"Where justice and love meet"
Acts 10:34-43 or Jer. 31:1-6; Ps. 118:1-2, 14-24;
Col. 3:1-4;
John 20:1-18 or Matt. 28:1-10; Isa. 25:6-9; Ps. 113; 1 Cor. 5:6b-8; Luke
24:13-49
Dr. George R. Sinclair
Pastor
March 23, 2008
Easter sermons are hard to preach. And after thirty years they don’t get any easier. You already know the ending. You know how things turn out—Jesus died. He rose. He appeared to his disciples. He commissioned them, ascended to heaven. And we too die. And we too can go to heaven if only we have faith. Hope springs eternal. Blah, blah, blah. Queue the closing hymn. Let’s go home!
All of that would be true if Easter was simply a matter of accepting important, big ideas like hope or resurrection or eternal life. Likewise, that would be true if Easter was simply a matter of believing God is able to raise the dead. But Easter isn’t grounded in what we believe God can and can’t do, nor is Easter simply accepting big ideas like hope or resurrection or eternal life.
Easter concerns a very particular human being. And Easter concerns a very particular miracle, not the power of God in general, but the power of God revealed in a Jewish Rabbi named Jesus who was betrayed by friends and crucified by an empire. This same Jewish rabbi is called Messiah and Lord, titles with clear political implications, titles which refer to ultimate allegiances, which is why association with the Rabbi Jesus is or was so dangerous.
Peter, a leader of the disciples, understood that. All of the disciples understood that. The disciples clearly knew the risk they were taking by giving allegiance to Jesus. They knew the authorities wouldn’t stand for it, which is why Easter is not primarily about a big idea called Eternal Life or even the high and persuasive belief that God can raise the dead. Easter is not about an idea but a person. Easter is not about the power of God in general, but God’s power revealed in the Crucified Rabbi, Jesus.
When God raised Jesus from the dead, God pronounced a verdict. God said, “This is how I want you to live. If you want to live a truly human life, live like Jesus.” By raising Jesus from the dead, God approved the principles Jesus stood for—turning the other cheek; going the second mile; giving to those in need; forgiving, welcoming, showing hospitality; eating with outcasts; loving enemies; standing up for the last, the least, the lost and the little.
The resurrection reveals God’s judgment. Easter is both a verdict and warning. By raising Jesus from the dead, God judges Jesus’ life good, but God also warns oppressors. God warns bullies. God warns those who refuse to forgive; those who hate; those who exclude; those who do not welcome strangers. By raising Jesus, God announces he will not tolerate oppression or brutality or hatred. Easter reveals God’s judgment. There are consequences for pushing aside the needy, for refusing to welcome strangers, for not showing mercy.
The resurrection of the Rabbi, Jesus, is unequivocal. Easter leaves no doubt about where God stands. Easter leaves no guesswork about the purpose of human existence or about how human existence will end. Easter announces God’s verdict. And the verdict is, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.”
That’s what it comes down to or rather that’s where Easter begins—Easter compels us to choose sides. Easter invites us to respond to God’s verdict. Easter demands we declare our allegiance.
Now there’s nothing automatic about that. There’s nothing automatic about having Easter faith. Just as God chooses, so we must choose. We must decide for the One who has decided for us. And that’s not something we do by checking off a list of big ideas: “Believe in the Virgin Birth? Check. Believe Jesus was the second person of the Trinity? Check. Believe Jesus died for our sins? Check. Believe God raised him from the dead? Check.”
Faith doesn’t work that way, not at all. Faith’s not about what happens between our ears. Faith jumps over every part of us all of the time. Resurrection noisily intrudes on life. It’s like a big earthquake rattling our bones, shaking us joint and marrow. Resurrection is not a quiet visitor reserved for funeral parlors.
Resurrection is an out loud declaration. It refuses to be silenced by oppression and refuses to settle for some part of us conveniently defined as “spiritual” or “religious.” God wants every part of us all of the time. And there’s only one way to a faith like that. There’s only one way to Easter. And that is worship.
I wish I could tell you the empty tomb proves Jesus was raised from the dead. And I wish I could tell you the Bible proves it so. But Easter faith can’t be proven. There’s no neutral place from which to observe the empty tomb. When the guards tried that they became like “dead men.” We come to faith through worship. We come to faith when we meet risen Jesus, which is a good place to observe that faith doesn’t create the risen Jesus. The risen Jesus creates faith.
The women that first Easter don’t go to the tomb because they’re expecting a resurrection. They go to bury their dead friend. Their faith doesn’t create the risen Jesus. The risen Jesus turns unbelief to faith, which begs the question, “Where then do we meet the risen Jesus?” If it takes meeting the risen Jesus to have Easter faith, where do we find him? Where should we look?
Here’s what Jesus told Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”
A few sentences later the eleven are in Galilee. They’ve gone to “the mountain” where Jesus has directed them. We’re not told the name of the mountain or how Jesus had directed them there. Matthew simply locates us on the mountain with Jesus and the disciples. This is how Matthew describes the scene: “When they saw [Jesus], they worshipped him; but some doubted.”
“When they saw [Jesus], they worshipped him; but some doubted.” Matthew doesn’t name names. Judas has already left the picture, so he refers simply to “the eleven.” The only eleven we know are the eleven who scatter when Jesus is arrested, the same eleven who stood at a distance and watched Jesus die. “The eleven” have to be these eleven: Peter, and James and John, and eight others who left Jesus to die alone. And yet, and yet Jesus calls these eleven his “brothers.” The eleven whom Jesus calls brothers are the very ones who worship and doubt him on the mountain top.
It’s not altogether clear if Matthew meant to say that some of the eleven worshipped and some doubted (as if there was a clear division between doubters and worshippers) or if some of the eleven who worshipped also doubted. I don’t have any trouble believing that worship and doubt inhabit single hearts and do so simultaneously. Worship and doubt go hand in hand. That’s not hard to figure. Worship and doubt are hardly incompatible. As a matter of fact they’re constant companions in my own heart.
I’m glad Matthew says some of the eleven doubted. He means of course they doubted they were actually seeing the risen Jesus. I have that problem regularly, don’t you? I read the papers, don’t you—coeds killed on college campuses. Where is the risen Jesus?
Worried about her safety, I talked to my daughter about the 20 year old student body president at Chapel Hill who was killed right after the Auburn student. How do you make sense out of things like that? How do you see the risen Jesus in that? Life can be cruel and short on hope. I worship and doubt regularly. It’s not a stretch to understand worship and doubt in a single heart. Life is full of mixed signals. There’s more than enough human suffering and tragedy to go around—war, greed, poverty, disease. The evidence is confusing, which is why we need something more than evidence. We need living proof. We need a risen Savior.
Some years ago I went to the home of a young couple who had visited the church I was serving. They were in their mid-twenties, a very handsome, attractive couple. He was a young executive with a major manufacturer. They hadn’t been married long and had just bought their first home in a new neighborhood on the outskirts of town.
This young couple had been to church a few times and had checked the visitor’s card indicating interest in membership. So I drove out to see them.
I go to their house, ring the bell. They answer and invite me in and I sit down. We chat about where we’re from, where we went to school, how we ended up in town. We get around to church and they say they want to join. They explain they were married in a church but were from different backgrounds. She had been Presbyterian. He was Roman Catholic.
And I’m assuring them we have lots of Roman Catholic and Presbyterian couples in our church and they’ll be happy there too. We talk about when they’re available to join. They check each other’s calendars and we agree on a date.
I’m about to leave—mission accomplished—two new members for my church, young professionals, a perfect fit. And then there’s this awkward pause in our otherwise happy conversation, one of those pauses like when people are trying to find the right words only they’re in some distance place. And they sort of look at each other and then the carpet and then at me until at last they blurt out: “Kevin has AIDS. We haven’t told anybody. But Kevin has AIDS.”
A few weeks later Kevin and his wife joined my church. A year later on February 16, 1993 I buried 28-year-old Kevin.
Now it was bad enough that Kevin died from a preventable disease had he not received tainted blood during an adolescent surgery. And it was bad enough that he left behind a beautiful 28 year-old bride. But you know what I remember? I remember the sorry spot where Kevin was laid to rest. It wasn’t much of a resting place. In fact, it was terrible.
The day we buried Kevin was a clear day. It had rained a few days before—so despite the artificial, green carpet it was muddy. And it wasn’t a very nice part of the cemetery. It was an old cemetery so most of the best plots were already taken. Kevin was buried in a newer section and there were no trees. It was on the edge of the cemetery down by a gravel service road. There were piles of red dirt where other graves had been dug.
The location was bad enough, but what I remember most from that day was the cement block factory next door to the cemetery. It wasn’t a hundred yards away and it never shut down. For some funerals, they stopped the machines and it would get quiet. But that day all I could hear was the pounding of those machines. “The Lord is my shepherd . . .” ChaPlunk, ChaPlunk. “I shall not want.” ChaPlunk, ChaPlunk.” “Yea though I walk through the valley,” ChaPlunk, ChaPlunk.
And I thought—this is awful. This is just terrible. How sad can it be to end up in a place like this and you’re only 28 and you die from AIDS?
Here’s the thing, there was another voice that day, a cry of protest rising above the pounding machines. The Crucified proclaimed another ending other than Kevin’s muddy grave. The Crucified sang a different song. We strained to hear it--but we heard it, an alleluia that trumped the indifferent, pounding machines. I know we heard that alleluia on that clear February day. “God be praised, Kevin will live again.”
That’s what resurrection means—God will not stand for injustice. God will not stand for tragedy. God will right what is wrong, what is unfair, what is evil. Injustice and sorrow and sadness have no place in God’s kingdom.
I believe that because at the heart of the Universe there is joy—complete and profound joy; joy found only where Justice and Love meet. We see that joy in the face of the rabbi, Jesus. In the face of Jesus we see love which is just and justice which is loving. That’s what we see, when with our doubts, we fall at his feet. And nothing, nothing in all creation can separate the Crucified from his beloved. And we are beloved. This world is God’s beloved. That is gospel. That’s Easter News and the Easter News which claims us. Amen.