They'll Know We Are Christians by..? (Reflections on Easter 7, Year C 2022)

I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one. (John 17:20-21a) 

“…that they may all be one.” Remember that Christian folk song we all sang back in the ‘70”s? How did it go? “We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord/And we pray that all unity may one day be restored…And they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Yup. That was a pretty big hit back in the day. I remember we even sang the Coke-a-Cola jingle: “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony/I’d like to buy the world a Coke and keep it company…” 

Oneness, unity, perfect harmony. These are the things we pray for and find so hard to achieve. Even when Saint John the Evangelist wrote that vexing, poetic, imaginative, frustrating, and inspiring gospel, we Christians weren’t all singing in the same key. Just take a look at any of the New Testament epistles and you’ll see that the early church couldn’t get its act together any better than we can now. 

The gospel lesson in the RCL which ends the seven weeks of Easter (John 17:20-26) is part of what Bible scholars call Jesus’ High Priestly Prayer. It’s a long prayer and discourse supposedly given by the Lord on the night before his crucifixion.[i] Jesus knows he’s not going to be around much longer, so he prays that his followers and all who come after them (that would be us) have a spirit of agreement which can bind them together as a witness to the world. I like to think he’s praying we have a transcendental love, a love which unites even when we can’t agree on things. He asks that we have the sort of love the Father has. That’s a love which might not like everything the kids do, but still values them, forgives them, and never breaks the familial bond that unites them. 

Unfortunately, we’re so often like a family of siblings standing around the deathbed of a matriarch as she says, “You kids promise me you’ll always stick together.” We wipe the tears from our blubbering eyes and swear, “Yes, Momma! We’ll always look out for one another.” Then, as soon as she takes her last breath, we pull knives on each other over who gets the old lady’s China and silver tea service. 

Jesus prays in this prayer that the love of the Father and his own spirit will be in the Church. Notice he doesn’t pray that correct doctrine, perfect liturgical practice, or adherence to a political point of view be present. Just the Father’s love and his spirit. I take this to mean we don’t have to agree on everything. In fact, we don’t even have to like one another. But we do have to love one another. What must be an essential mark of the Church is the open, visible trust that we are a community—diverse and weird as we are—that stresses belonging, forgiveness, and forbearance. We are going to have our differences just as any family does, but we’re never going to deny the holiness of God present in each individual. 

In the First Lesson for Easter 7 (Acts 16:16-34) Paul and Silas offer us a demonstration of transcendent love. They did a good deed and got tossed in the clink for it—with open, undressed wounds from a severe beating. The jailer has them in the inmost part of the prison. I’m sure this space was dark, wet, and a virtual petri dish of bacteria. Then the earthquake frees them. The jailer is certain that all his charges have scattered like cockroaches in a flood light. Being an antique Roman, he draws his sword and is ready to off himself when he receives a completely unexpected and totally undeserved act of mercy from our two heroes. I don’t know about you, but I’d say Paul and Silas, who have been unfairly tried, punished, and jailed, would certainly be within their rights to vamoose out of jail and let the guy who stuck them with their bleeding wounds into a pit of mold and fungus disembowel himself. After all, what’s one less minion of a corrupt state? But these boys don’t see a pagan enemy or a police thug. They see a child of God. 

What I’ve always liked about this story is verse 35b: “…he and his entire household rejoiced that he had become a believer in God.” I mean, what did he believe in before? Was he a sullen atheist? I get the feeling this guy was a real s.o.b. at work and to his family. When he finally repented after being saved from mandated suicide by an act of love, his whole household rejoiced. 

Christians, I think, are people who love in spite of ourselves. We’ll have different tastes, different ideas, and be moved by different things. We’ll argue and fight—sometimes with very good reason. We’ll hate each other’s guts from time to time and invariably disappoint one another. We’ll assume a position of arrogant superiority until the day we finally stand before God in glory and—maybe—find out we were wrong about everything. Wouldn’t that be wild? 

But if we don’t all hold hands and share a Coke, we can’t escape being a family, like it or not. If we can keep living in that truth, we just might make an impact. 

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[i] Most Bible scholars will agree that there probably wasn’t a stenographer hanging around taking dictation as Jesus prayed. It’s very likely John’s invention, composed around the end of the first century of the common era. It may not be historically accurate to what Jesus said, but it reflects John’s community’s understanding of what it means to be a Christian.

The People Who Give Us A Jolt (Reflections on Easter 6, Year C)

 

“But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything and remind you of all that I have said to you.” (John 14:26) 

Some months back I stopped at a local gas station[i]. I had an errand to run for my wife and I was scheduled to officiate a funeral later that morning. There was a car ahead of me at the pump, so I shifted into park to wait. As I did so, my engine stopped dead like someone shot it through the heart. The polite foreign gentleman who pumps the gas[ii] motioned me to pull up, but my car wasn’t going anywhere on its own. It was obvious to me that my battery had given up the ghost. 

I called my wife, who told me to call the insurance company for a free jump. The insurance company’s number was answered by a recorded female voice informing me that, because of COVID, there was a shortage of tow-truck drivers and I’d have to leave a message and wait. The polite foreign gentleman, whose grasp of English seemed tenuous at best, was still polite but appeared to be as useful as a Band-Aid on an avulsion. I began to worry that, being stuck where I was, I would soon be leaving a funeral home full of mourners without someone to eulogize their deceased loved one. 

Just as the first maledictions were leaving my lips, another car pulled up for gas. It was driven by a gentleman who adroitly analyzed my situation and produced one of those portable batteries which are the size of a paperback novel but, apparently, contain enough electrical power to light the Burj Khalifa. He had me on my way within minutes.[iii] 

Sometimes God puts just the right people in our path. 

In the First Lesson assigned in the RCL for Easter 6, Year C (Acts 16:9-15), St. Paul meets just the right person. Poor Paul isn’t getting anywhere in Asia Minor. He’s wandering all around, but just isn’t getting the vibe he needs to do his preaching. He winds up in the seaport town of Troas and has a dream in which he sees a guy from Macedonia pleading with him to cross the Aegean Sea and help his community. Ever the obedient apostle, Paul gathers his posse and crosses over to Philippi. As far as we know, he never meets the guy he saw in his vision. Instead—and I’ll bet he was pretty surprised by this—he meets a bunch of Greek women. One lady is named Lydia. She worships Yahweh, runs a thriving business, and has her own home. She really digs Paul’s message, and she and her entire household get baptized. She then volunteers her home for Paul and his bunch to stay, thereby making her the founder of the first Christian community on the European continent. She was in the right place at the right time, and God worked through her. 

I find the way Luke tells this story interesting. Paul’s inability to preach in Asia Minor is said to be the working of the Holy Spirit. It says he was “forbidden by the Holy Spirit” to speak the word in Phrygia and Galatia, and the Spirit of Jesus “did not allow them” to enter Mysia.[iv] It’s hard for me to imagine that the Holy Spirit would ever forbid anyone to preach the love of Christ, so I’m thinking this attribution to the Ghost must’ve come in hindsight. Maybe Paul just wasn’t getting any traction in Turkey and got the inspiration to skip across the water to find a more receptive audience. When this worked out, he thought to himself, “Ya think this was what God wanted all along..?” 

Maybe what seemed to be Paul’s intuition was really the Holy Spirit at work, teaching him what God wanted. Just as his own missionary plans seemed frustrated, God showed up and put him on the path to meet a person who would change his mind and start something new—in this case, a whole new ministry to a whole new culture which ultimately changed the course of Western history. Pretty cool, huh? 

In our gospel reding for Easter 6 (John 14:23-29), Jesus comforts his disciples who, we can only assume, aren’t exactly in the jolliest of emotional places knowing he’s very likely about to be crucified. They’re all probably thinking, “Whoa! If our friend gets killed, what are we going to do without him?!” Jesus lets them know that when he’s not around the Spirit will still be there for them, and this Spirit will open their eyes to see how God is at work. 

Maybe you can think of a time when God dropped someone right in your path at an unexpected moment when things didn’t seem to be working out the way you’d hoped. You might’ve made a plan, but someone showed you that God could use your thwarted agenda in another way. When I pray with the families of the recently bereaved, I always pray that God will put into their lives the people who need to be there, who will be understanding and supportive during a time of transition, loss, or tragedy. 

This past week I’ve been grateful to God for the presence of my buddy Lee Miller, the Bishop of the Upstate New York Synod. Lee and his family (including his adopted African American son) live just outside Buffalo. The words shock, horror, numbness, anger or whatever are insufficient to express the emotions the act of racially motivated violence perpetrated in that city last weekend caused. I’m convinced, however, that if ever a man was anointed by God to minister and comfort a community so traumatized, it is Lee Miller. 

The best way, I think, for God’s work to be made known to us is through other people. Let’s always pray for the Spirit to teach us to recognize God’s work. Some folks may cross our path for specific reasons and for only a short time. May God’s Spirit teach us to let them go when the time comes. But, most of all, may we be taught the wisdom to know when we ourselves are being used to deliver a jolt of power to someone who sees themselves stalled out in life.

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[i] This was back before filling up your car required taking out a second mortgage!

[ii] Yes, they still pump gas for you in New Jersey.

[iii] I now have one of those devices in my trunk. The brand name is Halo. You should get one if you don’t have one already.

[iv] See Acts 16:6-7

Yelling at the TV (Reflections on Easter 5, Year C 2022)

 

Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. (John 13:34) 

If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?” (Acts 11:17)

 Oh, brother. It’s election time again and the airwaves are filling up with the over-played, obnoxious, slogan-spouting, brain-numbing video ordure that is the American political commercial. I was watching the tube last night and actually found myself yelling back at the image on the screen—as if the guy could really hear me. My wife hates it when I do this, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m really pretty intolerable. 

What got me riled up was this particular snippet of a grouchy-looking old white guy telling me to vote for his candidate because, “we have to save this country.” I started to yell back, “Save it from what? Just what exactly do you consider the existential threat, Sir? Pro-choice activists? Gun control? Immigration? Affirmative action? Or are you just trying to make America safe again for old white bigots like yourself?” 

But now as I think about it, my screeds at the TV screen—quite aside from the annoyance they cause my Bride—are not only wasted energy but really manifestations of my own selfish disobedience to the will and Word of God. I recognize that I luxuriate in identifying the other—someone for whom I can give myself permission to feel contempt. As much as I may feel morally superior in rejecting a policy, I have no right at all to reject another person made no less in the image of God than am I (Besides, for all I know the old white dude on the TV screen might not even be a supporter of the candidate. He could just be an out of work actor who needed the gig!). 

In the gospel lesson for Easter 5, year C (John 13:31-35) we hear again Jesus’ commandment: Love one another as I have loved you. So how does Jesus love? In the context of the passage he’s just lowered himself to do the dirty work of a servant and washed the feet of the disciples he knows don’t understand him and will desert him. He’s given bread to the man he knows is going to betray him, and he’s spoken lovingly to the man he knows is going to deny him. His love does not reflect their actions, it only reflects his care for them as people. 

In the First Lesson (Acts 11:1-18) Peter will be questioned and criticized for hanging out with the wrong people. Good church folks won’t want to have anything to do with someone who hung around and ate with their sworn enemies—the non-Jewish foreigners who had come to take over their land and make them pay taxes to a foreign emperor. By their standards, Peter shouldn’t even be inside the house of a Roman Gentile. But old Peter, who had his feet washed by his rabbi and who had been forgiven for denying him, has grown to love people in a whole different way. It’s not about who they are or what they believe or what they’ve done. It’s just love because Jesus told him to love. 

I always found the story of Peter and Cornelius amusing because Peter is so quick to give the wrong answer when God sends him a vision. I guess the analogy between unclean foods and unclean people was just a little too complex for this simple fisherman. He doesn’t get it at first. He’s proud that he’s kept kosher. God has to show him the vision of the tablecloth three times and finally gives up on this knucklehead. But: when Peter actually encounters the flesh-and-blood Gentiles who are hungering for God’s word of grace, he finally understands. It’s the personal relationship that changes his mind. Cornelius and his household are no longer “the other.” They become people to him. Real people, and they have the same wants and needs as he has. 

It's easy even for church folk to demonize people they don’t understand. Back in the early ‘80’s Julie, the organist of my home congregation, came out as a lesbian. Although no formal request was ever, to my knowledge, made, she suddenly felt unwelcome in the congregation where she’d grown up. She tendered her resignation and left the church with a rather bitter taste in her mouth. She and I remained friends. Sometime later, I had a conversation about this with my mom, a lady of rather traditional and conservative views. I was a bit surprised to find that Mom had very tender feelings toward my gay friend. “It couldn’t be easy for her,” she said. Mother had thought the matter over and concluded that she liked Julie when she thought she was straight, and she saw no reason not to like her when she knew she was gay. Julie was still Julie. 

Jesus makes a pretty big demand on us when he tells us to love the way he’s loved. He’s asking us to give up our sense of indignation and moral superiority and see one another as God sees us. That’s hard. Really hard. But not impossible. Jesus also tells us we’ll receive what we pray for in his name. Perhaps the ability to love other sinners might be a good request to make. 

For me, at least, it’s a better use of  my time than yelling at the TV. 

God’s peace, my friend.

 

 

"Tabitha, Get Up!" (Reflections on Easter 4, Year C 2022)

 

“She was devoted to good works and acts of charity.” (Luke 9:36) 

In my time in the ministry in Northeast Philly I’ve officiated almost 900 funeral services. I’m yet to raise anyone from the dead. Unlike Saint Peter in our First Lesson for Easter 4, Year C in the RCL (Acts 9:36-43), I haven’t received the gift of miraculous healing. I can only talk about the promise of eternal life without the ability to do an in-home demonstration. But we each have our own gifts, don’t we? I’ll be content just to retell the stories and—if I’m good at it—shed some light on a few interesting details in hope of giving you some helpful insight.

 First the obvious stuff: Luke parallels this story of the raising of Tabitha with the story in chapter 8 of his gospel[i] of how Jesus raised an official’s preteen daughter. In Mark’s gospel, Jesus raises the little girl by using the phrase “talitha cumi,” and translates it as “little girl, get up.” Although Luke doesn’t use the Hebrew[ii] expression, he must’ve figured everyone knew the story and would catch the similarities between “talitha” and Tabitha.[iii] I guess the point would be that Peter, that one-time scaredy cat who was too pusillanimous to admit he even knew Jesus, is now so full of faith and the Holy Spirit he can do the same miracles the Lord himself did. Take that for what it’s worth. 

I’m a little more interested in some of the minor stuff in this story. I always liked the fact that the widows introduce Tabitha to Peter by showing him all the stuff she’d sewed and made for others. You know: kind of like that scarf your grandma knitted for you. Or the duvet your best friends quilted for you as a wedding present. I have a lot of cool stoles I wear with my vestments, but my favorite is my scarlet Pentecost stole which was designed and sewn by both of my sisters for my ordination. My sister Lorraine lives in Colorado and my sister Maryanne is deceased now, but when I wear that stole, I have a little bit of their love wrapped around me. 

There’s something very powerful in gifts that were made by hand. They have so much more value than the cost of the materials. When the widows show Peter these tunics and other garments, they’re showing their friend’s talent as well as her love. 

I have to give a shout-out to Dr. Raj Nadella, a professor of New Testament at the Columbia Theological Seminary in Columbia, GA who did the commentary on this text for the Working Preacher website.[iv]Dr. Nadella pointed out that the Greek which is translated above as “acts of charity” would actually be literally translated as “alms that she continually did.[v]” Now “alms” and “acts of charity” have a bit of a distinction if you ask me. Tabitha didn’t just volunteer at the food bank. She “almed” too. That is, she may have been a pretty well-off old gal, and she made hefty donations to the widows in Joppa. Luke always likes to make a big whoop out of the fact that folks in the beloved community are generous. 

The text says nothing about there being a Mr. Tabitha around, so this lady was either some kind of heiress or she was a widow herself. And widow ladies like to stick together. I doubt there is a Christian congregation on the face of the earth that doesn’t have a group of older, wiser dames who like to hang out with each other and have each other’s backs. They just grow together organically because they’ve all been to the same rodeo. When my mom went into assisted living, the widows of our home church mobilized like a platoon of Marines and figured out who would visit Marie, who would do her shopping, who would take her to the doctor’s office, and who would drive her to church. Our pastor noted that the widows needed her as much as she needed them. 

But there’s always one gal who is the epoxy that holds the community together. She’s the one who makes the phone calls and the reservations for lunch and keeps the others in her prayers. She brings the casseroles to the potlucks and runs the church kitchen and tells Pastor when someone has gone into the hospital or when someone’s granddaughter is having a baby. These “Tabitha” ladies support the community with donations and time and prayer and concern. When they’re gone, the community is never the same. 

Dr. Nadella noticed that Luke gives more attention to the works Tabitha did—making clothes, giving alms, being mourned by the community, and he even tells her Greek name—than he gives to any of the consecrated male deacons mentioned in chapter 6 (with the sole exception of Stephen the martyr). He also noticed that there weren’t any other men around in this story. This is a salute to the faithful women and the love they have for each other. 

The passage ends with many of the good folks of Joppa coming to believe in Jesus because of the miracle of Tabitha’s resurrection. I like to think God restored her because this community just wasn’t ready to do without her yet. Maybe it was that her faith was infectious, that her love for the community became the presence of God people needed to see so they, too, could believe. And if you’ve ever in your life been comforted or strengthened by a “Tabitha," you have been blessed indeed.

 

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[i] 8:40-56 if you want to look it up.

[ii] Or is it Aramaic? I’m not really sure, but the two languages are kind of similar. You know: Like Spanish and Portuguese.

[iii] After all, he cribbed much of his gospel from Mark anyway.

[iv] My go-to place to steal sermon ideas.

[v] elehmosunwn wn epoiei for all you Greek language fans

Reaching the Unreasonable (Reflections on Easter 3, Year C 2022)

 

“…suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him.” (Acts 9:3) 

If you ever wondered where the phrase “He saw the light” came from, I suspect it’s referencing the conversion of Saint Paul described in our First Lesson for Easter 3, Year C in the RCL (Acts 3:1-20). It actually takes more than a light from heaven to get this hard-assed guy to change his mind. After all, Paul—or Saul as he called himself then—was actually “breathing threats and murder.” Can you imagine him inhaling and exhaling his disgust and contempt for followers of Jesus? Hatred was his oxygen. It’s what kept his heart and lungs going. This dude was so into his identity as a Pharisee that he was willing to turn to violence rather than have his religious views challenged. 

Sound familiar? Did you ever hear of anyone who so identifies with their philosophical tribe that they’re ready to—oh, I don’t know, say—storm the U.S. Capital rather than accept that reality contradicts their opinion? If there’s anything I’ve learned in a quarter century in the ministry, it’s that these types don’t want to change. You just can’t make a rational argument to an irrational mind. 

Saul was a Pharisee, a legalistic, holier-than-thou-even-thought-about-being, ultra-pious Jew who just couldn’t stand the idea that God’s love and forgiveness were possible for people who thought differently from himself. He was a walking, talking monument to intolerance who would gleefully watch as an opponent was murdered by a shower of rocks just for not thinking exactly the way he thought. Ever know anyone like him? If you do, you’ll agree it might take an act of God to change their mind. 

Truth be told, I know that when I was growing up my folks had a certain obdurate streak. My mom, for instance, was a dyed-in-the-wool-while-it-was-still-on-the-sheep Missouri Synod Lutheran. She was convinced the LCMS had a lock on the gospel, and other Christians—even other types of Lutherans—ran the risk of serious error. 

I was a second-year confirmation student when our LCMS congregation got a new pastor. This pastor, the late Rev. John Meether, was part of the splinter group that had broken off from the nominal LCMS when a controversy on biblical interpretation and scholarship arose around the Concordia Seminary in St. Louis. Pastor Meether had the audacity to change our liturgy by the insertion of up-tempo canticles. My mom found this tantamount to heresy. My dad was willing to overlook the change in worship style, but, having been raised a Primitive Methodist, he was aghast when, in Bible study, Pastor Meether suggested that some of the wackier miracles in the Bible might not have actually happened. Dad was taught every word in scripture was divinely inspired and literally true, and he was really uncomfortable with any new interpretation. 

My parents managed, as I recall, to choke down their discomfort, but others in the congregation weren’t so forbearing. Some, unwilling to have their comfort assaulted, called for the pastor to be fired while others rallied to his aid. The internal bickering eventually drove our family from the congregation and landed us—to my mother’s disquiet—into the arms of an LCA congregation where the warmth of the welcome overcame any issues my parents may have had about interpretation or worship style. 

The Griffiths clan may have had a positive experience coming out of this, but the LCMS saw years of controversy, the disruption of a seminary, the firing of two district presidents, and hundreds of congregations withdrawing from the denomination. Our own ELCA suffered similar wounds when a vote of the 2009 Churchwide Assembly declared LGBTQ+ individuals in committed relationships eligible to serve as Ministers of Word and Sacrament. This decision was welcome to most, but an abomination to a few who just couldn’t wrap their brains around the concept of grace and acceptance of all of God’s people. 

Like Saul, we are sometimes willing to fight to the death to preserve our world view. We hate change, and we fear challenges to our self-identity. Yet God keeps challenging that identity all the time. And God is able to make changes in us—even if it takes time. 

I don’t think the blinding light or even the voice of Jesus changed Saul. What strikes me most about the story of his conversion is the love shown by Ananias, a man who himself is rather reluctant to take a new view of things. God softens Ananias’ heart to the point where he can look at his persecutor and address him as “Brother.” I think this is what really brought Saul around. Arguments of logic and reasoned debates—even miraculous acts of God—aren’t as effective as love. 

My parents mellowed a little in their old age. Perhaps not as much as their son would’ve liked, but still, I could sense a softening of some of their harsher judgments and preconceptions. They were, after all, baptized people. In our scripture lesson baptism is the natural next step in Saul’s conversion. If you read his epistles, you’ll figure out he was still a hardass even after he was baptized. He just became a hardass for Christ. It wasn’t the act of baptism that changed him, it was the fact of being baptized that must’ve opened him up to the idea that every day is an opportunity to put away the old and be born anew. 

It just takes a little time and a bit of love.

Sharing the Wounds (Reflections on Ester 2, Year C 2022)

 

"St. Thomas" by Ruebens, (Flemish 17th Cent.)

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” (John 20:25) 

Some of the old-time folks at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia may recall my esteemed colleague, the Rev. Stephen Weisser. Pastor Steve is a pretty cool guy who served briefly as interim pastor a few years before I came on the scene. As saints and heroes go, I have to give Steve his props because he soldiered on for years as a servant of the Lord in spite of being a hemophiliac. I can’t wrap my brain around what it must be like to live in Steve’s body. Any sudden bump or scrape could start a potentially mortal bleed. It really has to suck to be so stinking fragile and to find yourself constantly at the doctor’s office or the hospital or forever having an arm or elbow or some other joint in a bandage. 

Steve has always been pretty accepting of his condition, and he even found it to be kind of a blessing when he took up the post of chaplain at Paul’s Run, one of the retirement living homes supported by and through the ELCA. If Steve suffered from aching bones, needed to take a boatload of meds every day, and lived with a constant fear of falling, he was no different from the residents of the facility he served. I’ve heard it said that old age is God’s way of making us not sorry to go in the end, and I rather believe it. The senior citizens at Paul’s Run know what it feels like to feel crappy 90% of always. In Steve Weisser they had a chaplain who—although much younger—knew exactly how they felt. When they saw Steve with his arm in a sling or using a walker for support, they knew he got it. 

In the very famous gospel passage assigned for Easter 2, Year C (John 20:19-31) we meet that troublesome disciple who just isn’t going to put trust in Jesus until he can see some wounds. Thomas, like everyone else who loved the rabbi from Nazareth, got his emotional guts kicked out when they hung Jesus on the cross. So when his buddies tell him they’ve seen Jesus alive again, he’s not going to risk the disappointment that this is all just wishful thinking. Can you blame the guy? 

What does Thomas want? He wants to see the wounds. 

Don’t we all? 

It’s pretty hard living in this world, and the older we get the harder it gets. We all have wounds both physical and emotional. Some of them have been caused by the Church itself, so it’s natural that folks don’t want to give too much weight to the things church people say. 

Years ago I was called on to officiate a funeral of a family friend who had died suddenly. I sat with her husband of almost thirty years as we planned the memorial service. I could see the distracted look in his eyes and sensed that, even though he was sitting right in front of me, he wasn’t really there. I’d had losses in my life, but nothing as dramatic as what this guy was going through. Still, trying to be a good pastor, I gave it my best shot and remarked to him that grief seems to put people in a bubble. You can look out and see what’s going on, but you’re not part of it anymore. The rest of the world seems silly and unimportant, and there’s an invisible wall separating you from everyone else. 

He said to me—rather vehemently as I recall—“They say they understand. But they don’t.” 

No. They don’t. I didn’t then, and maybe I still don’t. Unless someone else has the same wounds, they don’t understand. We have this need to see someone’s wounds, to hear them talk about their experience however painful it might be. If they can’t or won’t, we don’t want to put our trust in them. 

The word Thomas speaks for “believe” in this gospel passage is pisteuso. Grammatically in the Greek it means “I will believe” (future tense) and is negated by being preceded by ou me which means “not at all.[i]” The root word in Greek is pisteuo, which means “believe,” but carries a deeper connotation. It doesn’t mean simply to assent that something is true. It means to believe in something, to put trust in something, to have a confident, active relationship. 

When we believe in this way, we have a sense of security. Alcoholics go to AA meetings to listen to the narratives of others who have been down the same road, others whom they can trust, whose wounds they can see and identify with. Combat veterans, especially those with PTSD, find healing in the company of others who bear the same kind of physical and psychic scars they do. The wounds create trust and faith. 

It seems a crying shame to me that we are so often hung up on hiding our wounds that we can’t be healers ourselves. We let our embarrassment separate us from others, forgetting that the wounds can make us whole. 

There are lots of reasons why I love being a Christian, but one of the chief reasons is that we have a prophet and Savior who has gone hungry, been tempted, felt betrayal and abandonment, known rejection, and suffered physical pain, indignity, and incapacity. His wounds are our wounds, and by these wounds we are healed. 

God’s peace, my wounded brothers and sisters.

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[i] The phrase looks like this in the original language: ou mh pisteusw. You don’t need to know that, I just like to write in Greek.

Life is Waiting (Reflections on the Reurrection of Our Lord, 2022)

 

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5b) 

It was a sunny Sunday late afternoon in July of 1995 and I was doing my CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education or Cruel Perverted Experience depending on how you regarded this part of Lutheran seminary training) at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I liked doing the 24-hour-long Sunday shift as there was nobody waiting at home for me in those days and the Sunday chaplain got to lead chapel services. This was particularly pleasant Sunday for Philly in July. It wasn’t too hot—the sort of ideal afternoon for an elderly gentleman from West Philly to go out for a stroll. 

One such fellow did. He collapsed during his walk, was brought to the hospital, and pronounced dead shortly thereafter. A heart attack? Who knows? As on-call chaplain I was assigned the task of notifying his wife that she must come to the hospital immediately. This was pretty tricky as non-medical personnel are forbidden to disclose medical conditions, and being dead is considered a medical condition. About a quarter of an hour later, the wife arrived and was given the sad news by the attending physician. One of the nurses and I stayed with her as she viewed her husband’s body. I was, in a way, superfluous at that moment as the kind RN really gave an enormous amount of comfort to this poor, shocked woman. I think I might’ve explained some procedural steps to her and offered a prayer of comfort before a caring neighbor drove her home. 

Since I’d been in the hospital since 8:00 AM that morning and would have to stay until noon the following day, I figured this was time for a break. It was now about 6:45 PM. I left the floor intending to stretch out on the bed in the Trauma Chaplain’s office and watch 60 Minutes. As I headed for the elevator, an elderly gentleman, the same age and bearing a remarkable resemblance to the man who had just passed, approached me. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “Could you tell me where the Maternity Ward is?” I directed him to the elevator and told him which floor. He flashed me an enormous grin and said, “I’m going to see my grandchild!” 

A death. A new life. That’s the Easter news. Just when we think it’s all over, God shows up with a miracle of joy. 

In Luke’s account of the resurrection story (Luke 24:1-12) some women are summoned to do the ritual thing when their loved one dies. I can only imagine their distress at having to wait 24 hours to perform this loving service because they were delayed by Mosaic Law forbidding work on the Sabbath. I’ll bet they, like everyone else, felt the sense of numbness, the confusion, and exhausted inertia that comes after a loved one has died—especially one who dies unexpectedly. It might’ve been just everything they could do to carry their emotionally drained selves up to the tombs and do the “women’s work” of anointing the dead. 

And then they find the tomb empty and are perplexed. Two men in dazzling clothes appear out of nowhere, and the women are terrified. 

Perplexed and terrified. Doesn’t that describe us about now? We look around us and see—even on Easter Sunday—empty pews. The Old Guard is getting even older and rapidly vanishing and the New Guard isn’t showing up. COVID seems to have struck us a death blow, shrinking our in-person worship attendance. And not just at Faith Lutheran. Churches all over America are watching in confusion and fear, just holding our collective breath and praying this isn’t the end of something we cherish so much. 

A recent article in Living Lutheran magazine was titled “They May Not Come Back.” Last week a bunch of pastors from our synod got together for an online meeting to discuss the issues this article presented. The author, Dwight Zschiele, opined that America’s Age of Association—the time when people regularly sought to be included and participate as a community—has come to an end. We are now in the Age of Authenticity in which people focus on discovering and expressing their true selves. Those in this new age of self-awareness have little time for organizational culture and little interest in participating in service organizations or churches. 

I think Zschiele might be right. I suspect the mid-sized neighborhood church—the type most of us grew up in—is rapidly disappearing, being replaced either by the anonymity of the mega-church or by the mini-church sheltered in storefronts, borrowed spaces, and people’s homes. 

One of my colleagues asked the key question: How do we minister to people grieving the loss of something they knew and loved so much? Pastor Wende Bleam responded by reminding us that we are the Easter People. Yes, like the women at the tomb we are confused and frightened. We may even feel fatigued and overwhelmed, but we still serve the God who brings life from death and joy from sorrow. The question is, do we believe this or just consider it an idle tale? 

We can’t be looking for the living among the dead. God didn’t resuscitate a corpse on that Easter morning. God raised Jesus to be a new presence—one that lives in everlasting glory. One that never leaves us. Can we believe that God will raise a new kind of church out of the old? Maybe the “Living Room” church is the way of the future? Maybe our Lutheran presence will be in cyberspace? Maybe in the future we’ll be setting up shop in school cafeterias or community centers? Yes, we’ll miss the way things used to be, but we may reach a whole new generation that never knew those “churchy” things. 

The women were perplexed and terrified, but Peter found the nerve to take that little step of faith, to go and check things out for himself. And he was amazed. That’s our Easter hope—to be amazed by the way our living Lord will take situations which seem to be dire and transform them into something which will blow our minds, something we never before considered and never dreamed possible. 

We gather on Easter always in the spirit of anticipation, having seen the power of what God has done in the past, and we say in hope Alleluia! Praise the Lord! 

May the joy and hope of Easter fill your heart, my friend.