Meeting Jesus on the Road

I have to start off this morning with a little bit of a disclaimer-- the story of the walk to Emmaus, our gospel story this morning, is one of my all-time favorite stories from any of the gospels.  Throughout the New Testament we read of so many astonishing events— miraculous healings, exorcisms, the multiplication of loaves and fish, Jesus walking on water, and of course the most astonishing event of all-- the resurrection of Christ from the grave.  And yet, none of those stories hold for me the kind of uncomplicated grace and power that this one does.  In the Emmaus story we read of something so simple it’s almost commonplace.  Two friends, journeying to a destination.  Sharing conversation and bread with a stranger along the way.  And it is in that very simple, humble act of fellowship and hospitality where God is made known to these two disheartened and disillusioned disciples. 

I love this story because I think it often reflects how many of us feel after Easter.  We have joyfully proclaimed that the tomb is empty, and Christ is risen.  And yet for some of us, even though the stone has been rolled away, we remain in the tomb.  Struggling with the fact that— much like the dashed expectations of these two disciples-- our own expectations for what God should be doing in our lives, or in the world, are not being met.  Or at least-- not in the way we would like them to be.  For me, this is particularly true when it comes to the world around us.  There is this stark and sometimes almost impossible juxtaposition between the proclamation of salvation and resurrection on Easter, and the fact that there are still so many places in the world where hope and salvation seem nowhere to be found.  Places where children go to bed hungry, where war and violence are the status quo, and the sins that Jesus supposedly came to save us from seem to be still very much ruling in the hearts of humankind.  In the midst of all that, we may be inclined to ask: If the resurrection was supposed to change things, why does it sometimes seem like everything always remains the same?

Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, we may not believe the good news of the resurrection, because like them, we don’t see it happening in the way we expect or desire.  These two disciples didn’t believe the good news, and so they were inclined to give up and walk away.  But of course, God had other plans for them, and so God came to meet them on the road.  And so I suppose we could just stop there, and say that despite our doubt and disillusionment, God comes to meet us where we are.  (Actually I think that pretty much sums up exactly what I said last week.)  And that would certainly be true.  However, it’s not altogether as simple as that.  Yes, God comes to meet us.  But what then?  This story begs the question, even if God does come to meet us where we are, would we even recognize it when it happens?  The disciples don’t.  Not at first.  They walked seven miles with Jesus, talking with him, listening to him expound upon scripture.

And they didn’t recognize him.  One biblical scholar observes that even as the disciples are walking and talking with the risen Christ, they still don’t get it.  “In their eyes,” he writes, “either the mission had entirely failed, or they had themselves been badly deceived in their own expectations of Jesus.”  They were so wrapped up in their own disappointment that they couldn’t see what was right in front of them.  Of course the disciples do eventually come around.  They do eventually recognize the risen Christ in their midst.  So what was it that made the difference for them?  What was it in that interaction that changed the way they were seeing things?

Well I would argue there is a crucial turn-around moment in this story.  A moment where everything hangs in the balance.  A moment when the disciples arrive at their destination and Jesus is about to walk on.  The choice they make at this moment is critical.  Will they part ways with the stranger?  Will they go back to their homes and continue to dwell in their failed expectations, never to realize the opportunity God had placed right in front of them?  We all know what happens, after all we just heard the story.  But pause for just a moment at this point in the story, and imagine what you might have done if you were in their shoes.  You are exhausted after a long day’s journey.  You feel defeated and deflated.  You would probably just want to get home, have some supper, and go to bed.  You might feel a twinge of concern for this man you had been walking with, after all it’s dark, and walking alone on the road he could easily fall prey to robbers or bandits.  But you don’t quite feel comfortable inviting a stranger into your home and you’re almost too tired and depressed to give it much thought or concern.  What would you do?  Would you invite him in?  Or would you simply give him a polite goodbye, wish him well, and shut the door?  It would have been very easy for the disciples, in their present state of mind to react exactly this way.

Perhaps it was that pesky Holy Spirit, but there was something that just wouldn’t let them leave it at that.  And so they invited him to stay with them.  They opened their door to him, reached out in a moment of generous and almost reckless hospitality, and shared a meal with him.  And that’s the turnaround moment in this story.  It was in that moment of exceptional hospitality that the disciples were pulled up out of their own feelings of hopelessness and defeat and their eyes were opened to the risen Christ in their midst.  It’s a powerful moment, because it speaks to how it is often in and through our acts of reaching out to others— especially to the stranger in need of hospitality--  that we encounter God.

This, by the way, is an ancient religious truth that goes back to the very roots of Judeo-Christian tradition.  The Emmaus story harkens back to one of the earliest stories in the bible.  A story about Abraham and Sarah, the founders and parents of our faith.  They were promised many offspring by God—“ I will make of you a great nation”, God says to Abraham.  But years and years went by without any children.  They were starting to get old, and Sarah had lost hope.   I imagine even Abraham was feeling pretty disappointed and doubtful himself.  Well in the midst of one of their darkest moments, three strangers appear on the scene.  Sarah doesn’t want to have anything to do with them.  In her disappointment and despair, she had turned her energy inward.  But Abraham found it within himself to welcome these three strangers, open up his home to them, wash their feet, and share a meal with them.  And as it turns out, the three strangers were messengers from God.  And it’s from this story that we get the famous truism, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

Both of these stories have similar aims-- they present us with the conditions for recognizing God’s presence in our midst.  They teach us that it’s not just in those moments of miraculous triumph that we see God’s presence in the world.  It’s not just in the trumpets and bells and alleluias that God shows up.  And that actually, more often than not, it is in the regular moments of everyday life, with all its trials and tribulations and disappointments, where God comes to meet us.

There is no doubt in my mind  that discernment of God’s presence among us happens in many different ways.  But this morning’s story is perhaps an indicator that more often than not, discernment of the resurrected Lord is most visible when we look beyond ourselves and our own problems-- when we take the risk of opening our hearts and our doors to someone in need of hospitality.

Somewhere in the back of their minds, maybe the disciples remembered this, because in fact it was something Jesus himself had taught them.  In Matthew 25 he says to them-- whenever you offer food to the hungry, or shelter to the homeless-- whenever you welcome the stranger, or visit the sick or imprisoned-- whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me.  Perhaps somewhere in the back of their minds they remembered this just as they were about to part ways with the stranger they met on the road to Emmaus.  And in that moment, whether they expected it or not, they encountered Christ.

Sometimes I think we view this practice of reaching out to the least of these as something to be done by people who are well-off in life for those who are not.  We say that we give to the needy or to those less fortunate.  But I think this is actually a little deceiving.  Because truth be told, we are all needy-- especially when it comes to God’s grace and love.  We all have problems that we struggle with—our own disappointments and disillusionments.  We all have our own Emmaus roads that we walk.  We all have stuff.  If it was only ever the happy, healthy, well adjusted people who reached out to others, then I suspect we would live in a world of very self-absorbed people who never helped anyone.  Because the truth is, as these stories this morning illustrate, we reach out to others not because we are so much better off, but because we are the needy ones.  We are the ones in need of God’s presence.  And we find it in our gestures of love and compassion towards others, knowing that Christ is most fully alive in our world today in the midst of loving and caring relationships and communities.  Not between the so called fortunate and less fortunate.  Just one person caring for another.  Just one stranger walking with another.

And so this Easter season, I encourage you to test your vision as you seek the risen Christ in your lives and in the world.  Think of those two disciples on the road to Emmaus, lost in their discouragement and disillusionment.  And think of your own road to Emmaus-- wherever and whatever that might be.  And ask yourself: Where might God be giving you an opportunity to meet Christ on that road? 

The History of Doubt: John 20:18-29

Poor Thomas.  He gets such a bad rap.  Every single year, on the Sunday after Easter, the lectionary turns up this well known story from the Gospel of John: the story of Thomas, the one disciple who just so happens to be out of the room when Jesus appears to the other disciples for the first time.  Who knows where he was--maybe he was out getting food for everyone, or perhaps he was out gathering information, trying to determine when it might be safe for the disciples to show their faces in public again.  Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, clearly, he missed out.  And now he has had the misfortune to be known for all time as Doubting Thomas.  And I have got to say, quite frankly, I think it’s pretty unfair.  I mean, let’s look a little closer at what’s going on here.  After Jesus dies, the disciples go and lock themselves up in a room.  They are afraid to go outside.  They don’t want anyone to be able to recognize them or associate with them with their fallen leader.  And apparently in the midst of all that, the only disciple who was brave enough to venture outside this little room they had holed themselves up in was Thomas!  We call him Doubting Thomas, but really, it was the rest of the disciples who were so full of doubt and fear that they were paralyzed into inaction-- hiding out from the rest of the world and locking themselves behind closed doors.  At the very least, Thomas probably shouldn’t be singled out as the only disciple who experienced doubt in those initial days following the crucifixion and resurrection. I think there was plenty of that to go around.

Beyond that though, I would argue that singling Thomas out as the focus of this story distracts us from what this passage is really all about.  It’s not really a story about Thomas and his personal inability to believe.  Or perhaps it is about that, but it’s also much bigger than that.  This is a story about all of us and this universal human experience called doubt.  But it’s not only about us.  It’s also a story about God, how God responds to us, and how God communicates with us even in the midst of that doubt.  Additionally, I think that hidden deep within this story is a lesson about how sometimes, it is in fact our doubt that can be the means through which we develop deep, transformative faith. 

Over the years, this morning’s text has probably become the single most commonly referenced passage when it comes to the experience of religious doubt.  Even people who never go to church have probably heard the phrase “doubting Thomas.”  But it’s not just in this passage that we find it.  Doubt is really one of the most prevalent themes in all the post-resurrection accounts in all four of the gospels.  Yes, there is joy and amazement, there is wonder and excitement.  But for the most part, the best way to describe how the disciples feel about everything going on around them is doubtful and afraid.  Last week, for example, we heard about how Mary and the other women at the tomb went home after hearing news of the resurrection and didn’t say a word to anyone because they were afraid.  In John’s gospel this morning, we continue the story, and we read that Mary has apparently since recovered from her speechlessness, and has announced the good news to the disciples.  But it seems that her word is not quite enough to quell their own doubts and fears so they remain behind closed doors.  The doubt and fear the women first felt has now seemingly affected the men as well.  But then Jesus appears to them.  “Peace be with you,” he says, perhaps in an effort to subdue their fear.  And then the gospel tells us that he “breathes on them” and bestows upon them the gift of the Holy Spirit.  

Now one would think that this kind of personal encounter with the divine would be enough to remove their doubts.  One would think that such an experience of the risen Christ might finally prompt them to unlock the doors they hid behind and start spreading the good news.  But that’s not what happened!  Scripture tells us that they remained hidden behind closed doors for another whole week!  Even after seeing Jesus himself— standing before them in the flesh, giving them the gift of the holy spirit-- they were still doubtful and afraid.  When you think about it, it’s kind of hard to believe that this is the same group of disciples that we heard about in our passage from the Acts of the Apostles this morning—this passage which portrays this almost utopian sounding Christian community where everyone shares everything in common and all are cared for.  “There was not a needy person among them,” the book of Acts says, “for as many as owned lands or houses, sold them, and brought the proceeds of what was sold… and it was distributed to each as any had need.”  How on earth did they get from this cowardly group of doubtful disciples that we read about in John to this courageous group of apostles— spreading the good news, living in a community of radical love and compassion?  How did they get from here to there?  How did this transformation come about?

Well I’m sure that the Holy Spirit had something to do with it.  But I would also venture to say that it was in part their doubt that got them there.  Now I realize that this may seem like a rather strange thing to say.  After all, doubt is not exactly viewed in a positive light in some circles of Christianity.  For many Christians, the measure of one’s faith lies in the certainty of their belief.  And to have doubts, or to call into question that certainty would be seen by some as an attack on Christianity itself.  But I think we actually do ourselves a disservice when we ignore or deny the value of doubt. It’s certainly clear from many of the gospel stories that it’s natural and not something to be ashamed of.  And even though we live in an age where doubt is not always seen as a positive trait for Christians to have, it hasn’t always been that way.  In the long history of religious thought, Doubt has not always been looked down on as a thing to be avoided.  And in fact, has been seen by many as an important part of one’s spiritual development. 

Take for example, one of the great Fathers of the early Church, Saint Augustine.  He wrote about the importance of doubt in his major 5^th century treatise—The City of God.  And he said that for a man to doubt is not so terrible a thing because “at the least, even if he doubts, he lives. If he doubts, he remembers why he's doubting... If he doubts, he thinks. If he doubts, he knows he does not know. If he doubts, he judges he ought not to give a hasty assent.”  For Augustine, doubt was an important stop on the road to true wisdom.  For him, one could never really know anything without experiencing doubt first.

Fast forward about a thousand years later, and mystics like St. John of the Cross would come to talk about doubt as something called “the dark night of the soul.”  What we might call a crisis of faith-- often brought on by some kind of personal upheaval in which we lose all comfort of certainty.  An experience in which we are plunged into darkness and are forced to question everything.  For John of the Cross and many others, they believed that one must first experience this “dark night of the soul” before one could come to true faith.

For these ancient thinkers, doubt played an important role in one’s personal spiritual development.  Not only that, doubt has also played an important role in the development of religion itself.  Looking back over the history of the church, one can see that some of the most famous “doubters” are the ones who actually helped the church make progress and move forward.  Take for example the Reformation: when Martin Luther and other reformers casst doubt upon many of the doctrines being handed down from the Catholic church.  Not only did these doubts help form the Protestant church as we know it today, but they also led to many important reforms within the Catholic Church itself, helping them to move forward as well.  And you know, while we’re here, talking about reformers who cast doubt on the religious status quo, there is another figure in the history of Christianity who did a lot in terms of casting doubt upon the religious establishment.  Someone who questioned the way things were and prompted others to seek change.  Someone who turned the status quo of religious authority upside down and made a whole lot of people rethink what they believed about God.  I’m talking of course about Jesus himself.

One could argue that really, the most significant and positive moments in the history of the church have been those when doubt— not certainty— was at the forefront of people’s minds.  One could also make the argument that if some of the greatest achievements in the history of religion have been the product of doubt, that on the flip side, some of the greatest sins in the history of religion have been the product of a kind of arrogant religious certainty.  The Crusades, the Inquisition, modern day fundamentalism and religious terrorism— these can all be traced back to the kind of religious certainty that leaves no room for self reflection, humility, or thoughtful engagement with those who think differently than oneself.  And it is here where I want to bring us back around to our gospel story from this morning.  It is here where I want to come back to that group of 12 frightened disciples locked up in an upper room, full of doubt and trepidation about what their next steps should be.  Imagine what might have happened if the disciples had reacted differently to the brutal execution of their religious teacher and friend.  What if their response had been not grief and doubt, but rather anger and rage and a desire for vengeance?  Perhaps such a reaction would have been understandable, if not justifiable.  But I think that if that had happened, the end result would have been quite different.  And I think we can be fairly sure that this community of radical love and compassion that we read about in the Acts of the Apostles wouldn’t have been part of it.  

Because here’s the thing-- there is something about the humility that comes with doubt-- that comes with the admission “we know we do not know.”  There is something about the vulnerability that accompanies that experience of “the dark night of the soul” that allows room for something other than one’s own certainty.  If we barrel through life, certain at all times that we know everything there is to know, where does that leave room for God or for our faith to transform us?

I have a theory that the reason why there are so many stories of doubtful disciples in the gospel, and the reason why so many of the early church fathers and mothers emphasized the importance of doubt so much, is because doubt has this ability to  open up these little cracks in our exterior, to make a little more room for God to break through.  Furthermore, to have that experience, to enter into that dark night of the soul, opens up one’s own sense of compassion towards others who are also struggling to make sense of life’s difficulties.  

Perhaps that’s what happened to those original disciples.  They truly did experience a dark night of the soul— a period in which they thought all hope was lost and were ready to throw in the towel and give up.  Perhaps it was exactly that experience which gave them the kind of compassion and empathy needed to create this radical and inclusive community of love.

The vulnerability that doubt creates in us makes us more open and compassionate towards others.  It also makes us more open to experiencing God.  Christian activist and preacher Pauli Murray has written that “the Crisis of doubt is inseparable from our human condition.”  “However,” she says, “God is never closer to us than when we are in greatest doubt.  When all our human efforts have failed and we acknowledge our helplessness and defeat; when our lives are wrenched apart by devastating loss and we are numb with grief, when our bodies are filled with pain and weakness and we are compelled to face the inevitability of death.  In our inability to solve the problems of evil and suffering, in our deep despair, we learn that our ultimate support and strength comes from God, who loves us, accepts us with all our weakness and doubts, and enters into our suffering with us.  In the major crises of our lives we abandon all illusions of self-sufficiency and find refuge in God’s infinite mercy and grace.” 

And so perhaps the most important lesson we learn from our gospel reading this morning is that that even in the midst of great doubt, God comes to us.  God reaches out to us in our most vulnerable moments undeterred by dead bolts or locked doors.  In the words of theologian Serene Jones, “when doubt threatens to crowd out hope, we can be comforted that Jesus will come to meet us exactly where we are, even if it is out on the far edge of faith that has forgotten how to believe.”

Even when we repeatedly hold onto our doubt and fear, God still comes to us.  The disciples probably didn’t deserve that second visit from Jesus.  After all, they supposedly knew this moment would come.  They had the testimony of Mary and the other women and they had that first encounter with Jesus himself.  Yet still, they persisted in their doubt.  But God didn’t give up on them.  And that is perhaps the most crucial part of the story.  God did not give up on them.  And God will not give up on us.

Doubt is not the opposite of belief and it is not an obstacle to belief.  It is part of what it means to seek God.  It is part of how we come to real faith.  Maybe there are things in the Christian story that you wrestle with.  Maybe you have some questions.  Maybe there are some things you aren’t sure about.  God isn’t going to disappear because you have some doubts.  In fact, it may just be, that in those very questions, God has something God wants to tell you.  And that’s probably the best news of all.

Rolling Away the Stone: An Easter Sermon on Mark 16

Let’s be honest, Mark’s account of the resurrection that we read in our Gospel today is probably the least dramatic, least satisfying account that we get in any of the four gospels.  In Matthew, for instance, as the women approach the tomb there is a great earthquake, and an angel descends from heaven before their very eyes, singlehandedly rolling back the stone before sitting on top of it to declare to the women that Jesus had been raised.  And as the women are returning from the tomb-- full of joy and excitement-- they run into Jesus himself, and they fall to the ground to worship him.  In Luke and in John we find similarly dramatic details.  And in every other gospel except for Mark, the discovery of the empty tomb is followed by a number of appearances of the resurrected Jesus, who arrives on the scene to offer hope and instruction to his grieving and bewildered disciples.

But not in Mark.  In Mark’s gospel, this is all we get.  The whole of Mark’s gospel ends with the phrase: “and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”  Not exactly the most inspiring or uplifting or empowering ending.  “And they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

Now some of you who read your bibles often might say, “wait a minute, I could have sworn that there was more there— aren’t there actually ten more verses after this?”  And in fact it is true that most bibles will include an additional ten verses after this morning’s text, which does describe a few appearances of the risen Christ.  However, most bibles will also have a note somewhere— albeit sometimes in very small print-- informing the careful reader that verses 9-19 are part of the “longer ending” of Mark, an ending whose authenticity is actually hotly contested.

It’s a little bit of an uncertain thing, but what we know for certain is that the oldest, most reliable Greek manuscripts of Mark do not include the longer ending.  This has led many of the most well respected biblical scholars to conclude that the author of Mark did originally intend to end his gospel exactly where we ended our reading this morning— the women leaving the tomb in fear and amazement, with no clear instruction on what to do next.  No earthquakes.  No dramatic appearances of Jesus to his disciples.  Just three women standing in front of an empty tomb.

So the question is, why did Mark end his gospel this way?  We know that Mark’s gospel was probably written around 60 or 70 AD, so even though it’s the earliest of the gospel accounts, it was certainly written late enough that people would have already known the stories about Jesus’ appearances to his disciples after his death.  In fact those stories would have been passed down through oral tradition for at least 30 or 40 years before Mark’s Gospel was written down.  Mark certainly would have known those stories.  He would have known them very well.  So why did he choose to leave them out?  Why did he end things on such uncertain terms?  What exactly was he trying to say?

While we can never really know for certain the original intent of the gospel writers, I like to imagine that Mark had something very specific in mind in ending things the way that he did.  Rather than skipping ahead to the certainty that comes with actually seeing Christ risen from the grave, perhaps Mark wanted his readers to sit a little while longer with the uncertainty and complexity of it all.  I like to imagine that Mark didn’t want us to rush through the story too quickly, because he knew that in life, after we experience great loss or disappointment, we need to dwell a little while in our grief and uncertainty before we can truly move forward.

In subsequent weeks we will have plenty of opportunities to read about and reflect upon some of the post-resurrection encounters that Jesus has with his disciples.  But for today, let’s follow Mark’s lead, and let’s dwell for just a moment with these three women-- standing at the edge of uncertainty—at the edge of an abyss-- in the face of the empty tomb.  

To aid us in our reflection this morning, I want to start us off with the words of a song.  It’s a song by a band called Mumford and Sons.   Now they are by no means a Christian band-- I actually have no idea what their religious views might be.  But there is a song on their most recent album that every time I hear it, in fact since the very first time I heard it, it makes me think of this story from the gospel of Mark.  The song is called— quite appropriately for our purposes this morning— “Roll Away Your Stone.”  The opening lines of the song go like this:   

  

"Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine.  Together we will see what we will find.  Don’t leave me alone at this time.  Cause I’m afraid of what I will discover inside.”

To me, this pretty much sums up exactly where we find ourselves with Mark’s gospel this morning.  The women approaching the empty tomb, finding the stone rolled away, and afraid of what they might discover inside—afraid of what it all might mean.  

So the next question we have to ask ourselves this morning, as we dwell with these women in front of the empty tomb, is why?  Why were they afraid?  Why did the sight of the stone rolled away and the looming empty tomb frighten them so much?  

Perhaps it’s because they were in shock.  After all they had just experienced an incredibly traumatic event-- they had just witnessed their beloved teacher and friend executed in one of the most brutal ways imaginable.  Their hopes and dreams had been completely crushed.  Perhaps they just couldn’t take in any more new information.  And so the news that Jesus was risen, coming from a total stranger, was just too much for them to process in that moment.  Maybe that’s why they were afraid.

Or perhaps, standing there with the truth of the resurrection before them, they were confronted with the reality that everything was about to change.  Their entire lives were about to be turned upside down.  They stood in front of that empty tomb with the knowledge that their lives would never be the same.  And that is always a frightening proposition.

Karl Rahner is a 20^th century German theologian who said: “we must avoid the misunderstanding that resurrection is a return to life and existence in time and space as we know it.”  In other words, resurrection changes things.  For those women at the tomb, this was a lot to wrap their minds around. When the women left their homes early that morning, it was almost as if they already expected defeat.  The gospel tells us that as they made their way to the tomb, they asked each other, “who will roll away the stone for us?”  It’s almost as if they were just going through the motions— still numb with grief, going to the tomb to anoint the body because they knew they should, but half expecting to have to turn around and go home once they got there because they would be unable to gain access to the body.  But then the women encountered something at the tomb they did not expect.  And as it turns out, they weren’t actually prepared for the stone to be rolled away.  Perhaps they didn’t really want it to be.  And who can blame them for that, really?  They weren’t prepared for their lives to be turned upside down-- yet again.  They weren’t prepared for the kind of change that resurrection inevitably brings with it.  And so they fled in fear, unsure of what to do or how to react.

Isn’t that sometimes how it goes with us as well?  How often do we encounter the possibility for something new in our lives, but we aren’t ready for it, and so we run from it in fear?  We look the other way, or head the opposite direction.  We aren’t ready to let go of what was in order to accept what may be— to roll back the stone and discover what’s inside-- because we cling to what is familiar, even if what is familiar doesn’t always serve us very well.  

Resurrection changes things.  And so the final question all of us have to ask ourselves this Easter is where are the stones that need to be rolled away in our own lives?  What do we need to let go of-- what are we afraid to let go of-- in order for resurrection to occur?  In order for God’s light and new life to break through— in order to follow where the risen Christ is leading us here and now?

Here is the thing.  If you are sitting there in your pew this morning, and you aren’t really sure what you think of this whole resurrection business-- if you are fearful of what all this resurrection talk might really mean—or if you are skeptical about whether or not there really is new life to be found for you or for this world-- well that’s okay.  Because if nothing else, we learn from the ending of Mark’s gospel that it’s okay to be afraid and uncertain-- especially in the face of loss or grief or great change.  The women in Mark’s gospel were afraid.  They went home and didn’t say a word to anyone.  We will hear in the weeks to come about how the other disciples were afraid as well— about how they abandoned their mission, how they locked themselves up inside, how they didn’t believe.  It’s okay to be afraid.  It’s okay to be uncertain.  As long as at some point we are willing to step out of our fear-- to encounter what is in the tomb in order to see what lies beyond it.

Admittedly, that can be a difficult thing to do, because as the song says— who knows what we will discover inside.  One of the things I love about the song by Mumford and Sons is the genius of the opening instrumentation.  The song starts with this beautiful lilting folk melody— first on solo acoustic guitar then as a duet between guitar and violin.  Then a single voice comes in-- singing softly-- “Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine.”  But the moment the lead singer utters the words  “I’m afraid of what I will discover inside,” all musical propriety goes out the window.  Guitar, bass, keyboards, banjo-- all playing fast and loud with complete and utter abandon.  It’s as if once the stone has been rolled away the floodgates open and chaos ensues.  Sometimes, that’s what happens when the stone is rolled away.  Because resurrection changes things.

So it’s natural to be afraid.  Mark lets us know this.  But there is also good news found within Mark’s version of the story— as uncertain as it may be.  The good news here is that while we may need to roll away the stone in order to experience resurrection, we don’t actually have to do the heavy lifting ourselves.  God does that.  When we are finally ready to roll the stone away, to believe in the resurrection power of our God and follow where God wishes to lead us, we may just find— like the woman at the tomb— that God has already rolled back the stone for us.  The woman arrive at the tomb that morning to find that even in the midst of, and even in spite of their doubt and fear, God had already been at work.  The good news written between the lines of Mark’s version of the story is that resurrection happens with or without our belief.  With or without our striving, with or without our effort, resurrection happens.  In spite of our frailty, our weakness, our fear, our sinfulness, and in spite of our inability to roll away the stone on our own, resurrection happens.  We don’t have to make it happen, will it to happen, or force it to happen.  God does that.  And then, when we are ready, we can look beyond the stone that God has already rolled back for us, and see what new life waits for us there beyond it.

This morning, when you walked into the church, you received a small stone.  I’m going to ask you to take that stone out now, hold it in your hand, and close your eyes.  Notice how the stone feels.  Notice if it’s smooth or rough.  Turn it over in your hand, feel the weight of it.  And as you do, think about the stones that need to be rolled away in your life.  Think about the places where God might be calling you to something new.  Think about the weight that God may be trying to lift from your shoulders.  Can you let it go?

In a moment, I’m going to invite all of you to make your way up to the front of the church to place your stone on the table at the chancel steps, to symbolize your willingness to look beyond the tomb-- to recognize where God is calling you to seek new life and resurrection.  Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine.  And together, we will see what we will find.  Let us begin.

This Strange Faith: Reflecions on Palm/Passion Sunday

I’ve always found Palm Sunday to be rather strange.  It’s a day when we make a big show of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and sing joyful hymns that proclaim “Hosanna!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”  We make these proclamations knowing full well that soon after Palm Sunday comes Maundy Thursday and Good Friday— the darkest days of the Christian year.  And what’s even stranger is that in many churches, including in our church today, it is common practice to read the story of the passion on Palm Sunday.  And so the congregation experiences something of a spiritual whiplash— one minute proclaiming and celebrating Christ’s kingship, and the next, telling the story of his painful death.  It’s a strange day.

Yet as I’ve reflected over the years about the meaning of the Christian faith, it seems somehow appropriate.  Because it is a strange thing that we do here—week after week.  It is a strange faith that we practice.  Most of us have grown up with Christianity, so perhaps it doesn’t seem strange to us most of the time.  But have you ever thought about Christianity from an outsider’s perspective?  Have you ever tried to imagine what you would think of the Christian story if you encountered it as an adult with no prior knowledge?

In Christianity, we worship a God who became human in order to show us the way to salvation--which in itself is perhaps not so strange, because the story of a God or Gods becoming mortal is in fact an ancient story that traces its origins to long before Christ ever came on the scene.  But where the Christian story becomes unique and strange is in the fact that this God we worship humbles himself to the point of death on the cross.  He let himself be humiliated and killed, even though he was God.  We worship as our God a man who was arrested as a criminal and executed in one of the most brutal ways possible.  And while there is victory and resurrection in the end, before there is victory, there is death, and loss, and grief.

The Christian faith is strange, because as much as we live in a culture that is increasingly pluralistic, and supposedly relativistic, we also live in a country that deals in absolutes.  Certain things are just bad.  Death.  Loss.  Sadness.  Greif.  Endings.  Our culture says that these things are bad and to be avoided at all costs.  And yet the Christian story— in particular this part of the Christian story— turns these absolutes around, and says that in death there is life, in loss there is gain, that there is value in sadness, and that what may seem like the end is sometimes only the beginning of another great journey.  That even when it seems like everything has been taken away, something deeply valuable remains.

There is a temptation for Christians in this culture to gloss over Holy Week.  To bask in the celebrations of Palm Sunday and then fast forward through the more unsavory details of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, in order to get right to the happy ending on Easter.  In this way, perhaps we are much like that original group of disciples, who just can’t seem to stay awake and remain present to Jesus in his moments of deepest anguish.  But the dark journey through Holy Week— as uncomfortable as it may be for some of us— is important to observe, if for no other reason than the fact that this is what real life is like.  We don’t always get to skip over the unsavory parts of life.  We don’t always get to avoid suffering or fast forward through grief.  In real life, we have to go through suffering and loss before we can experience new life on the other side of it. Holy Week teaches us that life is not just about the triumphs and victories, but that this life is also filled with struggle and loss.  Yet Holy week also teaches us-- through the story of Christ’s struggle, pain, and loss-- that we are never alone in our own suffering, whatever that may be.  That Christ walks with us along every step of the way.  There is no pain that God has not already been subjected to.  There is no darkness that we can encounter in which God would be absent, because God has been there too.

Finally, the story of Christ’s death and resurrection reminds us that even in the midst of our darkest moments, there is hope to be found.  We go through the darkness of Holy Week with the hope of resurrection on the other side.  And we go through the dark times in our own lives with the hope that light and new life wait for us somewhere around the bend.

I want to leave us this morning with a reflection from Henri Nouwen, one of my favorite theologians and spiritual writers.  It’s a reflection that we can carry with us as we journey from the cross to Easter morning.  Over the course of this week, let us reflect on these words:

“When we say “Christ has died”, we express the truth that all human suffering in time and place has been suffered by the Son of God who also is the Son of all humanity and thus has been lifted up into the inner life of God Himself.  There is no suffering—no guilt, shame, loneliness, hunger, oppression, violence or exploitation that has not been suffered by God.  There can be no human beings who are completely alone in their sufferings, since God, in and through Jesus, has become Emmanuel, God with us.  It belongs to the center of our faith that God is a faithful God, a God who did not want us to ever be alone but who wanted to understand—to stand under—all that is human.  The Good news of the Gospel, therefore, is not that God came to take our suffering away, but that God wanted to become a part of it.”