On this rainy, stormy Sunday after Easter, I want to say something about the narrative we have just heard. It continues the appearances of the risen Christ to the people who were his students, followers, and friends.
The narrative begins with a group of fearful people huddled together in a room. They have locked the door of the room because of fear. The writer of the Fourth Gospel writes out of particular historical context, and his choice of words is revealing: for fear of the Jews. By the close of the first century of the common era, which is when the Fourth Gospel was written, the developing Christian community was in conflict with the leaders of Judaism over the identity of Jesus and the appropriateness of his followers remaining members of synagogues. The conflict was intense.
The phrase "for fear of the Jews" had a basis in fact. But there developed within the Church an attitude that eventually led to widespread vilification of Jewish people in general. Such terms as "Christ-killers" came into usage and opened the door for the anti-Semitism that is a scar on western civilization. The events of this past week remind us all how significant language is in transmitting stereotypes and generalizations. Words make a difference, and I believe it is time for people of good will to speak out against the use of language that demeans and injures people because of race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or age. I'm not advocating any kind of censorship or limitation of free speech. I'm talking about saying, "Let's stop supporting any form of entertainment that belittles human beings and resorts to cruelty masquerading as humor."
On that first Easter evening, the followers of Jesus were huddled behind a locked door, trying to figure out how to go on with life after the death of their leader. It's not a positive picture of church vitality. I sometimes think the Christian Church reverts to fearful and negative behavior.
Last Monday I spent some time with a man who has experienced some pretty serious trauma in his personal life. He is relatively new to Manhattan. In response to suggestions from friends, he attended a church on Easter Sunday morning. He said it wasn't the part of the Christian Church he had grown up in, but the location was convenient. After the service he noticed a sign advertising an Easter brunch. He asked if it was private and was told it was open to anyone. He went down some stairs to the room where people were at tables. Three tables were full, so he sat down by himself at a fourth table. He remained by himself for at least ten minutes. Finally the chef from the catering company brought some food over to the table, sat down and joined the man for brunch and conversation. No one from the church made any effort to join them or say anything to them.
The man was pleased to have met the chef, and he said the food was very good. I asked him if he thought he would go back to the church. "I don't think so," was his reply. Sometimes the Church huddles behind locked doors, looking kind of sad and pathetic, not much interested in what its founder found so important: human beings looking for a place to belong and experience love. I continue to believe that hospitality is essential to the mission of the Church, and when the Church forgets that, the Spirit goes elsewhere and leaves congregations to shrivel and die.
Something life-changing happened to the small band of people huddled in a room two thousand years ago. There was no video-camera there to record what actually happened. And we wouldn't know anyway unless the video-camera had a lens of faith. Because what changed those people into vibrant, dynamic world-changers is clearly in the realm of mystery—mystery apprehended by faith.
Faith itself is mysterious and not something we easily understand. Stories help, and so I'll pass on a story, a true story, told by Walter Meade, who was the managing editor of Cosmopolitan magazine before he retired some time ago. He tells about watching television with his three-year-old son Luke. The program was about the late President John F. Kennedy. [Mr. Meade's story is in Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul, pp. 326-330. Health Communications, Inc., Deerfield Beach, Florida.]
Luke asked his father who the man on television was. The father told the son the man on television had been president of the United States. The son asked where the man was now. The father told the son that Kennedy was dead.
The boy asked some questions. "Is he all dead?"
"Yes."
"His feet are dead?"
"Yes."
"Is his head dead?"
"Yes."
Mr. Meade writes that in the following days his three-year-old son was fascinated with death. He went for walks in the woods looking for the bodies of dead animals and birds, and he asked all sorts of questions, as bright children do. Eventually, the father told the son that many people believe when people die, their body dies and that another part of them, their soul or spirit, lives on even though we cannot see it. He went on to say, "We don't know that for sure. But if you believe something deep insidemdash;even though you cannot prove it—that is called faith and it helps you understand many things."
The son didn't say much about death after that, as he got into other things going on in his life. The father didn't know whether his words about the soul or spirit and faith had been heard by the son.
About a year and a half later, the father's grandmother, who was the boy's great-grandmother, died. The boy had spent quality time with his great-grandmother, so that when he asked if he could go to the "wake" for MomMom, his parents thought it best to include him in the occasion, which was a time for celebrating the long and good life of the well-loved MomMom.
At the home of the deceased where the viewing and wake were taking place, the boy asked to see the body of his great-grandmother as she lay in her coffin. The father lifted him up, and after several moments, the boy told his father he could put him down.
I quote Mr. Meade. "I put him down, and we walked out of the room down the long hallway toward the kitchen. Before we got there, Luke pulled me into a small room where his great-grandmother had once pressed flowers or done needlework. Looking solemnly at me, he whispered, 'Dad, that is not MomMom.'
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'It isn't,' he said. 'She isn't in there.'
'Then where is she?' I asked.
'Talking somewhere.'
'Why do you think that?' I knelt down and put my hand on his shoulder.
'I just know. That's all. I just know.'
There was a long pause as we looked at each other. Finally he took a deep breath and said with more seriousness than I had ever seen in him, 'Is that faith?'
'Yes, son.'
'Well, then that's how I know. That's what I've got.'
I looked at him with awe and joy, realizing he had just found [or been given, I would say] one of the most powerful resources of his heart.... He had found a way of understanding that would be with him for the rest of his life, even in the valley of the shadow."
I know for me at this stage of my life in 2007, I am grateful for the gift of faith. It has enabled me to live with open eyes and open mind and open heart. I am part of a world-wide family that doesn't have to live behind locked doors of any kind. The Church of Jesus Christ at its best keeps alive the work begun so long ago—the work of making accepting, affirming love the lens through which to see the world and everything in it.
When we are faithful to the work God gives us, the living Spirit of Christ empowers us. He is among us, and he says, "Peace be with you. I am with you-now and always."
Amen.