EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY
John 20:1-1-18
[Since spoken communication differs from written, some of the grammar and syntax of this transcript may seem awkward in written form. To keep integrity with the spirit of the original delivery, the transcript stays close to the exact words spoken.]
You know, I have to confess, as I begin here this morning, that this is the hardest Sunday of the year to preach a sermon. And I think it's not just because of the big crowd and the fact that there are a lot of new people. (And by the way, if you are a new person we're delighted that you are with us.) It's not just the expectation people have that the preacher say something that will be engaging and perhaps stick to the brain, or even perhaps, the soul. I think today is a hard day to proclaim the message because of this story.
Let's face it--it's a hard sell. It's hard to believe that a man, who was verifiably, incontrovertibly dead, rose again to walk among his disciples. I think we moderns are like the first disciples in Matthew's version of the story. When the women tell them about the empty tomb and Christ's resurrection, they think it's just a silly story. "An idle tale," it says in the scripture. Because we all know, and modern science can prove, that dead tissue cannot live again. And so, on this Sunday every year, it sometimes feels like a fool's errand: to convince you today that this story is true. But that's my intent today: to convince you it's true; to convince you of this truth about the universe. That resurrection is the power of life, even when we believe that this is all just about living. And...that this is as true as the double helix of our DNA, or Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. That resurrection is the power of life breaking in on us, when we believe that living is all there is.
A few weeks ago I had the privilege of listening to my colleague preach at the Presbytery meeting. We preachers don't usually get to hear other preachers, and it's a wonderful treat when we do. And one of the points she made that stuck to my brain, and my soul--she was quoting her crew coach, who had this credo that he taught the team. It goes like this, "You get what you believe."
"You get what you believe." One of the illusions of our modern era is that we can escape belief by pushing the "easy button" of modern science. As if science has drained the world of mystery in favor of fact. Malcolm Muggeridge, the 20th century journalist/playboy--he was a kind of wild guy in the first part of his life, until he converted to Christianity--is known for having said this line: "Our intelligence has made us ignorant." Perhaps the chief illusion of our modern era may be that we know the universe operationally--we know how it functions better than ever. And yet, we may be totally ignorant of its mystery. As T. S. Elliott asks in his poem1, "Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? Where is the life we have lost in living?" That is a question for our age.
That's the temptation we face. Not to believe in anything beyond this: this flesh that I can pinch between my fingers; this stuff that we can see with our eyes. That this is all there is. Just living. That's it. And if we're living in that belief--because you get what you believe--this is what living is about then, isn't it? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. If living is all there is, then we'd better enjoy it while it lasts.
My friend Gil Bailey, in one of his lectures, says that in a universe absent a belief in resurrection, death is meaningless. And in such a universe, living becomes an enterprise that is more obsessed with survival than with life. It is about the attempt to create a bulwark against death, barricading ourselves in against it with stuff, with things, with material goods and accomplishments, and success, and even people. In a world where living is all there is, we become more cautious; more obsessed with being remembered; more concerned with survival than life. So eat, drink, and be merry, and try to forget about death.
But here's the thing, if you believe it. Resurrection, a power just as real as combustion or entropy, is that power for life that breaks into our universe when we think that it's all just about living. I believe in that power. I believe that power is able to change lives. And to me that's the miracle that proves the miracle.
Christian writer James Martin--I read an article by him a couple weeks ago about the media buzz surrounding the Discovery Channel's documentary about the supposed discovery of the Jesus family tomb. Maybe you saw the show? I didn't. I would have liked to. But it created a buzz among some Christians that sort of rocked their faith--if there really was a Jesus family tomb, where the bones of Jesus might have been found. And this is his conclusion at the end of the article, a conclusion that really resonates with me. He writes, "The most compelling proof of the resurrection is not an empty tomb, which is nearly impossible to verify scientifically. Rather it is the disciples, who went from being terrified members of a failed movement, cowering behind closed doors, into men and women emboldened to preach about Jesus at the cost of their lives, which many ended up sacrificing. Only an encounter with something life-changing could account for such a dramatic transformation."
Do you believe in that power? That power to make your life about Life, and not just living.
You know, I want to share with you a metaphor for church that I experience sometimes up here. Sometimes I, I feel like church is like that story in John 5--maybe some of you are familiar with it--it's about these invalids who live in Jerusalem, and within the walls of Jerusalem there's this pool called the Pool of Bethsaida. And these invalids, the blind and the lame, are all hanging around this pool because once in awhile the spring that feeds it makes it bubble, sort of troubles the waters. And they believe that if they can touch that water, they'll be healed. This is my metaphor for church sometimes. That that's what we're doing here--we're sitting around the pool. And we may come here looking respectable, and looking like we have it all together, but on some level, I know we're all sort of invalids, our stuffing sticking out. You know, bringing here marital problems and the failed business venture and unresolved grief.
And my image is, here we are sitting around that pool together. And you know, sometimes it's rather still. You know? It's a little bit boring, maybe. People sitting here in these pews and we're singing the same old hymns, and I wonder sometimes if even now, people are thinking, "When is he going to be quiet so we can get to lunch?" But we're sitting around the pool. And you've got to show up; you've got to show up and sit together, sit around the pool, because it may happen that that power comes to trouble those waters, and you touch those waters, and something happens in you--some dead tissue in you somehow comes back to life, miraculously. And you experience that power that is as real as photosynthesis. And you say, "I'm going to have that conversation I've been afraid of having." "I'm going to AA, I've decided." "I'm going to do that thing I was so afraid of doing."
That's what that power is. Resurrection is real. It's the power of life, when we thought it was just about living. And I can say that I've seen that power at work in people's lives. People who've been almost literally dead, living in the gutter, who inexplicably, not because any virtue of their own, experienced that power, and somehow are walking around as people with some mysterious light that shines through them. You can't explain it. God gives us that, as a gift.
I recently read a story--it's really a parable--in an article by a friend of mine I used to know at Union Seminary, Charles Henderson. And in this article he tells the story of a small boy of about seven, who is stricken with a fatal and fast-growing cancer. He'd been treated at Memorial Sloan-Kettering, with every sort of therapy known to modern science, but nothing further could be done, they determined. They tried every treatment, and they gathered in the hospital room, with the parents, to discuss what more they could possibly do. And in the midst of this discussion the boy finally spoke up, in a clear and crisp voice. The boy said, "What I really want to do is go home and learn how to ride my bike without the training wheels."
The bicycle had been a Christmas present. It had come with the training wheels attached, as they do, but before the boy had gained enough confidence to remove the training wheels, the cancer caught up with him and he had to go to the hospital. That was the farthest thing from the minds of the doctors and the parents there, in that hospital room. It just didn't seem possible, or advisable, they all said. But the boy insisted, and home they went.
Not 30 minutes after they had settled in, they were out in the yard, the boy insisting that his father take off the training wheels and let him have a go at it. Obediently, but anxiously, his father took out his wrench and removed the training wheels to let him go. To their surprise, after only two false starts and one fall, the boy was able to steer the bike, somewhat erratically to be sure. "And now," he said, with mounting assurance in his voice, "now I want to ride it by myself, all the way around the block." Before anyone could stop him, he was off. Up the street, and around the corner, out of sight. There were those few minutes of suspense, as the parents, brother, and little sister waited for him to appear at the other end of the block. And after what seemed an eternity, there he was, headed for home, a gigantic expression of triumph and satisfaction written on his face.
When the excitement had settled down, the boy retired to his bedroom and asked if he could be left alone with his little sister. He had his father bring the shiny blue bike into the bedroom. And it sat there, in a corner, a gleaming symbol of life. Then the boy turned to the little sister and said, "I won't be needing the bicycle anymore. I want you to have it for your birthday. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did."
I think that's what that life is like. And you know, we don't need to die to experience it. Life, and not just living. Life, like riding a bike without the training wheels. Today is a day to enjoy life, resurrection life, a gift from God, and not just living. Praise be to God.
Amen.
1From T. S. Eliot, "Choruses" from The Rock.
April 8, 2007
Jeff Vamos
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