Universal Love

The following is my upcoming article for the Minister's Corner of the Shawnee News-Star

Reverend Amy Busse
United Presbyterian Church

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,

 so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

John 3:16, the Discipleship Bible, New Revised Standard Version

  ​Grief is universal.  Regardless of our race or gender, our religious beliefs or the creeds we ascribe to, we all grieve.  Seeing the pictures coming out of Turkey after the horrific coal mine explosion this week is a graphic reminder to me about the universality of grief.  Families of the coal miners are gathered, waiting for news of their loved one.  The agony on their faces is the same agony I’ve seen on the faces of families in Nigeria, waiting for the return of their kidnapped daughters.  It is the same agony I saw on the faces of the families in South Korea, waiting for their loved ones to be brought back from the sea.  Their agony is the same that lined the faces of those wanting definitive news of what happened to the missing Malaysian airliner.  That agony was echoed on the faces of the parents in Newtown, Connecticut waiting to hear the fate of their children; and even closer to home, that same agony was evident on the families who lost their loved ones in the tornadoes last spring.  It was on the faces of people in Shawnee, Bethel Acres, Moore and the other communities that suffered terrible loss.  The people in all of these pictures don’t look alike.  The Muslim mother in Turkey looks very different from the Christian father in Moore.  Whether it’s a difference in skin tone or clothing, the diversity is obvious.  But the agony is the same.  The grief is the same.  Grief is universal.

​ I don’t write this as a way of dismissing or homogenizing grief.  The grief each person in each circumstance feels is profound and, in some ways, unique to that person.  But that does not change the fact that we all grieve.  When we suffer loss and heartache, we all grieve.  Grief is our common denominator.  While we share other factors in common, grief seems to be the one bond that is most capable of creating empathy.  When we see another’s heartbreak, even if our hearts have never been broken for the same reasons, I suspect that most of us feel some of that heartache ourselves.

​ But oh how I wish that we could see our common bonds and feel this kind of empathy for one another without the causes of grief.  How I wish we could live in a state of constant awareness of the ways we are alike, rather than our incessant focus on how we are different.  We divide ourselves daily – over politics, religion, and ideology.  Yet after every disaster or catastrophe, we both applaud and lament that people seem to come together to help one another only when there’s trouble.  But when the trouble begins to fade from our memories, we return to our corners, clinging to the categories we assign to others and to ourselves.

​ I am as guilty of this behavior, this kind of thinking as anyone else.  I think having to see other people without the commonality of grief, especially people who seem radically different from us, makes us uncomfortable.  It is far easier to stay in the lines of our labels for one another then it is to acknowledge that just by being human we are more alike than we are different.

 ​ I also realize that I take the above passage from John out of context.  There is more to the story surrounding this verse.  Yet I cannot help but focus on the central thought of this verse; God's love for the world.  God loved, God loves the world.  God loves us in spite of ourselves.  God was willing to become one of us in order to help us see, understand, and manifest that love in our relationships -- with God and with one another.  God’s love for me is so complete, so encompassing, how can I not at least try to love others in the same way?  God’s compassion for me is never ending, how I can I not show that compassion to others as it is shown to me?  How can I not have compassion and empathy for all of God’s children, including those who believe differently from me and for those who don’t believe at all?  I think that God’s love for the world compels me to love not only in return, but to love beyond my comfort zone.  God’s love for me urges me to relentlessly and unceasingly love others, in my words and in my deeds.  Grief may be universal, but love is more so.  May love be our common denominator.
​

Living Large

John 10:1-10

May 11, 2014/Fourth Sunday of Easter

            I have a confession to make.  I watch the show Hoarders.  I tell this as a confession, not because it’s a reality show and I tend to be condescending toward most reality shows; nor because watching it makes me feel better about the condition and cleanliness of my own house.  I feel like I must confess because watching this show makes me feel like a voyeur.  I understand that’s the real intent behind most reality shows.  They feed the public’s need to be a fly on the wall in someone else’s life.  But when I watch Hoarders, I’m not just seeing real people’s lives on screen.  I’m witnessing these peoples’ sickness.  I’m witnessing their sadness.  I feel guilty about that; so much so, that there are times when I have to turn it off because it’s just so sad and so hard to watch. 

            The one thing I will say is that Hoarders does a good job of showing how complex compulsive hoarding really is.  As of 2013, compulsive hoarding, also known as hoarding disorder, is now listed as a mental disorder in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders; better known as the DSM.  It is a real sickness. 

            Compulsive hoarding, whether its uncontrollable accumulation of stuff or even of animals, is dangerous to say the least.  Hoarding turns homes into unsanitary and unlivable disaster zones.  A person’s hoarding can be so extreme that kitchens and bathrooms become unusable.  Often what prompts the hoarder to finally seek help is the reality that disaster is looming.  A marriage or another significant relationship is about to collapse; children may be or have been removed from the home by a child protection agency.  Other family members are prepared to report the hoarder to other kinds of agencies because of the real danger that the hoarding creates.  What I find so sad is that these people who hoard know that their relationships are falling apart.  They know they’re on the verge of losing their home or going bankrupt.  They understand that their families are going to be separated.  They may comprehend that their lives are literally in danger.  But they can’t stop hoarding.  They are embarrassed and ashamed, but they can’t stop.  Hoarding takes the place of love.  It takes the place of intimacy.  It takes the place of connection.  Their stuff, most of which you and I would consider junk to be thrown away, consumes them. 

            I know that hoarding is an extreme example.  But it does make me wonder if there is link between the growing prevalence of hoarding disorder and our modern lives.  This is just my speculation; it’s not based on any significant scientific or sociological research.  But let’s face it: most of us have a lot of stuff.  That doesn’t make us hoarders, but we have a lot of stuff.  We have an abundance of things.  When we helped my parents move last summer, I was flabbergasted by all of the stuff that needed to be packed.  Now my folks had already done some major downsizing before that move, and both of them are extremely organized.   But there was still so much stuff.  I certainly can’t point the proverbial finger.  I have a storage room that I have been trying to clean out for about a year now.  I’m slowly making some dents, but it is overwhelming to say the least.  I also know that as quickly as I get rid of stuff, more stuff will come in to take the place of the old stuff.  It’s just a lot of stuff. 

            Why do we have such a preponderance of stuff?  Is it because we live in a consumer driving society?  Is it because we are bombarded with messages that stuff will make us happy?  Is it because we fear scarcity?  One concrete way of dealing with that fear is having stuff.  Perhaps that’s one reason why hoarders hoard – they fear scarcity.  With this preponderance of stuff that we accumulate in our daily lives, it is easy to become confused with what abundance is and what it isn’t.  Especially in light of the words we hear from Jesus in the last verse of our passage from John’s gospel.

            “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

            I’m sure that none of us hearing those words thinks that Jesus was talking about material possessions.  Although, let’s be honest, the prosperity gospel is alive and well in our culture.  There are plenty of preachers, big name preachers, who offer the message of the prosperity gospel week after week.  If you just believe hard enough, if you just cling to your Bible tightly enough, you will be blessed with plenty.  Though that plenty isn’t always specified out loud, the underlying message of the prosperity gospel is that plenty is an abundance of the material.  Nice houses, nice cars, nice stuff, nice lives. 

            Yet again, I don’t think that’s what Jesus is referring to when he speaks of abundance.  In order to really get to the heart of abundance as Jesus speaks of it, we have to look back to the story in chapter 9 that precedes this one; the story of the man born blind.  It’s a story that we heard back in Lent.  A man is born blind.  Jesus heals him then leaves the scene.  While Jesus is gone, the man is interrogated by the religious authorities, repeatedly.  His parents are interrogated.  He is interrogated one more time.  Instead of being joyful, the authorities and the people with them are fearful.  So the result of this miraculous healing, this giving of sight, is that the man is cast out of the synagogue.  He is cast out of the community. 

            Jesus tells the religious authorities that just because they can physically see doesn’t meant that they can see the holy in their midst.  They may have sight, but they are still blind.  He follows those words with the words we read in this passage.  In verse 7 Jesus says, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  I am the gate.” 

            I am the gate.  This Sunday in Eastertide is commonly known as Good Shepherd Sunday, but in these particular verses, Jesus doesn’t talk about being the shepherd.  Jesus talks about being the gate.  The gate is the way to green pastures.  The gate is the way the sheep who hear the voice of the shepherd enter into those pastures.  The gate is the way to abundant life.  Jesus is the gate.  So if we want abundant life, if we want salvation, we have to go through the gate. 

            None of this is surprising.  I doubt that the idea that salvation comes through Jesus is news to any of us.  But I think the question that is begged from this passage is what does this abundant life look like?  What does salvation look like?  When Jesus said that he came so that we might have life and have it abundantly, to what and when was he referring? 

            Let’s go back to the story of the man born blind.  Do we think his salvation came only after he died?  Do we think that he finally experienced abundance when he left this life and went to the next?  Or did salvation come to him in the form of sight?  Think about it, he went from a life of darkness, a life of begging just to survive, to a life of sight!  Would there be anything more abundant, more salvific for a person born blind than to receive sight?  With sight came the ability to provide for himself, to envision – no pun intended – a new of living and being.  With the giving of sight, that man was given a life he hadn’t had before.  He was given an abundance of joy, an abundance of hope, an abundance of love.  He was given sight.  That was his salvation. 

            It seems to me that an abundant life and salvation isn’t something that is reserved for a future existence.  Jesus came to give abundance and salvation to us now, right now.  Again, this isn’t a promise of prosperity.  It’s not about stuff.  It’s about abundance.   If Jesus meets us where we are, then maybe salvation does as well.  If we are lost, then salvation comes in being found.  If we are hopeless, then salvation comes when we realize that reasons to be hopeful abound.  Jesus came so that we might have abundant lives, saved lives right now. 

            But do we live those abundant lives?  Do we believe that salvation is ours at this moment?  Are we living large lives, filled with an abundance of love, joy, hope?   Or are our lives small?  Do we live more out of a fear of scarcity, a fear of being without rather than living in trust that we will have enough?  Once again, trust is the key word.  I think trust is at the heart of an abundant life.  If we don’t trust that we’ll have enough to live, to survive, then it’s downright hard to be abundantly generous.  If we don’t trust that we are loveable, then loving others abundantly is practically impossible.  Without trust we cannot hope.  Without trust we cannot fully love.  Without trust we cannot fully live.  Living large, abundant, love filled lives, requires trust.  It requires trust as individuals and families.  It requires trust as a congregation.  Do we trust that we’ll be okay as a church?  Do we trust that we will be provided for so that we can provide for others?  Do we come together in trust or out of fear?  These are tough questions, I know.  But I believe they must be asked, even though I don’t really have any answers.  Jesus came so that we could have life – abundant, plentiful, large life.  Let us trust, with everything we are, heart, mind, and soul, that we are loved abundantly.  Let us trust that an abundance of love will be with us always.  Let us trust in the abundance of God’s love, so that we may love abundantly in return.  Let us live large.  Let us live abundantly.  Let all God’s children say, “Alleluia!”  Amen.

Bring Back Our Girls

Dear Blessing,

You don't know me, nor I you.  I doubt we'll ever meet face-to-face, and I certainly don't think you'll read this letter. The reason I know your name is that I saw a partial list of names yesterday; names of the girls who were kidnapped from your school in Nigeria.  The reason this list is circulating is so people like me can pick one name and focus our prayers on a specific girl.  I chose your name.  I choose you.

I like your name, Blessing.  I can imagine that when you were born, your parents looked at you and saw the blessing that you are.  I imagine that you have been a blessing to them, your family, your friends, ever since.  I realize I have no real way of knowing anything about you, other than your name and this horrific event that has torn you away from everyone and everything you know and love.  I wish that I could know you.  I wish I knew your age, your favorite classes in school, the name of your best friend, what you hope to be and do when you grow up.  The truth is, I will probably never know these details about you and your life.  But I do know this.  You are more than just a name on a list.  You are more than just a blip in a news story on my television.  You are a real person, flesh and blood, with a family who is desperate for you to be returned to them.  They want you back, safe and whole.  I know that you are a real child, who should never be facing what you're facing right now.  I cannot begin to imagine what you are feeling or thinking.  But as a mother myself, I can all too easily imagine the fear and dread that must be overwhelming your mother, your father, your family.  I'm writing this, Blessing, because I am praying for you and for your family.  I'm praying for all of the girls who were kidnapped, and their families as well.  I'm writing this, because even though I don't know you and probably never will, I remember you.  You are remembered, Blessing.  You have not been forgotten by your family or the world.   I hope you know that.  I hope and pray that somehow you know, to the very depth of your being, that you are not forgotten.

I also write, Blessing, to ask your forgiveness.  Because what happened to you and to the other girls, is a reminder that we fail our children.  We have failed you.  We have failed because we cannot seem to learn that every person, every person, has value simply because they're human.  We have failed you because we turn a blind eye to the reality that children around the world are seen as commodities to be bought and sold.  We have failed you, and the other girls with you, because we tell ourselves that if something like this happens in another part of the world it doesn't affect us.  But it does.  It does because every child is a blessing; every child deserves protection and the opportunity to live a full life.  We have failed you because we forget that every child is our child.  You are my child, as surely as my own daughter and son.

You are not forgotten, Blessing.  You are being prayed for, and you are loved.  The world wants to see you home, and we won't be quiet until you are.  You are not forgotten.

We Had Hoped

Luke 24:13-35

May 4, 2014

             In David Lose's most recent weekly column for WorkingPreacher, he shared an anecdote about Ernest Hemmingway.  Hemmingway was once challenged to write a story in six words.  Supposedly he wrote this response to the challenge on a napkin, "For sale. Baby shoes. Never used."  Think about those six words for a moment.  Think about what they imply.  It doesn't take much imagination to envision the different scenarios that would bring about that particular for sale ad.  Regardless of the back story we could construct, there is one certainty from Hemmingway's brief but powerful little story; a future that someone imagined and dreamed about was lost.  Someone's hope had died.  “For sale.  Baby shoes.  Never used."

            With everything that is happening in this story about two unknown disciples walking the road to Emmaus, unique to Luke's gospel, it's easy to miss or quickly skip over three little words found in verse 21; we had hoped.  Yet I think those three words tell an even more poignant story than the six that Hemmingway used.  "But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel."  We had hoped.

            We hear these words from two disciples, one unnamed and one named Cleopas, who were walking toward Emmaus, a town about seven miles away from Jerusalem.  As they walked, they were discussing the terrible events that had happened in the city.  A stranger joined them on the road, and asked them about their conversation.  The two disciples were sad and surprised at this stranger's seeming cluelessness.  Obviously he was the only person who didn't know about the terrible events that had taken place in Jerusalem over the last few days, so they filled him in.  They told the stranger about the way their religious leaders, the chief priests and authorities, had handed over their beloved teacher Jesus to the Romans.  The two disciples shared with the unexpected traveling companion how this same rabbi was put through a mockery of a trial, was beaten and cursed, then was crucified and left to die on a criminal's cross.  Then these disciples, who we have never met before and will never meet again, uttered those three words that cut to the heart of their grief and the heart of this story.  We had hoped.

            We had hoped.  I did some brushing up on my grammar, specifically the tenses, to dig into these three words.  Grammatically, this sentence is written and spoken in the past perfect tense.  I know that I have some die-hard grammar folks who will both hear and read this sermon.  I realize I could get even more specific about the past perfect tense.  But for the purposes of this sermon, the simplest definition is that past perfect tense describes an action that was completed before another one took place.  We had hoped that he was the Messiah, the one to redeem Israel, but he must not have been.  We had hoped that Jesus would change everything, but he didn't.  We had hoped that he truly was the Son of God and that all of this talk about death was a mistake, but it wasn't.  He died anyway.  We had hoped, but Jesus died anyway.

            The two disciples knew the story the women told all of the disciples.  They went to the tomb, found it empty, but saw a vision of angels.  The angels reassured them that Jesus had risen.  He was alive.  The other disciples checked out the tomb as well, but they received no vision.  Consequently, the disciples dismissed the women's story as "an idle tale.” 

            As far as these disciples could see or understand, everything was lost.  Their dreams and belief that God would rescue them, that God's long-promised Messiah would free them from occupation -- those dreams were dead, done.  Jesus died and so did their hope.  We had hoped. 

            We had hoped.  It is easy to skip over these words.  It is easy to breeze past what they convey.  I know that as many times as I've read and preached this story, I haven't given those three words much attention.  But I think that moving past them too quickly is not only problematic, it reflects what we too often do in our daily lives.  We want to move past our broken hearts, our grief.   We need to get over it, move on, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and get back to life.  We express those sentiments to others.  We tell them to ourselves.  Yet, I don't think there is any way that we can get around the fact that the disciples have broken hearts.  Their hopes and their dreams for a different outcome for Israel have been disappointed.  They have broken hearts.  They had hoped. 

            Even though we may attempt to ignore or quickly dismiss them, we too have broken hearts.  We too have hopes that aren't realized.  How many times have we heard someone say as they leave a funeral, “we had hoped that she would recover?”  Or, we had hoped to make it to another anniversary.  We had hoped that he would move past the depression.  We had hoped that this time the rehab would work.  We had hoped that he would have found a job by now.  We had hoped that we would have been able to have children.  We had hoped that our child would live to adulthood.  We had hoped.  We had hoped.  We had hoped.          

            There is no age limit for loss or broken hearts or disappointed hopes.  None of us are immune.  The only way to move through life without a broken heart or a dead dream is to live without love or relationship.  That's not living, though is it?  So it seems to me that every one of us comes here today with some lost hope.  Every one of us is here with a disappointment.  Every one of us sitting in this sanctuary could probably tell a story that begins with the words, "We had hoped." 

            But I think we have this idea that because we have faith, we should never utter those three words.  If we are faithful, we have no business saying, "We had hoped."  We are the ones who are in the hope business.  We do hope.  We are hoping.  We hope and will continue to do so until hope is no longer needed.  That's what we must declare.  Admitting, "we had hoped," seems unfaithful.  After all, it seems that even Jesus chides them for speaking those words aloud.  "Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!" 

            But was Jesus admonishing them for having broken hearts?  Or was it more about hearts and minds that were closed to the truth of the resurrection that had been declared to them.  I realize that this is a clichéd and hackneyed expression, but when Jesus met them on that road to Emmaus, he met them where they were.  He met them and walked with them, broken hearts, disappointed hopes, and all. He opened the scriptures to them, reminding them that there was more to God at work in the world than they could see.  He taught them about all the promises that had been made about the Messiah that were now fulfilled.  He met them so that their broken hearts could become burning ones. 

            It seems to me that this is the essence of the resurrection.  It is about new life, yes.  It is about love conquering even the seeming finality of death.  It is atonement and absolution, forgiveness and new creation.  But at the very heart of this, it is about broken hearts becoming burning ones.  As I said a few weeks ago, Easter, the resurrection, isn't about magic.  It doesn't happen so that everything was perfect, is perfect and will be perfect.  It doesn't eradicate the messiness that comes with life and love and loss.  But the love of God in Christ, the love that was willing to go to the cross, the love that imbues creation and refuses to give up on us in spite of ourselves; that love binds up our broken hearts.  God's love for us in Christ takes seriously our disappointments and our lost hopes, but it reassures us that there is more than we can see or understand.  There is much, much more.

            Jesus met those disciples on the road to Emmaus, and he met them at their most broken-hearted moment.  Isn't that where he meets us as well?  He binds up our broken hearts so that they can become burning ones. 

            Jesus meets them and us in our broken places, in the ashes of our hopes and disappointments.  It was only in the breaking of the bread that the disciples finally see him.  Their eyes were opened and they recognized him.  So, too, for us.  In a few minutes, we will gather for a meal.  In a few minutes you will hear these words repeated in preparation for our meal.  When you do, look around you and see the risen Lord; recognize that Love Incarnate in the faces of everyone around you.  Know that our broken hearts are being bound up so that they may become burning ones.  Let all God's children say, "Alleluia!"  Amen.

Through Locked Doors

John 20:19-31

April 27, 2014

            I was co-leading a Lenten Bible study at a church I served for a while in Iowa.  Over the course of that day’s lesson, the conversation turned to the movie, “The Passion of the Christ.” It was in the theaters at that time, and it was making waves across the country.  One woman who was in our group that morning had just seen the movie.  She loved it.  As she was describing it to us in great detail, she ended with the comment, “Well, now we know what really happened.” 

            I responded in my politest voice, “Actually, we only know what Mel Gibson believes to have happened.  He based it on Biblical accounts, true, but it’s still his interpretation of those accounts.” 

            I knew by the look she gave me that she wasn’t thrilled with me for saying that.  She wasn’t thrilled with me in general, and I had no doubt that wasn’t a church with which I felt called to engage in a long-ministry.  But I wouldn’t back down then, and I still stand by my response to her.  Whatever the merits of that movie might have been, it was one person’s interpretation of events brought to life in film.  But many of the people who watched this movie held it up as proof positive that everything we as Christians believe is absolutely, incontestably, indisputably true.  It was proof. 

            I’m seeing these same kinds of claims in response to the movie that is in theaters now, “Heaven Is for Real.”  I have not seen the movie, but I do know the story.  I’m certainly not going to cast aspersions at what was obviously a powerful experience for a little boy and his family.  There is a lot in what is described about heaven from this little boy’s near death experience that gives you pause.  But I won’t hold it up as proof any more than I would claim that Charlton Heston’s portrayal of Moses in “The Ten Commandments,” is spot on accurate.  In my humble opinion, none of this is proof.  But I get it.  I understand that when it comes to faith, we search for proof.  I understand that need, that desire well.  I certainly feel it.  I think most of us would like incontrovertible proof.  It seems to me that it is human nature to seek it out.  If this morning’s passage from John’s gospel proves anything, it is that we are not alone in wanting proof that what we believe is true. 

            The discipleS, notice my emphasis on the plural, wanted proof as well.  Mary Magdalene not only testified to the disciples that the tomb where Jesus was laid was empty; she encountered the risen Lord and shared that good news with them as well.  Peter and the beloved disciple both ran to see for themselves if Mary’s story about the tomb being empty was true.  They both saw the linen wrappings that shrouded Jesus.  They saw.  Yet where were the disciples when evening came?  They were in a house behind locked doors, fearing the Jews, the religious authorities and powers that put Jesus to death in the first place.

            It makes sense that they feared those authorities.  If they were willing to put Jesus to death, why not his intimate group of followers as well?  One commentator made the case that the disciples might also have feared the risen Jesus.  If he was in fact resurrected, as outlandish and impossible as that might be, then he might not be too happy with them.  After all, they didn’t make such a good showing at the end did they?  They betrayed Jesus.  They denied Jesus.  They ran away in fear.  No matter how often Jesus told them about his death and resurrection in the time leading up to the crucifixion, they couldn’t grasp what Jesus was actually telling them.  Even in John’s gospel, they still didn’t get it.  So there the disciples were huddling in fear behind locked doors.  But those locked doors could not keep Jesus out.  He came to them, through their locked doors, but not to punish or condemn.  Instead he greeted them with peace.  “Peace be with you.”  And he breathed on them the Holy Spirit.  This is John’s Pentecost.  Jesus breathed the power of the Holy Spirit on them, just as the breath of God breathed creation into existence.  This physical encounter with the risen Lord, this gift of the Holy Spirit, convinced the disciples that Jesus was indeed resurrected.  All of the disciples had their proof. 

All except Thomas.  For whatever reason, Thomas was not cowering behind locked doors with the others.  Thomas wasn’t there, so he missed this moment with Jesus. Just like Mary told the disciples, they told Thomas, “He’s risen!  We’ve seen him!  He was right here in our midst.  We have seen the Lord.”  But Thomas didn’t accept that.  His response?  “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” 

Here is where the misunderstanding about Thomas begins.  I know I’ve said this in past sermons, but Thomas was no different than the other disciples.  As one biblical scholar noted, Thomas was only different in that he put into words the conditions for faith.  The others had to see the risen Jesus as well before they would truly believe, but Thomas said it out loud. 

A week later Jesus gave Thomas the proof he wanted.  Closed doors did not keep Jesus away.  He appeared in their midst, again bringing them peace.  Jesus showed Thomas his hands.  He told him to reach out his finger and touch.  “Do not doubt but believe.”  Thomas then said what is considered to be an extraordinary confession of faith, “My Lord and my God!”  While it seems to our ears that Jesus rebuked him for this, “Have you believed because you have seen me?  Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  I don’t hear as rebuke.  I hear this as Jesus speaking beyond just those present in that room.  In that moment Jesus spoke through the centuries yet to come, opening the door for all people to believe.  The generations yet to come, including us, would not be disadvantaged in our faith because we did not see Jesus resurrected. 

The challenge in this is that we have not seen Jesus resurrected.  We don’t have proof.  This is not to deny the witness of scripture.  But where is the evidence that will satisfy our senses?  Where is the proof that we can touch, see, hear, smell, taste? 

Here is the problem with seeking, needing proof.  I no longer believe that it actually helps our faith.  A dear, sweet friend made the mistake of asking me the other night how I was doing on my sermon.  Then he had the misfortune to have to listen to me talk through it out loud.  As I did just that, I came to this point.  Doubt is not the opposite of faith.  The opposite of faith is certainty.  I know that sounds strange, but faith and certainty are not the same thing.  Faith is the willingness to trust in something beyond our senses.  We can’t prove it, not empirically.  That’s what makes it faith.  Certainty, on the other hand, is more about our need to be right than it is to be faithful.  Certainty locks the doors of our minds, our hearts.  Certainty keeps us from seeing Christ in one another.  Certainty takes faith and uses it as a weapon against those who believe differently.  Certainty locks the door to the Holy Spirit.  Certainty, not doubt, is the opposite of faith. 

            The last verse in this passage states the purpose of the gospel.  Jesus did many more signs than could be written down.  But the ones that were are given to us, all of us, so that we may believe.  But is that proof?  Does just reading about these signs and wonders, these miracles especially the miracle of resurrection, give us evidence that God is real, that Jesus is Love Incarnate, and that the power of the Holy Spirit will blow where it will?  Faith in John’s gospel is not about proof.  It is more than just verbal assent.  Faith is active.  It is lived.  It is something that we do even when we doubt

            In one of his many sermons, William Sloane Coffin stated it this way,

            “Miracles do not a messiah make.  But a messiah can do miracles.  If you ask me if Jesus literally raised Lazarus from the dead, literally walked on water and changed water into wine, I understood, and the more it is lived, the more things become possible.’  I can also report that in home after home I have seen Jesus change beer into furniture, sinners into saints, hate-filled relations into loving ones, cowardice into courage, the fatigue of despair into the buoyancy of hope  In instance after instance, life after life, I have seen Christ be ‘God’s power unto salvation,’ and that’s miracle enough for me.”

            We are called not to certainty, but to faith.  And “faith,” as Coffin also said, “is not believing without proof but trusting without reservation.” 

            Let us trust without reservation that Jesus is raised, love not death wins, and the power of the Holy Spirit is let loose in the world.  Let us live out our faith, not because we are certain but because in spite of our doubts we know that there are no locked doors that can keep out the peace, joy, and love of Christ.  Peace be with you.  Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”  Amen.

Credo, Coffin, William Sloane, ©2004,  Westminster John Knox Press