of. But he hardly knows what to say. Tony hangs up on Ash and goes back to pacing in front of the TV news. 

Pretty soon his phone rings again. It’s Ash. He has reached out to some official connections he has through his work and managed to get Tony on a FEMA plane to California. He will arrange for a car to meet him, so he can drive to Holly’s apartment. Ash will get him information about the emergency routes into the city, because all the highways are being used for outbound traffic as millions of people evacuate. 

In that moment, Tony breathes in a sense of hope, of possibility, for the first time since this all started. He says to Ash, “I’ll never forget this.” Ash says to him, “I was thinking of how my sister and her husband would behave if it were their child.”

Tony flew out of his house to the airport. Six hours later he was in L.A. He jumped in the car that Ash managed to get for him. He grabbed the satellite navigation device while listening to someone call him a crazy son of a gun who wants to drive into LA in the middle of the book of Revelation. And he drove off toward the fire.

It was like driving through Armageddon. The flames, the smoke, the heat, helicopters flying low, ashes falling like snow. As he was getting close to Catherine’s neighborhood, a backyard propane tank exploded, with pieces hitting his car causing him to crash into a tree. The car was wrecked, Tony definitely had a concussion. He got out and started walking, choking on the smoke, moving as fast as he could.

He reached her apartment, pounded on the door – no answer. Shouted her name, “Catherine, Catherine!” He tried to break down the door with his body. He managed to get ahold of a crowbar and wrench it open. He found Catherine passed out in her room, still breathing.

He lifted her up and out of the apartment. But when he got outside and looked around he realized there was no way they could outrun the fire. Without a car, it was hopeless. So Tony found a school, a large brick building. This is where they would try to ride it out, it was their only hope. He hit the SOS button on his satellite navigator; he sent a text to Holly, in case by some miracle it might get through to her, and they went down to the basement, shutting the door behind them.

After a while Tony could see, and taste, the smoke that was seeping under the door. There was nothing more that he could do. Tony sat on the basement floor with his daughter’s head on his lap. She opened her eyes and said to him, “I’m sorry.” He said, “For what? There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Then they were choking and gasping for air.

Suddenly Tony heard a siren. Was it a hallucination? It grew louder, flashing lights appeared out the window. It was a fire truck. Firefighters leaped out with oxygen tanks and axes. The basement door burst open and three women in orange jumpsuits rushed down the steps. 

As they left the building together and headed toward the truck, Tony saw a man standing there. It was his brother-in-law, Corey.

Corey had been trying to call Tony, worried about Catherine. Eventually, he reached Holly, who filled him in on the whole crisis unfolding. Corey chartered a jet from Florida to California. He bribed his way onto a rescue helicopter. He stayed in touch with Holly, who got the text Tony sent about being at the school, so Corey knew where he needed to go. 

He started moving from one group of firefighters to another trying to get someone to go out and find his family. There was a whole army of first responders – professional and volunteers – people from all over the country who had answered the call for help. But everyone he approached told Corey to forget about it. That neighborhood was gone. 

Corey didn’t give up, though. He found the women in the orange jumpsuits. They were inmates at a women’s correctional facility who fought wildfires for $7 a day. They didn’t want to do it either, but Corey was an able and motivated negotiator. He vowed to spend the next decade of his life doing whatever he could to get their sentences commuted, get them free, find them jobs. Whatever they needed, he said, because, “this is my family.”

This, my friends, all of this, is love. 

My title today is “Love Is Our Religion,” taken from a song by Ziggy Marley called, “Love Is My Religion,” and its essential message is that books, belief, doctrine, and dogma are unnecessary because all you need is love, as the Beatles would say.

And while we are not abandoning the book, the belief, the doctrine, we want to make sure that we let none of it obscure the essential thing, and that is love. Love is the power that drives it all.

Love is the power that birthed Jesus, God in the flesh, God with us. Love is the power that carried him through his ministry, his teaching and healing. Love is the power that took him to the cross. Love is the power that ultimately conquered death. Love is all you need. 

Love is the power that drew the women back to the tomb on Sunday morning, at risk to themselves. Love is the power that compelled his followers to carry the story of Jesus far and wide, confronting mortal danger, taking on great risk because love is stronger than fear; love is stronger than rage; love is stronger than death.

There is another song I have been thinking about this week: The Things We Do for Love. Tony was willing to die for his daughter. Love empowered him to do things he never before imagined. He would do whatever it took, even if that was dying. And, to his enormous surprise, Corey was willing to give everything, do anything, for love of his niece and his brother-in-law. Even Ash, ever the astute observer of humans, understood the power of love.

Love is the greatest power, stronger than guns, bombs, or missiles. Love is strong enough to carry us through any hardship. Love is the way Jesus showed us, and the way he still continues to lead us. 

Love is our religion. The power of love can be used to do great things in the world, if we only let it. 

You know the story, a story that is still being written – by our lives – here and everywhere in the world.  Let this be our story. May our hearts be open to love and let it do amazing things through us.

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash