3 Easter

May 4, 2025

 

John 21: 1-19

 

+ I am fond of using a great quote from the British literary critic, A. Alvarez.

 

He said, essentially, it’s good to be an apprentice.

 

You learn the task—in this case, of poetry—so that “when the Devil takes you by the throat and shakes you,” it is then, that you’ll know what to do.

 

It is then, that you become a poet.

 

It has been great advice.

 

And I think it’s advice that can be used in multiple situations.

 

So, the question for all of you this morning is: When the so-called “Devil” takes YOU by the throat and shakes you, what do you do?

 

What do you do when you find yourself at the left hand of God, a phrase that comes from Fr. Richard Rohr about being in a bad place in your life?

 

What do you do when the bad things of this life are thrown at you?

 

Do you shut down, and curl up and just wait for it to pass?

 

Do you freeze up and just brace yourself for it?

 

Do you react and rage at the injustice of it?

 

Or do you confront it all?

 

When the “Devil” takes me by the throat, when I find myself at the left hand of God (and I’ve been there MANY times in my life!) do you know what I do?

 

I make myself busy.

 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, when my father died very suddenly, when any of the bad things happen, I just get busy.

 

I do something.

 

Anything.

 

Because not doing something is worse than the “Devil”’s cold hand on my throat.

 

However, I will say this: when my mother died, I shut down to a large extent.

 

I did not do something simply because I couldn’t do anything.

 

The shock of her death and the deep level of emotional pain prevented me from doing anything.

 

And that, to me, was so much worse.

 

Doing something in the face of the “Devil”—doing something when you find yourself on the left hand of God—is so much more important than freezing up and collapsing.

 

In this morning’s Gospel, we find the Apostles doing something very much like that.

 

They aren’t sitting around doing nothing.

 

They are doing some thing.

 

They are keeping busy.

 

In the wake of the murder of Jesus, in the wake of his resurrection, in the wake of his appearing to them—in the wake of this unusual, extraordinary activity in their lives—they do the most ordinary thing in their lives.  

 

They go fishing.

 

They pick up their nets and they go out onto the water.

 

No doubt, considering all that had happened to them in the previous days and weeks, their minds were reeling.  

 

But, now, they are doing something they knew how to do.

 

Something that gave them some comfort, no doubt.   

 

Fishing is what they did, after all.

 

Fishing is what their fathers did and no doubt what their grandfathers and great-grandfathers did as well.

 

Fishing was in their blood.

 

It was all they knew—until Jesus came into their lives.  

 

And, no doubt, when the extraordinary events of Jesus’ murder and resurrection happened, the only way they could find some normalcy in their life was by going fishing.

 

The fact is, this is probably the last time they would ever go fishing together.

 

Their old life had once and for all passed away with the voice that called to them from the shore.  

 

Their jobs as fishermen would change with the words “Feed my sheep.”

 

In that instant, they would go from fishermen to shepherds.

 

No longer would they be fishing for actual fish.

 

Now they would be the feeding the sheep of Jesus’ flock.

 

That symbolic number of 153 seems to convey to us that the world now has become their lake.

 

And what is particularly poignant about all of this is Jesus doesn’t come into their lives to change them into something else.

 

He comes into their lives and speaks to them in language they understand.

 

He could have said to them: “Go out and preach and convert.”

 

But to fishermen and shepherds, that means little or nothing.  

 

They are fishermen, not rabbis or priests.

 

They are not theologians.

 

Instead, Jesus says, “Feed my sheep.”

 

This they would understand.

 

 In those simple words, they would have got it.  

 

And when he says “feed my sheep,” “Shepherd my sheep,” it was not just a matter of catching and eating.

 

It was a matter of catching and nurturing.

 

And this calling isn’t just for those men back then.

 

That voice from the shore is calling us too.

 

In a sense, we are called by Jesus as well to be shepherds like Peter and the fellow apostles.  

 

And those around us—those who share this world with us—are the ones Jesus is telling us to feed.

 

It isn’t enough that we come here to church on a Sunday morning to be fed.

 

A lot of us think that’s what church is about.

 

It’s about me being fed.

 

It’s about me being nurtured.

 

To some extent, yes.

 

But, if all we do is come to church to be fed and then not to turn around and feed others, we are really missing the point.

 

We, in turn, must go out and feed.  

 

And this command of Jesus is important.

 

Jesus asks it of Peter three times—one time for each time Peter denied him only a few weeks before.  

 

Those words of Jesus to Peter are also words to us as well.

 

In the wake of the devastating things that happen in our lives, the voice of Jesus is a calm center.

 

Amid the chaos of the world, the calm, cool voice of Jesus is still saying to us, as we cope in our ordinary ways, “feed my sheep.”

 

Because, it is in these strange and difficult times that people need to be fed and nourished.  

 

Not just by me, the priest, only.

 

But by all of us—all of who call ourselves followers of Jesus.

 

It is in times like these that we need to be fed, and it is in times like these that we need to feed others as well.

 

That, in a sense, is what it means to be a Christian.

 

Following Jesus, as we all know, is not easy.  

 

The fact is: it’s probably the hardest thing one can do.  

 

Jesus is not present to us as he was present to those fishermen in this morning’s Gospel.

 

He is not cooking us a breakfast when we come back from ordinary work.  

 

This God of Jesus, this God he keeps telling us to love and to serve, is sometimes a hard God to love and serve.

 

Loving a God who is not visible—who is not standing before us, in flesh and blood, is not easy.  

 

And I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone here this morning: loving our neighbors—those people who share our world with us—as ourselves, is not easy by any means.

 

It takes constant work to love.

 

It takes constant discipline to love as Jesus loved.  

 

It takes constant work to love ourselves—and most of us don’t love ourselves—and it takes constant work to love others.

 

But look at the benefits.  

 

Look at what our world would be like if we loved God, if we loved ourselves and loved others as ourselves.  

 

It was be ideal.  

 

It would truly be the Kingdom of God, here on earth.  

 

It would be exactly what Jesus told us it would be like.

 

But to do this—to bring this about—to love God, to love ourselves, to love each other, it’s all very hard work.

 

Some would say it’s impossible work.  

 

There are people, I’ll confess, I don’t want to love.

 

I don’t want to love those people who hurt me, or who hurt people I actually do love.

 

Sometimes I can’t love them.

 

I’m not saying I hate them.

 

I’m just saying that sometimes I feel nothing for a person who has wronged me or one of my loved ones.

 

In that instant, it really is hard to be a follower of Jesus.

 

Certainly, it seems overwhelming at times.  

 

Let’s face it, to live as Jesus expects us to live, to serve as Jesus calls us to serve, to love as Jesus loves—it would just be so much easier to not do any of it.   

 

Being a Christian means living one’s life fully and completely as a follower of Jesus.

 

It means being a reflection of God’s love and goodness in the world.

 

 A quote you’ve heard me share many, many time is this one of  St. Augustine: “Being a Christian means being an Alleluia from head to toe.”

 

That word “Alleluia” means what? It means “praise God.”

 

It means being praising God even when the bad things in life happen.

 

It means being an Alleluia—praising God—in our service to others, when we would rather just go fishing.

 

It means, occasionally, going and feeding the sheep rather than going off fishing and being a busybody when the bad things in life happen. 

 

In the midst of all the things in the world that confuse us—as we struggle to make sense of the world—the voice of Jesus is calling to us and is telling us to “feed my sheep.”

 

Because in feeding those sheep, you know what happens: we too are fed.

 

In nurturing Christ’s sheep, we too are nurtured.

 

See, it all does work out.

 

But we have to work at it for it to work out.

 

So, let us do just that.

 

Let us feed those Jesus calls us to feed.

 

And let us look for the Alleluia of our lives in that service to others.

 

In finding the Alleluia amidst the darkness, we—in our bodies and in our souls—become—from our head to our toes—truly an Alleluia.

Amen.

 

Easter

 

April 20, 2025

 

John 20.1-18

 

 

+ As I say every year, I am very much an Easter person.

 

Some people are Christmas people.

 

I am very much an Easter person.

 

For me, this Day is what it’s all about.  

 

Today everything just seems to come together.

 

This day is, by far, the most glorious day of our Christian year.

 

This is the day when it all happens.

 

This is the high point, the highlight.

 

This is what it’s all about.

 

This is what’s all about to be a Christian—to be a follower of Jesus.

 

Yes, we followed Jesus through his birth, through his childhood, through his baptism and ministry.

 

We followed Jesus as he performed miracles and raised the dead and preached and proclaimed this seemingly elusive Kingdom of God.

 

And this past week, we followed him through the exhausting journey of his last supper, his betrayal, his torture and his death.

 

And we even followed him as he descended into hell.

 

But now, all that following of Jesus pays off.

 

Now—today—is what it’s all about to be a Christian.

 

Now is the pay-off.

 

Easter, for me anyway, is like that glorious vision we are given.

 

Today is what heaven must be like.

 

Today is what those who have gone before us must experience all the time.

 

Today, all that darkness that we traveled through, all that uncertainty, all that doubt, all that pain and frustration, all that anger and anxiety and depression, all those things we thought were so powerful are now seen for what they are—illusions.

 

Today, we see that the Light that has dawned upon us this glorious Morning has driven away those shadows and has shown us only this wonderful, holy moment.

 

The tomb is empty.

 

Death is not what we thought it was.

 

Jesus, the one we have been following, the one we have doubted at times, the one we have betrayed and turned away from and been embarrassed by—the one we thought was dead—is alive.

God has raised Jesus to eternal life. 

 

Christ is alive, and because he is, we know that, even though we too will die, we too will live.

God will raise us like Jesus, as well, to eternal life. 

 

What I love about all of this is that there are no pat answers to the big questions in this moment.

 

Everything we once used to gauge a situation to be true has been thrown out the door.

 

Instead, what we have is just this one perfect moment.

 

This one glorious moment, filled with light and life and promise and hope.

 

And joy.

 

Following Jesus means following him through those miserable, hard dark times.

 

But it also means following him to this moment.

 

This is the pay-off.

 

Yes, we might be tired.

 

Yes we might be exhausted from the gauntlet of life that we have been through.

 

But somehow, in this moment, in this mystery we are celebrating today, it’s all made right.

 

And that is what Easter is all about.

 

It is about renewal.

 

It is about life not in the midst of death, but life that destroys death.

 

I can tell you that I am very grateful that I am follower of Jesus.

 

I know.

 

It’s easy to say that right now in this moment.

 

But I am even grateful for following Jesus through all that we have been through liturgically with him these last few days.

 

Because in so many ways, this is what our own lives are like as well.

 

We do have those moments of darkness and we have those moments of light.

 

We have those moments in which we feel as though we might actually be able to touch death.

 

And we have those moments in which life seems to incredible and wonderful that we almost can’t believe it.

 

Following Jesus is very much like going through the valleys and mountains of our own lives.

 

Now, in this moment, we are celebrating the victory.

 

We are celebrating the victory over every bad thing that has happened.

 

We are celebrating the victory of light over darkness.

 

We are celebrating the victory of life over death.

 

I know that it all almost seems too good to be true.

 

But it is true.

 

And we know it’s true because the One we follow has shown the way for us.

 

So, let us celebrate today.

 

Let our shouts of Alleluia be true shouts not only of joy, but of victory.

 

Let our hearts ring out as our voices do this day. And let us continue to follow Jesus into that glorious Easter Light.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

 

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! 

 

 

Holy Saturday

 

April 19, 2025

  

+ This year for Holy Week, I have been re-reading a book I read originally way back in 2006, right after it was published.

 

The book is The Last Week by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan.

 

Marcus Borg is one of my favorite contemporary theologians.

 

And this book is a good book to read to get a solid perspective on the events of Holy Week and the last days of Jesus, as well as their meaning.

 

And yes, in this book there is a whole chapter on this day, Holy Saturday, a day most people gloss over and forget.

 

Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter, of course, get all the attention.

 

As they should.

 

But today is about hell.

 

Well, not quite.

 

And it’s also interesting that your priest, who has outspokenly expressed his universalist views regarding “hell,” should pay find this particular liturgy one of his favorite for Holy Week.

 

But to truly understand it all, we must look at that whole concept of hell.

 

First of all, when we hear of the “Harrow of Hell,” or even of Christ descending into hell, we must be clear that the concept of Hell in Jesus’ day was very different than our concept of hell.

 

For Jews of his day, Hell was actually a place called “Sheol.”

 

And Sheol was not the place of hell we traditionally think of.

 

For them, Sheol was the place under the earth, where all dead people went.

 

It was, essentially, the grave.

 

Nothing more.

 

Nothing less.

 

Our concepts of hell have very little do with Sheol or even scripture.

 

Out concept of hell is based solidly on much later popular tradition, such as Dante’s Inferno.

 

This place of hell, where all bad people go, was not even known of in Jesus’ day.

 

So, Holy Saturday is the time in which we commemorate not only the fact that Jesus is lying in the tomb—in which we perform a liturgy that feels acutely like the burial service.

 

We also commemorate a very long belief that on this day, Jesus, although seemingly at rest in the tomb, was actually at work, despite the fact that it seemed he was dead.

 

He was in the depth of hell.

 

Sheol.

 

The grave.

 

The place of the dead.

 

This belief, of course, comes to us from a very basic reading of 1 Peter, and from the early Church Fathers.

 

Christ descended into death and preached to those who had died.  

 

The popular term for this is the Harrowing of Hell.

 

He went to hell and harrowed until it was empty.

 

Whenever I preach about the Harrowing of Hell I always reference the famous icon of Christ standing over the broken-open tombs pulling out Adam from one tomb and Eve from the other.

 

But there is another image I would like to draw your attention to—a more interactive image.

 

That image is, of course, the image of the labyrinth.

 

One of the many images used in walking the labyrinth is, of course, the Harrowing of Hell. 

 

When you think of the labyrinth, you can almost imagine Christ trekking his way down to the very bowels of hell, of sheol, of the grace.

 

There, he takes those waiting for him and gently and lovingly leads them back through the winding path to heaven. 

 

It’s lovely to imagine and, whether it’s true or not, I like to cling to that image.

 

As a follower of Jesus, I find the story of the Harrowing of Hell to be so compelling.

 

And in one sense, I actually DO believe in hell.

 

The hell of our own making.

 

The hells we ourselves have created right here, right on earth.

 

The hells we have going on within us at times.

 

In that sense, I can say that I have more certainly been there.

 

I’ve been to hell.

 

More than once.

 

As we all have.

 

I have known despair.

 

I have known that feeling that I thought I would actually die from bleakness.

 

Or wished I could die.

 

But didn’t.

 

Even death wasn’t, in that moment, the worst thing that could happen.

 

That place of despair was.

 

It’s the worst place to be.

 

Which is why this morning’s liturgy is so important to me.

 

In the depth of hell, even there, when we think there is no one coming for us—just when we’ve finally given up hope, Someone does.

 

Christ comes to us, even there.

 

He comes to us in the depths of our despair, of our personal darkness, of that sense of being undead, and what does he do?

 

He leads us out.

 

I know this is a very unpopular belief for many Christians.

 

Many Christians simply cannot believe it.

 

Hell is eternal, they believe

 

And it should be.

 

If you turn your back on God, then you should be in hell forever and ever, they believe.

 

If you do wrong in life, you should be punished for all eternity, they will argue.

 

I don’t think it’s any surprise to any of you to hear me say that I definitely don’t agree.

 

And my faith speaks loudly to me on this issue.

 

The God I serve, the God I love and believe in, is not a God who would act in such a way.

 

So, yes, there is a hell.

 

As I said, I’ve been there.

 

The hell I believe most certainly exists.

 

And many of us—most of us—have been there at least once.

 

Some of us have been there again and again.

 

Any of us who have suffered from depression or severe anxiety, or have lost a loved one, or have doubted our faith, or have thought God is not a God of love—we have all known this hell. 

 

But none of them are eternal hells.

 

I do believe that even those hells will one day come to an end.

 

I do believe that Christ comes to us, even there, in the depths of those personal hells.

 

I believe that one day, even those hells will be harrowed and emptied, once and for all.

 

Until that day happens, none of us should be too content.

 

None of us should rejoice too loudly.  

 

None of should exult in our own salvation, until salvation is granted to all.

 

If there is an eternal hell and punishment, my salvation is not going to be what I thought it was.  

 

And that is the real point of this day.

 

I love the fact that, no matter where I am, no matter where I put myself, no matter what depths and hells and darknesses I sink myself into, even there Christ will find me. 

 

And I know that the Christ I serve and follow will not rest until the last of his lost loved ones is found and brought back.

 

It’s not a popular belief in the Christian Church.

 

And that baffles me.

 

Why isn’t it more popular?

 

Why do we not proclaim a Savior who comes to us in our own hells and bring us out?

 

Why do we not proclaim a God of love who will bring an end, once and for all, to hell? 

 

We as Christians should be pondering these issues.

 

And we should be struggling with them.

 

And we should be seeking God’s knowledge on them.

 

On this very sad, very bleak Holy Saturday morning, I find a great joy in knowing that, as far as we seem to be in this moment from Easter glory, Easter glory is still happening, unseen by us, like a seed slowly blooming in the ground.

 

That Victory of God we celebrate this evening and tomorrow morning and throughout the season of Easter is more glorious than anything we can imagine.

 

And it is more powerful than anything we can even begin to comprehend.

 

In my own personal hells the greatest moment is when I can turn from my darkness toward the light and find consolation in the God who has come to me, even there, in my personal agony.

 

Even there, God in Christ comes to me and frees me.

 

God has done it before.

 

And I have no doubt God will do it again.  

 

In the bleak waters of abandonment, God has sent the buoy, the lifesaver of Christ to hold us up and bring us out of the waters.

 

That is what we are celebrating this Holy Saturday morning.

 

That is how we find our joy.

 

Our joy is close at hand, even though it seems gone from us.

 

Our joy is just within reach, even in this moment when it seems buried in the ground and lost.