Month: April 2013

A Sermon for the 5^th Sunday of Easter

Year C – 28 April 2013

David Hathaway Knight,  Priest Associate

Send your spirit, God, to open our hearts and our minds to your word, and strengthen us to live according to your will, in Jesus’ Name. Amen,

On this Fifth Sunday of Easter, the church beckons us to look back for a moment to a conversation Jesus had with his disciples shortly before his crucifixion. It was his last opportunity to say what he needed to say to his disciples.  He speaks to them with an intimacy that is full of the poignancy of these final moments with them. To these grown men, he says, “Little children, (he calls them) I am with you only a little longer.  You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews I now say to you, ‘where I am going, you cannot come.’ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this, everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Of all the moments that Jesus had ever spent with his disciples, these perhaps were the most important of all.

 As you and I look back over some of our most precious relationships, we too may well remember a final conversation with someone we love, someone who knew that she or he would not be with us much longer. Etched in my memory forever, and in my wife Jeannie’s memory as well, is a moment of sacred time we had at my mother’s beside in the hospice unit of the Berkshire Medical Centeron a day in July of 1997.  It was seven months after our son Jamie had died. After four years of a courageous battle following her diagnosis of ovarian cancer, my mother’s cancer had finally progressed with vengeance.  She had not long to live and we all knew it.  Jeannie and I were at her bedside before Jeannie was about to fly back to Richmond that afternoon. As we stood beside her, my mother took us both by the hand. First, she looked at Jeannie with a twinkle in her eye that was so characteristic of the way she often looked when she was about to say something. Then, as she spoke to Jeannie, she glanced over in my direction and then back at Jeannie and said to her, “Look after that rascal over there.  He’s a handful, as you know.”  Then, her expression became focused.  She had something important to say.  She looked directly at us both as if to say, “Little children, listen to me:” Her words were succinct: “Don’t be afraid to die. I’m going to look for Jamie, and I will find him!” Now, you’d have to know my mother. While she was usually right, she may not have always been right. But my mother, right or wrong, was never, ever, in doubt.  Someone who knew our family well once quipped that she had raised a son like that.  Now isn’t that crazy?  But on that day in July, there was not a particle of doubt in her mind as she said those words to us.  That was a holy moment that Jeannie and I will never forget.  Her last words, “I will look for Jamie, and I will find him,” would become one the threads onto which Jeannie and I would hold as we looked for any strands of hope then, and as we still do. She was speaking to us about her belief in the hereafter.  She spoke to us with an intimacy the poignancy of which has never left us.

Several days later and I remember it was a Tuesday. Mother, whose physical condition had weakened, still had power in her convictions.  She said to me, as often she had said in those final weeks, “What is going to happen to your father?”  I tried to assure her not to worry, that my sister and I would see that he was in good hands.  We were currently working on a plan that was not yet quite firm as there were some details yet to be finalized.  When I tried to tell her not to worry, she looked at me with those eyes as if to say, “Details, Son, details! Don’t give me this ‘We’ll take care of him business. Details.’”  Later that afternoon, there came the welcome call from Tom Cunningham at Westminster Canterbury.  Tom said, “David, tell your mother you have friends in Richmond.  We will accept your father as a resident in our new memory support unit when it opens on October 1^st.  I ran back to mother’s room, told her the details—what they would get as a rebate on their apartment at Kimball Farms, what his apartment in the Westminster Canterbury would cost, and what the monthly fee would be. I told her I would fly with Dad First Class, on his dime, to his apartment that would be ready and waiting for him when he arrived. And there was space in his room for his beloved Steinway grand piano. Mother squeezed my hand, tears streamed down her cheeks.  That night, she died peacefully knowing that all was well. That too was holy time, a conversation given to us to remember forever.

That essential conversation Jesus had with his disciples as his time drew near and those essential conversations that you and I remember having with a loved one are God’s gift to us in the transitions that mark our journeys along life’s path. They are not only conversations that give us a glimpse of the hereafter, but ones that also help to shape the course of our earthly journeys.  

 It is clear that Jesus’, in that moment before his departure, did not offer those words to his disciples as a suggestion for them to consider.  He gave them a commandment: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  In reference to Jesus’ words, someone here said it well in a conversation a week or so ago when she said that Jesus will know that we love him when he sees that we love one another.”

Those final conversations with loved ones can be essential ones, yet there are other conversations along the way that become essential as well.  Jesus commands that we must love one another as he has loved us. But notice that he doesn’t say that in order to love one another, we must always be in agreement with each other over everything.  In a marriage, no two partners will always agree on everything.  In a family, there will always be differences.  In the church, there will be diversity and there will be differences and there will be disagreements. If we are to love one another as Jesus love us, what matters is not that we always agree with each other, which is not possible anyway, but rather how we relate to one another when we differ and disagree. If love is at the foundation of our relationships, then we are not afraid to have our differences, and we handle them with mutual love and with respect for those differences.  We come to discover that we can be in conversation, that we can listen to one another’s viewpoints and not feel threatened by the presence of those differences that are part of normal life.  It’s when in a marriage, or in a family, or in the church, we paper over those differences and do not discuss them out of fear that we might ruffle somebody’s feathers we can miss so much even if things seem to be smooth on the surface for much of the time.  The simple truth of the matter is that if we cannot discuss differences in the context of love and respect, we cannot solve anything.  As stuff then gets buried, over time it erupts in unhealthy ways.  I was in a gathering a week or so ago and was struck by the insight in what someone said.  This is someone who was born and raised inRichmond and has lived here all her life, so she could say this with impunity. She said, “You know, people in this part of the world would much rather be polite than discuss any differences that there might be among us.” And then she added, “And that’s not very healthy.” In all fairness to the good people in this part of the world, however, the same could be said about people just about anywhere. Most of us are not naturally comfortable with conflict yet as we can become aware of the blessings that are to be found in loving, respectful conversations that allow for, and yes, even celebrate the differences that are inherent in any gathering of people we begin to flourish in our life together. There is a little framed inscription that now hangs in our living room by the front door. It was by the front door of Jeannie’s grandparents’ home  in Wynnewood, PA, for many years and in her great grandparents’ home before that. It simply reads, “Christ is the head of this house, the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation.”  It’s a wonderful reminder about who it is who can be the guide for those essential conversations that we have along life’s journey.

 And so what does it look like for us to love one another as Jesus has loved us?  As we go about our life and our duties in the church, the world out there is watching.  What do we, as the church, have to offer that differs from other gatherings of people characterized by dissention and division?  How can we listen to one another in an effort to discover where the Holy Spirit is leading us? How can we be sure that everybody has a place at the table? 

Today we have just welcomed two of the newest Christians on this planet, Charles Bailey Atwill, III, and Thomas Kemper Brotherton, III, into the congregation of Christ’s flock through the sacrament of Baptism. May this church be for them a place where they, with our prayers, our support, and those conversations with them as they mature, may grow into the full stature of Christ. May they come to see that we love one another as Christ has loved us, and that we can be models for them and they, as they grow, for us of how we are to love one another.

 The words of Walter Russell Bowie, written in 1910, still speak with clarity to us in this our own day:

Give us, O God the strength
to build the city that hath stood
too long a dream, whose laws are love,
whose ways are servanthood,
and where the sun that shineth is
God’s grace for human good.

 Already in the mind of God
that city riseth fair:
lo, how its splendor challenges
 the souls that greatly dare—
yea bids us seize the whole of life
 and build its glory there.

Hymn 583, Stanzas 3 &4

 A Sermon for the 3rd Sunday of Easter

Year C –14 April 2013

John Edward Miller, Rector

 Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They answered him, “No.” He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off.

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.

When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me.”

                                                                                                                       – John 21:1-19

 The Collect

 O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

When someone says, “And, by the way,” you know that there’s something else coming. Maybe it’s something more that needs to be said, like, “By the way, you’ll need cash to pay for dinner. The restaurant doesn’t take plastic.” That’s something that you’d like to know, right? A lack of information could cause a major embarrassment. It’s a case of more is better. And speaking of more, a postscript attached to the end of a letter can also be a great help. Consider a writer who realizes, after signing and nearly sealing a letter, that there’s a significant thought that will make the letter complete. A timely postscript can make a huge difference for the good.

John’s gospel finishes with something like a P.S. Its twenty-first chapter, which closes the fourth gospel, is an add-on to the original text. We can think of it as a pastoral postscript, a piece of writing added after the author penned, “the end,” to his script. Biblical scholars call John 21 an “epilogue,” which literally means a “word besides,” or an after word attached to what he’s already written about Jesus. But to say that is not to disparage this text; it was clearly seen as inspired, and even indispensable to the New Testament’s witness. The epilogue is written as though it were a part of John’s original gospel text. It extends the resurrection story into the indeterminate future after Easter. Jesus’ third (and last) post-resurrection appearance to his disciples takes place beyond Jerusalem – at the Sea of Tiberias.[1] And beyond is where we are.

The original ending of John’s gospel immediately follows Thomas’ affirmation of faith, “My Lord and my God!” and Jesus’ reply, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” And, of course, we are the ones who have not seen, and yet believe, despite our periods of unbelief. So, John is addressing us with that powerful challenge. That is our mission, our spiritual journey. But the gospel writer gives us a parting reminder. He urges us to pay attention to the stories he has recorded. They are primary source of the signs that we are on the right track. Thus John sums up, saying:

“Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name.”[2]

That appears to have been the conclusion of John’s gospel. However, it didn’t remain so for long. Perhaps some viewed it as an insufficient ending, because the gospel was eventually given another after-Easter episode featuring the risen Lord. This addition – the epilogue – has a corporate focus instead of an individual one. To counsel us as individuals is crucial, but there is more to say – specifically, to the church itself, which serves all sorts and conditions of people. The community gathered in Christ’s name needs direction – perhaps even re-direction. It is possible that this P.S. has some history behind it. Maybe its leaders needed a reminder of the Church’s focus, and to keep their eye on the ball.

The disciples of Jesus formed the leadership core of the early church. But Peter emerged as the leader of his colleagues. In a sense, Peter is the church. John knew that, and so did Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Matthew even has Jesus’ strong commendation: “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”[3]

Although the epilogue names a number of other disciples who went on that fishing trip to the Sea of Tiberias, it was Peter who would play the central role. He was the one who got the others going; he led them to do something rather than just sit there waiting for a sign; and when the beloved disciple recognized that it was Jesus hailing them from the shore, and it was Peter who dived overboard and swam like mad to greet the risen Lord.

Moreover, it was Peter that Jesus addressed directly, using his familiar name, Simon, son of John. Jesus asked him, “Do you love me more than these?” That is to say, “Are you the one I can count on to lead my disciples, and send into the world with my message?”

The focus on Peter leads me to believe that the gospel epilogue is a word to the church. It was a final piece of direction to the ones who were called to lead the flock of Christ – then and now.

That beach breakfast hosted and served by Jesus is a fantastic scene, really.  They’d seen him before in the upper room, and they’d rejoiced when the dime dropped and they understood who he was. But there had been some kind of time gap between those Easter Day scenes and the fishing trip. Maybe we’re supposed to appreciate that. It just may be that the lag between then and now is being highlighted for all disciples, including us. Anyway, having joined him ashore for some fish and bread, they were all in awe. And Peter, who jumped overboard fully clothed to get to Jesus first, was literally dripping with enthusiasm.

That’s where the scene shifts to Peter alone. He’s the last one that Jesus speaks to in the epilogue.

As we’ve heard, Jesus asks Peter whether he loves him more than the rest of the disciples do. Peter blurts out a fairly defensive response: “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” To that Jesus commands: “Feed my lambs.” Twice more Jesus calls him by name and asks, “Do you love me?” Peter’s sensibilities get increasingly hurt, and he answers each time that he indeed does, and that Jesus surely knows that. Jesus stands his ground. And each time Peter protests, he issues an imperative.

The three orders are, “feed my lambs,” “tend my sheep,” and “feed my sheep,” respectively. So there we have it: three probing, point-blank questions about love and loyalty; three anxious answers affirming an unswerving, unmitigated allegiance to Jesus; and three directives from the risen Lord.

Why do this exercise in threes? Well, three is a complete number; it’s as if we’re listening to a sweeping inquisition and a full statement of faith. [Our baptismal liturgy has something similar: three renunciations and three acts of adherence, or pledges of loyalty.] That’s one reason for the three-fold Q&A. But there’s another explanation – one that smacks of guilt, contrition, and penance. Peter, you’ll recall from the Good Friday Passion narrative, was the one who denied knowing Jesus three times when questioned by people who were trying to associate him as a follower of the one who would soon be crucified.

Peter needed redemption; he had fully turned his back on Jesus, and he was deeply in need of truth and reconciliation. And he got everything he needed, including his marching orders. As block-headed, flawed, impetuous and timid as he was, Peter was still the rock on which Christ would build his church. In a sense he is the church. He represents us. And Jesus said to him, “Follow me.”

My ordination certificate instructs me how to follow Jesus in my vocation. It proclaims that, as a priest of the church, I “shall nourish Christ’s people from the riches of God’s grace, and strengthen them to glorify him in this life and in the life to come.” There are many ways to fulfill this ministry. Some come easy, like visiting a new mother and father, and having the rare privilege of holding their baby and pronouncing God’s blessing. At other times, the process of nourishing and strengthening people calls for patience and considerable courage. Mediating a dispute in a family, or hearing an outpouring of guilt, or being with the bereaved when their loved one dies, or praying with someone who has just received the worst news possible, is a demanding task – one that goes well beyond any pastor’s abilities. Effective care in these difficult settings is made possible by grace alone. Grace – God’s mercy and supportive power – is there always; but it flows through the channel of openness to receiving help, as well as to one’s willingness to respect the dignity and integrity of others. 

A fellow clergyman once told me, “I love being a priest. I love celebrating the sacraments; I love writing and preaching sermons; I love theology and ethics; I love interpreting the Scriptures. The problem is that I just can’t take coffee hour.” That was quite a confession. It was like that of a physician who said, “I like medicine, but I just don’t enjoy dealing with patients.”

The people need shepherds who will feed them – all of them. In the final analysis, it’s really not about the rules, or the dogma, or the rituals, or the vestments, or the edifice that houses our worship. What matters ultimately is the depth of love, and care, and spiritual nourishment that is received by the people. Ministry is service; it is about loving God without reservation, and loving your neighbor as yourself. It is not exclusive, and it is not an academic exercise.

I should have realized that when I entered seminary. During my formative years, pastors regularly visited my family home. My father was homebound and physically disabled. He depended on a mechanical device for his breathing, and on my mother for everything else on earth. Religion was not an easy subject in our house. My parents’ marriage was a powerfully forged bond, but their faith backgrounds were very dissimilar. The spiritual divide was Catholic-Protestant, and the pressure from families of origin could be intense. So, we didn’t talk about it very much – especially in front of grandparents.

Nevertheless, both my father and my mother received pastoral care from gracious clergy who braved the unsettled situation and came to visit us. My mother also received spiritual nourishment from singing in her church choir. In addition, my Dad received attentive care from an elderly deacon in Mom’s church – a man who understood my father’s physical limitations and vulnerability to respiratory infections. So he simply and faithfully called Dad once a week just to say, “We’re thinking of you.” And, oh yes, there were taped worship services that Dad received, and played every Sunday when Mom participated in the live version of church.

My brother and I witnessed all of this. We met the pastors, and felt the benefit of their visits. They helped our family in ways that shaped the direction of our life. They served as empowering examples of God’s grace. They defined ministry in practical terms.  

And yet, when I said yes to ministry, I paid more attention to my mind than to my heart when I entered Union Seminary. I plowed into the academic curriculum with excitement, and I found that my intellectual focus was producing good fruit. Those were heady times; the lure to do doctoral work was strong. A future in academia looked bright, and I was determined to go there. In the meantime, however, seminary required that every student pass a basic course in pastoral care. I regarded that course as seminary-lite, and I could barely stand its practical exercises and its seminars led by mellow graduate students who nodded thoughtfully and said, “I hear you saying . . .” Well, I passed. But I didn’t like it, or appreciate it, until I got my first fieldwork assignment.

I had to work with disturbed children in a clinical setting. They were deeply damaged. All had been abused emotionally, and some had been abused bodily. One little boy who was six kept wanting to draw pictures with me. He could draw figures fairly well, but the faces of those people – especially the little ones – were always blank. There were no features – no eyes, nose, mouth, ears, or hair. My supervisor recognized that I was perplexed by the boy’s drawings. In his caring way, he guided me to allow the boy to express the blankness of his wounded soul, and then to ask if I could draw his portrait. With that encouragement I showed the child how I saw him, and gradually he accepted me, and himself.

That experience brought me back to the heart of the matter. Academics are wonderful; I feel fed by the stimulation of ideas. However, for the pastor, following Jesus means feeding and tending the sheep. In the church, it’s all about the sheep – the people. That’s our Lord’s focus, and that’s our focus.

The epilogue to John’s gospel makes that clear. This was Jesus’ postscript to the church. It’s a last word to all of us, and our leaders – whether they be priests or pastors, bishops or deacons, vestry members or committee chairs, Sunday school teachers or volunteers in the nursery. Anyone who represents Christ, who follows him faithfully, has a charge: to tend and feed his sheep. This is a good word to remember. It is not the only word to us, but it is an essential word. For each of us is a sheep of Christ’s own fold, a lamb of his own flock, a sinner of his own redeeming. He is our shepherd, and with the care that he offers us through the ministers of the church, we shall not want. Amen.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter

 Year C – April 7, 2013

David H. Knight,  Priest Associate

 Send your spirit, God, to open our hearts and our minds to your word,
and strengthen us to live according to your will, in Jesus Name. Amen.

On this Second Sunday of Easter, we find Thomas, one of the disciples, still in doubt that Jesus was alive and we witness the most gracious, loving way that Jesus reached out to him in his disbelief.  On the evening of that first day of the week, the disciples had met in that upper room.  They had locked the doors because they were in fear after all that had happened so violently to Jesus.  That first evening, for whatever reason, Thomas was not with them. Jesus came and appeared through those locked doors and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”  The disciples recognized his familiar greeting.  They rejoiced when they saw him. Then later, when they saw Thomas, they couldn’t wait to tell him what had happened, that Jesus was alive!  But Thomas didn’t believe them.  He said that unless he could see the mark of the nails in his hands and unless he could put his finger in the mark of the nails and his hands in Jesus’ side, he would not believe.  But then, a week later, Thomas was with the disciples in that same room. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them again.  Once again, Jesus said those familiar words, “Peace be with you.”  Then, he looked over and saw Thomas. He knew immediately what Thomas needed and he said to him, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put in my side.  Do not doubt, but believe.” Thomas could do nothing other than to exclaim, “My Lord and my God.”  You see, like many of us, Thomas had his own way of needing to be convinced that Jesus had risen, and Jesus understood that about Thomas.  It was at that moment that Thomas experienced the risen Lord. That moment in the upper room, is one of the most powerful moments in all of the Gospels. At that moment we witness how Thomas became one of those who early on experienced the presence of the risen Lord. Imagine what that must have been like for him!  His experience was different from that of the others who had so far come to believe, yet nonetheless, he too was able to experience what it was like to know that the Lord was alive.  What that moment says to us is that Jesus, who gave his life for us, continues to seek you and me out where we are, and especially in our time of deepest need.  The Very Reverend Gary Hall, Dean of the Washington National Cathedral, has put it this way. He says, “Easter is about the luminous beauty God can make out of human failing…  (in) that relentless, divine persistence that searches for us—even in spite of us—God  will continue to seek us out and find us.”

 As Eleanor said in her sermon here last Sunday, the amazing thing is that God doesn’t ever give up on us.  God works in us and through us, giving us hope that things will be different next time—that we will break out of our unfaithful cycle and finally get it right. That was true of Jesus’ response to Thomas in that upper room.  He knew Thomas doubted but he did not give up on him but rather met him where he was. It remains true with his searching for you and me as well in our own place and in our own day.  Karl Barth, the Swiss theologian, once wrote that the good news of the Risen Lord has written on every page of the New Testament in one way or another, the word “Nevertheless.” No matter what, nevertheless, God is in the midst of us.  In a world where we are given human freedom, terrible things can and do happen. Violence continues unabated around the world and in our own land. People face illness and disease. We lose loved ones.  Bad things happen, yet

 Nevertheless, the risen Christ is in the midst of us, searching to find us and to give hope in time of our deepest need.

 I loved reading what another colleague, Shearon Williams, rector of St. George’s Church in Arlington,Virginia, had to say about Easter in her sermon last Sunday: She said, “The joy that we share at Easter is a very particular kind of joy.  It is an informed joy, the joy that springs forth from the soil of suffering, grief and despair.”  What she then said about the disciples at the empty tomb could be said as well about them in that upper room as we have heard in today’s Gospel.  She pointed out that that these were the same disciples who had witnessed all that had happened to their beloved teacher and friend in the week that had preceded his resurrection. They had seen him, and to some extent, participated in, whether actively or passively, all that had happened to him. They saw him betrayed, mocked, scorned, and crucified. It was a horrible and unforgettable week. Jesus’ death was violent and cruel.

 On the Monday of this past Holy Week, almost two weeks ago now, I had the experience of walking alongside of several hundred Episcopalians and others from around the country as we participated in a service of the Way of the Cross held in our nation’s Capitol. The idea of this service was initially conceived by the three bishops of the Diocese of Connecticut, but as word got out about this service in the House of Bishops meeting at Kanuga earlier in March, 17 other bishops wanted to be part of this service as well. They wanted to add their solidarity as the Church in prayer for the people of Newtown and so many others in this land.  So in all, 20 bishops, their clergy and several hundred people added their support, their prayers, and their presence. It was anticipated that 70 or so would be coming.  Over 300, we’re told, came.  Our own Bishop Shannon Johnston was among those bishops providing his presence, leadership, and witness. Clergy and people from the Diocese of Virginia as well joined him and the others.  People came from Oregon, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Washington D. C., Virginia, the Carolinas, and other places as well.  The service began at Lafayette Square in front of St. John’s Episcopal Church and concluded on the steps of the Capitol.  What started as snow that morning turned to a dreary sleet which somehow appropriately contributed to the mood of the service.  As we processed, mostly in silence, we recalled the Way of the Cross that Jesus walked during the last week of his life on this earth. Along the way, we paused at 14 stations where prayers were offered for the victims of violence in its many forms.  Over the years for me, the service of the Way of the Cross, in whatever form that service has taken in the parishes in which I have served, has been an important part of my journey during Holy Week, but somehow at this service that Monday of Holy Week I experienced it as I never have before.  It struck me in a most powerful way how Jesus gave his life for this sinful and broken world.  Those very images of his journey to the cross became etched in my mind as never before.  Apparently I was not alone.  I received an e-mail from another participant who simply said that Praying the Stations of the Cross had never been more moving for her. You know, somehow in the midst of so much that happens in this world, it is a natural thing at times for us to ask, “Where is God?” and especially now in this Easter season, “What does the resurrection mean in light of so much suffering that we experience and that we see around us?”  But it is precisely to that which happens in this world that Christ gave himself and that God has raised him from the dead, so that ultimately—ultimately—we may have hope once again. What we celebrate during this Easter season, and what we have with us always, is that ultimately life emerges from death.

 It is about the joy that eventually emerges from sorrow.

 It is about courage that, in time returns, and we have hope once again.

 It is about those glimpses of that hope that we begin to experience once again after we have suffered a terrible loss and we find the thread that is given to us to hold onto and move forward.

 It is about the risen Jesus who meets you and me where we are in our journey, as he did with Thomas in that upper room, who searches for us, who never gives up as Eleanor said, and who finds us where we are.

 It is about our witness as Easter Christians in response to our baptismal vows, those vows that ask of us, “Will you persevere in resisting evil…” and, “Will you strive for justice and peace among all people…” doing whatever may be necessary on our part that might be required of us.  I was reminded in a conversation with a dear friend, Doug Burgoyne, the other day of the title of a book written some years ago by William J. Wolfe, professor of theology at what was then The Episcopal Theological Seminary in Cambridge.  I have not read the book, yet its very title says it all: No Cross, No Crown.

 I would not presume to stand in this pulpit and say that Easter erases the effects of the losses you and I and people everywhere have suffered, or that Easter makes human sufferings go away, yet speaking as one who, like all of us who encounter Jesus today with Thomas and the other disciples in that upper room, it is appropriate to proclaim once again that we have in our midst the Risen Lord who meets us where we are as we face life with all it brings for

 Nevertheless, nevertheless, God is in the midst of us, searching to find us and to give hope in time of our deepest need.

 What does Easter have to say to those who suffer, to those who have lost loved ones, children or grandchildren, or spouses, partners or dear friends, to those who are in prison, or who have loved ones in prison, to those whose hearts in any way are broken and who yearn for hope in the midst of what they are experiencing?  Easter has to do with that “nevertheless” about which Karl Barth speaks. No matter what may happen, ultimately, that divine persistence searches us out and somehow, in some way, reaches us where we are.

 What does Easter have to say to us?  A week ago, on Easter Eve, at a service of The Great Vigil of Easter, another good friend and colleague, Tom Smith, ended his Easter homily that night with words that struck me as a powerful proclamation of the Easter message to us. As Jeannie and I sat in the pew and I heard him preach these words, I thought immediately to myself, “I wish I had said that—indeed I shall!”  And so I share with you on this Second Sunday after Easter what he said on Easter Eve, “If Easter tells us anything, it tells us this: what we need to overcome is not our fear of death, but our panicky retreat from the reality of life. It is not death that threatens us, it is life—that rare, untamed power that hammers at our back door and commands that we let it in.  Easter reminds us that it is out of brokenness that new life and new possibilities emerge, and from the darkest tomb, new life waits to be born.”

 Where, this morning, for you, is that yearning for new life? Where is that yearning for hope in the midst of what you are facing?  As Jesus was there to meet Thomas in his doubts, so the Risen Lord with his divine persistence is in search for you. The Risen Lord will meet you where you are and will lift you to His presence, for in the midst of whatever we face

 Nevertheless, God is in the midst of us, searching to find us and to give us hope.

 We may not touch his hands and side,
nor follow where he trod,
but in his promise we rejoice;
and cry, “My lord and God!”

Help then, O Lord, our unbelief:
and may our faith abound,
to call on you when you are near,
and seek where you are found. Amen.

                                                     Hymn 209, 2^nd and 3^rd stanzas,
Words: Henry Alford (1810-1871), alt