The memories we keep...

Recently, a friend and I were reminiscing about family meals with grandparents, high school crushes, and the transience of relationships, particularly in our business where three years is about as long as you will ever “know” someone before either of you will be shuffled off to a new destination, likely in opposite directions. “It’s funny the memories we keep...” she said, laughing as she descried a reoccurring scene at her family’s dinner table. 

I guess, somewhere deep inside of each of us, lies an infinite tapestry of memories, with many of its colors and textures long buried and even, in some cases, forgotten. It does seem, depending on personality and outlook, that some hold on to certain kinds of memories more than others. I have continually repeated this refrain to myself, just this week. I won't take the annoying dysfunction or even the faces of those who seem to be best at dolling out unnecessary stress from this time and place in my life. Instead, I will carry the moments of grace which afforded me good life, even here. 

Over half of our deployment is over, and already I am starting to mourn its eventual end. It’s not that I don’t want to go home or have the freedom to see and connect with those I have loved much longer than these last six and a half months. But, my heart also aches at the sight of the finish line because I know that what I have had here and with whom I have shared, it will never be the same. There is always loss, even when what comes next is full of promise. I have felt this way about every graduation, every life passage, and every goodbye I have ever experienced. It never gets any easier.

As frustrated as I have felt on some days, the good that I have known in this same space has made it all worth it. There are only so many memories that I can keep prominent in my mind’s eye. Of course, there will always be laughter about the ridiculousness of some situations and people, but there will be a lot more celebration of the gifts discovered in this wilderness. There may be things I will swiftly forget, but there are other things that I hope will linger in my heart, reminding me that no matter where I go or who I go with, friendship is always a possibility. 

Six months into my Afghanistan experience, these are the memories that I will keep: 

Bringing the light of Christ into the dark and cold Christmas morning, surrounded by many I will never see again but who, in that moment, filled my heart with immense hope for the whole world.

Gathering at the gate of our camp with a small group of virtual strangers and giving a final salute to the medical unit who was at the very beginning of their journey home.

Laughing and talking for hours with new friends, trying to make the most out of whatever time there is left and realizing that it is possible to love well, and maybe even to hold on to that love, even when life unfolds in divergent directions.

Giving one of my soldiers his first communion and glimpsing, through a dim glass, the significance of this foretaste of heaven experienced here and now. 

Coloring with an Afghan child in the middle of our detention facility and being reminded that God is still creating something good and inviting us all to be a part of it. 

There are other memories I will keep, too, moments of grace and sadness, moments of joy and tenderness, but I will save those for another night. For all these things and more, I am surely grateful. 

May 6, 2012

Chaplain Mel Baars

John 15:1-12

May 6, 2012

“Live in me”

In today’s gospel passage, we are reminded that no man is an island. Branches disconnected from the vine die almost immediately. Without the life blood provided by the vine, branches turn quickly into firewood, only really good for making s’mores at a bonfire. In some ways, it’s a harsh passage with branches being removed because they don’t bear fruit and even fruit bearing branches being cut back to the quick. Just a few chapters earlier, we are reminded of something similar when Jesus says, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit (John 12:24).” We are still in the Easter season, and we have already forgotten Easter’s promise—that life follows death. There is no real life without death. 

In John’s discourses, these words about vines and branches, about abiding in him and allowing him to abide in them, in us, are some of Jesus’ last words with his disciples before his death. Jesus is like an old matriarch trying to impart last bits of wisdom and knowledge to the loved ones who have congregated around her deathbed. He is hoping to offer something which might make their journeys a little more bearable. After all, this is the night of the Last Supper, just after Jesus has broken bread and shared the cup. The end is near, and Jesus knows that they are not ready. They are not fully prepared to weather the gathering storm. They don’t yet realize how much they need each other, how much they will depend on one another in the coming days. 

The verb “to abide” has been almost completely lost in our modern dialect. In fact, I think I really only knew this word at all through an old hymn by Henry Francis Lyte, “Abide with Me,” written just days before he died of tuberculosis. If you grew up around hymns, you have certainly heard this one. Other than this, though, you would be hard pressed to find the word used with any regularity. According to my “Mac Dictionary App,” definitely an authority on the etymological intricacies of the English language, the word “abide” is considered to be archaic, retired. It means, simply, to live or dwell. Other sources, perhaps bearing a little more weight, say that “to abide” has to do with persevering, continuing, lasting, and saying with. As one pastor puts it, “No wonder the term is rare. What it means is rare, in this or any time.”

Abiding requires a mutual engagement that can be challenging to say the least. It is a choice that must be made by all concerned parties. It is not something that happens in one direction. Abiding requires an investment of ourselves into another which means it also comes with a cost. As much as abiding may lead to deeper love, heartache and suffering are byproducts of abiding, too. Just hours after Jesus invites his disciples to abide with him, they witness his death on the cross. Abiding may be at the heart of every relationship-- with God and with each other-- but it is not always easy, not for the faint of heart. 

John’s gospel is full of abiding, from its first to its last chapters, but today our passage combines two important ideas, our need for God and our need for one another, both of which are imperative for living faithful lives. Without God’s love, we are nothing. Without the investment of the vine in us and our willingness to receive the lifeblood flowing from it, we can’t survive very long. And, yet one of the only true ways to practice abiding is to keep God’s commandments. Jesus points this out saying, love one another as I have loved you, helping us to remember just what commandment he is referring to. Abiding in God and God in us, loving one another in the same way Jesus has loved us, these two ideas go hand in hand. One cannot exist without the other.

I was reminded of this earlier in the week when I was feeling particularly tired and loved out. Among the variety of tasks I have as a chaplain, loving people, whether soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, or civilians, is at the top of my duty list. Of course, we are all called to practice this commandment, as we have just been reminded, but as a chaplain, or even as a commander or a leader of anyone, even just one, this particular duty seems to be at the heart of the job requirements. All week, as I have felt the weight of my own fatigue and, because of it, proceeded to map out stealth routes to the gym and to my office that might ensure undetected movement throughout camp, I have realized the limits of the love I have to offer. 

It wasn’t until spending time with this passage and working on this sermon that I realized there was a way to replenish all that had been depleted over these long weeks. Branches disconnected from the vine swiftly die and living out the commandment to love one another becomes impossible. There is a reason that these two ideas are wedded here. Love of one another cannot exist without God’s love flowing at its center. It’s not that God’s love had somehow stopped flowing in my direction. I think I just forgot how much I needed it, and not just as some concept floating around somewhere in my brain.

As much as we may know in our heads the abiding quality of God’s love and faithfulness, if the disciples are any indication, we are constantly losing sight of what God’s true abiding looks like in our lives, day to day, as we face challenges and trials which threaten to undo us. We may know we need the vine, but we don’t always know how to plug into it, or even how to stay connected once we have found it. 

Jesus gives us the answer when he says, “Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as a branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.” But, what does this really mean. Maybe this is the reason that there are times when I find myself gravitating to Eugene H. Peterson’s The Message: The Bible in Contemporary Language. Sometimes hearing scripture said in a new way, helps me grasp things a little better. In Peterson’s translation, Jesus says, “Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you.”

Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you. I can’t help but remember one of the many times I asked Jesus to come and make a home in my heart. I was six and in the car going to our family’s thanksgiving meal about an hour from home. I had been lucky to get a seat in the car with my aunt and some of my cousins. This promised to be a more exciting ride than the humdrum experience of car travel with my parents and younger brother. 

In my extended family, God always seems to be a part of the conversation. My aunt, ever vigilant at fulfilling her responsibilities as my God mother, asked me, as we drove away from town, whether or not I had asked Jesus to come and live in my heart. There was a special prayer that I needed to pray which would ensure that Jesus was home in my heart, and she was even willing to help me pray it if I hadn’t yet. I was, then, an Episcopalian. Of course, I hadn’t said the special prayer. That’s not how we did things. We said other prayers. To this day, I don’t know why I didn’t just tell the truth, admit that I had never said the prayer. But even then, I think I realized with or without the prayer, Jesus was already there. Jesus was a part of me long before I had the wherewithal to recognize him. He asks us to live in him just as he is already living in us. Just in case though, I turned my head toward the window, and muttered under my breath, “Jesus, please come into my heart.” I wanted to cover all my bases. Looking back, I probably would have been better off asking forgiveness for my dishonesty. 

All these years, I have remembered this incident as a one of the many times my relatives have tried to get me saved, since, for some reason, the first few times didn’t seem to stick. Reading Peterson’s rendering of this verse, I now understand the idea of making a home in Jesus as Jesus making home in me not as much about salvation as it is about finding a sense of solid ground in this life which is continually characterized by transition, upheaval, and change. Friendships come and go while scenery is always shifting. Death takes away those we love dearly. Much of what we think we can count on as permanent proves to be fleeting. Those of us in the military who live by three year Permanent Change of duty Stations, especially know that making a home in one place for any real length of time is not really possible. With deployments as frequent as they have been over these last ten years, making a home with family members, even, is often strained. In the midst of the chaos, abiding with God and one another is how we find our peace.  

To abide, to make a home, is not just a where word, a word that indicates a place, but it is also a when word. Abiding, making a home, is happening all the time, no matter where we are or with whom we find ourselves. Abiding is about sharing our lives with one another. This is what we discover when we practice true abiding. As we look around our units, as we go to meals at the DFAC, even as we miss family and friends who are far away right now, we recognize that home is possible, even here.

Around the same time the first books of the New Testament were being written, Pliny the Elder coined the popular adage… “Home is where the heart is.” Matthew and Luke said it a little differently, “For where your treasure is, there also, will be your heart.” And, John, with his own twist, “Make yourselves at home in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain intimately at home in my love.”

This is the very best way to live. Really, there is no other way. Amen.

¹ Dean Lueking. “Abide in me... (John 15:1-8).” The Christian Century.” 16 APR 1997, p. 387

² Eugene H. Peterson’s “John 15:9.” The Message: The Bible in Contemporary Language  NavPress: Colorado Springs, CO, 2002

Coloring

There is something magical about a fresh, unadulterated box of crayons. Opening a new box and surveying the crisp, pointed tips of the colors, each poised and ready to be used for the first time, is the height of pleasure for a child. I have a long history of crayon lust, dating all the way back to my kindergarden years when a crayon was the main stylus for writing, drawing, or any other gesture of “pen” to the page. 

Back then, I coveted the 8-pack neon jumbo crayolas, which my teacher kept secured in the supply cabinets behind her desk. Every once in a while, she would put brand new packs of crayons in our communal crayon basket which was the centerpiece of our circular desks, pacing crayon consumption on our behalf since none of us had that kind of willpower. She was a pro at dealing with five year olds. 

Kindergarden was a constant lesson in sharing, and I wasn’t always thrilled to be subject to these newfound rules. Most importantly, I had no interest in allowing any of my table mates to put their grubby little hands on, at least what I deemed were, my bright pink crayons. Not willing to take any chances, I would feign going to the bathroom during lunch, just to sneak back to the classroom to hide all the pink crayons in my personal crayon box. Crayon care and use has always been a serious matter in my book.

A few days ago when attempting to entertain a group of Afghan children visiting Bagram with their families, I was reminded of my love for pink crayons. Operation Pencil, a group of soldiers, sailors, and airmen, collects school supplies and disseminates them throughout the local populace. It started as an outreach program to the children who visited Bagram with their parents for a variety of reasons, but has now expanded to local hospitals and schools. Mostly, our volunteers just have enough time to give away the school supplies, but lately there has been enough time to engage the children in simple activities. While the boys are most interested in playing intense games of soccer and volleyball, the girls are all about coloring. 

Sitting next to a young girl, no more than ten years old, I remembered quickly the magic of a brand new box of crayons. Watching her intently as she opened the box, I witnessed the same kind of thrill in her eyes as I have felt each time I have found myself opening a new box. She had moved far beyond the simple lesson of sharing, and had no problem propping the crayon box between the two of us, as we dove into the set lines of the coloring book. Hardly a word escaped between either of our lips. Though there was little we could say to one another due to our language barriers, our art spoke for itself. It was a mutual endeavor, each of us taking one side of the open book and giving it life through colors, shapes, and letters. 

Spending an hour with this child and a handful of our volunteers spanning quite a few generations, the simple pleasure of coloring became evident. As adults and especially as deployed US Service Members, we don’t allow ourselves to do it often. It normally takes a child to invite us to the table and help us remember that something as unassuming and inexpensive as a box of crayons and a piece of paper can still our harried souls, if only for a moment. In my own constant push not to waste even a minute of my day, coloring was certainly a helpful reminder that life is not made well and good because of completed “to do” lists and fully "replied to" inboxes, though they are both necessary evils of work, especially around here. Instead our lives are enriched by the colors we share with one another and the brushstrokes we take time to fill in, even when time seems to be running away from us. An afternoon of coloring was just the therapy I needed to give me a little perspective. 

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