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Fourth Sunday of Easter
The first four verses of Acts 4 set the stage for the reading we get in the lectionary for the Fourth Sunday of Easter:
“While Peter and John were speaking to the people, the priests, the captain of the temple, and the Sadducees came to them, much annoyed because they were teaching the people and proclaiming that in Jesus there is the resurrection of the dead. So they arrested them and put them in custody until the next day, for it was already evening. But many of those who heard the word believed; and they numbered about five thousand” (NRSV).
The larger context of this reading is equally important, as Peter and John have just invoked Jesus’ name in order to heal the man begging at the Beautiful Gate. This leads to amazement among the crowds and an address from Peter, calling the crowd of 5000 to repentance and belief in the Risen Jesus. Read more
Third Sunday of Easter
“There no monstrous fancies shall
Out of hell an horror call,
To create, or cause at all,
Pleasures, such as shall pursue
Me immortalized, and you;
And fresh joys, as never too
Robert Herrick, The White Island, or Place of the Blest Read more
Second Sunday of Easter
The gospel text this week moves me – has always moved me. It’s something about John’s depictions of the vulnerability of the risen Christ, the generosity with his body, and the very relatable Thomas. It is breath and touch, joy and blessing, a different ending to a crucifixion marked by betrayal of friends and brutality of the state.
But somehow, this text feels different to me this year, here in what we hope are the late stages of the pandemic, here in the midst of the George Floyd trial and anguished witness’ testimony to his murder – even here in all the mundane daily losses we hardly know how to mark. We have loved ones we haven’t embraced for a year, faces hidden behind masks so long that we wonder if we are forgetting what of another we used to know, missed traditions and rituals. I haven’t received bread and wine in over a year.
For many of us, it has been a season of grief upon grief, of challenge, of fear, of pain, and without the practices of togetherness to which we are typically accustomed when faced with the worst, we are sitting on wells of need and ache waiting for relief.
Without Thomas in the midst of this story and its emotional resonances with our current moment, I would frankly find it challenging to stomach a passion story that ends in resurrection. That shift from Friday crucifixion to Sunday resurrection feels too abrupt. I’m still back there somewhere in the hollowed out shock of the sudden upheaval. I need Thomas, for he is true. I need him post-resurrection in the gospel of John and I need him in April of 2021. His witness to disbelief acts as a foil to those who would be sentimental about resurrection, who would move too easily to optimism and falsely name it as hope.
Often this week in reading articles about the trial, I have thought of my neighbors, some of whom surely knew George Floyd. He grew up here, in my neighborhood in Houston. Cuney Homes where he mentored young men is mere blocks from my home here in Third Ward. I see his face on half a dozen murals anytime I go anywhere.
We watched his death, all of us – or we chose not to, knowing that we might not come back from what we saw, haunted by eight minutes, his anguish, and our helplessness on the other end of a screen. But we know the story. We can’t shake the story from our knowing or undo it; that is its own kind of anguish.
What if I weren’t a virtual bystander to his death, but instead his friend? And what if tomorrow my neighbors told me that Floyd had resurrected from the dead, that they’d seen him alive?
Even if I could believe, even if I could overcome my skepticism and make my way to joy, would resurrection erase the gravity of the brutality? Would it erase the losses of Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, Emmitt Till? Would it erase the history of a state with its sights trained on black bodies?
I wonder if this is close to where Thomas is. His doubt isn’t simplistic, a mere inability to “just have faith” somehow. But his disbelief of the testimony he has heard about Jesus is closer to that hollowed out shock about what has happened, no firm ground to stand on, no equilibrium from which to even weigh the possibility that such news could be true. And in the background, the history of an empire which crucifies as spectacle.
In Thomas’s insistence on seeing and touching the wounds, I wonder if what he is truly grasping for is a grounding in reality and some proof that he has seen what he really saw, that he didn’t make up the crucifixion of Jesus, but that what happened has really happened. The portrait of Thomas in John’s gospel is the portrait of a man unmoored from the life he had counted on and the community that has carried him to this moment. From Last Supper to crucifixion horror to resurrection hope in less than 96 hours feels like a certain kind of whiplash. In the disorientation he reaches for the flesh, for body, for the materiality of Christ to reorient him.
In Thomas, we are free to be real about what this year has cost us. We are free to weigh the context of this year against the history and political tides that have brought us to this moment. We are free from the need to tie life up with a churchy bow and a bible verse, dismissing the gravity of death that has been perhaps more poignant this year, but truly marks every year.
There is no shame in this.
There is no shame in being honest about death, about pain, and perhaps the doubts which may have plagued us.
Thomas is the foil to that urge to rush past the reality of suffering and into sentimentality about the gospel story. I’m reminded of Mark Labberton’s words in the foreword to Makoto Fujimura’s Culture Care:
“Hope, first of all, must be realistic. That is, hope can be hope only if it admits that which is darkest while urging toward the light. Nothing glib, or blind, or deflective toward the depth of despair could be a contender for hope. If hope has not first been silenced before the profundity of evil and loss, then such a two-dimensional offering is more scandalous than fruitful…. Hope is more like a treatment plan than an adjustment: in other words, hope takes time to shift toward healing.”1
There is no shame in pausing, in reaching toward the wounds to feel where the nails have been, before running headlong into the hope of the resurrection.
Don’t be too quick, for in rushing forward past our reality we risk cheapening the quality of our hope and the profundity of the Easter reality breaking in. Even in reaching toward the wounds to honor the pain, we ultimately reach for Christ’s resurrected body. The reach toward the real and the reach toward hope that defies the real in order to define a reality more real than what we can presently see are one in the same move; in either case, we are met with Jesus and he is compassionate. Our frailty is known now from the inside out.
“Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe,” he says to Thomas and to us.
Go ahead: Reach.
1Labberton, Mark. Foreword. Culture Care: Reconnecting with Beauty for Our Common Life, by Makoto Fujimura (Downer’s Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2017), 9.
The story of Jarena Lee, the first woman licensed to preach in the AME Church, is fascinating. Hired out as a servant at the age of seven and separated from her mother for fourteen years, Lee struggles with depression and thoughts of suicide for much of her youth. She is convinced that she will never find happiness here on earth. Then, at age 21, she sets out for Philadelphia, where she finds an AME Church and a caring pastor named Richard Allen. They quickly become the family she has never had. Within three weeks, she experiences conversion in the midst of a worship service. She leaps to her feet and declares that God has pardoned the sins of her soul and she tells of the wonders and the goodness of the God who has clothed her with salvation. Read more
On Good Friday afternoon, from the back of the bare church, the cantor startles us: “Behold! Behold the wood of the cross!” His baritone rouses us from weariness (Is 50: 4). Slowly his chant, along with the steps of those processing with the supine cross, envelop us in a common pace: Behold! Silence. Step forward. Behold! Silence. Step forward. Eventually the procession stops at the altar. Two people lift the cross vertically and hold it in place as we began the veneration of the cross. Each person makes their way to the altar steps to have a turn placing lips upon peeling bark and returning to our seats. This is the week we kiss the cross.
We do what?! My students, my children, those seeking baptism, my colleagues—I often bear witness to their incredulity at this shocking thing we, the church, are inviting. Yes, we kiss the cross. No, we do not worship suffering. We revere Him who suffered, Who suffers among us now. As in today’s Psalm 22: 24, we “show reverence.” How different the showing is from the sentiment! This is a week of return to care embodied. Read more
Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord;
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David;
Hosanna in the highest!”
In the early days of COVID quarantine during Lent 2020, we at Englewood Christian Church in Indianapolis were struggling to imagine, or better said, RE-imagine, how we could celebrate Palm Sunday with so many restrictions. Palm Sunday was the first big holiday that came our way in March. During a midweek evening Zoom gathering, the focus was not on what we had lost, but on what could be done during a strict lockdown. We brainstormed and joked a while before someone suggested a car parade. It was an idea with a slow burn, but the idea slowly took hold in our minds.
What had been a heavy moment shifted rapidly; we laughed with delight as the ideas quickly spilled out of us. With only a few days of planning, on Palm Sunday morning, a large bunch of us in about forty cars met in the church parking lot. We placed a few of our brave young guys in the middle of key intersections to hold oncoming traffic, and then we slowly traveled the streets of our neighborhood honking our horns, shouting the good news. Some of our neighbors came out to cheer and to thank us, some with tears streaming. More than a few drivers flipped us off and yelled at us. Some neighbors stood on their porches in shock at the spectacle we were creating. Read more
Fifth Sunday in Lent
We live in a world that is consumed with time. In our personal lives, this takes the shape of making sure that we have arrived at a particular place at a particular point in time: When does my class begin? When does work shift start? When do I need to pick my kids up from school? When does this appointment, event, or Zoom meeting begin? This is seen in larger systems as well. Trains and buses in large cities arrive and leave at specific times, and we are reminded about this constantly at the platform or the bus stop. In financial transactions, profits are often earned through the precise timing of buying and selling commodities, with any minor variation effectively ruining such gains. In many parts of the world this past week, we were confronted by time by adding one hour to our clocks. We are also attentive to times that are not marked by a moment on the clock, such as charts indicating when we might be eligible to sign up for a COVID-19 vaccine. Through all of this, we discover that our lives are dominated by timetables, schedules, and appointments, some of which are posted on office doors or recorded in daily planners, and some of which are simply inscribed in our daily habits. And while some of these time-consciousness matters have been upended, in many cases, they have simply been replaced by others (trading in-person meetings for virtual appointments).
Because of this formation, we may find ourselves somewhat perplexed by Jesus’ declaration in the gospel lesson: “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (John 12:23, NRSV). We might link this statement to our own preoccupations with time, as though a preplanned alarm has just sounded, alerting Jesus to this temporal marker. Like the schedule of our days, Jesus has arrived at his next appointment, right? Read more
Fourth Sunday in Lent
Jesus makes a curious comparison to an even more curious story. Jesus says that “just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”
The reference is to the story in Numbers 21, where “the people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.’”
God’s response? “Then the LORD sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people.” Notice that it does not say that God was angry. It does not say that God punished the people. God simply “sent poisonous serpents among the people.”
The people are being led by God and Moses to a land of abundance and to a place where the presence of God would reside with them. And yet they have the brazenness to claim that God and Moses are leading them to die in the wilderness.
And so if the people will not trust that God is leading them into this kind of world, then God will reveal to them the kind of world in which they already live — a world where poisonous vipers are ever-ready to strike at people’s heels. Read more
Third Sunday of Lent
God thought that we might, after some thought, come to the conclusion
that friends would not kill each other or seduce each other’s husbands
or wives or get them falsely convicted of crimes or kidnap or enslave
them or seek to defraud them of their possessions; yes, we might come
to work all that out, but all the same it would be a good idea to get all
this down in black and white… the Decalogue is part of God’s summons
to Israel to be his people… God is telling them that the first step to being
God’s people is to be human people, and that means living in friendship.
You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd.
Flannery O’Connor (attributed)
The American writer Flannery O’Connor was a devout Catholic whose convictions tended toward the theologically conservative. Yet O’Connor’s theology was far from fundamentalist. She was whip-smart and well-read, and her orthodox beliefs were thoroughly tested and hard-won. In a 1955 letter to her skeptic friend, “A,” she defended her faith by saying, “For you it might be a matter of not being able to accept what you call a suspension of the laws of the flesh and the physical, but for my part I think that when I know what the laws of the flesh and the physical really are, then I will know what God is. For me it is the virgin birth, the Incarnation, the resurrection which are the true laws of the flesh and the physical. Death, decay, destruction are the suspension of these laws.” Read more