Sermons

Here’s what I believe today’s text is asking us to do. It’s simple to identify, credential, and celebrate a form of love that is clearly defined. Jesus loves me, this I know. Because I see him. And I hug him. And he walks with me, and he talks with me, and he tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known. But so much of what we experience is not defined, not binary, not precise, not exacting. The Spirit gives us the tools to engage all that which is fluid. We do not seek to define motherhood; we seek to acknowledge and affirm what is mothering. We do not define worship, or prayer, or Church. We seek to acknowledge that which brings us closer to God and one another, that which helps us to express our true selves. We do not seek to define love, we seek to value that which is lovely.

Yes, Jesus lives. That’s amazing, but so is the how of the revelation. We know that Jesus lives, when like, Mary, we hear him call our names. We know that Jesus lives, when like those first disciples, he is revealed in the blessing and breaking of bread. We know that Jesus lives, when like Thomas, we get to see with our own eyes. And perhaps best of all, we are made to know, even when we can’t see with our own eyes, even when our journey is asynchronous, asymmetrical, and just-plain-messy.

I believe Psalm 23 is relevant in multiple contexts: God creates and shares space with God’s people. If it’s King David, there’s an assurance of a kinship where God’s people foster a community of faith and neighboring. God’s consistency abides, in the good times and the bad times, too. If the text is an exile setting, God is not only helping the returning exiles to find space in their old land, but God is also cultivating space for a new temple, where God’s community can build a future together. And if the psalmist lives today, perhaps God is telling us that new space is being cleared, physically, virtually, emotionally, spiritually for ours to be a banquet community.

Friends, Emmaus lies ahead. It may be seven miles, or seven years, or seven sentences to form a paragraph.  As we travel that road, I’ll hope we will remember to share the story.  And when we get there, I hope we won’t forget to sit, and rest, and enjoy a table.  For it’s a table that our future – God’s future, God’s bright future – will be revealed.  The bread that God provides may not be able to erase our pain, or our grief, or our disappointment over present circumstances.  But the bread is a reminder that our present circumstances are NOT, are NOT, are NOT, are NOT, are NOT the final word.  God is the final word.  And God is working, always working, to resurrect our own Emmaus: our possibilities, our goodness, our humanity, our tomorrow, our future.  So…let’s grab a seat at the table, and perhaps we may finally understand that our SHOULD HAVE BEENs will one day BE.

Thomas is the first of the disciples to proclaim Jesus’ identity with conviction. Upon seeing Jesus, Thomas expresses his belief. The text tells us that Jesus invites Thomas to touch, but it doesn’t say Thomas actually touches Jesus. We’re left to interpret that sight alone is enough for Thomas to believe.

On that very first Easter morning, Mary knew her name, and she heard it spoken aloud as well. Mary reminded others that they, too had a name God is eager to speak aloud. And Mary must have been persuasive, because two thousand years later, she’s telling us the same. Because of Mary, I witness resurrection in countless things: animated movies; daffodils in March; the kindness and exuberance of my children; the healing powers of broken bread and shared wine; needed rhythms restored by Sabbath; a bright morning sun, that somehow tells me of an Easter hope in the newest of ways. Yes, Miss Mary’s weaving together all sorts of resurrection tales!