Sunday Sermon: April 28, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

April 29, 2012

John 10:11-18

“Our Model Shepherd”

Lately, when running around the perimeter, I have noticed more and more shepherds and their flocks abiding the fields just beyond our walls. In this setting, perhaps more than any other place in the world, we find ourselves surrounded with quite a few, real life shepherds. Most Americans don’t have many occasions to meet a live shepherd, at least not domestically. In fact, our closest encounters with shepherds may typically happen during a Christmas nativity play-- A lanky group of boys, wearing ill-fitting bath robes and holding a large sticks. As embarrassing as this scene might seem to the preteens coerced to take part in church nativity one more year, mumbling a few lines about being “afraid” when the angels appear to give news of good tidings and great joy, none of us ever quite gets just how difficult and dangerous the work of a shepherd really is.

Between the exhausting task of keeping track of all the sheep, ensuring there is enough water and food to keep the flock well and satisfied, and providing places of rest, succor,  and safety, shepherding is a twenty-four hour, seven days a week kind of a job. One glance away from the flock and chaos may ensue. Around these parts, especially in the aftermath of decades of war, shepherding is risky business. Most of the area surrounding Bagram where these shepherds herd their flocks has not been de-mined. This means even a skilled shepherd can’t totally shield his flock from harm since, at least the last time I checked, sheep don’t follow in single-file lines. In Afghanistan, mines are modern day wolves, and the level of sacrifice demanded of a shepherd may end up even costing his life.

The fourth Sunday of Easter is known for its focus on Jesus as the Good Shepherd. Between the green pastures and still waters found in Psalm 23 and the familiar lines from John in which Jesus claims to be the good shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, we should have little doubt about just who is leading us and where exactly we are being led-- into goodness and mercy all the days of our lives, dwelling in the house of the Lord forever. Of course, this is all much easier read and heard than it is fully understood and believed.

I think Psalm 23 was the first scripture passage that I ever memorized completely. When I was very young, I had a terrible time falling asleep at night, particularly if I was alone. I was afraid of everything-- bugs and burglars, child kidnappers who were surely lurking in the woods next to my house, and even shape-shifting aliens which I was convinced could hide in the half-inch carpet fibers under my bed so that even when I looked for them, I wouldn’t be able to see them. I tortured my parents night after night, refusing to sleep without one of them there to protect me. Looking back, I am surprised that we all survived this particular season.

One night, perhaps out of utter desperation, my mother tried a new strategy with me. Picking up my pink Bible from the bookshelf, she opened it to Psalm 23 and suggested that I read it over and over again until I fell asleep. Night after night, I would read these words, again and again, until I no longer needed to look down at the page. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…I will fear no evil… I will fear no evil.” It was about as close to contemplative prayer I have ever been. I would listen as my heart would start to slow down, and I would relax, letting the words lull me towards sleep. I wish that I could say it was the perfect fix. It wasn’t. I still struggled with sleeping every night, but over the years, I have never forgotten these handful of verses. And, at times, when fear and anxiety, mostly of an irrational nature, creep upon me, I find myself reaching for these same words, “I will fear no evil…” They are a reminder that no matter how bad things feel or how lost I have become, I am still be led by this same good shepherd.

The Greek adjective, kalos, most often translated as “good” in our Bibles is a little deceiving.  When we hear a word like “good,” most of us assume that it means the opposite of “bad.” But, this word kalos is more than a polarity. It also suggests another meaning, along the lines of the word “model.” A model is an example of something or someone to be followed or imitated. In his life and interactions and relationships in the world, Jesus is a model of what shepherding should be-- seeking the lost, bringing back the strayed, binding up the injured, and strengthening the weak, even going so far to lay down his life for his sheep, if that’s what it takes. Model shepherding cuts no corners. It spares no expense. It knows no bounds but reaches to the very ends of the earth, all for one lost sheep.

It is not surprising that there are not many truly good shepherds out there. Model shepherding is more than any of us can handle, at least every single day. There are days when we may lead well, but there are other days- tired days, frustrated days, days when we can barely get out of bed to do our work much less expend the kind of energy that model shepherding requires. Thinking that we can ever be the model shepherd all the time, without fail, is actually when we get ourselves into trouble. When we delude ourselves into believing that we have it all figured out, that we are so good that we don’t need a shepherd after all, we often find that we have become the hired hands who see the wolf coming and flee, not really caring that the sheep will be snatched and scattered even further.

As people who are striving to be good leaders, this is not the kind of news we want to hear. As a part of the military, as soldiers and sailors, airmen and marines, we recite our creeds, saying out loud that we will never quit or leave a comrade behind. When the going gets tough, gets even worse than tough, we claim that we will remain faithful, going the whole distance, never wavering. But, if we are honest with ourselves, we know there are dicey moments and experiences when we fail, when we stumble, perhaps even fall. We struggle with doubts, with poor decisions, with outbursts we later regret.

We may all be leaders, but we can only be good leaders when we remember that we are, too, being led. There is only one model shepherd, just one. When we follow this shepherd, when we model our lives as this shepherd has taught us-- seeking the lost, bringing back the strayed, binding up the injured, and strengthening the weak-- we share with the world the gift of God’s grace and love and mercy. We also spread the good news of our shepherd’s voice a little bit further. When we follow this shepherd, we demonstrate what model shepherding is all about.

A few years ago, Time magazine ran a story called “How the Shepherd saved the SEAL.” It sounds a bit like a children’s tale, at least on the surface. What Time reported, however, was far from childish fantasy. Instead, it was an account of how a Navy SEAL, shot down over Kunar province, was rescued through the aid and hospitality of an Afghan shepherd.

Risking his life and the safety of his family, this shepherd brought this SEAL, this one lost sheep, into his village, offering him a place of sanctuary. When the Taliban demanded that the villagers hand him over to them, the village chief boldly responded, "The American is our guest, and we won't give him up as long as there's a man or a woman left alive in our village."^[1] To insure the SEAL’s safety, the shepherd and his fellow villagers moved him into a stable for the night, protecting him from the wolves howling at their gates, even when this put the whole village in danger. Then, the shepherd made a six-hour trek to the nearest U.S. base, likely traversing through unfriendly territory, to report that this one missing SEAL had been found. The shepherd went to great lengths just to save this one sheep.

“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.”^[2]

This is the Easter message. Jesus returns to us from the grave, promising never to let us go, even if it means he will travel to the very ends of the earth to find where we have wandered. The relationship between shepherd and sheep is not dependent on the sheep, but instead, is all about the shepherd, what the shepherd does, how the shepherd reaches out into the world, gently calling us by name. The shepherd knows us well, but it’s not just us that he knows and calls, not just us who recognize his voice. The good shepherd reminds us that there are other sheep— many, many, many sheep. Sheep that we can’t begin to imagine. Sheep that we can barely fathom belonging because they are so different from us.

But, Jesus is going to find them, too-- every last one of them-- bringing them also into the fold, into God’s holy family, so that when all is said and done, there will be one flock with one shepherd. This is what the Good Shepherd promises. This is God’s promise, not mine, not anyone else’s. May it be so. May we so believe. Amen.

---

^[1] Tim McGirk. “How the Shepherd saved the SEAL.” Time Magazine. 11 JUL 05

^[2] Luke 15:4

Just Reading...

I don’t often cry. In fact, in the last year, despite all of my moving, deploying, and continual good-byes, I have scarcely cried at the times most would have deemed appropriate. When others dissolve into tears, I find I can’t help but balance out the situation through some version of stoicism. Rather, I seem to always cry at the gym. Yes, there is something about the combination of the elliptical and reading a really good theological article or book that has the power to undo me almost without fail. 

When I first arrived in Afghanistan, equipped with old copies of Christian Century and Sojourners, it was an article about mutual care and hospitality between Muslims and Christians in some random church in Tennessee or a story about a pastor giving ashes to her three year old, marking the sign of the cross and uttering familiar words, “From dust you have come and to dust you shall return...” that brought tears to my eyes. A few months ago, it was a book entitled All Over But the Shoutin’ by NY Times author Rick Bragg. It was a tale of resilient poverty along the same dirt roads where my grandparents grew up in rural Alabama. I couldn’t help but be reminded that our complex human struggles, whether they be about race or class or anything else, form us for better and for worse, giving us ample opportunity to respond in faith or not. 

Over the years, my reading taste has been refined. I appreciate the books of my past and the companions I have known through them along the way. I also know there is seldom going backwards where reading preference is concerned. I feel especially lucky that one of my dearest friends also happens to be an independent bookseller. This means that I never have to think twice when she recommends a title, and I always have a pile of possibilities from which to chose next to my bed. I also have the occasional opportunity to read uncorrected proofs whenever she sends them my way. This is fortunate since there are no book stores in Afghanistan and the Recycle Book Bins primarily carry Nicholas Sparks or Jodi Picoult. Most people are completely satisfied with these kinds of authors. A few years ago, I may have agreed with them. 

These days, when reading is a luxury, and often a choice between sleeping a little more, the books I decide to pick up have to be worth it. Trite prose and predictable romance are no longer appealing. Instead, I want to be moved. I want to grab hold of something significant which might inform my work, my ministry, and my ability to comprehend the collective human experience in a way that I had not yet considered. It is no surprise that these are also the kinds of stories that pierce the heart. Since I read while running furiously in place at the gym, inevitably I succumb to the sobs which have been dammed up over the weeks and months. Our tears find their way to freedom eventually, no matter how well we hold them in place.

I have often wondered if people notice me, weeping more conspicuously than I would chose, if these things were always our choice. I can’t imagine how I would explain my tears. No, I am not going through a hard time, any more than any other person who is simply living by putting one foot in front of the other. No, I have no problem to speak of. I really am fine. I am just reading. 

Sunday Sermon: April 22, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

April 22, 2012

Luke 24:36b-48

“Commission and Confession”

Alleluia! Christ is Risen. The Lord is Risen indeed. Alleluia.

After last week’s mention that Easter is actually seven weeks long and not just one, glorious Sunday morning, I decided that I should actively celebrate the seaon for its entire duration, all fifty days. My brain storming session on how to actually DO this resulted in a few COAs (An Army acronym for “Courses of Action”). My first thought was keeping my pink, sequended bunny ears out and even, to attempt wearing them around camp. This would surely get people’s attention, though where the Command Sergeant Major is concerned, perhaps not the right kind of attention I am hoping for. I also happened to notice quite a few left over Easter cards in the ministry center. I didn’t have time to send any Easter greetings early enough this year that they would arrive, “snail mail,” by the first day of Easter. However, with 50 days to work with, I have plenty of time to get them in the mail.

So, here we are, week three and it’s still Easter Day according to our gospel. While our last two gospel texts have been from John, today we hear an account from Luke’s perspective. In many ways, the Ressurection story is the same across the gospels. Jesus, who has developed an uncanny ability to beam himself around Jerusalem and the surrounding areas, has been making himself known around town-- to the women who showed up to anoint his body, to his disciples who are scared out of their wits, hiding being locked doors, and to strangers along the road, through the breaking of bread. Despite disbelief, despite fears, despite doubts, no one is beyond Jesus’ reach on this Easter Day.

While there may be some obvious similarities between our Easter gospels, Luke’s particular signature is all over our text today. Jesus’ question, “Have you anything here to eat?” is about as “Luke” as it gets. Our author has an affinity for the physical body, and an inquiry about food is a direct way to emphasize how bodily Jesus is in this moment. He may be transporting himself around, appearing through doors and disappearing from dinner tables, but there is no question about his humanness-- for what could be more human than hunger?

Jesus’ request still comes across a little bizarrely. He has just appeared to his disciples for the first time. They had all just watched him die a brutal death and yet, three days later, here he is before them, showing his scars and asking for a bite to eat. It’s as if Luke wants us to know, really know, that, like the rest of us who spend a good portion of our day preparing food, eating food, and cleaning up after food, Jesus is no different. After a long Easter Day of appearing to many, he is in need of a good, hearty meal.

The other aspect of Luke’s Easter account worth examining is that here, Jesus seems to take things to the next level. He seems to up the ante. While both John and Luke emanate a message of “Peace,” which gently quells fears and helps transcend the need for security, from a chronological standpoint, this text is actually Jesus’ first commissioning of his disciples to go out and share the gospel with every nation. The Great Commission, as most of us know it, is found in the very end of Matthew. This is when Jesus says, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age (Matt. 28:18-20).” But, it takes place in Galilee, sometime after Easter. While we don’t know what day exactly, we have to assume, given antiquity’s transportation situation, even if the disciples ran without resting, it would have taken them at least a few days to get from Jerusalem to Galilee.

Luke’s commission comes first. Its focus is a little different. While it may not have gotten the same kind of attention as Matthew’s, this first commissioning should not be overlooked. Jesus says in these verses, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem (Lk 24:46-47).” Even though I went to school for quite a few years, studying the Bible and theology, I don’t think I ever understood these verses as a parallel to the Great Commission. But, in many ways, they are. This is not the first time that I have realized I should have paid closer attention in my New Testament class. These verses in Luke are a description of what evangelism should look like. If one wants to witness Jesus to others, to the whole world, one must proclaim repentance and forgiveness. This is at the heart of sharing the gospel. And, it starts with each one of us.

I can’t help but wonder if Matthew’s Great Commission is better known not because it’s any greater than Luke’s but because it’s not quite as challenging. Baptizing and making disciples may imply one’s own personal repenting and forgivness, but because the words are not spelled out, many of us skip over that harder part and go straight to the good stuff. I don’t deny that in Christian history, people have been persecuted for baptizing and disciple making. There are places in the world, even now, where such acts are punishable by imprisonment or even death. But, especially in American church culture, “sharing Jesus,” and “saving” friends often comes across more as a trendy or even popular fad than a decision which demands our souls, our lives, and our all. 

Admittedly, as a pastor, doing baptisms is one of the most joyful aspects of ministry. One of my best days ever was a Sunday in South Africa when I got to baptize 37 new Christians ranging in age from infants to young adults. Even though I butchered a few of their names and one of the little girls tried to bite me, still, it was an incredible experience, one that I will never forget. I couldn’t help but wonder, as I placed the sign of the cross over each of their foreheads, blessing them and baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, what would become of their lives. They were all born into an African ghetto. Most of them had only even known hunger, poverty, and an AIDS epidemic. An encounter with gang violence was a more likely occurrence than completing secondary school. Their baptism was certainly grounding into a faith tradition replete with resources which might help them gravitate toward the light despite the surrounding darkness. But I wasn’t sure if baptism, by itself, was enough to help them turn from the literal death that threatened to undo them to the life which Jesus proclaimed through his resurrection.

To repent is to turn—to turn away from sin toward God and God’s ways, to turn from the ways of death toward the ways of life. But the thing is, repentance is not something that gets projected onto us. It is not a oneway street. To turn back toward God is to respond to God’s grace. It is a choice that we each make-- but with God’s help. We can’t do it on our own, but we also have a part to play. Repentance begins when we see the planks in our own eyes, when we find courage to confess our places of brokeness and hurt instead of burying them and pretending that we are well, that we can do this alone. Part of proclaiming the gospel is actually living it out in our own lives, turning away from our delusions, from our self-righteous piety, and getting down on our knees, the old fashioned way, confessing what we have done and what we have left undone and asking our gracious God to forgive everything between, making us whole once again.

The Sacrament of Penance, nowadays referred to as Confession, particularly in the Catholic Church, is an ancient practice which dates all the way back to the early church.  It is a process of both repentance and forgiveness. For as much as sin is confessed and brokenness acknowldged, the other piece of this sacrament is the pardoning and absolution. These go hand in hand, one with the other, never without the other. Until I started planning worship myself, I didn’t realize how much our liturgy helps us do just this every week that we gather here: to repent and be pardoned, to confess our sins before God and one another and then be reconcilled to God and to one another. Repentance and forgivness, through these we proclaim God’s gifts of grace and mercy in our lives, and we teach others what it looks like to turn back toward God.

As a good Episcopalian, I learned my prayers long before my bible verses. However, recieving Jesus’ commission through our text this morning, I can’t help but hear echoes of the prayer of confession that I started praying each week in church, long before I knew how to read the words from the page, before I even knew what all the words meant. While we have already said our corporal confession, I want to close with this prayer, acknowledging that through Christ’s commission of repentance and forgiveness this Easter Day being grafted upon our hearts, we are shaped into witnesses of the gospel, ready, willing, and able to share God’s love with the whole world.

Let us pray:

Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent, for the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and forgive us; that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Name. Amen.^[1]

---

^[1] Book of Common Prayer

“Holey” Socks

Last night, a good friend pointed out that both of my sock heals were threadbare and on the verge of becoming gaping holes. It is possible that I have had these socks since my feet stopped growing in seventh grade. I can’t remember when exactly they came onto the scene, but I know they made the move to college. I remember this well, because unbeknownst to me, I learned in my freshman dorm that this particular kind of sock was no longer in style. Somehow, in the growing up process, and even surviving the social scene of high school, I hadn't discovered that socks, which give one the appearance of kankles, are not very cool. Go figure. This pair of socks quickly found a lonely spot in the back of one of my drawers.

I doubt they would have ever resurfaced, had I not joined an institution which is rather unconcerned about the latest sock fashion. The Army has had mid-calf white socks as a part of its Physical Training Uniform for longer than I have been alive, and quite possibly much longer than that. Trends are hardly a reason for a change in regulations. In preparation for Army training, I found myself digging these socks out from the dregs of my sock drawer, grateful that I had not thrown them away after all. They traveled to both basic and advanced Army "camps" and then lived with my other Army gear while I was in the Reserves. Off and on, they made reoccurring appearances wherever I showed up for training. These socks have been through a lot. Naturally, they also made the journey to Afghanistan. Perhaps, the funniest thing was that I didn’t even notice on my own how “thin” they had become.

When my friend offered to find me some new socks without holes, I was forced to face one of my many idiosyncrasies, an incessant need to hold on to things in case I should ever be in a position of need. The sad thing is, I have new socks-- quite a few pairs. I am just saving them for when I really need them. While I have realized my tendency to save over the past few years, I have mostly written it off as a response to a myriad of life circumstances from being underemployed to living and working in a poor community where resourcefulness can be a real saving grace.

When I lived in South Africa, I never threw anything away. Instead, if I didn't need it, I was able to pawn most of it off on others. Normally, they were happy to be on the receiving end, often in solidarity with me about never wasting any resources. My purse was filled with bits of sustenance from lose apples and oranges to granola bars well beyond their “best by” dates. I had no problem walking up to a random passerby, asking if he would like a snack. I don’t think I was ever turned down. People were ready to take whatever I had to offer, sometimes when they were not even hungry. The knowledge that hunger might creep up on them later propelled them, always, to say, “Yes,” to be prepared. I realized, upon moving back to the United States, that I was going to have to quell some of these newfound behaviors.

Full-time employment nor Afghanistan where my living space is anything but spacious has not helped much. If anything, I feel like I am precariously close to becoming a hoarder. Friends from home have been so generous with me and my unit, sending more than enough goodies and treats to get us through deployed life. Nonetheless, I still find it hard to let go of things, even when I have more than I need or what I am holding on to should have been long retired. Instead, I convince myself that a “dry spell” could still come upon us any day. What if I run out of hair products or toothpaste? What if the hundreds of m&ms I have stored in my filing cabinets run out? Don’t get me wrong, I have shared quite a bit of the loot that has been shipped to Bagram. I love when I walk into a soldier’s room to find that her pillowcase is one of the ones sewn by my church in Maryland. I also walk around camp with goodies stuffed in my pockets, knowing that many expect me to come loaded, not with a weapon but instead with chocolate. My reputation precedes me, even outside of my unit.

Worse than my saving, I refuse to use anything that is new or even in good condition for fear of letting it be “Afghanisized,” turned to a dull brown no matter its original color. So, I am stockpiling bins of towels and pajama bottoms, promising myself that I will use them once I am home. How I will get all of this back to Texas, I am still not sure. I also know I am missing the point. My friends have shared these things with me so I can enjoy them now, have a piece of home even when I am far away. Sometimes, instead of just adding we also need to subtract. We have to make room for new growth by letting go. As long as I have my old things, I may still gravitate toward using them one more time ad infinitum. Meanwhile, the dust will pile up on all that is new and waiting for me in safekeeping.

With my own little Afghan ritual, I said goodbye to my “holey socks,” not even bothering to attempt to give them away. They lived a full life, fuller than most, and it was past time. I will always be resourceful, no matter the resources I have at my finger tips. That's just a part of my personality. I just hope that I will remember to let go more often-- of stuff, of unrealistic expectations, of hurt, and of disappointment. Only then will there be enough space for new things to grow without the clutter and suffocation of the tangled weeds.

Sermon: Sunday April 15, 2012

“Peace be with you”

John 20:19-31

As a kid in worship, I always knew just how much “church” time was left in the service long before I could tell time with a watch. Standing, sitting, kneeling, praying, singing, and listening, the rhythm and order hardly ever changed. This helped me countdown moments until I could exit the sanctuary and make a beeline for the cookies served at coffee hour. When I was younger, and less enthralled with the listening and praying bit, there was still one part of church I loved-- the passing of the peace. This was the only “church” time when talking was sanctioned. As a loquacious child, it was my one and only opportunity to express my extroversion. “Peace be with you,” I would say with gusto, working my way around the pews to shake the hands of as many people as I could possibly greet.

Back then, I didn’t know what it meant to pass the peace. I had no idea where the tradition originated. I certainly didn’t connect those words with Jesus or realize that of all the words that Jesus could have used upon first seeing and greeting his disciples after his death and resurrection, these were the ones he chose. “Peace be with you,” he said. Not, surprise, I am alive after all. Or I know you must be confused and freaked out by the past three or so days, but here I am! Nothing like that. No grand entry. No red carpet. Simply, “Peace be with you.” And, with these words, he holds out his hands and shows them his side. At this, they all rejoice.

Jesus’ post resurrection appearances raise a few questions, particularly what in the world Jesus looked like after his death. The fact that none of his closest friends seem to recognize him at first glance makes us wonder. Did he look or sound differently than before? If so, then how so? Even when he has whole conversations with people who should know him, not one person concludes that it is him without extra help. Mary only knows him when he says her name. In Luke, a few followers only know him when he breaks bread and gives it to them. Here they know him through his words and his gesture. When he says, “Peace be with you,” and then shows him his hands and side. The literature student in me can’t overlook Jesus repetition. He says, “Peace be with you,” three times. Surely this is important.

I can’t help but wonder if the disciples, upon hearing “Peace be with you,” remembered another instance when Jesus spoke of peace. Earlier in John, when Jesus is trying to prepare them for what is coming, he says this, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid (John 14:27).” Maybe when the disciples heard this the first time, it didn’t carry much meaning. The brewing storm was too far beyond their horizon to cause them any worry. What did they need to know about peace? But, after the past week, the horror and pain, the disappointment and fear, these words cut to the chase. “Peace be with you,” he said. A peace- which frees them from their worry. A peace- which quiets fear. Is there such a thing as this kind of peace?

Peace seems a counterintuitive topic for a sermon in this particular spot on the globe. In many ways, the idea of peace has become trite, overused, and distorted. Between the psychedelic peace symbols floating around in popular culture and even legitimate cries for peace where war rages on and on, the idea of peace is not often considered very seriously. It’s too ideal. It’s too hippy. It’s too unrealistic. Yes, yes, and yes. We are surrounded by t-walls for a reason- because there is no peace- not here, not really anywhere. Go down to the hospital and ask any doctor who has just had the task of trying to save the life of a wounded soldier or civilian casualty mutilated by an IED or VBID. Or, just visit cnn.com and see for yourself just how little peace there appears to be in our post-resurrection world. We have these walls because we need them to protect us from those who are trying to bring us harm every single day.

“And the doors of the house where they met were locked for fear...” We get it. We know just how the disciples were feeling. Their fear of the world “outside of the wire.” Their need to protect themselves from it. Their sense of insecurity in the wake of Jesus’ violent death and their association with him. It’s enough reason to lock the doors, to post armed guards, to be on the defensive. The darkness of the world hovers ever close. They knew it all too well and so do we.

But what about Easter? Yes, it is, in fact, still Easter according to the text. Your bulletin says so because, in the church, we actually celebrate the resurrection for more than just one Sunday morning. The Easter season is seven whole weeks long. It is fifty days where the church attempts, despite competing realities, to live into the fullness of the resurrection-- To be not only a people that knows, cognitively, the implications of the death and resurrection of Jesus, but also to be a community that acts differently because of it.

This is what we strive for on our best Easter days, living without fear and in celebration that, in the end, God’s love conquers death. If the disciples are any indication, however, our striving rarely achieves its goal. Even after Jesus appears to his disciples, defying death and somehow managing to get inside of the house though locked doors, their behavior doesn’t change much. A week later, they are gathered in the house again, with all the doors shut, hiding behind walls instead of spreading the peace which had just been delivered to them by their risen Lord. Now, we have no way to know what they were doing in the week that passed between Jesus’ first and second appearances. Maybe they were skipping through the streets, letting everyone know the good news, that Christ was risen, that death no longer had any sting nor grave any victory. But, somehow, I don’t think that was the case.

Earlier this week, when I picked this text for my sermon, I was ready to deliver a sermon about our one disciple in the story whose name was referenced-- Thomas, most often referred to as “doubting” Thomas. In the history of the church, he has gained a significant reputation. There are many of us who find great comfort in Thomas. In many ways, he is a man of real courage, saying out loud what we are all thinking in our hearts at one time or the other. He refuses to take, at face value, a tall tale spun up by his friends. Quite frankly, who could blame him?

Despite his doubt, God does not abandon him. His lack of faith is not a deal breaker for Jesus. Jesus shows up again and again and again, as many times as it takes, continuing to offer good news. That’s just how Jesus is. But, this story is about more than “doubting Thomas.” He is not the only one in this story that struggles with believing the good news of Easter. He is not the only one who doubts. The disciples, upon hearing the news from Mary that the Lord had risen, lock their doors and cower in fear. This response to the resurrection is far from exemplary. They, too, need a firsthand encounter with Jesus to believe. Thomas merely follows suit.

This is no excuse for Thomas, not even close. It is just recognition of our collective human condition. Most of us are realists. Most of us crave proof, need some kind of evidence. Most of us don’t believe in impossibilities, like the claim that a dead person has come back to life, just because someone tells us its true. Like Thomas, we need more than words. If this wasn’t the case, we wouldn’t be hiding ourselves. We wouldn’t value security over everything else. We wouldn’t worry about illness or go to incredible lengths to protect our families like we do because we would believe that even if the worst thing happened, that wouldn’t be the end. We would have nothing to fear. On Easter, we may profess this. We mouth the words even, but how well do we believe them. Does Easter really make any difference in how we live?

A few years ago, well, more like ten, right before departing for college, a very dear friend gave me a little card, small enough to make the multi-state journey to my new life. For years I kept it in my wallet. My credit cards, student ID and business cards may have varied over time, but this little card remained tucked away, a simple reminder of the community of faith in which I belonged. On it was written these words. “We walk by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7).”

The truth is we want to walk by faith. We want to believe without seeing, and we try. We really do. On some days, our best days, we manage, momentarily. We live as Easter people, willing to forgo the safety of our walls in order to witness the good news in a dangerous world-- by how we live and love and serve our God and our neighbor. But, we also know that every day is not a good day. We find ourselves reeling from bad news, from loss, from grief, from violence and hurt, from the harsh realities which exist all around us. Some days it’s all we can do to put one foot in front of the other and pray that in our doubt, in our need to see, God will come to us again and again and again, helping us remember that we really do have reason to rejoice. Despite all evidence to the contrary, there is good news.

Jesus finds us, wherever we are, no matter how far we have strayed or how scared we have become, and tells us this: Peace be with you. Peace be with you… Amen.