Luke 24:36-48; Acts 3:12-21
Presented April 30th, 2006, by J.D. Kline
The Third Sunday of Easter
As I was speaking this week with a friend who has known his own times of grief in life, it struck me that my own experiences of grief in recent months have been difficult, not only because I’ve lost Janice, but also because there is a sense in which I’ve lost myself. I find myself responding to life in unfamiliar ways. Things that might have irritated me or raised my level of anger in the days before Janice’s death, I now shrug off. Things that I used to shrug off now raise my level of irritation. In the past, my introverted side was frequently delighted to be able to carve out some time alone, but in the days since Janice’s death, I often find my level of anxiety increasing when I am alone. There is a sense in which the experience of grieving involves a process of reinventing myself, of establishing a new identity, and that kind of change and growth seldom comes easily.
I found myself wondering this week, as I pondered the experiences of the first Christians, the extent to which they, too, found themselves struggling with the challenge of putting on a new identity. Indeed, the death of Jesus and the subsequent resurrection appearances of Jesus were so confounding that it was as if everything in the lives of those first disciples must have been up for grabs. Imagine the conflicting emotions those early disciples experienced, from the fear that followed the time of Jesus’ arrest to the horror of witnessing the crucifixion, from the dismay and uncertainty in the aftermath of Jesus’ death, as the dreams of the disciples were shattered, to the peculiar mix of confusion, disbelief, and wonder as the disciples encountered the Risen Christ. How were those first followers of Jesus to make sense of such an astounding array of events, experiencing within the span of a few short days grief and amazement, fear and hope, anxiety and joy, doubt and faith?
Truth is, even today, to walk with Jesus raises within us a similar gamut of emotion. Who among us is not drawn to the promise of a new way of living, a way of life that centers upon grace beyond measure, infinite compassion, peace that passes all human understanding, love that knows no limits? But at the same time, do we not find ourselves drawing back from the demands of the gospel, from the call of Jesus to experience a death to those parts of ourselves that keep us from embracing wholeheartedly life with Christ Jesus at the center? Jesus, you will recall, on a number of occasions, urged and invited his followers to embrace a new identity. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Luke 9:23-24). “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24).
There is a verse in 1 John, chapter three, that reads, “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed” (1 John 3:2). The journey of life and faith is evolving; we can little foresee all that lies ahead of us, but through it all, we remain sons and daughters of the God who created us and who holds us in arms of love. Is this not what Henri Nouwen has in mind when asserting that praying—and indeed the entire life of faith—“means being constantly ready to let go of your certainty and to move on further than where you now are. It demands that you take to the road again and again…looking forward to a new land for yourself and others.”
In the aftermath of Good Friday and Easter, the first followers of Jesus, I suspect, little grasped where their relationship with the risen Christ would lead them. They would well have understood John’s words, “What we will be has not yet been revealed.” How those first disciples would blend the peace Jesus offers and the terror in their own hearts; how they would take to the road again and again—this was only just beginning to be revealed to them.
This morning’s Gospel lesson from Luke 24 highlights one of the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus, and offers some clues as to the nature of the life that has not yet been fully revealed. Jesus comes among the startled disciples as one who is able to span both dimensions of God’s world—both heaven and earth, and the disciples soon find themselves overwhelmed with wonder and awe.
There is much debate within the Christian community about the nature of resurrection. Many insist that the resurrection of Jesus was a bodily resurrection, and Luke’s story provides significant detail that would suggest that the resurrected Jesus did indeed have a body that could be touched, with the wounds from the crucifixion still clearly visible. What’s more, Jesus shares a simple meal of broiled fish with the disciples. And yet, on the other hand, the Gospel accounts would suggest that the risen Jesus could apparently appear and disappear at will, not limited by locked doors.
While many insist upon an actual physical resurrection, there are others who are less concerned with the nature of the actual physical body of Jesus than with the spiritual impact of Jesus’ resurrection upon his followers. United Methodist author Robert Raines, in his book To Kiss the Joy, asserts that
Easter has not to do with what happened to the corpse of Jesus but what happened in the life of Paul and the other disciples, and what happens in you and me. Easter is not magic, but miracle; not chemistry, but mystery. Easter happens to you and me whenever Jesus takes us by surprise, in some moment of awakening, causing doors that were locked tight to swing open. There is a moment of realization, of looking in the eyes and knowing, “I am loved, I love you, it is possible, a new future is being born.”
At the heart of the Easter message is the awe-inspiring conviction that God is in the business of making all things new, that God is creating a new future. The assurance of the gospel is that God—not pain and death, not grief and uncertainty, not fear and stress, not danger nor sword—God has the final word, and it is a word that is life-giving rather than life-denying. Mystery stands at the heart of this matter of resurrection, and those who want to reduce it to simple explanations all too often lose sight of its power, which is to transform life, to enable us to reinvent our lives with God at the very center of our being and our purpose.
Professor of literature Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, in an article entitled “Let Us Proclaim the Mystery of Faith,” reminds us that the Bible is “arguably the most mysterious, strange, challenging, complex book in the world.” God is not revealed to us, claims McEntyre, “neatly packaged and assembled, ready for use.” Rather, God comes to us as “the Lord of Mysteries and the Master of Surprises.” And nothing is more surprising than the Easter stories, which dare to proclaim in a host of ways that God is up to something radically new, that God is inviting you and me to embrace a whole new world, to find refreshment in our hearts and souls as we journey in trust with the Lord of all life.
When Jesus encounters the first disciples that first Easter evening and sees their terror, he asks quite simply—and, I imagine, tenderly—“Why are you frightened?” Again and again, a key message of the gospel is that fear need not gain the upper hand in our lives. “Do not be afraid”—this admonition abounds in Scripture. But truth be told, so much of our living centers in fear, and there is precious little in our daily living to prepare us for the wonder of resurrection. Fear is a far more common companion than is wonder.
In the aftermath of the horrific events of September 11, 2001, a great deal of our nation’s energy has been placed in maintaining a climate of fear, so much so that many cannot envision any alternatives to war. Preaching at the Washington Cathedral a year or so after September 11, William Sloane Coffin asserted that “President Bush is correct to condemn the Axis of Evil. His problem is that he got the wrong axis. It is not Iraq, Iran and North Korea, but ignorance, poverty and war.”
Today’s reading from the book of Acts is set in the days after Pentecost, when the early church discovers a power that surprises and astounds them. As early Christian leaders Peter and John prepare to enter the Temple, they encounter a man lame from birth who asks for money. But rather than offering money, Peter heals the beggar. Not surprisingly, the crowd is astonished, and Peter takes the opportunity to review the events of Good Friday and Easter, and to proclaim the risen Jesus as Lord of all life. And then Peter invites the temple crowd to repent.
In his book The Call to Conversion Jim Wallis reminds us that repentance is not only a turning away from sin, self-centeredness and greed, but also a turning to Christ’s new way of living. Writes Wallis,
Faith opens us to the future by restoring our sight, softening our hearts, bringing light into our darkness. We are converted to compassion, justice, and peace as we take our stand as citizens of Christ’s new order. We see, hear, and feel as never before.
Because we see, hear, and feel as never before, we find the courage and power to confront ignorance, poverty, and war. We find courage and power to serve as Christ’s witnesses in a world sorely broken and divided. And along the way, says Peter, “times of refreshing” come to us as we embrace the presence of the risen Lord, the One who eventually will restore all of life to relationship with God. As we are refreshed, so are we empowered to embrace God’s vision of transformation.
Peter’s invitation to experience refreshment and renewal echoes the very words of Jesus, who concludes his Easter evening moments with the disciples by calling them to serve as his witnesses. It is a call to reinvent our lives, to embrace a radically new style of living. It is a call to be the church, to live and proclaim God’s new reality in community one with another. And how do we do that, but by trusting that a new chapter in the story of God’s relationship with the world is unfolding, a chapter in which we are set free to embrace light in the midst of darkness, hope in the midst of despair, peace rather than brokenness and warfare, wonder rather than fear, love rather than hatred and indifference, grace and community and compassion rather than self-centeredness and greed. May it be so among us. Amen.