Year C Easter 5: What God has made

Last Monday, in case you missed it, was Earth Day; so it’s great and wonderful that our garden project is getting underway, taking advantage of the bounty of creation that God gave into our hands. According to the stories of Genesis, Adam was a gardener, appointed to that task by his Maker, to tend and nurture the good green earth.

I heard a sermon a few years ago, a sermon for Earth Day, and although I could never do justice to the preacher’s words, I remember especially his emotion when he challenged us never, never ever, to despise as unnatural something, someone, somebody made by God. I suspect that we may have been reading the story from Acts that day, the story in which Peter reminds his friends, his church, about affirming the goodness of all of God’s creation, about accepting and seeking the image of God in all of humanity, about refraining from despising as unnatural anything, anyone, anybody in the natural world that God has made.

Just to recap, Peter is back in Jerusalem after hanging out in Joppa at the house of Simon the tanner, where we left him last week. Whilst at Simon’s house, Peter had the vision that he described; and while Peter was having his vision, a man called Cornelius, a centurion in the Italian Cohort, was receiving his own message from God, telling him to send for Peter because Peter had news for him that would be to his advantage. While Peter was telling Cornelius about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard it, and Peter was persuaded to seal the action by baptizing them. Now, Peter has to explain himself to those who felt that it might have been unseemly to visit with, preach among, much less to baptize, those of the Gentile persuasion. Perhaps they had all forgotten Jesus’ reputation for talking to just about anyone, and for seeking out especially those who were otherwise lost.

The challenge that Peter faced in his vision may be one which we struggle to find sympathy with; we may think that it is well outside of our experience. To understand what it means for a Jew to break kosher, to eat something understood through centuries as ritually unclean, unsavoury, that we were taught by our great-grandparents to leave well alone, because to eat it would be an offence against God – we don’t generally have that experience, and the depth of Peter’s anguish at his vision may be difficult to understand; although if any of you has been a vegan for twenty years, and you can imagine suddenly being offered a cheese-steak by an angel of the Lord, an offer you could hardly refuse, then you might come close.[1]

Because while I could be wrong, it is my understanding that in some ways, it was also a bereavement, to be told to eat the unclean animals; the Jewish people received the Law, their ritual rules as a gift from God, a sign of the covenant between the Almighty and the Chosen People, chosen to pray on behalf of the world, to live on behalf of the world a life dedicated to God. The Law was a sign and a symbol of this life lived with God, this mutual relationship of the Jews with their Maker, with the Maker of us all, and to give it up, to turn his back on it, to let go of the Law was not freedom to Peter, but a heavy burden, the burden of stepping beyond the bounds of his carefully wrought religion, practiced on behalf of the world, into the great unknown, the world itself.

But Peter’s vision was not the end of kosher observance for the Jewish Christians. Peter’s vision was not a preparation for a life of lobster bisque, but for the knock that would shortly come to Simon the tanner’s front door, from a Gentile looking for the Gospel, for guidance from a disciple of the living Christ; and, what is more, Peter’s commandment was not to become like Cornelius in order that Cornelius could become like Peter. Peter would always be a Jewish Christian, and the evidence from the rest of the Book of Acts and from the letters of Paul is that the Jewish Christians continued to keep kosher, to eat as adherents of the Jewish faith. Cornelius didn’t have to be circumcised:

Peter’s point to his fellows back in Jerusalem was precisely that Cornelius could become a Christian without becoming a Jew: each man’s faith was equally acceptable to God, mediated as it was through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ and the gift of the Holy Spirit. The one name that they held in common was far stronger than any of the differences, the names, labels and actions that set them apart from one another: “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life.”

The pressing point of the story, I think, is not that all differences between the individuals and groups that made up the new Christians churches must be subsumed or papered over or blended or liquidated in order for them to worship together; but that even in their difference, their unique backgrounds and cultures, their God-given histories, they were all equally important to God, beloved of God, welcome in the kingdom of God.

It may feel like a subtle semantic point to make, but for the people living through the decisions about whether or not and who had to be circumcised, or even who could eat shrimp cocktail, it was clearly a huge deal. Each person was permitted to bring to the table (pun intended) their own, true, God-given selves, without apology or apostasy. Peter’s temporary suspension of his own obligations to discretion, to dietary discipline, was a parable, a prophetic action to make this very point; that while it was his joy to keep kosher, it must not be a barrier to bearing witness to the Holy Spirit’s baptism of Cornelius and his household.

The language that is used for the unclean animals, which Peter applies to the persons of Cornelius and his household when he visits them, is rendered in English common, or profane; secular, or mundane. On the contrary, says the vision, says God, all that God has made is sacred, is holy. All that God has made is sacred, is holy.

There was a great letter in the Plain Dealer this past week, wherein the letter-writer posited that the problem with the young men who planted the Boston bombs was not that they were not like the rest of America, but that they considered the difference to be a bad thing, diversity to be something evil. He wrote,

“ It’s those who hate the differences between us, such as the Tsarnaev brothers, who personify the problem.” – Hank Drake South Euclid[2]

We like to think that we are so sophisticated, tolerant, accepting and laid back these days, and yet while we might throw up our hands in horror at the idea of being thought racist, or homophobic, or Islamophobic, or xenophobic – wasn’t there just the tiniest ripple of relief that ran through the news cycle when it was determined that the two young men suspected of bombing Boston were, well, not from around these parts? That they were able to be described, somehow or another, as “other”? We still like to define in and out, clean and unclean, friend and foe. Of course we do. It’s only natural. But a friend defines herself by her friendly actions, and a foe by different acts. It is not their God-given selves that are faulty, but the way that they have used or abused them.

We must not be led astray by our recognition of our differences. We must never be tempted to declare that one who is different from us is made in the image of a lesser God than ours. 

Ours should not be the prayer of the Pharisee who thanked God that he was not like other men, and took pride in his separation from his fellows.

 

Watching Dr Who yesterday afternoon (it was a rerun, but still great), I was reminded that some of the most terrifying monsters in science fiction are those who would remove our differences, our individuality, our personal responses to one another and to God. This is what the Cybermen said in that Dr Who episode,

‘Cybermen now occupy every land mass on this planet. But you need not fear. Cybermen will remove fear. Cybermen will remove sex and class and colour and creed. You will become identical, you will become like us.”[3]

Chilling.

And if you are not a fan of the Doctor, how about the Borg from Star Trek:

“We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”[4]

We value our own differences, our own versions of the kosher requirements, what sets us apart, what makes us unique, and that is good, because God has made each of us and we are fearfully and wonderfully made. It is good to value our differences, just so long as we can give equal value to the differences of one another.

Paul wrote to the Galatians that in Christ, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there neither slave nor free, their neither male nor female,” but it would be difficult to argue that he meant it literally; I think that he still understood himself, for example to be demonstrably male. What he meant, I think, is what Peter learned: that our differences do not need to come between us, but that we are equal in value and stature before God; that we need never be separated or divided, much less differentially valued by our difference.

In the end, it comes back to Genesis. After making each thing, each category of thing, “each after its own kind”, not the same as the next or the one that came before; after making humanity in its own simple diversity, “male and female God made them”, then God saw everything that had been made, and it was very good.

Let nothing and no one that God has made be called common, or profane. What God has made has been made holy by the holiness of the Creator, and all of it belongs in all of its diversity, all of its promise, all of its difference, to God. Even every one of us.


[1] See Amy-Jill Levine, The Misunderstood Jew: The Church and the Scandal of the Jewish Jesus (New York: HarperOne, 2006), especially pp.25-26, 126-7

[3] BBC Doctor Who, Series 2, Episode 13, “Doomsday”, first broadcast 8 July 2006

[4] I don’t know, I’m not a Trekkie; it’s a thing, though, right? Anyway, try http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borg_(Star_Trek) for more info about the Borg.

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Hope

There is a Collect that I pray each morning as I wake up. Actually, I have to start it over a couple of times, because it really is my awakening prayer, and often I wake up more than once and discover I’d fallen asleep again mid-sentence. I usually get there in the end.

It is the Collect for Grace offered in the Morning Prayer services of the Episcopal Church. The traditional version (p.57) goes like this:

O Lord, our Heavenly Father, almighty and everlasting God, who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day: Defend us in the same with thy mighty power; and grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger; but that we, being ordered by thy governance, may do always what is righteous in thy sight; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The contemporary version is subtly different:

Lord God, almighty and everlasting Father, you have brought us in safety to this new day: Preserve us with your mighty power, that we may not fall into sin, nor be overcome by adversity; and in all we do, direct us to the fulfilling of your purpose; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

In my sleepy state, I tend to go for a combination of the two. This has to be one of the prayers I grew up with in the Church in Wales (we read Morning Prayer every other Sunday), because it is so familiar that I can pray it in my sleep; but it is the contemporary opening which springs to my quiet lips: you have brought us in safety to this new day.

Lately, I’ve had trouble praying those words. For the first time in a lifetime of praying this Collect, they have struck me as rather selfish. Yes, I am safe, but we? Us? Depends on who is included, and what safety signifies, doesn’t it?

It started with three people who died unexpectedly: John, Ethan, Robert; leaving questions in their wake, bewilderment as well as the usual grief. Then the Boston marathon, and the earthquakes, and West, Texas, and the usual rounds of fear and falling and pain and tears, until I felt quite selfish, waking up warm in my own bed, and the words of safety sounded smug in my own head.

Last week, while I was preparing a memorial homily, I was reminded of a book, Butterflies Under Our Hats, by Sandy Eisenberg Sasso. It was recommended by a friend, the Revd Joy Caires for talking to children about death and dying (see her blogpost here). It is about a town that is out of luck, but which discovers hope.

Hope. That resonated deeply with me. I went to bed rolling it around in my soul, tasting it and trying it out. When I awoke the next morning, tentatively, I tested the waters,

You have brought us with hope to this new day

And it seemed to fit the bill quite nicely.

Yes, I know better than to mess with the traditional prayers that have been handed down through the generations, and I ask the forgiveness of my spiritual ancestors. But I do not think that they would deny me hope, and for the safety of my soul, for now, it will be my first thanksgiving of the day.

 

Butterflies under our hats, by Sandy Eisenberg Sasso, illustrated by Joani Keller Rothenburg (Brewster,MA: Paraclete Press, 2006)

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The usual

I started the meeting excusing myself – “This has been an unusual day,” –
when, cut short by an out-loud laugh, I wondered how long, in fact, it had been
since we talked about anything normal, reasonable, regular;
accepting the laugh with a smile of my own, I yielded the floor to my other self.

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Year C Easter 4: Washed in the blood of the Lamb

For the past several years, on the Sunday of the Cleveland Marathon, Trinity Cathedral, our Episcopal cathedral downtown, has taken to the streets during its education hour between services to cheer on the runners. The youth group and Sunday school classes make signs to hold up: keep going, you’re nearly there, Jesus loves you. One year, maybe more than one, but I know of at least one year, the congregation was so caught up in the drama of the final mile of the marathon runners’ journey that they didn’t want to leave to go inside when it came time for the service, so instead they moved a table out onto Euclid Avenue and celebrated right there in the midst of the race.

I didn’t watch the news on Monday. The words of the online reports that I read conjured up images that I had no desire to see in colour in my living room. Of course, too many people were unable to avoid the sight, and much more.
On Tuesday, I received a phone message from my daughter letting me know, in case I saw it on the news and worried, that the bomb squad had been out to her school campus.
On Wednesday, parents of the children killed in Newtown led the way to the White House Rose Garden after the failure of the Senate to come together to promote greater gun safety.
On Thursday, we awoke to the news that the town of West, Texas, had exploded overnight, because of a factory fire, and many first responders were among the lost.
By Friday, the entire city of Boston was under a lockdown after a frightful night.
On Saturday, the very earth trembled in China and hundreds fell.

We are still looking for answers, for reasons, for the why of what happened in our nation, and around the world this week.

The image of green pastures and still waters has been cast somewhat under the shadow of death.

Still, the memory of that street Eucharist, the body and blood poured out in the midst of sweat and toil, exhaustion and elation at the approach of the finish line – that image abides with me, an oasis of worship and refreshment amid the toil and strife.

The elder said to me, “These are the ones who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb. For this reason they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. The Lamb will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

The book of Revelation was written at a difficult and dangerous moment in the history of the church. Persecutions were common; the Roman empire did not enjoy the challenge to its authority that the new Christians posed, claiming as they did that God, not the emperor, was the eternal ruler of the world, not to mention that Jesus was living, even though Rome had killed him, that God could undo any evil that the Caesar wrought, that fear was no match for love.

Even among the populace of many of the places that Rome ruled, emperor worship was really no problem. In places of polytheistic worship, where many gods were recognized, adding a shrine to the emperor was not seen as unusual, or out of order. The Christians were out of line not only with the authorities, but with many of their peers.[1] Of course, the Jews had suffered the same problem, and their temple had been destroyed in AD70, a catastrophic blow to that community; now, the new Christians fell under the same suspicion and similar threats of persecution and destruction.

It was an ordeal, to be a faithful follower of Jesus in the late first century and beyond. But fear was no match for love.

The visionary John who wrote the Revelation saw clearly that those who participated in the death of Christ were raised with him also to new life, worshiping joyfully and freely before the throne of God, protected from all harm and suffering as they sang songs and hymns of praise to the Lamb.

But theirs was not only life after death. The communities that were faithful were also protected in life from despair, from falling out of faith. They were preserved by their love for God and for one another from descending into evil, from turning away from what was good; they loved fiercely, they prayed fervently, they lived fully, as ones who knew the promises of God, that goodness and mercy would follow them, and that they would live in the house of the Lord forever.

I am reminded of the people who ran into the chaos last Monday, instead of running away, who ran to those wounded and helped them. I am reminded of the runners who kept going past the finish line and ran to the hospitals to give blood – can you imagine donating blood after running 26.2 miles? As depleted as they were, they knew that they had everything left to give, they had life left to give.

I am reminded of the first responders who were knowingly in harm’s way in West, Texas, but who stood by their hoses to protect others, and the law enforcement personnel who searched street to street around Boston, looking to stop a young man before he could harm anyone else, again, knowing the risk to their own lives.

I don’t know whether or not they were Christians, but I do know that those people bore witness to a faith that love is stronger than fear, that life outlasts death, that their own lives did not begin and end with themselves but were extended through the lives of their neighbours and their communities.

I think of those whose first thought Friday was to pray for our enemies, for those who would harm us, because that is what Jesus commanded us to do.

Fear is no match for love, nor cowardice for courage, nor darkness for light. If you think about it, a little darkness entering a room can only dim the light; but the tiniest spark of light breaks open the darkness and shatters it.

It is a good thing that we have these particular readings today, the readings we so often hear at a funeral, because they are a reminder that even in the midst of life, we know death, and that even in the shadow of death, we know life; real and eternal life, as Jesus says. Life that is lived fully, with hope and in the knowledge that we live in the temple of God, God’s own creation, ever before the throne; life that is not ended by death, that is not overcome by evil.

With our spiritual ancestors, who celebrated in the shadow of Rome, and with people of faith around the world today, in downtown Cleveland, in Boston and beyond, we defy the forces of darkness, we who are washed in the blood of the Lamb, because we know the promises of our God, the Good Shepherd who knows us each by name, who leads us beside still waters, who comforts us in the valley of the shadow of death, who shelters us from harm and wipes every tear from our eyes.

We celebrate in the midst of the races run around us, the lives of toil and effort, exhilaration and the exhaustion; our worship is an oasis of still waters while the turbulent waves beat around us; and with joy and defiance, we will continue to sing in the house of the Lord, forever.

 

[1] M. Eugene Boring, Revelation: Interpretation, A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 21

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One of those weeks

This is the newsletter greeting I almost used for our May edition at Church of the Epiphany. Almost; I thought better of it after I realized how much of my own exhaustion I had allowed to peek through between the gaps in the paragraphs.

In the end, I went with something about the Ascension, something a little more tidy and wholeheartedly hopeful and spry. But this is what I almost used:

April 18, 2013.

It has been one of those weeks when, sitting at my desk a little over halfway through April, I know that by the beginning of May everything might have changed, anything could have happened.

 In the past two weeks we have suffered hard and unexpected losses in our parish, we have seen suffering we never thought to see in Boston, and we have been reminded yet again of all that our first responders put on the line in the course of their duty in West, Texas.

 I do not know what will be at the forefront of our minds by the time you read this in May. So much is happening so quickly.

 What I do know is this: God is with us.

 In May, we will celebrate Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit like tongues of fire upon Jesus’ disciples. They broke out of the building they were in and converted crowds standing around to the gospel, the good news that Jesus is Lord, and God is with us.

 Pentecost was not a one-off event. Every time the wind blows, the breath of God is moving through our lives, and the Holy Spirit is breathing with us, through us. Every time one person reaches out to help another in need, in distress, God’s love flows between them. Every time we come together in prayer, or pray alone, God is listening, and God is answering with the language of the Spirit, with tongues of fire, with words of passion and love.

 I do not know what May will bring us, but I know that God will be in the midst of it.

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Walking beside still waters in the shadow of death

This Sunday, we will pray Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul.

He revives my soul.

We will also read from the Gospel according to John. It won’t sound quite like this; this is the translation called The Message, by Eugene Peterson:

My sheep recognize my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them real and eternal life. They are protected from the Destroyer for good.

I give them real and eternal life.

They are protected from the Destroyer for good.

Real life is eternal. It is lived in the here and now, and its echoes reach the alpha and the omega, the lengths and breadths of all that is; it is eternal, and it is known to the Eternal One.

Real life suffers death. It is not protected from dying, but it is protected from destruction. It is protected in death, so that it is not destroyed but lives eternally. It is a dilemma, a paradox. Paradoxes are not always helpful in the midst of fear and grief.

Love may be a little more helpful. The love which poured itself out in donations of blood in Boston, which ran towards the wounded, without a care for the danger still waiting to explode upon it. The love which fuels a firefighter protecting a nursing home from a fertilizer fire, which drives into the hot zone with a truck full of wheelchairs and a willing pair of hands. The love which will not let a parent let go of the passion to continue to beat on the hearts and minds of recalcitrant lawmakers to legislate some sanity into our gun ownership laws.

That Love which is stronger than death.

I shall fear no evil.

They are protected from the Destroyer for good.

He revives my soul.

 

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Boston marathon

Innocent desire:
the race to outrun the bounds
of one’s own body.

With love and prayers from Cleveland.

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Year C Easter 3: Paying attention

God would like our attention, please. It seems to me that the very different stories in today’s lectionary selections have the common theme of God getting someone’s, or some-two’s, or everyone under heaven and earth’s attention.

Hey! Listen up! Pay attention! This is your God speaking! What does God have to do to get our attention?

Revelation: Around the throne thousands upon thousands are drawing our attention with loud voices to Lamb who was slain, who is worthy of power and wealth and wisdom and glory and blessing, who is exalted to the right hand of God, worthy of everyone’s attention from heaven to Hades, from the earth to the oceans, from the beginning to the end.

The Gospel according to John: a gentler image. Jesus appears on the shore, arranges for a miraculous catch of fish, and cooks a barbecue breakfast on the beach for his disciples. Now that’s a way to get my attention!

In the book of Acts, Ananias has a vision, and Saul – Saul on the road to Damascus. How does God get Saul’s attention?

What does God have to do to get our attention?

I met a man in the hospital. He had prayed to God to change his life. He knew that the way he was leading it, he was leading it right into disaster, but he didn’t seem to be able to change direction. Like St Paul, who used to be Saul, the good that he would do he could not, and the evil he wished he would not do lay just too easily to hand. So he prayed that God, that Jesus, would change his life for him.

I met him in the hospital. I thought that this was a sorry turn of events, but he was laughing. “Be careful what you pray for,” he told me. He said, “I told God, I know I asked for a change, but did you have to be quite so direct about it?” Then he said, “But yeah, he kind of did. Otherwise I wouldn’t have paid any attention.”

I struggled to hear that. I still do. I’m still not as sure as he was that God wanted to put him in the hospital, but he was convinced that this was the answer to his prayer, that this was what God had to do in order to change his life. I remembered him, reading about Saul on the road to Damascus. Be careful, he said. What does God have to do to get your attention?

I still don’t know quite what to make of Saul’s story. Is this what they call tough love?

But let’s not forget about the other actor in this story, the man named Ananias. He is visited in a dream, or a vision. He was ready and eager to hear his Lord’s voice, “Here I am, Lord,” he responded right away when God called him by name. But he did not like the message that he received, he did not like the sound of the errand he was sent on, to lay hands upon his enemy in order to pray for him and heal him. And yet when he went, he became an instrument of amazing power in the Holy Spirit, causing something like scales to fall from Saul’s eyes, causing something like a sclerosis of the soul to be removed from Saul’s heart and mind, as he finally saw Jesus and his disciples clearly.

An encounter with the living God can be disturbing. It may well be frightening; we should, in meeting God, expect to be changed, to be converted, to be transformed, and that is rarely easy.

The good news is that God loves us and is always working in, with and through us for what is good. As God spoke through the prophet Jeremiah,

“I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfard and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

Ananias fought against the idea of seeking out and healing his enemy, the enemy of the church, but when he did, he essentially launched the missions of St Paul that changed the course of the church for good.

The really extraordinary thing about Saul’s story is less his dramatic blindness on the road to Damascus: that sort of thing happens with almost alarming regularity in the Bible; think of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptizer struck speechless by the angel who foresaw his baby’s birth, who lost the power of speech for months; no, the really extraordinary thing about Saul’s story is that in three short days he went from killing Christians to living in their homes and learning from them, from beating on them to sharing in their baptism and their bread, from imprisoning them to preaching their own gospel. Come to that, in three short days the Christians went from fearing Saul to healing him, from hiding from him to teaching him, from hating him to feeding him with solid food and with the Word of God.

And all of this happened, you might say, not so much because Saul was struck blind, but because he was healed, by one who overcame his own fear and trembling to pay attention to the vision that God sent him, to seek out and pray for his enemy. That’s transformation.

In the stories of Saul and Ananias, it was only by paying attention to God that they were able to find any good in one another.

The good news is that God is still speaking to us, speaking through us, staging encounters with us in unexpected places, setting up meetings with unexpected people. It doesn’t have to be on the road to Damascus, and it doesn’t have to involve a traumatic trip to the hospital. A woman told me recently of how the birth of her first child transformed her view of everything, that she was now able to forgive hurts she had never forgotten, able to hope for a future that she had never foreseen, because of the love that enveloped her in that moment. That was her moment of vision. That’s transformation, too. That’s an encounter with God.

We need to pay attention to the places and the spaces in our lives where God is reaching out to us, and we should be prepared to be altered by the encounter. Listen like Ananias to your dreams. Love your neighbours as ones who bear the transforming presence of a child of God into your own life. Pay attention to the image of God within them. Take note of words that leap out at you as though the book were written only for you to read. Prepare to be changed, to be challenged, to be converted. Part of a poem by Mary Oliver reads this way:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.[1]

On the beach, Jesus had a fire going, and he cooked the fish. Then with it he took bread, and he broke it, and gave it to his disciples. When the story is done, the evangelist finishes his book this way,

“This is the disciple who is bearing witness to these things, and who has written these things; and we know his testimony to be true. But there are also many other things which Jesus did; were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.” (John 21:24-25)

The disciples paid attention to Jesus on the shore; they were astonished by him; they told about it. More encounters with the living Christ than could be contained in the libraries of the world have yet to be told. We know about Saul’s. We know about Ananias’. We know about some of our own. Will we tell about them?

Here is one everyday encounter that, when I pay attention, regularly astonishes me. Every Sunday, at the altar, Jesus offers his body in the form of bread, his blood in the form of wine. He offers it to each of us; to all of us. Just as he returned and told Thomas, “Here I am. Touch me. Place your hands on my hands,” so he returns time and again, and time and again he invites us, “Here I am, hold me; receive me.” Even today, after a week that has left many of us reeling for many reasons, Jesus returns in all gentleness and invites us to receive the bread of life, broken for us; to receive Jesus himself, Risen and with us always.

For what greater sign of God’s tender attention to us could we ask?


[1] From ‘Sometimes’, by Mary Oliver, in Red Bird, Poems by Mary Oliver (Boston: Beacon Press, 2008), 37

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For Thomas

Thought for the second Sunday of Easter:
when you are doubtful, uncertain;
when you stumble through grief and tears cloud your vision as they fall;
be kind to yourself.
Remember, Jesus came back
especially
for Thomas.

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The spiritual gift of doubt

Blessed are those who can live with certainty, who can bear the burden of sureness. Because in certainty there is no need for hope; sureness has no need for trust.

Some of us are not so strong. We cannot live without hope. We depend on those whom we trust.

Doubt is the flint whose friction creates the spark which lights the fire of hope.

Doubt is the darkness against which hope blazes, to light it up and drive it out, and yet without it, hope remains unborn.

Doubt leans on the shoulder of the one that walks beside us. Doubt demands reassurance, demands a rock, a refuge.

Doubt cries out in the night for salvation, and it is not disappointed.

Blessed are those who can live with certainty, who can bear the burden of sureness, the curse of knowledge.

For the rest of us, there is comfort in doubt, a calmness that comes through the fear that hopes that the Comforter is near.

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